Buddy

While I've been settling into my new home this week without much in the way of internet access, I've been re-running some old journal entries for your entertainment. This piece never appeared in my blog, but it is a journal entry from 2009 or 2010. It appeared last year in issue 3 of Anal Magazine.






Here’s my address, I typed in my email to him, following it with my street number. I’m gonna be sitting in my living room. House lights out. Front door unlocked. Pants down. Just stroking. Come on in and stroke with me. Or whatever, buddy.

HOT, BUDDY. I’ll be there in five, he wrote back, barely seconds after I’d hit the ‘send’ button.

The guy had contacted me a couple of times before, stressing each time that he was just looking to jerk off with a dude, if I was cool than that. He just liked to show off what he had, he’d said, and my meat looked really good to him. The guy had always nurtured a fantasy about walking up to a buddy’s house at night and finding him stroking on his back porch, then helping him out.

When he’d written, he’d used that calculatedly casual, frat-boy speak that some gay guys use as a shorthand to convey their masculinity. I replied in kind.

All the photos he’d sent were of him wearing baseball caps, muscle shirts, sunglasses, showing off his lean and muscled body. The one photo that displayed him at his best had been taken from below, his dick inches away from the camera lens, his meaty fist wrapped around it, his forearms bulging like Popeye’s, as his upper lip curled in a sneer that practically seemed to touch the carefully tattered brim of his cap. It was a hot sight—there was no denying that. But he was the kind of 29-year-old muscle man I try to keep away from, out of the simple fear that I won’t measure up. I look trim, though, and he lived less than a quarter of a mile away, so I figured, what the fuck?

He was at the house in two minutes. I watched from the sofa as he parked his car across the street and stumbled across the snow and ice up the front steps. He hesitated a moment before pulling open the screen door and turning the front door knob, but then he was into the house, stamping the cold from his feet and looking around for me. As promised, I sat on the sofa wearing a tight gray T-shirt. My jeans were around my ankles, my cock hard. He stood there for a moment, transfixed, his glance darting between what I stroked with a backhand motion, and my eyes, trying to make out my features in the near-perfect dark.

“God damn. Yeah, bud,” he whispered. Then, without hesitation, he took off his jacket, kicked off his athletic shoes, and let his sweatpants fall. Beneath he only wore a pair of gray briefs and a white, square-cut tank that clung to his pecs and his narrow waist as if it had been spun around him. He lifted the tank top slightly and ran his enormous hand over the flat planes of his stomach, then plunged it down into his shorts. When he hooked both thumbs into the waistband and let them fall, I could see that he was hard already; his meat curved outward, jerking in the air for attention. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.

I just sat there, stroking.

Without moving, after a moment he joined in, spitting in his hand first, then cupping it around his cock and covering it with the moistness. Twice, three times he spit, until his dick glistened in the blue-gray gloom. Like me, he held his fist backwards, thumb down against the hipbone, as he slid his hand back and forth over his inches. After a moment, I spat into my own hand, then began echoing the slick sound he was already making.

Neither of us beat ourselves quickly. The moment was all about showing off for each other, and making as much noise as possible with our sticky hands and penises. He leaned back on his haunches, thrusting up into the air and drawing his fist back and forth slowly, slowly, watching my reaction the entire time. I let my eyes narrow to hard-looking slits as I kicked off my jeans and spread my legs and feet as wide as they would go, leaning back on the sofa and rubbing my left nipple as I continued to flaunt myself.

His whisper cut through the silence. “Hey. You hear how quiet it is?” he asked. “Listen.” We both stopped moving our hands. Over the steady, accelerated thump of my pulsing blood, there was nothing but stillness and the sounds of our labored breathing. “So damn quiet.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Then, after enjoying the hush for a moment, his hand moved again. He spat in it, then curved his fingers around his dick once more, masturbating nosily. After the silence, the sound of sex and self-pleasure sounded twice as nasty as before. He paused only to pull up his tank and flip the material around the back of his neck, so that I could admire his muscular, slightly hairy chest and ripped abdomen.

I stood up, spread my legs, and towered over him, continuing to stroke. He stared at me. “Big dick,” he finally said. I simply nodded, pointing it at him. After a hesitation he reached up and stroked it with the back of his wrist—because a real bud doesn’t go for a buddy’s dick with an open hand, apparently. I made my cock jump, and then put pressure with it onto the back of his hand. Finally I just grabbed his arm, uncurled his hand, and wrapped it around my meat. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he hissed with pleasure, sucking in breath as he began working both of our cocks in unison. I was dripping by now; the extra moisture just added to the spit-slickness.

He kept bringing his face closer and closer, examining me close up. After a few moments, I spoke my first words. “Help me out, buddy,” I told him. He looked up at me, pretending uncertainty. “C’mon,” I repeated. “Help a buddy out.”

He didn’t need any further encouragement. His mouth opened, lip reaching out hungrily to take me in. He wasn’t clumsy at all; instead, he sucked me gently, deliberately, working first the head and then moving in to take as much of me as he could without choking. “Damn, buddy,” I said, genuinely aroused. “You are good.” He must have liked the praise, because he doubled his efforts. I grunted with every downstroke until at least I feared shooting too soon. I backed him off. “Stand up and let me get a taste of yours,” I commanded.

I perched my ass on the sofa’s edge and leaned forward, while he stood and delivered his cock to my face. It was just as big and well-proportioned as in his photographs. When I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered, then threw back his head and clasped his hands behind it. His baseball cap fell off to the floor, revealing his shaved head. He didn’t bother to pick it up. “Oh god,” he moaned, as I opened my mouth and huffed warm air on him. Then, once I’d gotten my lips to the bottom of the shaft, I closed my mouth again and let him feel the warm, wet interior all at once. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed onto my shoulders for support. “Not so fast,” he begged, before I’d barely made my way up and down the length of it.

We stood or knelt for each other for long minutes until one of us would get too close. Then we’d back off and swap. After the fourth or fifth time, when I stood up, he didn’t get to his knees. Instead, his hands on my hips, he looked me in the eyes, and then rested his forehead on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I let my cheek rub against the sharp stubble of his head, then brushed my lips against his brow. His neck moved back, pliant, his face turned upright. I could see him look at me, waiting for what I’d do next.

I leaned down and let my lips touch his. Just a little bit. His own lips parted slightly in response. I kissed him again. He resisted, like a masculine buddy apparently does, but when I grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into me, his mouth opened and engulfed mine, sucking in the lips and tongue as if hungry. Onto the sofa we fell, making out ravenously, our cocks pulsing and grinding into each other. He was moaning as I kissed him, and let out a cry as I rubbed and pinched his nipples. When I tore my mouth away from his and began chewing on the nipple that seemed more sensitive, he gasped, and then panted out, “I never do this, bud!”

I was too aroused to pay attention to his weak protests, though. I’d already spit in my hand again and slapped my fingers on his ass. His hole was tight, I could tell—tighter than the professional bottoms-in-denial that I’m accustomed to. I wondered if he might not be the real thing. As we returned to our furious kissing, however, I slipped the tip, and then the entire first joint of my middle finger inside him. He yelped inside my mouth. Once he was used to it, I slid the rest of my finger home, until all of it was inside his hole. “Fuck, buddy,” he groaned, digging his forehead into my chest. His cock had never been harder. As I twisted my finger back and forth inside, I continued to slide my hand back and forth over the length of him. “It’s too much,” he said. “It feels too fucking good.”

I’d put some supplies on the coffee table, just in case. With my finger still inside him, I covered my cock with a handful of cold, slick lube. He didn’t protest at all when I pulled up his legs and parted them further, hooking one underneath my arm and pinning the other to the sofa’s back. When I started to slide into him, his hands and elbows flew over his head; his head banged against the sofa’s wooden arm. As with a lot of guys who claim they’re only into jerking off with a buddy, this is what he’d really come for. He simply didn’t want to compromise his masculinity by having to ask for it.

I didn’t go in too quickly. He was very, very tight. But I did go all the way in. The moment I hit bottom, he started to convulse. His hole spasmed, clenching and relaxing and then clamping down so hard onto me that in a fuck-panicked moment, I thought he might be trying to squeeze it off. But no, he was only coming. He cried out loudly, then thrust and upward, shooting an enormous stream of seed into the air. It arced over his head and landed, I later discovered, onto the base of the floor lamp behind him. A second shot landed on his face, and a third a little lower down, below his collar bone. “What the fuck are you doing to me!” he cried. Then again, in a whimper: “What are you doing to me?”

Somehow I understood he wasn’t protesting the act itself, but marveling at the intensity of his climax. He shuddered for a few moments more after he’d finished shooting, then lay there limply. After what seemed like an appropriate period, I began to slide out again. “Don’t,” he said. Then his arms shot up around my neck, pulling me down to him. I once more put my mouth against his. This time, our kisses were long and languorous; he rubbed his face against my beard, and then brushed his sharp stubble over my forehead. For ten minutes more we kissed, until at long last he leaned back, stretched like a cat as I slid out, sighed, and then laughed slightly. “Damn, buddy,” he said. “Day-umn!”

I nodded. My head was still spinning from the intensity of it. “Yeah,” I said, laughing.

“That was the best orgasm I ever had in my life. My entire fucking life, man.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment, but not really believing it.

“You didn’t come, though.” I told him it was all right. “You sure?” he asked. I nodded.

We both relaxed for a minute more, clearing our heads. “We’re doing this again, right?” he finally said. He pulled his tank up and over his head, then down the concavity of his body. “Don’t tell me this is a one-time thing, buddy.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely do it again,” I promised him.

After he dressed, he leaned into me again and put his arms around me. We made out for a minute more. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then in a normal voice, he said, “I left my wallet and keys in the car in case you turned out to be some kind of freak. Then all I’d have to do was run the hell out.” I hesitated in my response, uncertain whether I should be a little embarrassed that I’d potentially sounded like an axe murderer, or touched at his candor. “But I didn’t run out,” he finally murmured in my ear, tipping my decision to the latter. He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know?”

“No,” I said, giving him one long, last kiss. “You didn’t run out.”