Failure

This is tough for me to write about: I failed last night.

I’d had a tough day. The winter days have really begun to grind me down and to make me feel housebound and logy. I’ve been feeling particularly anxious about my living situation, and feeling neither one place nor another. I’ve had an upswing in crazy associated with the blog—name-calling, diva fits, and outright rudeness—with which it’s been difficult to cope.

Over my first-world problems I’d managed to get myself into one of those fretting states of mind that I took into the bedroom with Spencer. I was tired, and cranky, and cliched as it sounds, had something of a headache. And to put it bluntly, it just wasn’t working for me.

Oh, it wasn’t the hydraulics that weren’t working. I don’t usually have an issue with that, knock wood. No, it was more the problem of me not being really into the moment. I was thinking more about the problems rattling around in my head than I was the beautiful boy between my legs, surrendering his butt to me. And he could tell. “We don’t have to fuck tonight, you know,” he at last muttered, somewhere down there.

And I thought to myself, Oh, fuck. It shows.

My head was even more crowded in the moments after. Nothing contributes more to feelings of pointlessness than having one’s sexual inadequacies highlighted during the act. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and breathed deeply as I tried to keep everything at bay.

As I lay there, fretting and mentally flagellating myself, it occurred to me that maybe I could do something other than thinking about myself. I did, after all, have a young man in my bed who had needs of his own. And if I wasn’t totally in the mood to use his hole, there were plenty of other things I could do.

So I did.

I lifted his head to mine and kissed him deeply. My right hand traveled over his broad chest, stroked his hairy stomach, squeezed his still-erect dick. When I pressed my lips to his nipples, my troubles began to recede from mind; by the time I had him groaning and writhing on the bed from scraping my teeth and tongue across those sensitive red buds, I’d more or less forgotten them completely.

I love to kiss Spencer’s body. I love the smell of him, the clean taste of his skin, the give of his stomach, the hardness of his hips. I love letting my lips trail from neck to navel, and of burying my face in his thick, spiky pubes. And I really love impaling my throat on his dick.

Spencer’s dick has a point to it; his head is more of a rounded triangle than a mushroom. The shaft grows gradually as my lips travel down, stretching them widest around the base. I can take all but the last half-inch without trouble. Struggling for that last tiny measurement, however, is half the fun.

Spencer gasps and moans as I suck him. This time is different from the other nights I’ve gone down on him, somehow. Usually I can pleasure him for long periods of time—and I do—but it’s pleasure for pleasure’s sake, not with a goal in mind. This time, though, he’s directing me in a way he hasn’t before. He’s thrusting inside my mouth deeper and deeper; his hand is holding the back of my neck to keep it still. My eyes water. I try to keep my throat open as his cock’s head invades it. He’s not a big pre-cummer for the most part, but now he’s dripping. I can taste it on the back of my tongue, stronger and saltier by the moment.

I was pretty sure this might be going somewhere we hadn’t gone before. I felt Spencer’s hand tapping lightly at the back of my neck as I picked up the pace slightly. It felt like the slightest of taps, as if he was asleep and dribbling a basketball in his dreams. I adjusted my lips and continued to move my mouth up and down his shaft. Sometimes my fingers would lightly stroke his hairy nuts. Sometimes I’d curl my thumb and forefinger around his hard meat and let the tight circle follow the path of my mouth.

Spencer’s breathing grew faster, shallower. I could see his stomach ripple with motion as he began to pant. The phantom tapping at the back of my head increased, and I moved with it, letting him direct the pace. I wanted to do this for him. I wanted him this way. And most of all, I wanted his seed in my mouth.

It came shortly after. “Oh my god,” he panted. “Oh my god.” He said the words over and over, like a mantra, or perhaps a prayer. Then his hips shot upward, nailing his dick deep in my throat as he shot his load. I received the sperm onto my tongue and kept my mouth on his meat until his spasms subsided, and then a moment more.

Only when he was completely relaxed did I withdraw and swallow the payload. It was strong in flavor, pungent, and slightly sweet. Most importantly, it was his essence, and I’d gotten it in my mouth. Finally.

“Thank you,” I said, easing myself to his side. I had a smile on my face, large and genuine, untouched by any of the day’s cares.

His voice was soft and distant. “Would you believe me if I told you that no one has ever sucked me off completely before?”

“I would,” I murmured back. “You told me no one had, the second day I knew you.”

“No one has,” he said, dreamily. “Until you. Just now.”

“I was there,” I reminded him.

And I was. I really had been there. Present. Willing. Thinking of nothing else but him, and his pleasure, and what he wanted.

Sometimes out of failure grow the seeds of success.