Old Man

The Runt is shooting like a fucking geyser today. Like Old Faithful, he’s spouting off at regular intervals. Big huge jets of the stuff. Every time, spouts erupt out of his rigid dick as his body shakes and quivers. He’s spunked all over the blanket, baptized the pillows and headboard, smacked me in the chest and face with his essence.

Every time, he looks at me afterward in panic and near distress. I can’t fathom what frightens him. He could be afraid I’ll assume he’s done, and cease the relentless grinding of my cock into his puffy red hole. Maybe he thinks his cries are loud enough to be heard by the neighbor upstairs. But I think secretly he fears he’s showing too much. The Runt plays his emotional cards close to his chest. Around his friends, his family, he’s pretending—pretending to be normal, pretending not to be gay, pretending to be a good and obedient boy who marches lockstep with the plans others have made for him.

The only time he’s anything close to being himself is when he’s naked and with me. In the dark, when I’m holding him so tightly by his trim waist that I’m leaving red marks on that smooth skin, when I’m shoving my obscenely enlarged fuckmeat into his soft, sweet guts, he’s free. He’s getting what he needs. He’s living the life about which he can only fantasize in the harsh light of day. I think that realization takes him aback. He’s unused to expressing the liberty he feels when he’s astride a man’s cock.

So when he comes, it’s loudly. Not like when he’s at home after the lights are out, fumbling himself under the covers. His narrow chest billows and dwindles, his breathing quickens and becomes harsh, his little dime-sized nipples shrink and pucker. His ass cheeks dimple and contract around my dick as he straddles it and rides. His lids open as if they’re revealing the world around him, and not merely hiding his beautiful brown eyes. He shudders and yells and then, right on schedule, his dick jerks back and forth. At each apex, it unleashes a stream of gooey white sperm. The first launch smacks me on the shoulder and flies off and over the bottom of the bed. The second lands at the bed’s foot. The third puddles on the blanket and begins to seep in.

His hair covers his forehead, falls in his eyes. It’s a wavy mess. Kids these days, right? His body rises and falls with every thrust of my hips. The Runt comes whenever I force my dick inside him. It’s the first penetration that triggers his spastic response, so I’ve been fucking him, left his hole rest and close, and then forcing it back inside. I’m cruel that way. Yeah, I’m a real bastard, all right, giving him climax after climax and then stretching his hole with my monster cock while he’s trying to recuperate. Sadistic fucker.

So I’m lying there sneering and being cocky about my prowess, and I don’t even notice at first he’s lowered himself on his hands. He’s looking at me. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

I rest my hips. I don’t tense up, exactly, but I’m on edge. The Runt doesn’t ask me things. We don’t talk. We pass comments back and forth sometimes. The last talk we had was when he broke down to tell me his dad had called him a worthless faggot. Even when I’ve asked how things are at home, since then, the most communicative he’s been has been to shrug his shoulders and pretend he hasn’t heard. “Anything,” I say, wondering if I can communicate supportiveness, neutrality, and encouragement all in one word.

My dick’s still hard and inside him. He settles down on it, as if to sit for a while. His mouth works with difficulty. I breathe in and out, but don’t prod. I wait for his words to come. At last he says, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.”

I’m surprised he remembers. The only time we’d discussed it was when I’d asked about his, months ago. “I do indeed.”

“It’s a big one.”

I don’t really need to be reminded of this fact. I’ve already got my dad saying Hey, you’re going to be really really OLD! I woke up the other morning and realized how OLD you’ve gotten and I was thinking to myself, ‘how do I have a son who’s that OLD?’ every time I talk to him on the phone. But you know, to someone with the Runt’s youth, I’m sure I seem like a creaky old antiquity. “It is.”

The Runt has sleepy eyes. They’re big baby-doll eyes—round and fringed by thick eyelashes. They’ll be devastating when he learns how deliberately to use them on a guy. His lids are heavy again now, though. He gazes at me as if he’s afraid of being hurt. “Can I be the last?”

I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s talking about.

The bemusement must be plain on my face. “I want to be the last one you fuck. In your forties,” he explains. His voice is soft. “Would that be all right?”

Oh. My lips part, as I consider his words. It’s not the actual offer of sex that pleases me. I know he’s exposing a vulnerable side of himself. And that, coming from anyone, is a gift in itself. Much better than anything wrapped in paper.

“You don’t have to.”

“It would be very all right,” I say, not letting him take the offer back. “But why?”

Those heavy lids close again. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be kind of cool, is all.”

That’s not what he thought at all. I just hoped you think I’m special enough, is what he’s telling me. I hope you remember me. He doesn’t need to speak the words. “I’d love it if you were the last fuck of my forties,” I say to him. Then, formally, holding his hands, I make him look at me. “Will you, Runt, be the last ass I fuck in my forties?”

Now I’ve made him shy. “Come on,” he says, urging me to stop.

“No, seriously.” I shake his hands a little. “Say you will. I’d not considered it at all until now. But will you?”

His lips work a little into one of his rare smiles. His eyes rest on mine for a second, then flit away. “Okay.”

I’ve pleased him. It makes my heart warm, and my dick swell. “What about me?” I ask. He flips away the hair from his eyes with a quick bob of his head. “Do I get to be the last man of your teens?” That milestone is approaching quickly.

He chuckles. His hands lift to the leather dog collar around his skinny neck. “How many dudes do you think I see?”

“How about the first man of your twenties?” I say. “Would you remember that?”

He nods. “I would definitely remember that. Both those.”

He looks over at the clock. It’s a nervous tic for him. He’s so used to having his schedule regulated by the needs of others that he’s unused to having any for himself. “Do we have to go?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “Then get your ass off my cock and get your mouth on it, son,” I whisper. “Make this old man feel good.”

I’ll let him gnaw on my bone for a bit. Then, when his ass muscles are relaxed, I’ll split him open again and force out another of his copious loads. Old Geyser’s gotta blow, after all. The Runt rearranges himself between my legs. He looks up at me and dutifully says,“You’re not old.”

He could give my dad some lessons in tact.