Pornstache

The thirty-year-old had sent me many photos before we met, all of them so different they might as well have been of different men. There was a shot of him in fishing boots, brandishing a large and glistening catch at the end of a hook, facial hair trimmed into wild-man mutton chops. There was another in party boy attire, sparkling and spangled, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, hair cropped and slicked down, holding aloft a colorful cocktail. There was one of him staring soulfully at a grainy, light-deprived camera in some kind of classic MySpace pose, staring up at the ceiling, his hair long and cascading down to his shoulders, scruff on his face. There was one of him in business attire, almost parodying some kind of Sears Catalog action pose. There were others of him in various stages of undress, showing off his sexy, built body, his handsome face, his round ass. All of them had his hair at various lengths, his facial hair in every configuration, his locale from snowy to summery, in every kind of archetypal pose there is.

He was the reigning Cindy Sherman of Manhunt, pretty basically. When he’d buzzed me in at the street, I had no idea which of his many bewildering identities would answer my knock.

The door opened. He opened it, wearing only a towel. Immediately he lounged against the frame with his forearm pressed against it at head level. “Hey,” he leered, through the thick and bushy growth on his upper lip.

He had a pornstache.

I’ve certainly seen pornstaches before in their natural habitat—when they migrated from the lips of Gene Shalit and the Leatherman of the Village People into the gay porn movies of the late nineteen-seventies and very early nineteen-eighties. I knew they were making a comeback—an ironic, smirky comeback that I’d been hoping was limited somewhat to the hipper neighborhoods in Brooklyn. One young friend of mine in Michigan had attempted one after I vacated the region, but in the photographs I’d seen it didn’t do justice to his round little baby face.

Until that moment, I’d never seen one in the wild.

The guy had some kind of nouveau-eighties hair going on, too; a wild thick wave of long brown hair that had been bouffed up in the front and that spilled down over one side of his head like a frozen waterfall. It wasn’t unattractive—he was a handsome guy, so he made it work—but it surely wasn’t anything one would see walking down the typical street in 2012.

Damn. That pornstache, though. When his lips twitched as he looked me over, it seemed to move as if alive. I couldn’t decide whether I was horrified or aroused. “You look good,” he growled from beneath it. “Wanna come in?”

Rhetorical question. I had two hands full of him and a mouthful of his tongue less than ten seconds later. Our bodies bounced from wall to wall down the narrow apartment hallway and into his studio. If his futon hadn’t already been opened right inside the entrance to the room itself, we would’ve likely fallen to the floor and not noticed. He grappled at me desperately, shoving one down the front of my jeans to get at my cock, while the other tried to pull my T-shirt over my head. His kisses tasted like coffee. His clothes smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but not his mouth; I was guessing it was second-hand smoke. And his pornstache rubbed and ground against my own short-trimmed facial hair, crunching against my beard and prickling my skin like a fine-bristled comb.

“I keep lookin’ at your god-damned cock,” he said. His voice was naturally deep. There was nothing forced about it. “It’s so fucking big. You that big in person?”

“Look and see,” I suggested.

I put my hands over my head and lifted my hips as he wrenched down the denim between him and his prize. I was rock hard when he finally got off my briefs. His hand clenched at my shaft, squeeze so hard that my head grew purple and even more bulbous. He looked at it, let go, studied some more, and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. “Oh fuck yeah,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my rod, he was so close. “Those photos don’t lie, bro.”

He opened his mouth. That pornstache turned into a giant horseshoe with all the luck running out, as he stretched his lips. I grabbed my meat and pointed it away. “You want it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted, looking up at me. His tongue flicked out and left a wet trail on my nuts.

“How bad you want it?”

The question made those brown eyes widen and fill with longing. “Dude,” he said. It wasn’t an address. It was a plea. “I don’t just want it. I need it.” I still held my dick, throbbing, in my fist. But my jaw involuntarily jutted out at his statement, and I nodded. “I fucking need that big dick. Please,” he said. “Please give it to me, bro. Give me that big dick.”

As he spoke, his lips quested in its direction. I hesitated for a moment, just for show, then finally gave him what he wanted.

He went down on it immediately, engulfing my inches in his hot, wet mouth. And fuck. That pornstache. He put it to good use. Its bristly hairs hung over his upper lip and raked at the top of my shaft as he slid up and down on it. Every time he would move down on the bone, his mouth would open wide and I’d feel a blast of hot breath on it and the underside of my nuts. Then his soft lips would close around the base, and pull down toward the head, following his clinging tongue to the tip. Then the process would start again.

“Fuck,” I murmured. He’d lost the towel in our tussle. It lay beneath him on the futon. His hips ground against the hard mattress; whenever he thrust down, his ass cheeks would clench, then release. Clench, release. The effect was like a hypnotist’s watch. I stared at the beguiling motion, losing track of the time, losing track of the sounds of the traffic outside, of the alternative music playing softly on the speakers. Losing track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my shaft.

I’m not usually satisfied only by head. But this was doing it for me. That hot man on the bare mattress, the clench and release of his ass, the sensation of those big sensuous lips and the scrape, scrape, of that pornstache . . . it was all working really well for me. Sure, in the back of my mind I kept thinking it was a little bit like getting a blow job from John Oates at the height of his career, but then those lips would part and I’d feel that furnace blast of breath between my tights, and I’d allow myself to be submerged deep into the wet and mindless moment.

I didn’t even know I was close to coming until I found myself coming out of the trance to clutch onto both his shoulders. Then one of my hands raked through his hair—surprisingly soft, for the fact it was motionless—and pulled his throat onto my cock. I held him there while I gasped and swore and spasmed. He looked up at me with something in his eyes: love. Lust. Need. Fucking adoration, that’s what it was. Then I blew. Rope after rope of the good stuff, down his throat. He gagged, but didn’t stop sucking. Desperately he attempted to nurse every drop of it into his gullet, to take it into himself. To make me part of him.

Somehow, though, he got some of it in that pornstache. He had no idea it was there. Though my head was spinning and I felt out of breath, my hand drifted up. My fingers twitched to brush it away. Then I forced my hand there, and let it be. He looked better with it lacing that bristle-broom of an adornment.

It didn’t last there long. He craned his neck up, and pulled me down to kiss him. I tasted the tang of my semen on our lips briefly before it disappeared between us, shared in that long and sloppy kiss.