Phillip the Brazilian

The thing of it is: whenever I think about the guy, I remember the burst of excitement I got from the initial impression his photos made. Never mind what happened afterwards. When he pops into my head, I remember that curly short hair, the dazzling smile, the skin the color of teak. And I remember my instinctive reaction of Wow, that guy wants me? Okay then! Let's do it!

He was Brazilian. That’s even how he refers to himself when he texts me. Hi, this is Phillip the Brazilian. Come fuck me? I found it charming.

And I wasn’t really betrayed by false photos, either. He lived in a flat over the New York border, at the top of a three-story house that had been subdivided into private apartments. It was snowing out that morning, and when he padded around the house’s side to meet me and lead me upstairs, I was surprised at how handsome he was in person, too. He wore a pair of soccer shorts. made of that sleazy, drape-y fabric that shows every contour of a man’s cock if he’s not wearing underwear. Which he wasn’t. His dark and hairy legs were stuffed into a much-worn pair of gray sweatsocks, and his feet were girdled by sandals that slapped the wet pavement as he approached. He flashed me a smile—god damn, what a smile this fucker had—and asked if I’d found the address okay. Then he put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the house and up the stairwell to the top.

Once we were alone, and upstairs beneath the much-repaired plaster ceiling of his bedroom, he gave me another broad, toothy smile. I melted. “You are very, very handsome,” he told me. His words were warm and sweet, his voice like summer honey fresh from the comb. He pulled me down to his sofa and planted a kiss on my lips. His mouth was hot, and moist, and eager; when his tongue slipped between my lips and into my own mouth, I groaned and let him push me down on the cushions. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me, as he grapples with the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve kept looking at your profile and hoping you’d notice.”

“I wish I had,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He was making me feel so good.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, when I reached out and started stroking the lump in his sleazy shorts. It was hard to miss that protrusion, that enormous mound of hardened flesh. He’s big, this guy. I wrestled with his waist band and yanked it down below his hips. His dick fell onto me like a tree branch. “You like it?”

“I sure as hell do,” I said. I pulled myself out from under him. I knelt down on the rag carpet and helped him to spread his legs.

It was a beautiful dick. A solid eight inches. Thicker than my own. Cut. Juicy. He drooled precum onto my tongue as he slid himself in. I sucked the upper few inches for a while, then engulfed the whole shaft to the base. He groaned as his head hit the back of my throat. “Don’t make me cum,” he begged. Then, after a moment more, he grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face off his meat. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need your big dick inside me.”

I had no problem with that.

We took ourselves into the bedroom, where he pushed me down onto the mattress, pulled down my pants so they hung around my ankles, and then slathered my dick with lube. “I’m gonna sit on it,” he promised, staring at me with those intense eyes of his. “I’m gonna sit on it and ride it all day.” His head lolled back when he lowered himself onto my shaft. He was tight, but he kept a hold on my cock until half of it was in, and then pushed himself onto the remaining inches.

We both groaned at the same time. It felt good. “I want to ride this all afternoon,” he promised. “Can we fuck all afternoon?”

“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I grinned at him.

“Good, because I want to make you my captive,” he said. “I’m gonna tie you up and keep you as my toy top. Just ride you all afternoon, baby. Take that big white dick up my hole all afternoon until—!”

And this is the point he painted my face with cum. Seriously. I didn’t see it coming. There was no announcement of it, no forewarning. No groaning or panting, no sudden rush of activity. I was just lying there, propping myself up on my elbows and egging him on, listening to him talk in a normal conversational sex voice, when suddenly my face was wet and dripping. I was vaguely aware that my shoulders were sopping, as well. Then he hopped up, hopped off, and scampered into the bathroom across the hallway as quickly as he could.

Now, I’m not exactly the slowest-witted of people, even when most of my body’s blood is concentrated below the waist in my engorged dick. But it really wasn’t until I heard him running the water that I realized what had just happened. My brain was stuck back in the Can we fuck all afternoon? part of the conversation to fully comprehend that I’d just had my face splattered with jism. Then he came back, smiled at me in his Brazilian way, and tossed me my shirt. “That was great!” he enthused.

And inwardly, I was lying there thinking . . . Wait. That’s it?

Whenever I write of these disappointing encounters, there’s always someone who says, “You should’ve just grabbed him and fucked him until you got your satisfaction, stud.” And in some circumstances, that’s pretty much exactly what I would’ve done. However, when your trick is studiously keeping himself out of arm’s length of you, it’s not all that easy. So I gathered my clothes, stuffed myself back in them, and let myself out. I looked at my watch when I got down to the bottom of the stairs.

I’d been there all of seven minutes.

More than a little ticked off, I took myself to lunch at a sandwich shop not a mile away. I’d barely gotten there and parked—it hadn’t been more than ten minutes since I’d exited—when Phillip the Brazilian started texting me again. Can you come back and fuck me again? he wanted to know. I’m horny. And, Can you come over this afternoon? Or maybe tonight? You could spend the night.

I had a vision of myself arriving at eight in the evening and spending the night until eight-o’-seven. I shook my head, thanked the attendant for delivering my sandwich, and just set down the phone.