Moving Week Repost: High Elvish

While I'm settling into my new home this week and don't have much in the way of internet access, I'm reposting a few favorite entries that shorter-term readers might not have encountered, and that longer-term fans might remember fondly. This entry is from April of 2010.

The boy was cute. I would have put him at twenty-one or twenty-two. Old enough, that is, to be legally consuming the mug of beer he clutched in his hands. His hair was dark and shaggy and was patted down in a carefully negligent swoop that covered the entire of his forehead. The smallest, downiest patch of fuzz adorned the tip of chin, as if he’d dipped it into the magnetic particles of a Wooly Willy child’s toy. His eyes were wide, clear, and blue. From where I sat in the smoky bar’s booth, my long legs sprawled out over the bench, I noticed those eyes looking at me, over and over again. Every time they met mine, they skittered away like timid mice. I wasn’t afraid to stare at him outright. So I got to see the shy dance of his own gaze as it danced around the room, followed by the magnetic return to me before it dashed away again.

He was a little like the current American Idol contestant Tim Urban, this kid, save for a little slighter and not quite as wholesome. Then there were his forearms, the undersides of which appeared smudged. I thought at first that perhaps he’d laid his arms on a dirty table and they’d come away grimy, but the more he raised his mug of beer to his pretty little lips, the plainer it became that he’d had both armed tattooed in an elaborate script. I was convinced for a while it was some erudite saying in a fancy font.

He saw me looking, and out of defense crossed his arms over the Atari logo T-shirt he wore beneath his ragged plaid shirt. The position only gave me a better view of those arms.Then when I saw the diacriticals, I realized that he’d gotten his arms covered in High Elvish. The kid was some kind of Lord of the Rings fanboy, and had actually picked out an Elvish quotation and had it inked onto his skin.

The scrappy chin fuzz, the Atari shirt, the total geeky fanboyishness of the tattoos—well, it gave me a total mental hard-on. And it wasn’t as if I was imagining that the kid was staring at me. I had his full attention most of the time, even in those moments when he was studiously avoiding looking my way. We were in a crowded suburban bar packed with drinkers and couples eating dinner and smokers having their last hurrah with smoking indoors before the Michigan smoking ban goes into effect next month. It was a straight bar, a sports bar, and the sort of place where the fanciest thing on the menu was the ‘Swanky Frankie’—a hot dog wrapped in bacon and deep-fried. I had a night away from home and was surrounded by a bunch of friends. He was at a crowded table of guys and girls his own age, all of them drinking and whooping and eating the free popcorn with both hands. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you pick up guys.

We had eye-fucked each other for over a half hour when finally I excused myself from the table and stood up. I stretched. When I found him—surprise, surprise—staring at me after my public yawn and extension, I let him have half a sheepish grin. Then I made my way to the men’s room.

The bar’s restrooms were at the back. A half-drunk slattern exited the women’s room, making its hinge protest with a high-pitched creak when she leaned too heavily on the door on her way out. She stumbled by, unsteady on her feet, as she gave me the up-and-down. I slipped into the men’s room and stood at one of the two urinals.

It wasn’t too long before I heard the restroom door open with a slow, tentative push. I didn’t even look around. I just listened to his soft footsteps as with uncertainty he walked in, pretended to check his hair in the mirror, and coughed. Then, after a pause that seemed eternal, he sidled over to the urinal next to mine, and unzipped. I’d started to grow hard the moment I knew it was him. I turned my head slightly, enough to know that he was looking over at me. When I knew I had his attention, I took a step back.

My cock was plainly visible, jutting from the fly of my jeans. I stroked it in my right hand and cupping my balls with my left. I like showing off my dick to strange guys. Know they’re getting an eyeful turns me on. Seeing the hungry look on his face, the unconscious working of his lips as he listened to whatever inner monologue he had of lust and need, simply made me all the harder.

A bead of precum bulged from my slit as I turned to him. He angled his body toward mine, too. His dick was only half-hard, and not large at all, but it was hooded and shaved and clutched so hard between his trembling fingers that it was turning purple. I turned a little more in his direction and thrust out my hips and cock. “Touch it,” I ordered him in a whisper.

His fingers were still shaking as he obeyed my order. His arm turned so I could see the letters so carefully inscribed along their length, that elaborate script that would have been better suited adorning the One Ring. The kid reached out and took my meat from underneath, and squeezed. It was hot in his cold hand. I stared not at what he was doing, but at his face and those beautiful blue eyes. He looked mostly at my dick, stroking it in his hand as if he’d never held one before other than his own. Occasionally though, his glance would dart up to mine and then away again, almost as if he were embarrassed at being caught doing what he was doing.

“Suck it,” I told him, after a while. I used my hands on his shoulders to press down. Obediently, without question, he knelt down onto the dirty tiles.

Again he looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Do I have to?

I nodded. Yes, he did.

His mouth opened. His tongue flicked out. He leaned forward at an angle. Then, from outside the restroom came the awful squeal of the door to the women’s room, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot. The kid scrambled up to his feet. A wild look was in his eyes, as if he expected the vice squad to have appeared behind him. The kid stuffed his junk back into his pants so hastily that I feared for its safety. Then, like a little doe frightened by hunters, he darted on light, fleet feet out of the restroom and back to his table.

I followed a little while later. He’d taken a seat with his back to me, so he couldn’t stare at me any more. His arm was around the shoulders of a chubby, pretty girl. From time to time he’d whisper in her ear as if confiding something. I knew his attention was still on me, though, because he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder to see if I was still there.

I didn’t return to the restroom that night, and I didn’t attempt to engage him any further. Sometimes making a boy admit to his desire is all I need; I like watching that internal struggle as he attempts to balance the sexual heat against his compulsions to remain a good boy. Saturday night, the heat won out—it was brief, and it didn’t result in anything, but the heat won. That’s a victory for my side, any day.