Young Stuff

There were a couple of secrets nobody told me about the fifth decade of life.

The first happened when I, normally a person of such even and placid temperament that for most of my life people affixed the dubious honorific ‘Saint’ before my name, started to have fits of temper that were absolutely terrifying in their intensity. An incorrectly-loaded dishwasher could turn me into a volcano of rage, spewing epithets and obscenities in lieu of lava. Grudges, instead of dull, heavy resentments safely buried in my past, rose from the depths of the earth like those tripods in the Tom Cruise War of the Worlds, to blast everyone in their paths with laser beams fashioned from alien technology so advanced they dissipated everything into dust and atoms.

I couldn’t understand why I, who’d lived the tranquil pre-Nazi life of that Mother Superior who sang “Climb Every Mountain” in The Sound of Music, was suddenly Linda Blair in The Exorcist. When I was in the company of a couple I knew, both doctors, I decided to get a pair of free medical opinions in case something was seriously wrong with me, like a tumor pressing on that section of my brain that caused irrational rage. My, how they laughed, long and hard. Wiping tears from her eyes, the female half of the couple put her hand on my wrist and said, “Sweetie, it’s called the furious forties. You’re in for a few years of it. It happens to us all at your age.” They laughed some more (at me, not with me) and told me that if it got worse, by all means to go in for a brain scan, but otherwise to get used to not having the ‘Saint’ in front of my name for a few years.

The other—happier—secret no one told me was that when you turn forty, suddenly the boys crawl out of the woodwork for your cock.

No, really. If you’re in your mid-forties, aren’t actively repellant and don’t sport a throbbing goiter (which is about as close to handsome as you’ll ever hear me describing myself), and have any inclinations whatsoever to topping, the boys in their late teens and early twenties will beat their way to your door. It’s not just a small, oddball subset of misfits who’ll want to ride your cock, either, but a great number of some of the hottest young men out there. If they can call you ‘daddy’ during sex, they’ll love you for it. If you’ve actually fathered a child, they’ll claw each other in the struggle to get you first.

At least, so it seems, much of the time. If you like that, you’re in luck. As for myself, I usually consider the young guys as the Froot Loops part of this complete nutritious breakfast. A whole lot of it might not be great for your diet, but it sure is tasty, and turns your tongue all different colors.

Maybe that metaphor isn’t as apt as I hoped.

Case in point: last Wednesday I had a twenty-year-old drive forty miles to see me. The photos he’d shown me were of a fresh-faced, skinny young thing with a bubble butt that filled out his jeans and hung down slightly, like a pregnant woman’s swollen belly, or a heavy drop of dew clinging to a blade of grass. When he undressed, he smelled of sweet cologne and a fruity chewing gum. His skin still had the tautness of a youth coming out of his adolescence, and his stomach was perfectly flat. His navel was a little dip in his skin, scarcely enough in which to scrape a fingertip. When I pulled off his shirt in the darkness of my bedroom, he shivered and crossed his arms over his chest. When I kissed his spine and rubbed my beard over his shoulders, his head lolled back. In that position he looked all the world like the painting of a blue-jeaned apostle, just before his martyrdom.

Once his clothes were off, I pulled him onto the bed. We writhed over the fleece blanket, feeling each other all over, until finally I pushed his head down onto my dick. “Damn, daddy,” he said, right before he started sucking. I never really bring up this specialized area of dirty talk with these boys; they bring it up on their own, once the action starts. “It’s as good as the pictures. Better.”

I didn’t say anything for a while, as I let him ease into the oral. He licked and slurped over my dick with an eagerness that transcended age. “You give good head, son,” I finally told him. My reward was his impaling himself onto my dick with his throat, anxious for the praise and the encouragement.

That’s what they really seem to want, these young guys. Often when they show up, it’s with a swaggering posture that sometimes borders on arrogance. Naked, though, and in the near-dark, that usually vanishes. They want what any bottom man wants, at heart, and they’re often more transparent about their needs than the men twice their age. They want to be of service. They want to be appreciated for what they can do. And they want to be praised for it, when it’s deserved.

I kept up a steady stream of mingled, muttered filth and motivation until finally I got him onto his knees. His face dipped into the cleft between my pillows as he cooled his face on the smooth cotton. His hole was ripe and overheated with excitement. When my tongue dipped into it, it was like taking a mouthful of piping hot coffee. He wasn’t going to let me rim him for any length of time, though. “Let me sit on it,” he begged.

“You don’t want me from behind, first?” I asked.

He shook his head. Even in the dark I could tell that a flush had spread over his cheekbones, furious and scarlet. “I open up better if I sit down on it.”

It was the exact opposite of every other boy his age I’ve had, but I was game. I let him lay me down and grease up my dick with lube. Together we guided it into his descending hole. I felt pressure, then release. His amazingly warm hole enclosed my flesh more quickly than I would have suspected possible. And he was tight, too. “How long have you been getting fucked?” I wanted to know.

“Only three years,” he said. “But I really like it. And you’ve got the dick for it.” His eyes closed. Using his knees and thigh muscles, he raised and lowered himself onto me. I just relaxed and enjoyed it. “A big, fat, daddy dick. Yeah. Big daddy dick up my ass.”

On and on he talked about daddy dick, turning himself on with the phrase. I could’ve lain back and done nothing while he carried on, but instead I fueled his furnace by tossing tinder on the fire. “Daddy loves his boy’s pretty butt,” I’d say, sending him into an ecstatic frenzy. Or, “Damn, son, you’ve learned how to take dad’s dick like a little pro.” Or, “Yeah, daddy sure loves breeding young stuff like you.”

“Breed me, sir,” he began to whimper. His gyrations became more frenetic. His own sizable dick flapped against his taught stomach with every bounce with the sound of a drum. “Breed you boy. Pump that manload up your boy’s ass, daddy. Fucking breed me, dad.”

“Yeah,” I growled, getting closer. “Gonna breed you good. That’s what you were made for, right?”

The question pushed him right over the edge. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, with one long vowel that started in his mouth and ended deep, deep inside. I could feel it vibrate his pelvis, and tickle at my dick; he grunted, and began to spew sperm all over me and the blanket. I was close myself, but when he stopped to unleash his own orgasm, I felt mine began to ebb, and then fade.

I was drenched by the time he finished. He held up his hands, sticky with semen, and let it drip from his fingers as if he wasn’t certain what to do. I was afraid it was all over, right then.

But then, with a renewed determination, the boy started to grab at my still-hard dick with his ass muscles, pulling it back into him and milking it with just as much purpose as he had before he’d come. “I want it,” he told me, staring in my eyes. His hands rested on my shoulders, pressing me down into the mattress and leaving sticky trails on my skin. “I want that load. I’m gonna get that fucking load out of you.”

It was more threat than anything else, but it was the kind of threat I could live with. A couple of minutes of him grinding and milking me, and I was panting. A couple of minutes more and I was on the edge.

“Fucking give it to me,” he insisted, shaking me.

When I shot, it was almost as intensely as his demands had been. I shook, and jolted up. If he hadn’t been pressing me down, our skulls would likely have collided. Then I shot pulse after pulse of sperm into his little hole. He looked down at me for a moment, his hair hanging in his face. When I and my after-tremors had subsided, he let go of me and sat up to elongate his torso and stretch. His hands almost collided with the ceiling fan above. “That’s what I like about you older guys,” he said, yawning and laughing at the same time.

“What’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He shook off whatever imaginary cramps he’d accumulated during the sex, knuckle by knuckle, joint by slender young joint. “You know what the fuck you’re doing. Hey. Can I come again tomorrow night? I don’t mind driving for a great fuck like this.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “You can come again tomorrow.”

If I have to endure the furious forties, I’m grateful to have this other, unexpected side benefit as the trade-off.