Franco: Part 1

It was close to the end of our first fuck that my hips began moving on their own. In that moment I had no more control over my thrusts than I have control of the planchette of a Ouija board—they took off on their own, speeding up, slowing down, and all I could do was sit back, marvel and wait for the inevitable. When that started happening, I knew Franco was different from typical bottoms. The realization only made me fuck him harder.

In my early teens, sex was everything. It was what I thought about when I went to bed, what'd I'd dreamt about throughout the night, what I yearned for when I woke up mornings, my juvenile hard-on pressed so hard into the mattress that the sheets had left a woven imprint on my dick. It was my food, my drink, my air. My dick grew hard at the sight of a masculine voice, a jaw line, the slightest innuendo. I could look up dirty words in the dictionary and become aroused. Slight mentions of homosexuality in the Bible, even when everyone involved got stoned or shunned or transformed into pillars of salt, were enough to do it for me. Everything about it was novel and endlessly fascinating in the days when it took so very little to make my pulse quicken and my blood race liquid-hot through my veins.

Novelty eventually wears off, though. I spent much of my twenties attempting to recapture those feelings that made my teen years speed by, trailing testosterone-fueled fumes in their wake. What used to burn so hot it was nearly unbearable felt like a late autumn sun, so weak on my it barely reminds me to squint. It wasn't until a decade later, after I'd done it all, seen it all, and been back a few times for more, that I realized it wasn't the acts themselves that provided sensation for me—not the sex itself—but the people I met.

The sheer variety of them. The sweetness of some, unstinting and freely given. The tart and bracing sourness of others. Some months it seems as if the universe thrusts a Whitman's Sampler beneath my nose, daring me to choose. The very breadth of the choices makes me want to keep selecting and tasting, hoping that the next is as good as the one I've just had.

Sometimes, though, I still wish for a faint whiff of that giddy, heady, freshly-unwrapped smell that sex had when I was younger and less jaded.

And sometimes I get it.

Franco opened the door of his walk-up flat so that the first thing I'd see when I walked in was a sign taped to the wall opposite: I want Rob to breed me, it read. It was the sign he'd made for me months before, when he started sending me photos of himself wearing nothing but leather gear, bent over, ass presented to the camera, ready to be mounted. It was the sign with which he'd taunted me all summer.

The door closed; his furry face grinned at me. We might have said some words in greeting; I don't remember. Attractive as he'd been in his photos, in person Franco was really, really cute. His eyes were sparking and fixed on my face; his chin was covered in scruff. All I wanted to do was kiss him. My hands were blocks of ice from the cold, rigid and difficult to move, but they began to thaw as I moved them over his hips, up the sides of his ribs, to the thick hair at the back of his head. His mouth tasted sweet, like peppermints. And he kissed so well, with his eyes closed, sighing softly to himself whenever our lips parted.

It was long minutes before I could really form a coherent sentence. "You are really handsome," I said, as my lips nuzzled my ear.

"So are you!" he replied. "So much more than your photos!"

It was a statement distracting enough to draw me out of the moment, but I made a conscious decision to let it float away. There was too much to enjoy at the moment. The shape of his ass, round and firm beneath my defrosting palms. The way he pressed his body against mine, the way he collapsed into my arms surrounding him, as if being there was something he'd craved. I could overanalyze later.

We moved to the sofa, where I sat down. He straddled me, barely tearing his mouth away from mine for long enough to adjust our positions. I was wearing tight jeans made even more oppressive by the straining of my cock against the denim. It stretched up and to the left, pointing at my rib cage. His thigh rubbed against it, back and forth as we ground together our hips. For long moments we kissed. "Take off my shoes," I at last said, pushing him down.

He fumbled with the laces, then discovered the zippers down the sides. I pulled him back up to me once he'd done. "Now take off your pants," I ordered. He obeyed, shucking them smoothly and kicking them aside. I was three-quarters of the way on my back. Only my shoulders and head were propped up on the pillow behind. Without a word, I twirled my finger in the air. He obeyed the gesture and turned around. The boy had worn a jockstrap beneath his jeans. His cock, thick and erect, shyly poked from the side. His ass was beautiful. Framed by the straps of his jock, the cheeks were round and meaty and perfect.

I sat up and pushed at the small of his spine. He bent over obediently, then used his hands to pull apart his cheeks and expose his hole. One of the the things I liked knowing about Franco is that he wasn't a dedicated bottom; he's pretty versatile, which means that he gets asked to top more often than not. I also knew he hadn't been fucked in a couple of months. It explained his reaction when I leaned forward and let my tongue flick out onto his hole. He gasped. His head jerked back. His legs quivered like plucked harp strings.

Then I lay back again. "Take off your shirt," I commanded.

He obeyed. Beneath the shirt he'd worn a leather halter, hooked around his arms and cutting across his pecs. His chest was hairy. He grinned at me shyly, trying to discern if I liked what I saw.

I nodded. "You are beautiful."

"So are you," he said.

I grabbed the center ring of his halter and pulled him down to me. We kissed again, long and lustily. Finally I whispered in his ear, "This is the last time you're going to see me for a while. I want you to get your hood."

Franco keeps a rack of toys and leather gear by his front door, hanging from pegs, the way someone else would keep a woolen hat and keys. In his bare feet and jock he shuffled over, retrieved what I'd told him to, and brought it back. He handed it to me and knelt between my legs. He bowed his head.

I fastened the blindfold portion over his eyes and nose. A strap held it down over the crown of his head. Another strap, thicker, fastened with velcro around the back of his neck. Blind and blindfolded, he had only his remaining senses to guide him. And my hand, which pushed his mouth against the tented portion of my jeans. Between my lips and my dick, which strained against its denim prison, his mouth traveled at my desire. I pushed him back, then guided his hands to my feet. Without saying a word, I let him know I expected him to remove my socks. His hands moved over my feet, then under the cuffs of my jeans.

I couldn't stand my pants any longer. I moved his hands to the waist. His fingers scrabbled for the button, then the zipper that let them down. I lifted the lower half of my body so that he could pull them off, then felt both the warmth of his lips and chin and the cool, slick surface of the leather blindfold pressed on the inside of my thighs. He made me groan when he licked and chewed at the place where my legs joined my hips. Greedily he pressed his nose against my balls, snuffling through my underwear like a hungry dog. His mouth closed around my cotton-sheathed dick, licking up and down the shaft, pausing to consume the head. My hand directed his head where I wanted it to go, making it pay more attention here, glossing over other parts to get to a pleasure spot more quickly.

My pre-cum was flowing freely through my trunks. My body heat quickly dried it when it reached the surface. It looked like the sticky tracks of a snail. While he licked and rubbed with his mouth, I tweaked his nipples. Soft they were, and pierced. The harder I pinched, the more desperate to please he became.

I couldn't take it any longer. I grabbed the ring of his halter and pulled him to a standing position. Again, I didn't say a word. I led him down the hallway I assumed would take us to his bedroom. I tried leading him by the ring, and then by his hand, but I was afraid he'd bang into the wall or the doorway to his kitchen. So after a few steps I drew him close, and put his arms around my waist, and let him cling to me as I moved us forward.

We stepped into his bedroom. The frame and mattress were at an angle. I vaguely took in the sight of three windows, shaded to the strong afternoon sun, and of a wardrobe, and a dresser, and chest. I sort of noticed candles flickering romantically in strategic spots around the room. But mostly I noticed the signs. There was one on a mirror standing in the corner, and one on the chest, and another taped to the headboard. They were all written in bold, clean, black marker. And they all read, I want Rob to breed me.

I inhaled with surprise. And it was in that moment, surrounded by the boy's arms and by the signs that proclaimed his desire for me, that I caught a whiff of something familiar. It was intoxicating. Staggering. Dizzying, even. It was a glimpse of that old rush of sensation and novelty I used to have as a teen when faced with the prospect of sex, wild and giddy and unhampered by the everyday. It was that rush of blood in my ears, down my spine, and to my throbbing, expanding cock.

And it took me aback, so that for a moment, all I could do was stand, like a pillar of salt, and listen to the sudden, deafening thudding of my heart.