Yes, And

The twenty-four year old wears his cap of raven ringlets like a crown. They are impossibly ornate, a fever dream made real of some long-deceased painter of the Pre-Raphaelite school. Golden morning light casts a halo atop those glinting curls. His skin is clear; his nose short and pert. The boy’s upper lip projects slightly over the lower.

Against the door frame of his parents’ home he leans, wearing nothing but a pair of beat-up white sneakers and cargo shorts too bulky for his narrow frame. One hand crosses his waist to clutch his side. He looks all the world like a portrait of St. Sebastian, aggrieved in martyrdom, yet still beautiful.

He’s looking me over, too. In my clean short-sleeved shirt and fresh shorts, I must pass the test, because he doesn’t send me packing. “I’ve never been with an older man.” The boy’s voice is deeper than I imagined. Soft, too.

“Well,” I say, equally quiet. “You certainly picked the oldest one out there.”

He tilts his head down, perhaps to conceal his amused smile. Through his fringe of circlets he looks me in the eye as he steps back to admit me into his home. “Come on in, I guess.”

At its root, lovemaking is expression. It’s performance. Improvisation. Two players—maybe more, but at least two—meet upon the stage to create a scene, each the other’s audience. A good performer knows that here the rules of improv apply: the yes, and of the stage carries just as much relevance in the bedroom. Each actor receives the words and energies of his scene partner and builds upon them. Hindering his enjoyment, negating what he has to contribute, refusing to be vulnerable—all these things lead to dead ends, whether enacted in a skit or upon the mattress.

Listening. That’s key. Taking in not merely words spoken, but the implications and possibilities behind them. When the boy says I’ve never been with an older man, I hear: Please live up to my fantasies. I hear: Please lead me. I hear: I picked you for a reason. When he says, come on in, I guess, I hear: Curtains rising.

On the edge of his bed in a surprisingly tidy room, the boy automatically begins loosening the heel of one sneaker with the toe of the other. “Let me, son,” I suggest, kneeling before him.

He hesitates, then leans back, his elbows planted on the colorful duvet. “Thank you, dad.”

Yes, and.

There’s a catch in his voice as he breathes his appreciation, though I cannot tell whether from the novelty of uttering the word dad, or from the touch of my fingers as gently I remove his left shoe. His feet are ridiculously large, like the comical paws of a puppy poised to become a much larger dog. I tug at his right shoe next, then carefully peel the no-show gray socks from his feet. When he stands, his distressed cargos slip slightly down his hips to reveal a forest of thick pubes. Once I’ve unsnapped the button and released the fly, the pants fall into a crumpled mass upon the wooden floor.

He steps out of them, stubby cock fully erect. His torso is perfectly smooth, save for a trail beneath his navel. The boy’s legs, though, are covered with a crazy amount of jet black fur. From the waist down, he looks as if he’s wearing a pair of dark, shaggy leggings. I gaze up with undisguised admiration. “You’re beautiful.”

Yes.

His dick leaps at the praise. I can hear his breath catch in his chest. “I can’t get over how handsome you are, dad.”

And.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t been fishing for praise, but his is pleasurable to hear. Yes. From my kneeling position, I pat the bed. “Sit down,” I suggest. He obeys, spreading wide those ebony-downed legs and folding his fingers over his bony knees. And. I whisper, “Lie back.” And. “Let me make you feel good.”

At first he resists, wanting to keep me in his sights as I run my hands over his flat abdomen, his sculpted pecs, the fuzzy planes of his upper thighs. Eventually, though, he settles down with his fingers interlocked behind his head, keeping it upright so he can watch. I kiss one thigh. Yes. Then the other. Yes, yes. I pingpong in slow motion between them, back and forth, moving upward inch by inch from just above the knees until I can feel his rigid inches baptizing my pate with sticky droplets.

And.

I bury my nose in his scrotum, inhaling deep of its soapy perfume. He has to be fresh from the shower. My tongue darts out. The tip tickles his taint, dances its way around the circumference of one of his eggs, then the other. And. Before he can protest or even verbalize what he’s feeling, I seize his short dick in my hand and squeeze hard enough to draw from him a gasp. And. Then I take it in my mouth and swallow it whole, to the base. I hold there, letting him enjoy the warmth and wetness.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “Fucking amazing.” Yes.

But I’m not done. I relinquish my position at the base and back off his meat, allowing my lips to cling and suckle at his dick and his swollen, cut head. Slowly. Deliberately. When I reach the tip, my tongue dips and plays around the slit. Then I slide back down again, in no hurry, until I return to my starting point. Several times I take him on this ride, aware that he’s watching as I nurse at his rock-hard dick.

Yes. I could do this forever.

He has the impatience of youth, though. It’s not long before he wriggles to a sitting position and pulls me off when I’m at the apex. “Can I do it to you?”

I crunch my brows and stare him in the eyes. My head nods as if he’s asked me the weightiest of questions, and I’ve given it all my consideration. Yes, and. “You’ve never sucked before?”

That’s what he’d told me on the app, at least. He nods, suddenly shy. “I’ve gotten head from two dudes. Just never gave it. I’ve eaten pussy, if that counts.”

While he speaks, I struggle to my feet and pull down my shorts. My own cock has been rigid this entire time, aching to be unbound. Now it bobs, free and proud, in front of his face. I feel a stab of satisfaction at the mingled look of awe and anticipation in the kid’s eyes. I’m at least twice as big as he. “You think you can handle this?” I ask.

He nods. Yes. “It’s so fucking big, dad.” I watch as he gulps. “Will you let me?” And.

Of course I will.

He assists by arranging and fluffing his pillows so I can lie back. It’s sweet, really, how solicitous he is as he ensures my comfort. For a moment, when our faces are close, I hope he might kiss me. He doesn’t. If he’s more experienced with women, perhaps that intimacy with another man is still too awkward. Yet when his curls brush my cheek and our lips are only inches apart, I yearn for another and.

Finally he flops between my outstretched legs and watches as I unbutton my shirt. The boy’s on his stomach, propped up by his arms, perky little butt flexing. In the moment, I don’t think I’ve seen anything so beautiful. The boy is miles and miles of creamy skin and unexplored territory, and I pine to be the surveyor to map him. “May I?” he whispers, stirring the hairs on my balls with his breath.

“You may,” I reply. In my appreciation of his beauty, I’d forgotten about my own dick. It has its own agenda, though, and certainly hasn’t forgotten its prey. Like a junkyard dog against its chain, it strains from between my thighs, angry and slavering and demanding release. When the boy wraps his fingers around it, though, I’m the one whimpering and growling. Yes. And. “Just do like I did for you, son,” I tell him. “Slow. Wet. Make me enjoy…”

He doesn’t need the direction. He sucks on his sulky lips to moisten them. Dark eyes looking up at me, he opens wide and takes me to the root. There’s no choking. No hesitation. Nothing but hunger, pushing him to devour as much and as quickly as he can. A cry flies from my lips and ricochets around the bedroom. His mouth still indulges my dick as, with a single strong hand, he presses me back into the pillows.

I could question his oral expertise. The kid knows exactly what he’s doing. And it’s his first time? Well, he could be extraordinarily gifted. A natural. Or he could be a liar.

In this space, though—this sacred theater, this place of performance and improvisation—I know better than to stem the flow with a no. He’s truly been the ideal partner. Why would I dare risk making him feel self-conscious, or foolish, or question his sincerity and experience? Riffing off each other, following the other’s cues, spinning a story without a script is how we craft this production. We do so together, as artists who share a mutual stage.

Not just here, today, this hour, this bedroom. Every encounter is a story of its own, a meeting of two performers, both of whom share a single spotlight. Two players who set and devise a shared scene. Who execute a single, choreographed bow at its conclusion. Who soak in the silent applause of each other. Who return to their lives happy, sated, and with a tale to tell.

“You like it?” he asks, emerging at last from the trance-like state in which he’s spent the last few minutes. He’s curled into an almost fetal position between my legs, and I revel in the selfishness of allowing him.

Yes. “Your mouth is amazing,” I manage to say, surprised I’m coherent enough for words.

He draws himself up. “Is it?” His eyes, half-covered by the fringe of his curls, bore into mine. We’re at face level again. Yes.

My fingers drape themselves on the back of his neck, beneath the heavy mantle of ringlets. He lets out an inaudible sigh and allows me to pull him closer. The boy’s eyelids become heavy, then close as my lips touch his. I give him the softest of kisses. Yes. “Oh, absolutely,” I tell him.

Without warning, he pounces, pushing me deep into the soft pillows with the weight of his body. His mouth presses hard, even painfully, against mine. Yes. When his tongue pushes deep into my mouth, I can taste myself on him. Hungrily we kiss, abandoning any pretense of taking it slowly. His hands wrench the shirt from my body. Oh, yes. Eager as he is to climb atop me, I take the opportunity to flip the boy onto his back. Still furiously making out, I feel his furry legs clasp around my waist as my cock slips between his thighs. Yes!

With moist, adoring eyes, he gazes up. “Dad?” he whispers. “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Yes.” Arousal rasps my words. “Yes, son. I want to fuck you.” And into my curled fingers I scoop our mingled saliva from my tongue to press into his hole. “Do you want me inside?”

His head bobs up and down rapidly. “Yes sir.” It’s a plea. “Yes, I do.”

And as I massage my fingers into that hairy crevice, his legs lift into the air.

And I rise to my knees, readying myself.

And eyes locked, I guide his hand to hold me. “Help me guide it in,” I suggest.

“Yes,” he breathes.

And…

***

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