Show-Off

So here I am, butt making a dent in my mattress, legs spread with my laptop between them. The tiny dot of a camera in the top bezel is angled squarely at my junk. Just a typical Monday morning, right?

Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.

What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.

Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.

fuck look at that precum, writes someone.

This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.

pvt me? write a few people at once.

I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.

But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.

(Note: my mom never actually said that.)

Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.

lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.

Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.

My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.

Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.

Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.

I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.

They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.

I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.

I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.

There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.

My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.

That was me. Enjoy the show?

Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.

Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.

You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.

I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.

Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.

Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.

A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.

Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.

Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.

I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?

Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.

“Really?” is my only question.

“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”

“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.

“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”

“Up here?” I ask.

He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”

I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.

“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”

I nod. “I know.”

“Now I’ve got it.”

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)

“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”

I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.

“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”

“All yours.”

He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.

“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”

His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.

“So make it feel good, then.”

He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.

The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.

Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.

“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”

There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.

He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.

Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.

One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.

“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”

I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”

“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”

“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”

“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”

I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.

“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”

“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.

His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”

I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.