I am sucking Hipster Dad's cock. It is very nearly the only appendage he has without inked adornment, not that it needs anything to make it more beautiful. It is, to date, the most beautiful cock I've encountered. In every aspect. It's a Super Model cock.
I met Hipster Dad-- I call him this because he is a hipster and a father, mind you, not to fulfill a sugar-daddy fantasy, which I may or may not have-- in the Square. Well, I didn't "meet" him then, only became aware (obsessed) of (with) him. We actually met in line at Barnes and Noble, waiting for our turn at the register. He was buying Lorrie Moore's short story collection, "Birds of America," which is one of my favorite books, a book I've bought several copies of to give as gifts, it's that good. I told him as much, and he laughed, telling me he was giving it to his sister-in-law as a birthday present. In-laws hint at betrothal, although not always, and I sneaked a peek at his left hand and, oh yeah, nice ring, congratulations, man, how's the old ball-and-chain? Anyway, somehow, between there and here, I find myself on my knees. It amazes me, even.
Holding my head and pumping his hips, he rides my mouth like he owns it, all of it-- fat, flat tongue, dodgy teeth, uvula, and all the other soft tissue that envelopes his great dick. I don't want him to stop, even when he's stopped up my throat and I can't catch a breath. Who needs air?
His name is Eric, but I call him Elvis. I used to like a boy named Eric in high school. What's become of him, I wonder. Cute boy-- short with inky-black eyes. This Eric/Elvis is lanky, long muscled. He grips my head and says, "Look at me." I look. I gag. He lets some spit drool out of his mouth to land exactly on his thick shaft just as it slides complete into my mouth. He pulls back, out, smearing my face with our spit until my lips miss their stretch and my gullet longs to be filled again.
"Open up,"he says, my mouth gaping.
(One of my favorite stories in that book he was buying for his sister-in-law is "Dance in America." It's about a woman, a dancer, who is in "Pennsylvania Dutch country" lecturing in classrooms, "spreading Dance's holy word." She meets up with an old friend, who, with his wife, has a child with Cystic Fibrosis. It sounds sad, is sad, but is also something else, something brilliant, about hope and love and now. Staying present. Like when you're dancing. Buy the book. Read the book.)
"Nipples," he says. Commands. Directs. He's bossy, doesn't give a shit about me or my dripping erection that he won't even let me take out of my jeans. My hands go where he wants them. This sets him off: the harder I am on them, the harder he fucks my mouth. He begins to curse like a man with a hammer who's missed the nail. I am forced to snort into his pubes, choking on his buried length and girth. I feel the same way when being smothered by a sweating ass-crack. It's that good.
Grunting, he tears out of me and tries to aim his load out of harm's way and, while I'm grateful not to get an eye-full, I regret the sweet reward of nut.
"Sorry," he says, maybe sensing my dismay; "I don't cum in dudes." He flicks some jizz on my cheek-- to compensate?
"No problemo," I say, getting up out of my crouch. My hard-on is hard-to-ignore. I see him regarding it with not much interest before he puts his hand over it and starts rubbing it through my jeans. It doesn't take long before I am huffing his shirtfront and pissing cum and wondering what his wife looks like.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
In My Humble Opinion
I think Kanye and Serena should get married and then shoot each other in the head.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Again, A Loaf of Bread
To continue: I happened to doze off. Two things happen to me on trains-- sleepiness and hard-ons. I can't explain it; it just happens, and I accept it as a matter of course. I woke up in New Jersey, startled and hoping I hadn't drooled or snored. I was, of course, obviously erect. I looked down at it and then over at my neighbor. He had his jacket over his lap and was clearly, plainly, masturbating under it. Watching me. The punching motion under his coat stopped and he looked away. I had the impression that I had interrupted a moment. He folded his hands on top of his jacket, and I tried to make out what he'd left behind, curious now, having heard delicious rumors about red-headed guys. He seemed to be inspecting the passing landscape.
And then he turned his head slowly and wet his lips with his tongue. The train car rocked and rattled, and New Jersey drew past behind him, a smeared backdrop.
"Go back to sleep," he said, quietly; "Please."
I saw his hands press down on the jacket and understood what he was saying, what he was asking of me. I closed my eyes and hear the rustle of jacket and then the noise that skin makes, and I could only imagine what he looked like, his huge marbled cock rising up from his copper bush and zipper teeth. I could hear his breath, how it quickened and caught in his throat. I opened one eye as he tried to direct his load toward the floor. He was bigger than I'd imagined. And then we were swallowed by a tunnel, and the car went dark. He put himself away and got up from his seat without any acknowledgement of my presence-- I was a loaf of bread again-- and made his way to the restroom. He never came back. But I still have that stupid, unreadable book he left behind.
And then he turned his head slowly and wet his lips with his tongue. The train car rocked and rattled, and New Jersey drew past behind him, a smeared backdrop.
"Go back to sleep," he said, quietly; "Please."
I saw his hands press down on the jacket and understood what he was saying, what he was asking of me. I closed my eyes and hear the rustle of jacket and then the noise that skin makes, and I could only imagine what he looked like, his huge marbled cock rising up from his copper bush and zipper teeth. I could hear his breath, how it quickened and caught in his throat. I opened one eye as he tried to direct his load toward the floor. He was bigger than I'd imagined. And then we were swallowed by a tunnel, and the car went dark. He put himself away and got up from his seat without any acknowledgement of my presence-- I was a loaf of bread again-- and made his way to the restroom. He never came back. But I still have that stupid, unreadable book he left behind.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Loaf of Bread
So. Shit happens to me. I mean, shit happens to everyone, but I feel like I get more than my fair share. I should clarify, too: sexy shit. Like that Sunday morning when I was training up to New York to have brunch with my family in Manhattan. There were a total of five people in this particular car, which is why I picked it to ride in. And then this guy came on, unremarkable as far as I was concerned. What I did find remarkable-- not to mention completely annoying-- was that he decided to sit in the seats directly across the aisle from me. It struck me as strange and stupid to sit there when he had so many opportunities to sit by himself (so to speak). It was like I was invisible or something-- he didn't pay me the least bit of notice. Somewhere in his 30's, attractive-ish, I guess. He reminded me of an uncle, one of my own, back in the day. There was something a little throw-back about this guy, a little retro. Maybe it was the mustache. And he was wearing carpenter jeans (please, I know!) and a rugby shirt. His hair was the color of an old penny and cut short. We made eye contact, but it was as though I were a loaf of bread or something. He took off his jacket and pulled a book out of its pocket, an old paperback edition of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." (Hell, Straighty!) Thus snubbed, I turned my attention to my Times' crossword puzzle...
(Yikes, I'm going to be late for a meeting-- more later...)
(Yikes, I'm going to be late for a meeting-- more later...)
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Book of Genesis, Sort of...
This was a dare, I should probably tell you first off.
It was Ethan's idea. I was telling him what happened to me the other night on my way home from work, and he sat beside me on my stupidly small couch, feet up on the coffee table, upsetting my arrangement of magazines and spacemen, and he said:
"Really?" I said, scrinching my face up. It's not as though I hadn't considered doing it, a blog. I just thought it would be like, "Oh, today I saw that really hot guy at the gym again and he was staring at me the whole time I was on the elliptical. Or at the blonde chick next to me, the one who doesn't own a sports bra." Shit like that.
"You would be so good at it," he said, his face rearranged by a goofy smile. But then, we were both stoned and had had a couple of beers, too, so maybe my face wasn't exactly composed either. He was wearing denim shorts he got from Urban Outfitters that were tight from hip to knee. I keep telling him that store is for hipsters and twinks, not guys with soccer thighs or any other sort of muscularity. Really, it's a store for guys who look like girls. Ask anyone.
I guess I should also tell you, since I was staring at Ethan's mighty pile of junk crammed up tight in to the his left pantleg, that while Ethan is totally my type (but, then, who isn't these days?), Ethan, on the other hand, is all for those guys who look like girls. Skinny jeans, faggoty shag haircuts, like someone you'd see in an Asian restaurant and you just can't tell what the fuck it is you're looking at, because there's so little sexually characteristic information there.
Not that I'm not into Asians: more on that to come.
Anyway, he was sitting there, a pretty tempting spread, and I was literally wishing I would catch a bone looking at him, but I've never been that guy, so I squished myself into the corner of the sofa, my feet practically under his butt, my knees up and blocking his humpy landscape.
"You could call it 'Confessions of a Boy Whore'," he suggested.
"RUKM?" I screamed. (I don't need to translate, right?)
"Or 'I, Cocksucker'."
"Is that how you really see me?" I was only a little appalled, knowing full well I was just a step away from slutdom. Maybe it was my inability for at-will erections that saved me from Full-fledged status. I've never had to fear, say, getting hard during an exam at the doctor's-- that is, unless he started groping me and hauled out his own rock-hard for me to play with, then I would become fully engaged. It's sort of like a party-- I just need an invitation, is all. Not just a stiff breeze.
"Want another?" Ethan asked, standing up and rearranging his crotch. He's always struck me as a stiff breeze kind of guy, which is another one of his finer points in my estimation.
I said yes to the beer and started thinking about writing this stuff down, the weird shit that seems to happen all the time to me. It would obviously have to be anonymous, or at least written under a fake name. My employers would not much like being linked to the sexual antics of one of their employees, writ large in cyberspace, google-able. The shame. The blow to their esteemed establishment.
No, if I'm going to do this, i thought, it would be written by someone else, some other me untraceable to the real me. Still, it seemed risky and I had a few reservations, like what if someone I wrote about recognized himself and therefore me? I voiced this concern to Ethan.
"Oh, bullshit, man! EVERY BODY'S going to recognize himself in it! That's the fucking beauty, man!" I thought he was either so wasted or way too into this idea. But his enthusiasm was contagious, and as I sat there staring at the hairy slip of skin his too-tight shirt exposed, I wondered if I had it in me-- blog-writing, I mean. And then it came to me, the way it sometimes will after sharing a joint and a six-pack with someone you want to do things with that you can write about later in your blog.
"Why the fuck not," I said. Ethan whooped and held up five for me to slap. I would have rather kissed him, but that wasn't going to happen, not in our foreseeable future, anyway. So, I slapped his palm and ignored the sparks that seemed to fly up off it.
It was Ethan's idea. I was telling him what happened to me the other night on my way home from work, and he sat beside me on my stupidly small couch, feet up on the coffee table, upsetting my arrangement of magazines and spacemen, and he said:
"Dude, you should fucking blog this shit!"
"Really?" I said, scrinching my face up. It's not as though I hadn't considered doing it, a blog. I just thought it would be like, "Oh, today I saw that really hot guy at the gym again and he was staring at me the whole time I was on the elliptical. Or at the blonde chick next to me, the one who doesn't own a sports bra." Shit like that.
"You would be so good at it," he said, his face rearranged by a goofy smile. But then, we were both stoned and had had a couple of beers, too, so maybe my face wasn't exactly composed either. He was wearing denim shorts he got from Urban Outfitters that were tight from hip to knee. I keep telling him that store is for hipsters and twinks, not guys with soccer thighs or any other sort of muscularity. Really, it's a store for guys who look like girls. Ask anyone.
I guess I should also tell you, since I was staring at Ethan's mighty pile of junk crammed up tight in to the his left pantleg, that while Ethan is totally my type (but, then, who isn't these days?), Ethan, on the other hand, is all for those guys who look like girls. Skinny jeans, faggoty shag haircuts, like someone you'd see in an Asian restaurant and you just can't tell what the fuck it is you're looking at, because there's so little sexually characteristic information there.
Not that I'm not into Asians: more on that to come.
Anyway, he was sitting there, a pretty tempting spread, and I was literally wishing I would catch a bone looking at him, but I've never been that guy, so I squished myself into the corner of the sofa, my feet practically under his butt, my knees up and blocking his humpy landscape.
"You could call it 'Confessions of a Boy Whore'," he suggested.
"RUKM?" I screamed. (I don't need to translate, right?)
"Or 'I, Cocksucker'."
"Is that how you really see me?" I was only a little appalled, knowing full well I was just a step away from slutdom. Maybe it was my inability for at-will erections that saved me from Full-fledged status. I've never had to fear, say, getting hard during an exam at the doctor's-- that is, unless he started groping me and hauled out his own rock-hard for me to play with, then I would become fully engaged. It's sort of like a party-- I just need an invitation, is all. Not just a stiff breeze.
"Want another?" Ethan asked, standing up and rearranging his crotch. He's always struck me as a stiff breeze kind of guy, which is another one of his finer points in my estimation.
I said yes to the beer and started thinking about writing this stuff down, the weird shit that seems to happen all the time to me. It would obviously have to be anonymous, or at least written under a fake name. My employers would not much like being linked to the sexual antics of one of their employees, writ large in cyberspace, google-able. The shame. The blow to their esteemed establishment.
No, if I'm going to do this, i thought, it would be written by someone else, some other me untraceable to the real me. Still, it seemed risky and I had a few reservations, like what if someone I wrote about recognized himself and therefore me? I voiced this concern to Ethan.
"Oh, bullshit, man! EVERY BODY'S going to recognize himself in it! That's the fucking beauty, man!" I thought he was either so wasted or way too into this idea. But his enthusiasm was contagious, and as I sat there staring at the hairy slip of skin his too-tight shirt exposed, I wondered if I had it in me-- blog-writing, I mean. And then it came to me, the way it sometimes will after sharing a joint and a six-pack with someone you want to do things with that you can write about later in your blog.
"Why the fuck not," I said. Ethan whooped and held up five for me to slap. I would have rather kissed him, but that wasn't going to happen, not in our foreseeable future, anyway. So, I slapped his palm and ignored the sparks that seemed to fly up off it.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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