You Need to Know

You need to know what I go through, leaving you.

There hasn’t been a time you haven’t offered me your shower, after we fuck for hours. I always decline. It’s because I want to step out of your apartment knowing that I smell of you. I stride down the tiles of your hallway, out the first security door and then the second, and finally onto the street. Only there in the fresh air do I curl my lip and inhale the scent of you, fresh and pungent as any aromatic. I savor it as I pass the bodega two streets down from you. Your bouquet is my private pleasure on my train rides home—that sweet musk lingers on my face with my own, and becomes part of me.

As it fades, bit by bit, I start counting the days until I can see you again. Until I can eat your hole again, and cover my face with the tang of your most private place. Until I can press my chest against yours after you shoot your load, and pull apart after I’m glued to you, covered with your essence.
I count the days until I can fuck you again, and leave part of myself inside.

You know what you do to me when we meet. You can see it in my face; you read it in the tensing and easing of my muscles. You measure it directly by the stiffness of my dick. There are a hundred secret things you know about me from our meetings.

But you need to know what I go through when I don’t see you.

I wake in the middle of the night beneath the blankets, warm and drowsy. My dick, though, is wide awake and raging. It shoves against the mattress and hopes to find the warm mounds of your ass, but is only frustrated to find cotton and foam. I sleep with a small pillow between my knees. Caught between dreaming and waking, I can imagine too easily that it’s your legs my own wrap around, that the body sleeping next to me is yours. Then my eyelids flutter, and the unblinking cold light of my clock illuminates the contours of my bedroom, and it’s with regret that I have to concede that you’re not there. But still my cock demands. The head swell, my nuts tighten, and I drift back into sleep thinking of how tight and warm, how wet you feel when I push insistently inside.

I think of texting you, during the day. I wonder how you are, and what you’re doing at work. I wonder if you’d think it creepy if some dude old enough to be your dad were to text you and tell you about the dream he had the night before of your presence next to his, and how much he craved to be within you. Too often I fear I err on the side of caution. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give yourself to me; I don’t want the knowledge of my desire to be a burden.

But you’re what I think about, when I think about fucking.

You need to know how it is for me when I save up for you. When the days pass and turn into weeks, when the weeks sometimes pass to turn into a month. When finally I learn you’ll have the place to yourself and I’ll be with you again. I save up. Every time. I do it in part for you, because I know you love the sensation of my big load gushing into your deepest recesses. Mostly, though, I do it for me. I do it because the self-denial is pleasurable.

Writing those last words brought a little smile to my face. Pleasurable. Torturous. I’m finding it tough to tell the difference.

The first two days I scarcely notice. I masturbate less than I fuck anyway; I can go two days, even three without spotting the difference.

Day four, though, I find myself growing hard at the slightest provocation. A pretty face, a memory of something sexual, a growl in a voice or a look of longing in my direction makes me want to unbuckle and have at it. Day five, and sex starts to be all I can think about. I know I shouldn’t whip it out. I know I shouldn’t scratch this itch. But oh, do I want to.

By the sixth and seventh day of my abstinence, I’m in a frenzy. My middle-of-the-night boners are hard as cement; they rage and demand and insist, keeping me awake more than I like to admit. My dick wrenches me from my sleep abruptly, the head wet with precum from some dream of you that’s vanishing too quickly. I’m trapped in a sexual purgatory with no sign of relief. Every hour seems longer than the last. I endure my day’s work thinking about you, about how sore I want your hole when I’m done with it. I look at the photos you’ve sent, re-read your texts, go over your stories in my mind. I revisit the map of your body I keep locked away—the rolling mountains of your ass, the valley between your thighs, the sounds of the oceans made by your sighs.

My brain’s besotted with you, the last couple of days before we meet again. What’s worse is that the boys can smell my desperation on the wind, like hounds smell a bitch in heat. Out of the woodwork they crawl, insinuating that we should get together, that I should fuck them. It’d be so easy, too. You wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have to be accountable. I could slip inside them, fill their little holes with cum, and hook up with you not long after. I’d still have load enough for you.

But it’s not right. It’s not the reason for which I go through this torture.

You need to know: I save up my load because it’s you that deserves it. It’s you that I want to blast with my sperm—only you. I’ll accept no lesser applicants, no substitutes. I want to turn you over and bury your face in the pillow, and lift your hips with my hands and pull that sweet, muscular ass to my face so I can eat it and relax it. I want to chew on your hole both to make it yearn for me, and as revenge for making me wait so long. I want to turn you onto your back, and wedge that pillow of yours beneath the small of your spine, and drive into you with the cock that’s been waiting for days and weeks and months. I want to make it sweet, just the way you crave; I want to make it hurt, so you’ll remember me with every twinge and pang.

I want to fuck you so hard and so relentlessly, that when I climax in a series of shudders and soft moans, in jerky thrusts and the swelling and release of the inches between my legs, you and I both know that this is right—that the sperm that’s been boiling in my nuts for the last week or more has been simmering for you. Not for some hungry little Latin boy looking for a papi to fuck him. Not for some cum whore eager to score. Just for you. I want that big load, and the loads that follow, to seep from your hole and onto your mattress all night. I want you to be able to reach down there and behind, to touch the parts I’ve left moist and puffy and sore, and remember I was there, and that I took the pains to make it special.

Maybe you do it when you’re alone that night, remembering what passed before. Maybe you do it while I’m still in your apartment building, while I’m walking down that tiled hallway and smelling you on my upper lip, while I’m letting myself out and walking with regret back to the train.

You need to know: even sated and walking down the street mere heartbeats away, stinking sweetly of your hole and your juice, I’m already thinking of our next time.

I’m already thinking of you.