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Voyeurs and Exhibitionists
Jason has remained one of the family. He tells me how my uncle Same used to prance around their house in just a pair of white socks, high stepping and waving it proudly like a flag, or to put it more accurately, a flagpole. Jason loved ogling him, and he thrived on it. “He was a handsome man, your uncle,” he says.
Jason knows I’m gay like my uncle, and I look a lot like him. I often wonder if tells me these things hoping that I’ll prance for him too, but I won’t. Not because of the age difference; he’s only about ten years older. It wouldn’t be appropriate, it seems somehow incestuous. As I said, he’s one of the family.
He’s seen me naked, and I him, at the locker room at the pool. It’s the prancing I find unwholesome, not the nudity, and the way he looks at me, sizing me up, assessing my , and approving what he sees. If another man looked at me like that, I’d be happy to prance for him and more. It could be he just misses Sam, or perhaps it’s all in my imagination. In the locker room Jason’s eye takes in everyone and everything. Mine also roves, but more discreetly.
“Didn’t you ever prance for him?” I asked.
“A couple of times, but he got bored quickly and wanted to head straight to the bedroom. The same at strip clubs. Halfway into a number he’d say, ‘Let’s go somewhere private. This is making me horny.’ What do you like best? Showing off or watching the show?”
“Both are cool.”
What he’d said implied only looking, but his question made me uncomfortable. It sounded too leading. So I said, “Maybe we can go to one of those clubs together sometime.”
“Better yet, some place where they’re having a contest, so we can see and be seen.”
Jason would look good on stage, and I told him so. He doesn’t look his age, and he takes care of his body.
Maybe I will prance for Jason, and have him prance for me. But only if we take turns and the one who watches keeps his clothes on.
Ethnic Food
We all have our comfort foods. Mine are exotic-looking men, hot and spicy, crisp and fresh, with little or no dressing, men who don’t require lengthy preparations and do not heap my plate with gargantuan portions of what they have on their menu. Meals too copious leave me feeling logy; I prefer a variety of numerous little nibbles tastefully arranged on an attractive platter that keep me coming back for more.
I don’t care for formal banquets served in separate courses one after the other. I like to see all the viands laid out before me and take my time deciding what to sample first. I like my meat tender but firm, in bite-sized pieces so I can hold each morsel in my mouth and suck out the juices. I like my veggies flavorful, my condiments sharp and tangy, the dessert rich and thick and creamy. And of course I always eat with my hands.
Curious though it sounds, I like my food to take as much pleasure in being eaten as I take in eating it. Food was meant to be eaten and should relish the experience. It should think, “He’s enjoying me, savoring every mouthful. Eating isn’t a chore for him, not some routine activity dutifully performed for the sake of nourishment.” I talk to my food directly, tell it how much I like it. I’m lavish in my compliments and do not save them for the chef.
And need I say it? I, too, enjoy taking my turn as someone else’s meal.
Pig Out
It seems we are always hungry. Sometimes we overindulge. So many goodies, so much to savor! Oh, we’re both oral, no doubt about it.
Our whole meal laid out before us, we start with those little bites, those tempting tidbits the French call amuse-gueule, morsels to tickle the palate and whet the appetite. And drinks to go with them. Refill your glass as often as you like. You’re constantly nibbling, so though the alcohol goes to your head, you never have more than a mild, sustained and pleasant buzz. A meal in themselves, those miniature delights. You eat and eat, but they never fill you up. Or rather, they do, but they’re habit forming, so you keep coming back for more. They get you mingling and feeling chummy. You schmooze and schmooze some more.
Then the hot, hearty fare. Rare, exotic delicacies. Rich, multi-layered flavors and enticing aromas: tangy-sharp, salty, sweet, acrid, musky-sour. Contrasting textures to fascinate your tongue: meaty, chewy, crisp, creamy, viscous. So many dishes to sample! So much to choose from! The boards groan under the weight of the victuals. More wine is poured.
The chef has outdone himself. So do we. Eating in earnest. Hands stained and greasy, pristine table manners forgotten. We gobble, almost inhale our food, not stopping to wipe our lips, barely pausing to lick our fingers. We pile it on – second helpings, thirds. We feed each other, invite each other to poke around our plate. “Here, try this... try that.” “Oh, that looks good!” “Yum!”
Our place settings are awash in crumbs and drippings. The decibel level at the feast rises. Our excitement grows. Was there ever such a banquet, even in Ancient Rome with its legendary excesses?
And, finally, repletion. We can no more. We fall back, satiated and exhausted. Tomorrow, we promise, we’ll go on a diet. Soup and a sandwich. Our eyes light up. Sandwiches are fun too.
But it was a fabulous meal, wasn’t it? Yes, fabulous.
Anyone for dessert?
Recipes
Coq au vin: 1 cock (not poultry – a human penis); sautéed onions, sliced mushroom and a grated carrot simmered in red Burgundy and thickened with beurre manié.
Burritos: Spread thick layers refried beans, liquid cheese, tomato salsa and sour cream on his cock. Lick clean.
Beef burgers: Man meat, rare, medium or well done between 2 buns. Need I say more? There’s a reason they call it a Big Mac.
Sushi: Thick, finger-size (middle finger) slabs of raw tuna or any firm filet; combine soy sauce, water, sugar and wasabi to make a dipping sauce; pickled ginger to clear the palate.
Rocky Mountain oysters: 2 large testicles in a human scrotum. Slurp into your mouth – delicately, as befits a delicacy.
Salt lick: 1 cock, coated in its own ejaculate; dry 5 to 10 minutes. Enjoy!
Banana split: 1 cock, chocolate sauce, strawberry compote, crushed pineapple, whipped cream. Top with a cherry.
’Smores: 1 cock, marshmallow spread, melted chocolate, cracker crumbs.
Penis colada: Light rum, pineapple juice, coconut cream, blended with ice and served in a stemmed dessert glass. Dip in as much of his genitals as will fit in the glass for a maximum of 30 seconds. Suck off the liquid, warming him in your mouth.
Leather Love
Blindfold me, tie me down, and torture me with feathers. Make me writhe. Bring out your whips and chains. Make me cry out in pain. Make me cry for mercy. Make me cry for more! Immobilize my legs wide apart, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, helpless. Call me filthy names. Make me call you sir, or daddy, or master. Make lick your boots. Spank my bottom pink. Bring tears to my eyes.
Blacken your mustache. Put on your black leather cap; your leather vest, open on your hairy chest and stomach; your leather chaps that show your massive, angry cock, hard and dripping.
Spit on me. Pinch my nipples. Squeeze my balls. Twist my cock. Ram my ass.
Today I’m your slave, your plaything. Tomorrow... Well, we’ll see about tomorrow, won’t we? Maybe it will be your turn again. Like yesterday.
You can’t humiliate me, not for real. How can you, after all the things we’ve done together? We can only pretend.
Leah
All of Vinnie’s regular partners had met Leah except me, and I was only marginally regular. I had seen photos of her. A few of his one-night stands had met her, too, though he didn’t have many of those. With Vinnie you were either a regular or you had him for ten or fifteen minutes. He seldom risked taking home men he’d picked up in a bathhouse or a tea-room or the park. He “played it safe” and had quick sex with them in public. Hundreds of them. To my comment that that was doubly unsafe he replied that he since he’d got in touch with his feminine side and become liberated he meant to live his sexuality to the fullest for as long as could. He took precautions and always used a condom except when he knew the person. “And everyone he’s been with,” I muttered. Vinnie had himself tested every other month and the results always came back negative, but there was no telling what other STDs he’d picked up. I insisted on condoms.
I hadn’t met Leah, but I had met Sabrina, the woman who’d introduced them, a lesbian dominatrix who lived in his building with her ordinary husband who didn’t know a thing about her taste for women or her lucrative sideline. She’d run into Vinnie in the stairwell and spotted him immediately as someone who’d be interested in his services, though she didn’t realize he was gay. He didn’t look it. Though slight of build, Vinnie acted very masculine except when he cruised. He worked in construction and had an ex-wife and a daughter he hadn’t seen in years and who lived somewhere far away.
I’d come to town for the weekend and arranged to shack up with Vinnie. Out in the street he looked like a regular guy; in his studio apartment he went about naked and looked anything but. He had a good-looking body. I sat and watched him in my tented boxers.
He showed me a gold chain Leah had given him, the kind you wear around your waist, and asked if I’d mind if he put it on. I shrugged. “Wear whatever you like.”
Leah kept a couple of her more whorish outfits in his closet. I saw them when I hung up my clothes. “Her favorite shoes,” he said, pointing to a pair of shiny black spiked heels.
“They look like they’d fit.”
“Like a glove.” And be put them on.
He sat down and began shaving his legs. I thought he would. Vinnie always shaved his legs and chest, and he knew how much I liked how smooth they felt when he wrapped them around me when I fucked him. Watching him stand there, in nothing but the high heels and chain with his cock hanging limp between his thighs while he shaved them, was disconcerting, but worth it when he clamped them around my back in bed that night.
I woke up the next morning and saw Leah standing by the bed in her favorite heels, heavily made up and wearing her brunette wig. A lacy black brassiere held her false titties in place and the gold chain hung loosely on a matching black garter belt, and below that hung Vinnie’s cock.
“It’s about time you met Leah,” he said.
“I told you. Leah is your thing, not mine.”
Trick or Treat
Naked for Halloween. How can you be anything but yourself? Would you want to? What’s wrong with your body? It’s just right; it’s perfect. It’s those little imperfections that make you you.
“What do you mean, little imperfections?”
Not that. That’s perfect just the way it is. A touch of jewelry, maybe, since we’re supposed to be in costume. Otherwise, just us, the bare essentials. And a hat – you know, the kind a naval officer wears – or a baseball cap, a Panama, a motorcycle helmet or a sombrero.
No, we’ll get masks. After all, it’s Halloween.
We go out to look for masks, the kind that fit over your head. The stores are well stocked at this time of year. We buy dozens of them – monsters, celebrities, politicians, animal heads, a pirate, a deep-sea diver.
“Do you think we dare go out trick or treating in nothing but a mask?”
We don’t, but we put on a fashion show for each other, look at ourselves in the mirror, and take pictures. We have a special album for special photos. And we had sex. With a gorilla, a werewolf, Kermit the frog, and a well hung Sarah Palin.
By Halloween we’d had our fun; the game had gone stale. So we sat around just in our hats and watched horror movies on television.
F-Words
Fetishism, a form of fixation, begins with the letter F. Many of my fetishes also begin with F, like feet, fingers, fabric, feathers (falcon feathers), fur (especially fox fur), fleece, fragrances, flagpoles, foam, fedoras, ferrets, and fattening foods. Not flogging or feces. I’ll say no more about the ferrets as I’m not particularly proud of myself on that score.
Some fetishists’ fetishes are, in fact, the object of their desire, and others cannot get aroused without them. Not me; for me they are flippant fancies. I can forgo my fetishes and frequently fuck fetish-free, but Frank favors my fanciful foibles, and for fun he outfits himself in finery like form-fitting g-string (Frank calls them his f-strings) made of fashionable fuzzy fur, feathered, or in the form of a foot. Just hearing him place his upper teeth on his lower lip and blow out can foment my filmy, feral, fast-flowing fluids and finish me.
I love to lie back for Frank’s fond and furious fellating, focusing on my favorite fox fur fixed to my face and feeling fantastic. I keep it there when I fuck him ferociously. Fucking fabulous!
Can you imagine what turn-on it was for me to write this?
The Bed
How many naked men can fit on a king-size bed? Not side by side; it’s more fun tangled and one on top of the other. The bed springs creak and groan. Better to ask: how many men can one bed hold?
There were fifteen of us, if you can believe it, and our squirming bodies gave the mattress a severe pounding. We didn’t exactly keep still. Some of us had condom wrappers stuck to our backs, and every so often somebody would curse or give a yelp when he rolled onto one of the plastic bottles of lube.
Troy never managed to work himself to the top of the heap. He didn’t try very hard. Some of the guys would have liked to stay on top all the time, but I don’t think anyone did.
Groping, sucking, fucking, mouths licking you all over, cocks rubbing against your face and legs and belly and buttocks, cocks in your mouth, cocks in your ass – how many dripping hard-ons can you focus on at once? Half of what was happening to me I was unaware of. It was hard enough just to keep track of what I was doing.
Larry’s new to this. He looks like a kid in a candy store, bewildered, his eyes wide and lit up, unable to decide where to turn first, what goody to reach for, what to put in his mouth.
Nate is the pro. He’s learned to move freely in the writhing mass and get what he wants. And he wants it all.
Cory arrived first. Patrick, our host, met him at the door. He went upstairs, left his clothes in the study and stretched out naked on the bed, idly stroking himself so he’d be hard for the others. Don arrived not long after, undressed, and he and Cory sixty-nined. We trickled in in ones and twos and piled onto the bed. When Patrick followed the last guest upstairs, the party was going strong.
The bedful of bodies gradually empties. In theory, we only have an hour for lunch (and what a lunch!), but some take a little more. Our play was sweaty, and we have other bodily fluids to wash off, so we shower before we go, in some cases two or three at a time.
Patrick doesn’t see us off. He was last to join us and is still busy playing.
After the last guest has gone, he gathers up the stained sheets and carries them off to the washer.
Feeling Cheeky
He lay face down on the bed in lounge pants and a tee-shirt, too achy and exhausted to move. “I worked my ass off,” said.
I pulled his lounge pants and boxers down off his butt and gave it a tender kiss. “I’m glad you meant that figuratively.”
I went to work on it, indefatigably, indefaggotably.
I have eaten my fill of his ass nearly as often as I have fucked it. I find it as addictive as chocolate, as heady as wine, as good for you as vitamins, as necessary as love. Lust is in the bod of the beholder, and lust is what I feel whenever I behold it. Tender, loving lust, but lust all the same.
If I appear to evangelize his ass, please understand that I can only describe it with the unbridled enthusiasm of a convert, that I spread his cheeks with the same conviction evangelists show in spreading the good word. He has what’s called a bubble-butt, but a small one, luscious, meaty, part and parcel with his lanky body, each buttock merrily perched atop its own thigh, fleshy, not flabby. When he lies face down with his legs slightly parted his scrotum pushes up between them, a smaller, redder, furrier, more wrinkled version of the miracle above it, divided by a hairline ridge instead of a deep furrow.
I know his ass by touch as well as by sight, and not just the touch of my hand. My leg, my face, my belly, my dick all recognize it. I have bent my knee and lain my calf along his bare or boxered crack so often that I’m sure I’d recognize the feel of it if he were wearing jeans. I have mouthed every inch of it. Its roundness, its firmness, its elasticity, its weight, the tickle of its hairs, the slopes of his cleft and the round pucker at their base, equally familiar clamped shut and gaping, are second nature to me. I know how it rises and falls with his breathing. I know how it moves when he walks and how it writhes when he lies under me. I know it when he stands upright and when he bends over. I know it when he presses his legs together and when I spread them wide apart. I know it by smell, I know it by taste, and yes, I know it also by sound. Not the sounds it makes, the sounds he makes when I squeeze it or caress it, cover it with kisses, nuzzle it or lick it, bury my tongue or a finger in it, press my sex against it, slide into it, pump it fast or slow, slap it, fill it with hot seed, and withdraw. I know.
I slide in ramrod straight and inflexible as a glass dildo, and his gasps moan out my rigidity if they contain any discernible words at all. He pushes his eager cheeks up into me, mashing their spongy softness against my belly. His moans grow louder and more frantic. The heat of my throbbing discharge stops his breath. His frame tenses and his yielding ass cheeks turn to stone around me, and there is silence till he breathes a final gasp when I slip from him.
Walter
If asked to name the world’s greatest top, I would answer “Walter,” wherever he is now, that beautiful black hunk. I met him in a park in San Francisco, where I had gone to visit a friend from college and his new wife. I’d gone to walk my dog, and he was walking his dog, and our dogs were very interested in each other.
“They gonna ball?” he asked.
“I doubt it. Mine’s spayed.”
“You wanna ball?”
I went home with him and we balled, and to this day the hour we spent together dominates my masturbatory fantasies.
While my right hand busily pleasures my shaft, I expand the thrill dimly remembered by my anus and send it coursing up my spine. If I press the soles of my feet together and draw them up toward my butt with knees spread wide, relaxing my anus while I squeeze my cheeks together around it, I feel it more clearly and can pump the tingle deeper inside me and it moves down over the perineum and up into my nuts. Walter’s face is a blur; my only clear visual memory is his enormous dick, a piece of meat large enough to make a mare squirm. His is a tactile memory of skin as smooth as polished satin and of multiple orgasms. My body can still feel the shapes he bent me into.
Leaning back on my pillow, my eyes closed, and I can feel his mouth his mouth sliding down to my groin – his soft, full, moist lips, his tongue as slippery as raw calf’s liver, the wetness of his drool inundating me. He bent my right knee so my heel touched my buttock and fell greedily to devouring my ass. He licked and tickled and plunged his buttery tongue inside, and the nerves of my rosebud awoke at his kiss, nudging their neighbors to pass the message past my sphincter, over my prostate, ever deeper inside, till all my receptors had become energized and set a-dancing. Then he seized hold of me, used my extended left leg as a pivot to roll me onto my stomach, and entered me, my right knee pressed into my chin.
Can one describe the perfect orgasm? I mean the perception of the living orgasm running through your body, not the mechanics that made it bloom. I was reduced to a quivering, whimpering emulsion. How can one flap of blood-engorged tissue give so much pleasure, and how can the vast tangle of nerves that reach out from deep inside us to engulf our entire genitals endure so much pleasure? I moaned and shook in total submission. Every nerve on edge, attentive to the new delights sparked by his grinding inside, I let wave upon radiant wave wash over me, until my bewildered brain floated free and left my helpless frame to fend for itself, wanting more, but unable to grasp what was happening inside me. My sense of self gone, the sensations manifested themselves not as feeling, but as being, as some say an infant perceives the new world it has entered. Head and limbs and belly lying loose, the small of my back tensed and my spine stiffened, my breath choked and suspended until some new touch from him released it, my eyes bulged, and my insides boiled over beyond the envelope of my skin, melting everything it passed through down to the tips of my fingers.
When the throbbing of his cock subsided and had started to shrink inside me, he pulled it out, still large and hard, but more pliable. He rolled me over and kissed me. Consciousness slowly returned.
He asked, “Do you want to fuck me now?”
“I can’t. I came three times while you were in me.”
No man’s penetration has unlocked the latent sensations that lie just under our delicate interior mucosa as did Walter’s, and sent them to run amok.
Exploring Antarctica
The white, frigid, barren expanses of our planet’s southernmost continent do not exactly call to mind the warmest and comfiest little bubble butt in which an explorer ever planted his south pole.
In the middle of a heat wave we brought snacks and cold drinks into the bedroom and stayed there, the only room in the house with a window air-conditioning unit. We spent most of the torrid weekend in a chilly room, which is how we came to look on our lovemaking as a type of Antarctic exploration.
He’d rented a DVD for us to watch together, a Disney movie about a team of sled dogs left behind in Antarctica when the humans were evacuated before a blizzard, a “true” story. (No one stayed around to see just how they did survive.) He knows I’m a sucker for any maudlin flick about animals that takes place in the wild.
I looked at the title and tried to guess what it was about. “I think I know how you relate to this.” The film was called Eight Below.
I enjoyed the movie despite its predictable characters: the pretty woman pilot (to show how librated we are) in love with the handsome sled-driver, both of them too coy to come out and admit it to each other until their joy at finding his dogs alive (six out of eight – not bad under the circumstances) breaks down their inhibitions; the wise old Indian to whom the musher turns in his Angst having abandoned his team against his will and who sets him straight with a pithy parable drawn from real life; and, in keeping with Hollywood anti-intellectualism, a goof-ball cartographer and a geologist who can recognize meteorites from the planet Mercury at a glance, but so little common sense as to appear brainless. The dogs also had stereotyped personalities.
He asked me what I thought of the movie.
“Inspirational. Now go wash out, then lie face down with a pillow under your hips. We’re going to explore Antarctica. I’ll show you what eight below feels like.”
I began my long trek across the luscious double hemispheres on the underside of his most curious and scenic planet. How I could bring myself to ravage the singular beauties of this continent, me by one or two rare visitors who’d come before? I rose like an ice-breaker out of the water and came crashing down on him. It wasn’t as violent as it sounds.
I awoke a little before dawn. He lay spoon-nestled in front of me. My south pole, which had fallen over during the night, thawed in his warmth and stiffened with the rising sap of returning spring. He pushed back into it, and a bottomless crevasse opened before me, as when a glacier breaks free from the ice-shelf at the bottom of the world, and I took him once more from behind. He tucked his left leg behind mine, closing the crevasse tightly and trapping the lucky explorer after he’d slipped inside, and he reached back with an arm and placed his hand on my bum to hold me closer to him and give me better leverage. The world shook, and I heard a low rumbling deep inside him like shifting blocks of ice grinding against each other.
When a blizzard hits, a sled dog lies on the ground and lets the soft, white flakes drift over him. His thick coat insulates his from the cold, and he sleeps protected in his snow hollow till the storm has passed. When the winds die down, his little cold, wet nose pops out and sniffs the clean air. Thus did I fall asleep nestled inside him, and awoke to find my puppy greatly reduced in size and curled up where its healthy, wet nose had slipped out of him in the hollow behind my lover’s legs.
Just for Fun
He dared me to roll naked in the snow. It was white and clean and fluffy, and it blanketed the yard. It was also very cold.
“Yeah, like I’m about to go do something crazy like that. Why don’t you try it?”
“Let’s do it together.”
We stripped, and ran out holding hands to where the drifts were deepest, halfway up to our knees. Together we fell backward and cried, “Whoa!” Then we laughed.
“Let’s make snow angels.”
“Snow devils, you mean. We’re no angels. Angels don’t do this sort of thing.”
We made our angels... devils... whatever.
“Now what?”
“Now we roll over.”
“Onto our stomachs or over each other?”
“Both!”
We lay on top of each other and rolled round and round, obliterating out angels. Then we rolled onto our stomachs and felt our scrotums contract more than they had already.
“Can we go back in now and make cocoa?”
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Oral, Anal, and Alternatives