The Nose Knows

I was listening to talk radio this morning as I went about my business. The host was discussing fetishes with his guest for the hour—specifically, how people sometimes fetishize race for sex. It sounded suspiciously a little like a discussion we had here only last Friday, in fact, since they were talking specifically about Jewish guys.

But no matter. It was still interesting to hear more perspectives on the matter, particularly from a Jewish guy who'd been the object of many a fetish-hunter's desire, and also from the point of view of a white New Yorker who'd never considered Jewish men a distinct enough category to fetishize.

Admittedly, I've run across some strange fetishes and sexual requests in my time. I've been with the foot worshippers, and the guys into leather and the men who need serious nipple abuse to get off. I'm played happily with the men who are into socks (white athletic, both plain and striped, and sheer business socks, with and without garters). I've run across many underwear and jockstrap fetishists. I did the guy who liked to shampoo me while I blew him. It's all fine with me.

My mind was wandering as I drove down Route 1 in the direction of my destination, and I kept wondering to myself, what exactly would be the strangest fetish I've encountered in my spotty history? That's when I remembered Elvis.

Elvis wasn't his name. It was what he looked like when I ran into him about eight years ago—a young Elvis, with the hangdog eyes and the dark brows that cut heroic paths over them. A young Elvis with thin sideburns and slicked-back hair. He was a bit of a bear from the neck down; hair covered his chest and shoulder, his back, his ass. I knew this right from the start because I first saw him in the steam room of one of the bathhouses I frequented in Michigan.

He sat on the lower shelf from me, staring boldly in my direction. From time to time, he'd lift his towel, twist it into a rope, and use it to wipe the sweat from his nape. Whenever he'd do that, he'd crane his neck and peer at me. Not at my crotch, which was demurely covered by my hands. But at my face.

I flattered myself that he liked what he saw, somehow. Whenever I'd open my eyes and see him looking at me through the thick steam, he'd be staring directly into my eyes. His own would be shining, as if he were regarding the handsomest man on earth. And for a few minutes, I actually felt pretty desirable.

That is, until the steam room cleared and we were the only two people left within. Then he scooted forward on the lower tile shelf, cleared his throat, and addressed me with, "You have a really big nose."

Now, in my own defense, I'd like to say that my nose isn't that big. I used to dislike my nose a lot. It's narrow and patrician at the nostrils and the slope down, and then balloons into the general shape of a tomato at its end. The effect is a little like I'd stuck a flesh-colored Bozo nose at the very tip. I used to despair over it, but these days I like it. It's a comedy nose. A nose to remember, even.

But here was this Elvis lookalike, telling me I had a big nose and dashing any hopes I had that he found me handsome. "Thanks," I said, not without some asperity.

"No, I like it," he said, following up hastily. Then, without much hesitation, "Want to go back to my room?"

Well. I was never really one to say no to those kinds of requests.

He pushed me flat on my back, onto the thin mattress in the private room. The sheet and I skidded across the vinyl until I came to a stop. Then Elvis climbed on top of me. I remember that his body temperature was still elevated from the steam room; his skin was moist and hot against mine. "That nose is so huge," he said, staring into my eyes.

"You keep pointing that out," I said, not quite believing we were back to my honker again.

"Let me suck it," he begged. I raised my eyebrows. "Just let me suck it. It's the only way I can get off. Please. Please let me suck it. Let me suck your big fuckin' nose."

If I'd heard those words at, oh, an improv comedy troupe's routine, I would've chortled with laughter. At the time though, I could only open my eyes wide and squawk, "What?"

He had me pinned down, though I really could've bolted up and out at any moment. Still, I think he enjoyed the illusion that I wasn't going anywhere. "Let me suck it. It's my thing. I like noses. They get me off. Yours would get me off big-time. For real. Please."

As I said, I've done worse.

The sensation of having my nose sucked was—well. It wasn't unpleasant. There's really no part of my body that dislikes having a pair of lips and a tongue applied to it. I wasn't in any danger of accidentally blowing a load all over the place from the stimulation, mind you. But as strange as it was—and I'm about to employ a double-negative here—it wasn't not enjoyable. Elvis slobbered all over it until I had his saliva running down the sides of my face to my ears. The entire time he sucked it, hard, his teeth sometimes raking over the skin, he hunched over my body. His chest was pressed to mine, but he'd lifted up his hind quarters so that he could stroke himself as he sucked.

His hands worked furiously down there over his small dick, almost as if he were afraid I'd say I had enough before he got down. I put up with the odd sucking and the drool on my face and the uncomfortable way I had to labor to breathe, until finally Elvis blew his load. It landed on my stomach and cock and balls as he huffed and puffed and exhaled directly into my nostrils.

Then he flopped down on top of me and lay there, his head turned to the side. He ran his left index finger over my spit-slick schnozz as he studied it. "That is one big nose," he said again.

"Thanks," I said. This was in the days before The Office, but I was already doing one of those patented, wide-eyed, blank, you got this on tape, didn't you? looks that the character of Jim Halpert makes to the documentarians when someone in his work environment does something outrageous.

"I can't come unless I suck on a nose," he said. "You should come out to Ann Arbor and let me suck on it some more, some evening."

"Yeah, I'd better go shower . . . my nose," I finished, awkwardly.

"You want to get off? I can watch you jack."

"I'm good," I assured him, before sliding out from under him and excusing myself.

Somehow I didn't think that trip to Ann Arbor would be happening. Driving forty-five minutes to fuck and getting some mutual satisfaction is one thing. Driving that long to have my nose consumed . . . not so much.

As I said, though. It wasn't unpleasant. It just wasn't my thing. Though as with any fetish, I'm never surprised to find out that it's someone else's.