Amok After the Crack-Up

L.--, Then M.--
L—, Then M—

Saturday
I’ve placed another ad on Craig’s List. This time, I’ve advertised as seeking bottom “boys” looking for a “daddy.” I’ve admitted my real age, which is some sort of milestone for me. It’s finally dawned on me lately that: a) there are younger guys who like older men; b) owning up to my true age—instead of, as usual, lopping a few years off—is nothing shameful’ and c) there’s equally nothing wrong with saying what I want.

I like young guys. They attract me more than most men my age. True, if I were to enter into another partnership, I’d want it to be with a man closer to my age and intellectual range. But for fun, for the sheer, unabashed pleasure of the act, few things race my motor faster than a cute young guy.

My ad specifies respondents of 18-25, but I get the occasional 26, 27 or 28 year old. That’s fine with me, depending on the guy, what he wants, and—most important to me these days, in the face of several intensely frustrating emails with young men who never follow through—whether he intends actually showing up.

In any case, as I’m about to shut down for a while late Saturday evening I get a note from a 23 year old who is horny, lives nearby, and wants to get together this evening. He’s enclosed a photo, but it’s small and shadowy, so not all that easy to distinguish.

It’s about 10.30. Normally I’d try to put it off—too late in the evening etc etc etc. I’m not the most spontaneous person in the world at best. But I’m libidinous too, so why not?

I jot him a quick note and he contacts me via instant message. We exchange a few bits of data and as he’s temporarily without transportation I agree to come get him as soon as I’ve shaved and washed my hair. He asks if I’m in the closet. I say no. Am I discreet? I assure him that what happens here stays here, as they say in Vegas.

30 minutes later, he’s in my car and ten minutes after that, in my house. He has a cute if unremarkable face, and from his jeans and jacket I can’t really get a fix on his body. I ask if he’d like anything to drink. He declines and I pour a glass of water for myself. He seems tense and I ask if he’s nervous. Yeah, he says. I tell him I am, too, which is the truth. I say I’ve never done this before, by which I mean picking up someone I’ve never met, late at night, for fast sex. I ask him if he wants to go into the bedroom. He does.

By the time I’ve put down my glass, grabbed the barrier to place in front of my bedroom door to keep out the dog and turned on the hall light for some indirect illumination he’s already half-naked. I scurry to keep pace, being careful to keep my shirt on; I’m slowly losing weight but still nowhere near the point where I feel comfortable baring my chest and belly, especially to a hot, sexy stranger with a body this beautiful.

He lies down and I follow suit, stunned by his perfection of his body.

While I may salivate over guys who are physically fit, I’ve never had the slightest interest in beefy men. Overdeveloped pectorals and thighs and six-packs do less than nothing for me. L—’s body is compact, tight, not an ounce of fat on him.

I move to kiss him and he tells me he doesn’t “get into kissing.” Oooo-kay. Some guys don’t. (After we’re done and having a cigarette he mentions his girlfriend—casually, not as though he’s making a proclamation—and I see the situation. It’s that classic, weird dynamic of the young “straight” guy who’s emotionally involved with a girl but likes to get fucked by men. I’m game if they are, but it’s definitely a curious rubric.) Slightly disappointing, as I dearly love to kiss while making love, but if those are his parameters I respect them, as I always do.

I kiss down his lean, hairless body instead. (Okay, so some of its’ been shaved—ass and butt-hole and pubes, for instance. The rest of it is naturally smooth.) His chest is lovely, and I kiss and suckle at his nipples, which harden under my tongue. I play with them a bit, not pinching hard, just manipulating them a bit. I lick down his flat belly to his cock. Ike the rest of him, it’s beautifully proportioned. I place my tongue at the tip and he sighs as I slip into his piss-slit, tasting the tiny droplet of pre-cum. Gradually I begin to lick around the crown and just underneath, where the skin is ultra-sensitive, before slowly taking it into my lips.

Since I haven’t fellated anyone in some time, I’m pleasantly surprised at how easily I’m able to take the entire shaft without gagging. As I suck his cock I play with his balls, then lick and suck them, rolling first one and then the other in my mouth.

I’ve already come to the conclusion this is going to be one of those non-reciprocal events, so I don’t present my own erection to him. Instead I lick down from his balls to his perineum, toward his ass. I tell him to roll over, and when he does I get my first lingering look at what is, to me, the single most beautiful butt I’ve ever ad the chance to study up close that wasn’t in a photograph. He has the most perfect ass imaginable—the ultimate bubble-butt, the cheeks rounded to perfection. It’s all I can do not to just kneel between his legs and worship at the shrine.

I lie on my belly and begin kissing and nibbling his fantastic ass-cheeks. Part of me can’t believe I’m in the same room with this butt. The rest of me is otherwise occupied. I kiss, lick and suckle this gift from the gods, kneading the firm yet pliant flesh, spreading the cheeks apart and, finally, flicking my tongue between them.

When I kiss his hole he makes appreciative noises, so I dive right in, no preliminaries. He tastes clean, fresh, obviously well soaped and rinsed. Since there is no sexual activity that turns me on like rimming, I warm to the task, probing inside his warm furrow with the tip of my tongue, trying to worm in as far as I can reach.

Ironically, the physical perfection of his gluteus maximus militates a bit against my slipping as far inside his rectum as I’d like. Oh, well. What you lose on the tactile you make up on the aesthetic. I’m not going to forget this backside anytime soon. (Although I must admit that if I had a digital camera I’d have taken some shots of that great behind.)

“This ass is a work of art,” I tell him, in between licks. “It belongs in a museum.”

I realize I’m objectifying L— and his astonishing ass. But I hasten to add, when I have sex I never lose sight of the fact I’m making love to an entire human being not simply a cock or an asshole.

In any case, I eat happily for a long time, stretching out the moment. I may never have an ass this perfect in my hands again. When he’s good and wet I press my index finger inside him and probe deeply. He’s as clean deep within as he is around the periphery—a relief; few things can cool my ardor more quickly than probing into a lower intestine and finding it full of shit.

I use a second finger, prying him open and twisting around his sphincter to relax his muscles. Eventually I place both fingers inside him, stretching the muscles until they’re nice and loose, pressing my free hand against his perineum to heighten his pleasure.

He murmurs, “Put your cock in it.”

Condom and K-Y at the ready, I sheathe my cock and lube up the rubber, then apply a good dab to his asshole. He kneels, his beautiful ass ready and waiting and I mount him, guiding my erection into him. I have some difficulty keeping inside and push his butt down but it’s still difficult. He lies on his belly and I straddle him, bracing my hands beside his shoulders. I enter him again and begin fucking him, slowly at first, then building up momentum.

One of the things I love most is to withdraw most of the way, leaving just the head of my cock inside, teasing the guy before plunging back inside. Each time I do this he moans in pleasure and I feel that exquisite, bumpy pleasure as the shaft slides back up and the head re-enters the guy’s sphincter.

I’m always slightly amazed how, once the real fuck-rhythm is established, how easily you’re able to slide in and out without losing stride or missing the anus when you poke back in again. This is the part of the act that builds, incrementally, toward release. And slamming into Lee’s incredible ass-cheeks is an intoxicating high.

“Feels so good,” he murmurs. “Feels so good.”

“I’m glad,” I rasp. “You feel wonderful.”

My movements become faster, more intense, and his vocalizations tell me he’s enjoying the experience, which spurs me on. I slam up against him, fully imbedded, and push with my hips and stomach muscles, delving as deeply as I can go. I twist my cock around inside him, loving the gentle friction of hot, wet ass-walls scraping cock.

I wish he’d let me kiss him, which is something I find intensely erotic when done in conjunction with strenuous fucking. But I respect his wishes and, bracing myself for the final assault, heave into and out of him with increasing frenzy, my orgasm building slowly.

Masturbation is often satisfying, but it’s nothing like the real thing. When you’re slamming into an ass like Lee’s and the agonizing tightness yields to the ultimate pleasure, nothing can compete with it. My hips piston faster, and I feel my climax approaching.

I’ve noticed lately that, for whatever reason, my orgasms have become heightened. I’m on a new anti-depressant, but I don’t imagine that’s it. At the same time I began this new drug regimen, I also began taking a multi-vitamin. Could that account for it? Whatever the cause, my orgasms now build and build. When ejaculation occurs and the jizz starts pumping it doesn’t explode all at once but seems to flow in one rush after another. It’s something akin to what I imagine multiple orgasm must be like: I shoot, and as I do one load seems to overlap another, and another, so that when I finally explode it’s with the force of a triple geyser.

Emptying my spunk into the condom up Lee’s ass is so intense I have to grip the sheet. My entire body arches and lifts, every muscle tensed. When it’s over I collapse on him and lie there a long, long while before I can withdraw.

When I’m finally cooled down enough I lift off him. As my spent cock slips out of him he asks, for some reason, whether the rubber has burst. No, I assure him. It’s intact.

He turns over and lies on his back. I reach for his cock and begin stroking it, trying to re-engage him to an erect state. Although throughout the act he’s repeatedly indicated his pleasure with grunts and glottal spasms—in fact, I asked him at mid-point whether he was okay and he assured me he was, for which I was relieved—he’s no longer hard. After a few desultory moments he brushes my efforts aside with a smile. (I’m actually relieved—most men know far better how than their partners will ever be able to figure out how to get themselves off through masturbation.)

When he’s cum on his belly I hand him a towel for clean up. I ask him if he’d like to take and shower. He does, so I get a towel for him and, resisting the urge to peek behind the curtain at that fabulous ass, get dressed and, retrieving my water, settle into my armchair to wait for him. (As it happens he leaves the bathroom door open and I do get one last fleeting glimpse at that Ass to Die For as he’s toweling off.)

After he dresses he joins me, seating himself on the sofa and scratching my beagle mix. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and asks me if I mind him smoking. I don’t, of course, and was just about to light up myself. So we smoke and chat a bit (I’m aware of how bass-ackwards that sounds; first the sex, then the conversation. Well, if it works, why question it?) and he seems more and more at ease. I’ve been slightly worried that he’ll feel embarrassed and immediately want to bugger off, so the ease of our talk is reassuring.

Finally he’s ready to go, so I take him back, intending to drop him off where I picked him up, but he surprises me by suggesting I let him out on the street where he lives (no song cues, please.) As he’s getting out he tells me he had a good time, and I say the same. I drive off, wondering. When I get back I drop him a quick email to thank him for the experience, assure him I won’t bother him again but at the same time let him know the door will always be open should he want a return bout.

Part of me suspects the last I’ll see of him was the brief glimpse I caught in the rear-view mirror as he crossed the street to his lodgings. The other part would not be surprised in the slightest to get an instant message some Saturday evening when he’s good and horny and craving a cock up his ass.

As I’ve said, it’s a weird dynamic, this I’m-straight-I-have-a-girlfriend-but-please-fuck-me-man psychology. Like most such guys, especially young ones, I suspect he’ll marry, have children, enjoy connubial relations, and always secretly want and need a penis in his rectum. And someday, as likely as not, he’ll make himself, his wife (and children, if such there should be) royally unhappy.

What a world.

Sunday

Fucking L.— relaxed me so I slept more easily and deeply than I have in some time. I haven’t had sex since last summer, and releasing that long pent-up desire was more therapeutic than all the anti-depressants I’ve been on in months. It’s released a massive amount of tension and leaving me as tranquil as a cat.

Now another young guy makes a date with me for the evening. M— lives about 20 miles away but he’s here before I know it. Barely had time to shower.

He said he was 120 pounds, and by god he wasn’t kidding. But he has a cute face and, as I discover, is very sweet.

We chat for a little in the living room and he notices the bag containing my video recorder. It belonged to my father, and my mother brought it with her on her last visit. I still haven’t figured out how to operate it.

I don’t know his age—he never said—but I would guess early 20s. We face each other, still clothed. I ask if I can kiss him. He says he’s “never kissed a guy before,” but accedes eagerly.

Now what? I wonder. Another “straight” boy? Or is this something else entirely?

M.— has the most charming … I started to say “giggle,” but that isn’t it, exactly. It’s more an amused exhalation—half a laugh? Quiet, spontaneous, made with a smile. As we kiss he makes this soft, sweet sound—as he will throughout our lovemaking. Of all his engaging attributes, I think I like this little glottal spasm the best.

We undress each other, slowly, kissing deeply, exposing and exploring each other’s flesh. He makes a lot of satisfied little noises, which egg me on and make me more vocal myself. He’s a little bony, but he has a cute little ass, which I enjoy caressing and cupping when my hands slip beneath the elastic of his skimpy, striped briefs. The more I gaze at his face the cuter he seems.

When I push down his skimpy, striped briefs and free his cock, I’m struck by the shape of it. It’s of a nice length, but what’s remarkable is that it arcs upward rather charmingly. If he was a top instead of a bottom, he could probably make a lot of guys very happy, spearing up at an angle that way. Intense prostate massage, I would think.

He undoes my belt, snap and zipper and slips my jeans down. I step out of them and he slides my boxer-briefs off. We come together again, hard cocks pressing against each other’s bodies. More kissing, stroking and caressing.

As I kneel to fellate him, I suddenly realize he’s uncircumcised. This is the first un-cut cock I’ve ever played with, and I tell him so. I’m fascinated by the way the foreskin slides up and down the shaft, and, assuming this movement is pleasurable, I manipulate it gently but insistently. From the sounds he’s making, I figure I’m on the right track. I lick at the head, pressing my tongue against the piss-slit, tasting a hint of pre-cum and causing him to moan happily.

I turn him around and kiss his bottom. He apologizes if I think he tastes odd; he oiled himself with lotion before he arrived. I tell him he’s just fine. I kiss his spine and, rising from the floor, move up to his shoulders.

He leans over the bottom of the bed and I reach for his butt-cheeks, spreading them apart. I slide my tongue up and down between the glutes, zeroing in on his anus. When I hit the hairless, puckered center he makes urgent noises. As with L.—, M.— ’s butt is clean and lightly scented with soap. My tongue presses inside and glides in and out, now going deep, now re-emerging so I can flick it rapidly against his asshole.

When I stop we kneel together on the bed, kissing, and I pull his damp cock to mine, rubbing them together. I stop and suggest we lie down. He settles next to me and I pull him close, kissing his lips as our bodies press together. After a while he scoots down below me and takes my cock in his hand, licks at the tip, then takes the entire shaft into his mouth.

He’s an expert cocksucker, but when he lets off he tells me he’s never done it before. I tell him you’d never know it; he fellates as though he’s been doing it for years. He guesses it’s instinctual—that what you want you learn quickly.

We’re both kneeling now and we kiss. I return his favor, swallowing him down to the base. At first I can’t understand why I can’t master my gag reflex, then remember the curious arc of his erection.

He asks if I’ve ever taken photos in the bedroom. I say that if I do I’ll have to find a specialty developer, and it would probably cost a bundle. Then he asks if I’ve ever video taped a session and if I’d like to now. Unfortunately, I don’t know how my recorder operates. The suggestion makes me wonder. If I did record, would I just want to photograph the guy? Or would I want to set it up so that the tape included me and my partner? I don’t know that I’d ever want to watch myself fucking. On the other hand, it’s seductive to think about having a filmed record of special encounters.

M.— says he wants to sit on my cock. I’m amazed when he expectorates on his palm and rubs the spittle into his asshole, then mounts me. He’s previously said he had some lube and I told him I had plenty, yet he clearly knows how to do without. He guides my dick into his asshole and, when it slides past his sphincter, straddles me and begins to hump up and down.

I’m a big believer in safe sex and always use a condom. It bothers me that, like so many young guys his age, he bypasses this safety measure. I decide not to say anything, since he so clearly wants to bareback, but resolve later that, should we meet again, I will talk seriously to him about it and insist he let me use a rubber.

We’re having a hard time keeping me inside him. Although “topping it off” is a good way for a bottom to begin, since it gives him more control, its drawback is that the inserter’s shaft doesn’t go very deeply and tends to slip out. This is exactly what happens and, after several attempts to keep me inside him, he gives up and rolls off. He decides to try again, this time kneeling so that I can fuck him doggy-style. He begins by sucking me for a while before globbing more spit in his hand, applying it to his butthole and drawing me inside.

It doesn’t work any better this time, and I’m having a little trouble maintaining an erection. I tell him that part of the problem is that I’m not used to being so wet, since I usually wear a condom. I wipe off my cock, which is surprisingly wet, considering all it’s been lubricated with is M.—’s saliva. I wipe it down with a towel and suggest a different position.

My personal favorite is for the bottom to lean against the headboard of the bed, raise his legs and allow me to enter lying on top of him. I start by, getting his hole slick, and becoming turned on his very positive response. He tastes clean and has no hair between his cheeks, which I occasionally nip and suckle. After a bit he asks me to finger him. I lube my index finger with K-Y and insert it, swabbing the sphincter into relaxation and push deeply inside. Like L.— he is clean inside and I’m able to delve far into his rectum. His vocalizations tell me he’s enjoying this, so I add a second finger, twisting both around just inside the anus and spreading them apart until he relaxes enough for me to move in.

Once I’ve dilated his asshole, I begin to fuck him with my index finger, pressing against his perineum with my free hand. Before long he’s asking for my cock so I straddle him, press my finger briefly into his anus to guide me, and slip inside slowly.

The most exquisite feeling, for me, in fucking is when the head of my cock slides past the bottom’s sphincter. I can’t exactly describe the sensation, except that it’s a bit like pushing your cock past a ridge, which ripples tightly along the shaft. It’s the best benefit of either withdrawing so that only the head is still within the anus or pulling completely out for a nanosecond, then ramming back in. (I’ve never discussed this with a bottom, but the sensation may be as much a result of his bearing down with his sphincter as it is a simple matter of entry. I’ll have to ask one day…)

Whatever the case, the experience is definitely a part of sex with M—. It’s such an intensely pleasurable feeling I find myself fucking him faster than usual, to experience it as often and as quickly as I can. I stop from time to time so I can kiss his sweet lips, but when I resume my cock slides either partly out or all the way until I can no longer hold back. My orgasm builds and builds and I push in as far as I can before the explosion.

I’m averse to “bare-backing,” especially when one with someone this young. It’s a signal of a disturbing trend among younger men, who seem not so much to be unaware of the risks, but not to care. I’m HIV-negative, but this virus has been so mysterious in so many ways, who is to say I won’t test positive tomorrow, without having engaged in anything risky? I’ve become quite comfortable with condoms, remarkably, I think, for someone who came of sexual age in the period just before the advent of AIDS. In fact, I find I actually prefer the feeling of the latex and the tight rubber ring at the base of the shaft after you’ve unfurled the rubber, which is almost like a light cock-ring. The lack of a condom sheathing me is on my mind as I near my climax, nagging at the edge of my consciousness. This kid is about to receive a spray of my cum, with no barrier to protect him. Selfishly, I don’t pull out. I guess the momentary pleasure outweighs my ethics. I’m uncomfortable with that notion. On the other hand, he wants it this way. But oughtn’t I, as the mature partner, to safeguard him even—especially?—if he isn’t doing it himself? Later, I tell myself that when we get together again I’ll voice my concerns. But that presumes we’ll meet a second time—by no means a certain thing.

When it’s over I’m bathed in sweat and heaving with racking breaths, so I remain within his warm, wet hole, propping myself up on my palms as I try to regain more regular respiration before slowly lowering my body onto his and kissing him.

I finally disengage and roll over. He immediately leaps up and begins hopping around, first on one leg, then the other, waving his hands and arms about goonily. I ask him what in the world he’s doing. He grins and tells me he’s getting his blood to re-circulate. Of course. He’s been doubled up and immobile as I took my own pleasure. I should have massaged his limbs for him.

He lies back down and I scoot closer. He takes my hand in his and I ask him if he doesn’t want to cum. I had hoped, as I have ever since it happened once, that fucking him might have triggered an orgasm. He says he doesn’t care, and means it.

He notices a Stephen King novel on my bookcase. We chat about The Talisman and The Dark Tower for a bit. It’s un-self-conscious, pleasant and entirely without tension, which gladdens me. You never know whether you’re with someone who will suddenly feel uncomfortable after the sex and want to get the hell out.

M.— asks if we can share a cigarette, so he gets back into his t-shirt and briefs as I dress. He goes into the living room and I find him on the couch. I give him a cigarette and we smoke, chatting a bit. He seems utterly relaxed and unembarrassed. He mentions being in a band. I ask him what he plays and he tells me guitar. I imagine his band as a bunch of hetero guys jamming together and wonder again about the level of his experience. He certainly wasn’t shy about anything, or nervous. And few virgins would have the wit or the confidence to lubricate themselves with just saliva.

He tells me he wants me to take a photo “to remember him by.” I say I’m not likely to forget him, but I snap a couple pictures anyway. When I finish I notice one of his balls hanging outside his briefs and wonder briefly if that’s visible in the photo.

He notices a book on the coffee table and kneels down to smoke and peruse it. He looks so adorable there, holding out his cigarette almost effeminately, and I take another picture. He says he’d like me to send copies to him when they’re developed.

When he’s fully dressed and ready to go I give him a quick kiss goodbye, which he returns. After he’s driven away I go online and send him a note of appreciation, saying I hope we’ll see each other again. Later, he writes that he enjoyed himself as well and that “a good atmosphere was maintained.” It’s a curious expression, but it seems to fit him. He’s not standard issue. Not at all.

Later, in bed alone, I reflect on this curious weekend and decide that—despite L’s incredible body, it’s M— I most want to see again. I wonder if I will, shrug inwardly as if to acknowledge the uncertainty of these things, and decide I will send him copies of the photos when I get them back. It’d be a good excuse to contact him and ask if he would like to come over again. The worst that can happen is a no.

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