The young man grunts as I shove inside him. His hole, slick both from my spit and from the half-hour I’ve spent eating it open, resists only for a split second. Then it yields. I glide in, inch by inexorable inch, until my nuts nestle on his ass, one on each cheek.
He sighs. Against my chest, the backs of his thighs had resisted as I’d slid home. Now that I’ve reached a location deep inside that he hoped I’d probe, now that I’m rubbing against that secret spot he’s opened for me, he relaxes. His lips part. His eyes close. His shoulder-length blond hair is splayed out over the pillow in a natural fan; it spills over the top of the mattress and onto the wooden boxes hiding on the shelves behind.
He feels so good. It’s been a while since my dick has been inside anything this warm and pliant. And this pretty boy is warm. His body is smooth all over, his skin the palest shade of pink. I’ve nearly forgotten how good a butt like his feels, wrapped around my shaft. How right. “Your ass is amazing,” I tell him.
His eyes open. Even though he’s resting on the base of his spine, and even though he’s got his legs in the air and an engorged cock stretching his hole painfully wide, his expression seems relaxed. Lazy, even—like he’s waking up from a long nap to find me on top of him. When lifts his neck to press his lips against mine, his hair rises like the long, elegant train of a skirt. “You,” he breathes. His head falls back on the pillow, but he keeps his fingers linked around the back of my neck. “You’re the one who’s amazing. Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”
I have no problem with that. I grin a little at the intensity of his response as I drive in deep, grind, and then pull out just far enough so that I can dig in one more. I’m not fucking to pound one out. Not yet. I’m fucking to make his hole feel good. That’s what matters to me now.
“Am I all right?” he asks. He’s got these blue eyes. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. I’ve never seen a cornflower, but I’m sure of the shade. Cornflower blue.
“Are you all right?” I repeat, pretending to think about it. Withdraw, thrust, grind. Withdraw, thrust, grind. I wait until the third long thrust to reply. “Yeah,” I say, staring into those eyes of cornflower blue. “You’re very all right.”
“I’m not too feminine?” He smirks a little, like he’s joking, but I recognize that little hesitation in his voice. I know that slight look askance. He’s afraid to scrutinize me, because he knows he might read on my face an answer to his question he didn’t want. While I’m thinking these things, he continues talking. “I guess some guys think I’m too feminine—effeminate, feminine, whichever—to be with.” My silence makes him finally look me in the eyes—but only for a split second. He closes them again. “I’m not, am I?”
Withdraw. Thrust. Grind. My dick is rock hard as it retraces its steps over and over again. “Look at me,” I tell him.
His lids open. He’s got big, long lashes. The kid has long, lush blond hair, a smooth body, and the features of a cinematic siren of the nineteen-forties. He came to the door wearing a pair of polka-dotted sweatpants and a multi-colored pleather jacket with the type of enormous shoulders I haven’t seen since a mid-eighties Cameo video. “Would that really worry you?” I ask him. “I mean, really.”
“Well, no—“ The conversation isn’t drawing him out of the fuck. He’s mindful of every plunge of my cock deep into his guts; his hips rise to meet mine, and his lungs let out small huffs with every wet collision. “I don’t know. Maybe you like that.”
Myself, I’m turned on by the talk’s intimacy. I’m an intimacy junkie. I love when a man shows me his insecurities in the heat of the moment. It means he’s not just opening his hole. Any proctologist with a tub of Vaseline and a speculum can get a man to do that. It takes a real lover to get a man to open that Pandora’s Box of fears and vulnerabilities hidden deep away, at the same time he’s giving up his pussy.
“Do you think I’m just being nice to you?” I ask him. “That this fuck,“ and I thrust home on the emphasized words, just to make him whimper and drive the point, “is some kind of consolation prize? You think I save better lovemaking for some dude who’s spent months getting the brim of his fucking baseball cap to a regulation curl?”
“No,” he says. He’s looking me square in the face, now. He knows he’s got nothing to fear from me.
I pull my dick all the way out. His hole gasps and gapes, working itself open and closed like a fish out of its tank. “You think I’m holding back on you? Because I can hold back on you.”
“No.” His hands have been around my neck this entire time. He pulls down on it as if my hips my follow. “Please fuck me. Don’t hold back.”
My dick doesn’t need to prod for the opening. The dick knows where it lies by now. I can find that massive gape while blind. I slam back inside, glad to be in the warmth and the wet once more. He lets out a whimper that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Let me tell you something,” I whisper to him, beginning the grind once more. “And I want you to promise not to forget it.”
“What?”
“Promise first.”
I could make him promise me anything at this moment, I realize. Eternal love. Eternal fidelity. I could sell this fucker a complete set of Tupperware, just because he’s so eager to keep taking my cock. I’m not going that far, though. They’ll change their minds later in the cool light of day, but damn, do they mean it in that hot moment. “I promise,” he says. Just as I expect.
I nod. Wise boy. “Listen up, then,” I tell him. I shift positions, drawing his ass higher in the air and his knees closer to his face. He’s almost doubled in half, just to accommodate the girth and length of my fuckmeat. However much he’s contorted, he’s never been more open. “I’m not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours, I’m not looking at that beautiful long hair, not running my hands over your smooth skin, while secretly rating your masculinity.”
My face is mere inches above his own. His legs frame his sharp cheekbones. “I believe you,” he whispers.
“My dick,” I snarl, accompanying the emphasis with another wicked thrust. “My dick isn’t determining where you lie on some arbitrary spectrum.” I pull apart his ankles so that his legs spread more widely. “My dick wants what it wants. And you know what it wants?”
“My hole?” he asks, sounding more like a little boy than the adult he is.
“Your hole.” My dick’s plunging in at a different angle that’s making him gasp and huff for air. “It wants you, because it thinks you’re a hot piece of ass. It wants your tight . . . little . . . hot . . . wet . . . fuckhole.”
He nods and uses his hands to pull his cheeks wider apart. “My pussy.”
“It’s a beautiful pussy,” I agree.
“It’s your pussy now.”
I smirk a little. Of course it is. “So do me a favor,” I growl as I continue to pound my new possession, “and think of me as a man who likes what he likes, because he likes and wants it. You’re better than some fucked-up spectrum. Got it?”
“I get it,” he says softly. He’s relaxed again, totally open. His cock points drooling, untouched, at his nipples.
“My dick is hard for you,” I tell him, picking up the pace. “Anyone who doesn’t get hard for you? Fuck those shits. More hole for me.”
I’m grunting now. Really shoving it in. His spine is more and more vertical by the thrust as I try to ram down to the heart of him. “More hole for you,” he agrees as he grapples it open with clawing fingertips. “Jesus fuck.”
I’m dimly aware of him grabbing his dick with one hand. The cum instantly flies out of it and cascades down his chest. He grimaces as it splats onto his head. Several pearls drip onto his hair and the pillow below. His ass clenches during the climax, but it’s nothing like how it clamps down afterward. Instantly I can tell he’s one of those bottoms who, once he’s done, is done.
No matter. I’m there, myself. I push through muscles actively trying to repel me and down into the deepest part of him. My load burns when it jets out. He can feel it. He’s staring at me with his brows furrowed, those eyes boring into mine almost angrily as he convulses in time with every jet I blast into him. I wait until the last gush. Then I withdraw. Slowly. Deliberately. Inch by inch. At last my meat slops down his crack, and my seed spills over from his hole and dribbles down to kiss the crown.
A minor geyser of my sperm still oozes from his hole when I finally speak. It’s been a while since I shot, I remember. “So. What’s it make you when a cock like mine dumps a payload like that in you? Masculine? Feminine?”
He stretches like a cat, his thin arms curling above his head. He’s still reveling in the moment, I can tell. “Both. Neither.” For a moment he relaxes. Then he smiles, as if the thought’s just occurred to him. Our eyes lock for a final time. Cornflower blue, I think to myself. “I guess it just makes me well-bred.”
It’s a good, good answer.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Sunday Evening Questions: Department of Odd Stank Edition
I was at a bar in the Village a couple of weeks ago when the drag queen who was acting as hostess there, that afternoon, started to play a little game with the audience. The game in question was the traditional Never Have I Ever drinking competition. Typically it consists of people going around the room starting a sentence with the words “Never have I ever. . . .” and then finishing it up with something personal and maybe humorously scandalous they’ve not done, but they hope other people in the group have. Anyone who’s actually done the act has to take a drink. Hilarity ensues.
Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.
“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.
“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.
“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.”
Point taken.
I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.
(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)
Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.
At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.
That said. . . .
A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.
The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.
I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.
The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.
Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.
I thought that was the bad part. But no.
The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.
Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.
Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.
Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.
Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)
So yeah. I’ve done it.
Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.
Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.
When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.
The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.
But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.
It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.
The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.
Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.
So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.
Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.
Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.
A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.
I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”
I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.
The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.
Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”
Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.
As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”
“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.
I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.
So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.
Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.
I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.
Well, in this particular iteration of the game, the drag queen was making all the statements, then forcing the somewhat rowdy crowd to hold up their glasses and take a slug if they’d committed the act in question. And all the questions, as you might expect in a gay bar in the Village where a drag queen was holding court, were all sexual. “Never have I ever . . . slept with a drag queen!” she’d bark out. Then while about three of us chugged our liquor, she took good note of who had.
“Never have I ever . . . had a threesome!” she said. I and quite a few others downed our drinks.
A few minutes later, it was, “Never have I ever . . . gone to a bathhouse!” A very few us admitted to that one, but I drank proudly.
“Never have I ever . . . taken two cocks in both ends at the same time!” Yeah. I drank to that one, too.
As you might guess, I ended up drinking to every single damned never have I ever that she called out. I’d never been drunk before. But I sure as hell was that night. I passed out in the cab, that’s how drunk I was.
“Honey,” said the drag queen afterward, when I was stumbling my way to the men’s room to take my fifth leak of the evening. “I was watching you up there during my little drinking game. And no harm meant? But you are a fucking slut.”
Point taken.
I haven’t done a Sunday questions in a long while, and I was noticing in my backlog I have several questions that begin not with never have I ever, but at least with the enticing words Have you ever . . . ? So in honor of my first total drunken episode, a couple of weekends back, let’s assay three of those.
(And a question to my readers: why didn’t any of you come take advantage of me in my vulnerable state? I’m so disappointed.)
Have you ever gotten revenge on a former fuck who pissed you off? I am in a situation now where a guy I used to see really upset me, and I know ways to fuck with his life. You seem like you’d have a level-headed way to keep me from doing it, though.
At this stage of my life, I honestly feel the best policy, when teased by thoughts of revenge, is simply to hold up your hands and walk away from the temptation. If you can possibly do so with your former fuck, I totally recommend you do.
That said. . . .
A very long time ago when I was thirty-six, I made friends with a local couple. Just friends. We met online somehow, and then at a bar for a social gathering. They were an oddball couple, ten years younger than I. One of them was a round, short, rotund little ball of lard-colored dough with squinty eyes. His boyfriend was a thin, lanky Canadian with a head of copper-colored hair that came straight out of a bottle. He wasn’t attractive in any traditional sense, but he was a live wire of sexual electricity. When I say the red-head was Canadian, I don’t mean he was originally from Quebec or anything. He was an illegal immigrant, in the U.S. without permission for years and unable to get any job except for those that paid under the table in cash. As I said, they were a little odd. But we used to go out to dinner together, or to the movies; sometimes we’d go shopping for CDs together or out to the mall for an afternoon. I enjoyed their company.
The red-headed boyfriend was slutting around behind the roly-poly one’s back, though. He was always taking me aside and telling me who’d barebacked him that week. After he saw a couple of my dick shots, he started begging me to fuck him. We wouldn’t have to tell his boyfriend. It would be our secret.
I resisted for quite a long time. Months, actually. I have my limits, though, and finally after months of being hounded and flattered, I reached them. I told the red-head that if he came over to my place and kept it from his boyfriend, I’d fuck and breed him.
The night came. The red-head got to my place. He’d barely been there for three minutes, though—I mean, the most I got him to do was kick off his shoes—when he got a phone call from his boyfriend back home. The boyfriend had seen a couple of the emails he’d sent me that afternoon arranging what time he was coming over, rightly assumed the worst, and called him up in hysterics to confront him.
Well, the red-head locked himself into my bedroom and proceeded to fight with his boyfriend for a solid ninety minutes. They yelled, they cried, they whispered, they yelled some more. I sat outside feeling awkward and a little bit miserable. Finally the red-head came out, shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “I guess I better go,” and shuffled out the front door.
I thought that was the bad part. But no.
The next day I got a phone call from the red-head while I was at work. He told me that my attempt at wrecking the relationship that he had with his boyfriend had failed, and that they were staying together after all. Then he said that he’d only offered to sleep with me because I was old and probably wouldn’t get any better offers, and because he felt sorry for me. “Are you telling me I’m a pity fuck?” I asked, horrified. He said that yes, that’s exactly what I was, then wished me a nice life.
Within a couple of weeks I found out that he and his boyfriend were telling people around town that I’d tried to break them up. I got cut dead by mutual acquaintances who informed me they didn’t want to talk to men who attempted to come between such a lovely, perfect couple. It was quite honestly one of the all-time lows of my thirties; I don’t know quite why I bought into the notion that I could only be someone’s pity fuck, but the insult cut deeply enough that I couldn’t shake it. And when I was being shunned for being a homewrecker, too—well. It put me into a rage.
Nowadays I think it’s all ridiculous. The red-head and his roly-poly boyfriend constructed some kind of fictional narrative between them that I was the bad guy who’d tried to become the wedge in their rock-solid relationship; the red-head convinced him that it was only his pity and his drive to be a sexual Good Samaritan, I suppose, that prompted him to give in to my disgusting propositions. I mean, look. I saw the red-head at the bathhouse, slutting around bareback without permission, basically every time I went, for years after. (I ignored him.) But at the time, I just ground my teeth helplessly.
Then after a few weeks of seething I gave in and left an anonymous tip about him on the Immigration Department’s hotline.
Pity fuck, my ass, motherfucker! (*mic drop*)
So yeah. I’ve done it.
Have you ever dropped a guy because of some little stupid thing that could be fixed, but it was easier to drop him than bring it up? I broke up with a guy over his cell phone case (I hated it, if you can’t guess). I guess I’m wondering if I’m shallow, LOL.
Oh sure, I’ve done it. Again, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done it.
When I was in graduate school I started seeing a guy I met online. In 1989 or 1990, going online meant connecting your black and white computer with a phone wire into a ginormous 400 baud modem and signing onto a service like Prodigy, where you’d post cryptic notes about being straight-acting on public bulletin boards. Then you’d exchange two-line private messages with a guy until you’d agreed to hook up. So yeah, except for the fact that it would’ve taken hours to transmit even the grainiest of tiny photos over a 400-baud modem, not so very different than Scruff.
The guy I was seeing was married. Big dicked. Kind of a hot body. He liked to come to my graduate student apartment and take over the place. He’d strut in, whip off his belt, drop his pants, fall onto my sofa with his legs spread wide, then order me to suck his dick. If I was a good boy, he’d flip me over and fuck me hard on the floor. Then he’d pull up his slacks, button up, nod, and walk out the door. A few times a week, he might drop by. I dug his direct approach.
But there was one little thing that bugged the hell out of me. Whenever I would kneel to suck the guy, I would get a whiff of something. He was fine when we were standing; he smelled like the cheap cologne his wife liked him to wear. Down there on my knees, though, fuck. The smell would be so rank that I’d gag. It’s tough to describe the scent. It was a little bit like a swamp. A lot like an infected wound. Much like a corpse. It was just wrong.
It wasn’t his dick. His cock was very clean; the skin beneath his head was free of smegma. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t his balls. He didn’t have a funky ass smell. The odor that was making my eyes water was the kind of stank you might expect if a morbidly obese person got a small piece of raw beef trapped in one of the folds of his belly, only to have it emerge completely rotten at the end of a few weeks. But the dude wasn’t obese. He didn’t have folds. It was a complete mystery.
The one thing that turns me from sex hound to sex-averse on the turn of a dime is a nasty smell. I’ll lose an erection permanently if I get a whiff of something bad, mid-sex. I suppose I could’ve said “Hey, you stink. Can you fix that in the shower so I can get back to sucking you?” At the time, though, it just seemed a lot easier to drop him. So I did.
Years later I had a bad case of the flu during which I didn’t shower as much as I normally do. Toward the end of my time as an invalid, I casually stuck my finger in my navel and, as one does, sniffed it. (Oh, shut up. You know you do.) Immediately I reeled. The scent was so familiar from my days in front of that guy’s cock that I had flashbacks. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the dude simply never washed his belly button. Ever.
So if we’re every showing together and you see me lathering my navel for what seems an unusually long time, now you’ll know why. I scrub that fucker daily.
Have you ever had anyone shit in your mouth during sex? Intentionally or non.
Oh god, yes. It was totally non. Just to be clear.
A note to the weak of stomach: you might want to skip the rest of this reply.
I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this guy before in these pages, but I had sex with a local guy a couple of years ago who was very aggressive about having me eat out his ass. We were having a good time about it. He was sitting on my face, grinding his hole on my beard and moaning while he called out, “Eat me out, fucker! Eat me out good!”
I was mumbling out an enthusiastic reply to the best of my ability with a hundred and thirty pounds of New Yorker on my face, when suddenly the guy bent over and—I think—attempted to push out his hole so I could get better access to it. Unfortunately, he pushed a little hard. The guy had attempted to clean himself out before coming over, and though he’d douched, he’d neglected to evacuate all the water still in his colon. So when he pushed, I got a partial mouthful and a definite face full of a brownish liquid that had a consistency not unlike thin diarrhea.
The guy was offended when I leapt up howling. And he never understood why I refused ever to see him again.
Another more recent occurrence was over the summer, when I was seeing someone who really turned me on for a few weeks. He liked to brag about his anal hygiene. “I’m always squeaky clean,” he’d say. “You can fuck me anyplace, anytime, and I’ll always be squeaky clean.”
Squeaky clean. Hah. I was seeing him for the sixth or seventh time over the summer and I had hoped to spend some quality time down at his hole, munching away. About five minutes into my intensive butt-eating, though, I sensed something was amiss. My face smelled, to put it bluntly, like a baby’s diaper.
As I said, bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my erection. I like to think I’m a little more adept at handling these things now, though. “Hey,” I told him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’re not as squeaky clean as usual.”
“I’m always squeaky clean!” he protested.
I wiped my face off on the towel he kept handy and showed it to him. He had to admit that not everything was squeaky clean.
So he took me into his shower. Once the water was warm, he washed off my face and soaped up his ass. He had one of those wand extensions installed, so he shoved it up his hole and douched out again. Then he had me kneel, while the water was still running (it was quite a large shower, custom built), pulled apart his ass cheeks, and had me inspect his hole once more. “Now I’m squeaky clean,” he said, pushing a little bit to turn his hole out.
Once again, it was a case of pushing just a little too hard. A hard little turdlet, about the size of a piece of dog kibble, shot out of his ass and hit me in the middle of my forehead with a ping! My patience tried, I told him what happened. He retrieved the still-hard kibble from where it had bounced, tossed it in the toilet, then turned around and started pissing on my face.
I think he still wonders why I’ve refused to see him again, too.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
[bair-bak]
I’m writing a little today about words.
For about a year now I’ve had a mild crush on a minor celebrity. Wait. My puppy love has pushed the definition of ‘celebrity’ about a mile past the much-contested boundary where it already lies muddied by the present-day culture of Snapchat fame. This guy who’s been the object of my infatuation is the brother of a female minor celebrity who, despite being an actress in small roles on a couple of shows that watchers of cable programming might have seen at one time or another, isn’t exactly a household name.
(Of course, I could just skip all the mystery and name names. But I won’t, and I’ll ask my readers not to either, simply because I don’t want people typing in the guy’s name into Google along and having a sex blog appear at the top of the search list. I’m a gentleman, after all. Once in a while, anyway.)
The only reason at all I know of the actress’ brother is because he appears on YouTube with his sister once a week in a regular feature in which the pair of them play vintage video games. These short segments usually consist of the siblings shouting obscenities at each other at the tops of their pretty considerable lungs. Hey, as someone who has shouted plenty of obscenities at video games in his lifetime (I’m probably doing it right now, as you read), I find their antics pretty amusing.
What I’m leading up to, in my shaggy dog story of an introduction here, is that this last week in their celebration of retro gaming, the pair were playing some outdated cartridge-based game from the mid-nineties. The brother was trouncing his more famous sister pretty soundly. Furious, she started yelling at him that he was cheating by using the power-ups the game was liberally providing. The brother, scissoring his legs furiously, fibbed and denied it all. “I’m barebackin’ it here!” he shouted back. “I’m raw-doggin’ this mother, dude! I’m barebackin’ it!”
Well, lawks-a-mercy. Gracious me! Must fan myself at the memory.
Anyway, once the blood came back into my brain after that explicit little exchange, it got me wondering: how’s this dude know what barebacking is? And does he want to do it with me?
And more interestingly to my wandering mind, how often do straight guys use the word barebacking to refer to unprotected sex, anyway? I honestly don’t know, but I’d be interested in finding out.
The word bareback and its origins intrigue me because I feel a bit as if I were there at the start of its use. Long before sites like BBRT, long before bareback movies were their own profit margin, before bareback was reduced to part of an inane goddamned hashtag, guys fucked other guys without protection as a matter of course. Men were accustomed to sticking their dicks in each other’s holes for countless generations without wrapping them in latex. Condoms were never a consideration for gay men; not having to use them, ever, was considered one of the few perks to being gay in a less enlightened age. Only in the face of the devastating effects of the AIDS epidemic did we start changing our behavior . . . or choose not to.
I was in college when the news about the gay plague started to spread. I had a standing subscription to the Village Voice that was my lifeline to a world larger than lacrosse, Lacoste, and the Greek pledge system that were the obsessions of the small Southern college I attended. I devoured its pages, memorized names and places as if there’d be a pop quiz at any moment, and drank in the New York sophistication. It was sometime during my sophomore year that I started reading about ‘gay cancer’ spreading through the community. Within months, they’d renamed the syndrome GRID. It was one of those moments in history when for a very long time the language we were destined to use for decades following was still in flux. We didn’t have the concept of HIV in the scientific realm yet; we didn’t even know the word AIDS. That vocabulary would be nailed down soon enough. For a while—a scary while—we didn’t even have the language beyond concepts like death and sickness and fear to discuss what was happening.
I think what most people fail to remember, or simply don’t realize, was how much confusion we experienced in those early days of the plague. Without a definite cause yet established, and with so many people throwing out theories of what could be causing the chaos, it seemed as if the rules of how we were supposed to protect ourselves changed daily. One week we’d be assured it was definitely something coming from overseas. We’d be okay if we didn’t fuck around with foreigners. Then suddenly a scientist would say something in the papers about how perhaps poppers were involved. It was something in the poppers, we’d rush around telling ourselves. A bad batch, maybe. Something that happened with poppers abuse. One week we’d be told there’d be a cure within months; the next we’d be gravely informed to dig in for the long haul.
The combination of half-informed scientific assertions and real fear led us to some real Chicken Little behavior, making us run around squawking that the sky was falling while indulging in superstitious nonsense in the hopes that we might be spared.
I felt remote enough from the epidemic’s center not to feel immediately threatened. That false sense of security didn’t keep me from reading the news, week by week in the Voice, to see what they were saying about it. It wasn’t too long before the epidemic was making national headlines, of course. When finally HIV had been identified, we were told by serious government officials that we were all to wear condoms and never exchange fluids, ever again. To a lot of lock-step millennials accustomed to obeying and never questioning the orders of a higher authority, the prescription seems reasonable. But we were a generation of men who were already flouting the law every time we dropped our pants with another man. The sex we were having was illegal in many if not all states. The ways we had to seek it was illegal. If we’d been listening to the state and federal governments in which we’d grown up, we wouldn’t have been congregating, much less copulating.
Enforced condom use—each and every time—was a sexual regimen that a lot of gay men couldn’t take seriously. Condoms had long been the things straight guys wore when they didn’t want to make babies. Condoms were for breeders. They weren’t something that any gay man had ever bought in his lifetime, much less use. Sure, it said on the box that they could prevent disease, but even youngsters like me knew those warnings was some real World War II shit. Straight men hadn’t used condoms to avoid syphilis since the Army handed them out to privates after the Liberation of Paris. Bosses bought rubbers to prevent their secretaries from having babies. That’s what condoms were for.
I first stumbled across the term bareback in the dawn of the internet age. Although I was using the computer to hook up as early as 1989 with the Prodigy system (gawd help me), it was a couple of years later when I started dialing into other networks that I discovered IRC—internet relay chat. IRC was a primitive network by any standards, though like roaches after a holocaust, it’s proved pretty much indestructible over the years. One joined channels like #gay or #gaysex to chat with and meet like-minded men. Although the channels usually never held more than thirty or forty people at a time, I had a pretty good success rate in scoring fucks. There may have been more local gay channels to join. My memory is foggy on that point.
I’m not sure how I found the channel. I think a trick of mine landed in it, or I was invited by someone I knew. But I landed in the IRC #bareback channel sometime in 1991. It was long before hashtags, long before bareback films, long before bareback web sites, and long before straight boys were shouting it at the tops of their lungs during video games. Bareback. It was a new word that only a few dozen people were using to describe something that generations of us had done when we’d shoved our raw cocks into another man’s ass. Bareback. It sounded masculine—the kind of thing that cowboys did. With stallions. Cowboys and stallions were more appealing, sexually, than anything that clinicians were coming up with.
The term authorities used for the act, unprotected sex, sounded cold, sterile unappealing, just like it was supposed to. No one was going to call up a guy and growl, “Come over and let me perpetrate unprotected sex on you.” If you got a phone call from someone demanding, “Let me bareback that ass,” though. Yeah. You’d hop in the shower and drive halfway across town for that, right?
As a new word for something very old, bareback had the advantage of sounding both wicked and transgressive. It got the point across. For a while, if anyone actually brought up the word, you could be pretty sure they were into it. Its abbreviation, bb, was a code that worked just as well. You like bb?, you could ask someone online. If they knew what it meant, they were into it. If they had no clue, it was easy to cover your ass and say you mistyped, or maybe were abbreviating the endearment baby. Something. Anything. They wouldn't know.
For a long time, it really felt as if the new slang word were ours—that is, it seemed to belong to those of us who were actually engaging in the act. And it stayed like that for years, until the mid-nineties, when web browsing overtook the world of homegrown dial-up bulletin boards and AOL and IRC. The web changed everything. We had sites like Bareback City, and the beginnings of Bareback Jack. Guys who’d previously only employed the word in secret corners and private bulletin boards were putting their bareback preference into profiles that many, many more people were seeing—and the safe-sex adherents were noticing. Visibility got the word attention.
Suddenly just as many people were using barebacker as a pejorative, a demonization of those who choosing raw fucking and its risks as the sex they preferred to have. The mainstream press started to write articles about the legions of dangerous, evil, gay barebackers who lurked online and perverted the innocent, conveniently choosing to ignore the fact that in real life, people of all orientations had sex without condoms. Straight people in particular were still barebacking each other in record numbers on a daily basis. A word we’d chosen—a word that had seemed so liberating and exciting in its early days—started to be used against us.
It still is, of course, by those who see it as a derogatory. And for those who see it as a badge of pride, it gets used in all kinds of ways. It’s just a word. A word we take for granted. I think it’s valuable to remember there was a time before this when it was new, and unknown, and not at all guaranteed to become the slang we use daily.
But by and large, though, except when it’s employed by the mainstream press for its shock value, I’d assumed that the gay population had largely reserved the right to the use of the word bareback. Hearing it shouted between brother and sister on a mainstream video channel, over the electronic, bleeping soundtrack of a video game from twenty years ago, got me thinking about how long the word has been not only been around, but a part of my day-to-day life.
For about a year now I’ve had a mild crush on a minor celebrity. Wait. My puppy love has pushed the definition of ‘celebrity’ about a mile past the much-contested boundary where it already lies muddied by the present-day culture of Snapchat fame. This guy who’s been the object of my infatuation is the brother of a female minor celebrity who, despite being an actress in small roles on a couple of shows that watchers of cable programming might have seen at one time or another, isn’t exactly a household name.
(Of course, I could just skip all the mystery and name names. But I won’t, and I’ll ask my readers not to either, simply because I don’t want people typing in the guy’s name into Google along and having a sex blog appear at the top of the search list. I’m a gentleman, after all. Once in a while, anyway.)
The only reason at all I know of the actress’ brother is because he appears on YouTube with his sister once a week in a regular feature in which the pair of them play vintage video games. These short segments usually consist of the siblings shouting obscenities at each other at the tops of their pretty considerable lungs. Hey, as someone who has shouted plenty of obscenities at video games in his lifetime (I’m probably doing it right now, as you read), I find their antics pretty amusing.
What I’m leading up to, in my shaggy dog story of an introduction here, is that this last week in their celebration of retro gaming, the pair were playing some outdated cartridge-based game from the mid-nineties. The brother was trouncing his more famous sister pretty soundly. Furious, she started yelling at him that he was cheating by using the power-ups the game was liberally providing. The brother, scissoring his legs furiously, fibbed and denied it all. “I’m barebackin’ it here!” he shouted back. “I’m raw-doggin’ this mother, dude! I’m barebackin’ it!”
Well, lawks-a-mercy. Gracious me! Must fan myself at the memory.
Anyway, once the blood came back into my brain after that explicit little exchange, it got me wondering: how’s this dude know what barebacking is? And does he want to do it with me?
And more interestingly to my wandering mind, how often do straight guys use the word barebacking to refer to unprotected sex, anyway? I honestly don’t know, but I’d be interested in finding out.
The word bareback and its origins intrigue me because I feel a bit as if I were there at the start of its use. Long before sites like BBRT, long before bareback movies were their own profit margin, before bareback was reduced to part of an inane goddamned hashtag, guys fucked other guys without protection as a matter of course. Men were accustomed to sticking their dicks in each other’s holes for countless generations without wrapping them in latex. Condoms were never a consideration for gay men; not having to use them, ever, was considered one of the few perks to being gay in a less enlightened age. Only in the face of the devastating effects of the AIDS epidemic did we start changing our behavior . . . or choose not to.
I was in college when the news about the gay plague started to spread. I had a standing subscription to the Village Voice that was my lifeline to a world larger than lacrosse, Lacoste, and the Greek pledge system that were the obsessions of the small Southern college I attended. I devoured its pages, memorized names and places as if there’d be a pop quiz at any moment, and drank in the New York sophistication. It was sometime during my sophomore year that I started reading about ‘gay cancer’ spreading through the community. Within months, they’d renamed the syndrome GRID. It was one of those moments in history when for a very long time the language we were destined to use for decades following was still in flux. We didn’t have the concept of HIV in the scientific realm yet; we didn’t even know the word AIDS. That vocabulary would be nailed down soon enough. For a while—a scary while—we didn’t even have the language beyond concepts like death and sickness and fear to discuss what was happening.
I think what most people fail to remember, or simply don’t realize, was how much confusion we experienced in those early days of the plague. Without a definite cause yet established, and with so many people throwing out theories of what could be causing the chaos, it seemed as if the rules of how we were supposed to protect ourselves changed daily. One week we’d be assured it was definitely something coming from overseas. We’d be okay if we didn’t fuck around with foreigners. Then suddenly a scientist would say something in the papers about how perhaps poppers were involved. It was something in the poppers, we’d rush around telling ourselves. A bad batch, maybe. Something that happened with poppers abuse. One week we’d be told there’d be a cure within months; the next we’d be gravely informed to dig in for the long haul.
The combination of half-informed scientific assertions and real fear led us to some real Chicken Little behavior, making us run around squawking that the sky was falling while indulging in superstitious nonsense in the hopes that we might be spared.
I felt remote enough from the epidemic’s center not to feel immediately threatened. That false sense of security didn’t keep me from reading the news, week by week in the Voice, to see what they were saying about it. It wasn’t too long before the epidemic was making national headlines, of course. When finally HIV had been identified, we were told by serious government officials that we were all to wear condoms and never exchange fluids, ever again. To a lot of lock-step millennials accustomed to obeying and never questioning the orders of a higher authority, the prescription seems reasonable. But we were a generation of men who were already flouting the law every time we dropped our pants with another man. The sex we were having was illegal in many if not all states. The ways we had to seek it was illegal. If we’d been listening to the state and federal governments in which we’d grown up, we wouldn’t have been congregating, much less copulating.
Enforced condom use—each and every time—was a sexual regimen that a lot of gay men couldn’t take seriously. Condoms had long been the things straight guys wore when they didn’t want to make babies. Condoms were for breeders. They weren’t something that any gay man had ever bought in his lifetime, much less use. Sure, it said on the box that they could prevent disease, but even youngsters like me knew those warnings was some real World War II shit. Straight men hadn’t used condoms to avoid syphilis since the Army handed them out to privates after the Liberation of Paris. Bosses bought rubbers to prevent their secretaries from having babies. That’s what condoms were for.
I first stumbled across the term bareback in the dawn of the internet age. Although I was using the computer to hook up as early as 1989 with the Prodigy system (gawd help me), it was a couple of years later when I started dialing into other networks that I discovered IRC—internet relay chat. IRC was a primitive network by any standards, though like roaches after a holocaust, it’s proved pretty much indestructible over the years. One joined channels like #gay or #gaysex to chat with and meet like-minded men. Although the channels usually never held more than thirty or forty people at a time, I had a pretty good success rate in scoring fucks. There may have been more local gay channels to join. My memory is foggy on that point.
I’m not sure how I found the channel. I think a trick of mine landed in it, or I was invited by someone I knew. But I landed in the IRC #bareback channel sometime in 1991. It was long before hashtags, long before bareback films, long before bareback web sites, and long before straight boys were shouting it at the tops of their lungs during video games. Bareback. It was a new word that only a few dozen people were using to describe something that generations of us had done when we’d shoved our raw cocks into another man’s ass. Bareback. It sounded masculine—the kind of thing that cowboys did. With stallions. Cowboys and stallions were more appealing, sexually, than anything that clinicians were coming up with.
The term authorities used for the act, unprotected sex, sounded cold, sterile unappealing, just like it was supposed to. No one was going to call up a guy and growl, “Come over and let me perpetrate unprotected sex on you.” If you got a phone call from someone demanding, “Let me bareback that ass,” though. Yeah. You’d hop in the shower and drive halfway across town for that, right?
As a new word for something very old, bareback had the advantage of sounding both wicked and transgressive. It got the point across. For a while, if anyone actually brought up the word, you could be pretty sure they were into it. Its abbreviation, bb, was a code that worked just as well. You like bb?, you could ask someone online. If they knew what it meant, they were into it. If they had no clue, it was easy to cover your ass and say you mistyped, or maybe were abbreviating the endearment baby. Something. Anything. They wouldn't know.
For a long time, it really felt as if the new slang word were ours—that is, it seemed to belong to those of us who were actually engaging in the act. And it stayed like that for years, until the mid-nineties, when web browsing overtook the world of homegrown dial-up bulletin boards and AOL and IRC. The web changed everything. We had sites like Bareback City, and the beginnings of Bareback Jack. Guys who’d previously only employed the word in secret corners and private bulletin boards were putting their bareback preference into profiles that many, many more people were seeing—and the safe-sex adherents were noticing. Visibility got the word attention.
Suddenly just as many people were using barebacker as a pejorative, a demonization of those who choosing raw fucking and its risks as the sex they preferred to have. The mainstream press started to write articles about the legions of dangerous, evil, gay barebackers who lurked online and perverted the innocent, conveniently choosing to ignore the fact that in real life, people of all orientations had sex without condoms. Straight people in particular were still barebacking each other in record numbers on a daily basis. A word we’d chosen—a word that had seemed so liberating and exciting in its early days—started to be used against us.
It still is, of course, by those who see it as a derogatory. And for those who see it as a badge of pride, it gets used in all kinds of ways. It’s just a word. A word we take for granted. I think it’s valuable to remember there was a time before this when it was new, and unknown, and not at all guaranteed to become the slang we use daily.
But by and large, though, except when it’s employed by the mainstream press for its shock value, I’d assumed that the gay population had largely reserved the right to the use of the word bareback. Hearing it shouted between brother and sister on a mainstream video channel, over the electronic, bleeping soundtrack of a video game from twenty years ago, got me thinking about how long the word has been not only been around, but a part of my day-to-day life.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Dick Dock 2015: Transition
The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.
Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.
But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.
He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.
“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.
Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.
I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.
He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!
My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.
Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.
“Suck me,” I urge.
“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”
“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.
“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”
There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.
It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.
That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.
“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.
Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.
“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.
“So get to work,” I tell him.
Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?
I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.
The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”
“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”
It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.
The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.
He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”
I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.
Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.
Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.
But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.
He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.
“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.
Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.
I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.
He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!
My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.
Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.
“Suck me,” I urge.
“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”
“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.
“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”
There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.
It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.
That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.
“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.
Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.
“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.
“So get to work,” I tell him.
Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?
I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.
The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”
“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”
It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.
The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.
He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”
I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.
Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Monday, July 13, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done
So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
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