Fauxhawk

I’m surprised by the fauxhawk covering the middle third of his skull. It’s a soft landing strip of copper-colored down, a number three buzz surrounded by pink skin on either side. When I step into his cabin and let the door slam shut behind me, this young man takes me into his arms and lays his head upon my chest as he hugs me tightly.

I haven’t met him before. We haven’t even communicated much. The most that’s passed between us were a couple of texts on Scruff, when our cruise ship made land at Puerto Rico and our phones began connecting to our home services again. You’re hot. Want to come fuck me at 3 pm? he’d asked.

You’re hot too. Sure, I’d said.

And now he’s cradling me like I’m his long-lost dad. Well, his long-lost dirty dad, at least. I’m both touched and aroused. My right hand holds him tight; my left hand strokes the racing stripe of hair. After a long minute, I lift up his chin and raise his mouth to mine. Our kiss is deep, and satisfying, and long.

He’s a handsome man. Early thirties. Deep blue eyes. Fair skin. Beefy, in a worked-out way. He maneuvers me down the short hallway and into his cabin with his arms still encircling my rib cage, our mouths fixed upon each other’s. We’re able to navigate the short distance by rocking stiff-legged from side to side, like two Ken dolls a child is pretending to make waltz. When he shoves me onto the mattress, I’m scarcely all the way down when he lunges on top of me, his arms planted above my head, his mouth still hungrily kissing mine.

Have I neglected to mention he’d greeted me wearing only a Nasty Pig jock? Well, I’ve been so consumed by his kissing that I scarcely noticed myself, until now. He’s one of those men with a naturally-smooth body—or at least, I’m not detecting any shaving stubble. My hands wander from his firm pectorals down to his glutes. His ass is spectacularly round and full. I can feel the hardness of his cock, and the heat of it, as he grinds into my pelvic bone. My own dick is just as rigid, though it lies at an angle almost perpendicular to his. The weight of him, his rhythmic thrusting, his insistent pressure…it’s all working to make me desire him as much as he obviously desires me.

He rolls over and thrusts his hands beneath a pillow over his head. “Take off your clothes,” he begs.
What can I do but obey? My flip-flops hadn’t even made it as far as the bed. The only other things I’m wearing are a pair of sweat shorts that I wriggle out of and let fly off my foot across the room, and a tee that I rip off and throw onto the cabin floor. I roll on top of him and press myself against the man, skin against skin. We kiss again, my tongue deeply plundering his mouth. He grunts with pleasure. His legs lift; my erection batters against his crack as I mock-thrust against him. Without warning, he employs his weight to once again flip me onto my back.

“I need that cock,” he announces, and I watch as he shimmies himself down between my legs. His arms, which had been off to the sides, quickly bury themselves beneath my butt. His mouth opens to engulf me.

But as he swiftly and expertly swallows my cock, part of my brain distances itself from the proceedings. Usually I pride myself on remaining totally in the sexual moment. But there’s enough of a disconnect that my brain suddenly switches off of erotic autopilot—for I pride myself as well for being a good observer. And didn’t I observe, in that last swift motion, that this man was missing one of his hands?

It’s impossible to tell now; both his forearms are buried beneath my backside. Mentally I review every grappling position in which the two of us had so far engaged. He’d flung his arms around me when I’d entered; he’d kept his hands out of view and over my head when I’d been on the mattress. When he’d been on his back, they’d artfully been covered by a pillow. Only in that moment when he’d gone down between my legs had I noticed that he was missing his right hand at the wrist. Nowhere in his Scruff profile had he mentioned such a thing.

Nor was I really certain, honestly, that he needed to. Why did it have to be a big deal? Some gay men have occupied so much of their lifespans and their mental real estate attempting to seem normal, to fit in, to blend when they should pop, that any deviance to their agenda of homogeneity sends them into a tizzy. The wrong look, the wrong weight, a selfie taken at Wendy’s instead of the gym—I could well imagine how freaked out a shallow man might be about an absent body part.

Did my fauxhawked friend hope that I simply wouldn’t notice? Was he so practiced and expert at concealment that he’d gotten away with his partners not noticing before? In no way does he need any of my pity. Yet pity isn’t what I’m feeling for him. Not for his injury, not for his lack, at least. I feel angry that someone, sometime, had embarrassed him about himself. I feel dismay that he has the compulsion to hide.

Honestly, though, I’m not able to formulate much of a coherent response in the moment, because the fucker’s mouth is making my dick feel so damned good.

“Let me eat your hole,” I suggest.

In a flash he maneuvers himself into a kneeling position, keeping me firmly on his left side so that I can’t see his right arm as it swings swiftly into place beneath the pillow. I kneel behind him, planting my lips onto the smooth pucker he presents. It relaxes and blossoms on my tongue as I lap at it. “You like that,” I state, and am rewarded an answer in groans.

I drag the unused pillow beneath his hips and rim him for several minutes, giving him pleasure just as he’d given it to me moments before. I’m rough and relentless at times as I gnaw at this private place with vigor, or abrade it with my short beard. At other points I’m romantic, making out with the hole to let it know how very badly I desire it. The pink tip of his cock, angled down and to the side, peeks out of the stretchy fabric of his jock. Its slit glistens with sticky fluid.

At last I rise and plant my knees between his. I raise my palm and spit in it, then smooth the slickness over my meat. His hips rise in anticipation; when I begin to slide inside his warm chute, he murmurs obscenities into the pillow. “Just enjoy it,” I whisper.

“I am,” he promises. “Oh god, I really am.”

I’m in. He’s well-fucked, this one; there’s barely any resistance, all the way down. I pause when I reach the base, then pull apart those globes and force myself in an extra half-inch. His back is arched; his neck as well, as he lifts his head to let out a mighty sob of pleasure.

“Right there,” he whispers. “Right…right there. Oh god, you’re hitting that spot I love.”

“You want to sit on it?” I murmur. “I’ll get in real deep if you sit on it.”

I sense some hesitation. Maybe he’s wondering how he can once more hide his right arm; maybe he’s plotting the combination of moves he’ll use, the vectors that will have to come into play for the concealment. But it’s bullshit. If he wants that spot hit, he needs to let me deploy him into a position in which I can hit that spot over and over again.

“Sit on it,” I order.

I turn over on my back, and prop up my head with some pillows. He turns himself over, right arm held out of sight behind his back. Then, as I hold my cock upright, he straddles me and lowers himself down. His eyes close as he sinks onto me.

“Yes” I whisper. It feels right. It feels good.

He must be feeling good, himself. When he’s fully down on me, his head jerks back once more to let me know I’ve found that spot again. I hold my hands to his chest and let his weight fall upon them. He’s still angling his arm awkwardly to keep it out of sight. To me it’s obvious that the charade is interfering with his ultimate enjoyment.

“Come here,” I whisper. I take his left hand in my right, then raise my left hand in the same position. He responds by trying to lean forward and plant his right arm over my head, but it’s a bumbling angle that lessens the pleasure for us both. Finally, I push him back upright. I hold out my left hand, cupped, as I thrust inside him. Then, when his eyes close and he loses himself a little in the pleasure of my big dick so deep within, I take hold of his right forearm. Our fingers are entwined to my right; he’s finally no longer concealing anything and resting in my grasp, on my left. Our eyes meet.

“You like this?” I ask him.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes sir,” he says.

Even though he’s on top of me, I’m still the one doing the work. I thrust upward with my hips as I support him with my hands and upper thighs; his dick throbs. His jock becomes wetter with every thrust. The man gazes down at me through slitted eyelids as I stare at him squarely on. I gauge my thrusts by his every little reaction, banging harder when I sense he needs it, slowing down when I get too close. It’s impossible to hold off forever, though. “Are you ready for my load?” I ask, finally.

His fingers tighten around my right hand. “I’ve been ready since you walked through the door, sir.”

There’s such a look of need in his eyes that I can’t hold off any more. My fingers clutch at his hand and arm tightly as I let loose. I’m still jetting into him when I untangle my right hand from his and claw open his jock. His short cock is slicker than even mine, all from his own precum; I close a fist around it and force him into climax with just a few short strokes.

Both of us are breathing heavily when the sexual haze subsides. He sinks down onto my dick and, as I raise my hips once more, collapses on top of my body. Still connected, ass to cock, my sperm making his insides slippery, we make out in languorous fashion.

After a very long minute, he lifts his head and strokes my hair. “I really like you,” he says.

“I really like you, too,” I tell him.

Nothing more needs to be said. We understand each other.