My face turns six shades of purple.
"Sorry. Sorry." I hear myself mutter.
"Don't you dare apologize," he responds, eyeballing it.
God, I want to die. Big bulbous thing all veiny and excited for him. Nothing like pussy, all neat and secure and hidden away, not about to advertise it's thoughts or preferences. What on earth must he be thinking ? 'What in fucking hell have I gotten myself into ?' 'How do I break it to him that I need to throw up right now ?'
Tony might love me, yes, but for fuck's sake, it doesn't mean I can ask him to love, or surely to want this ...
Okay, definitely weird. Other than enforced glimpses of Max's horrid porn, I've never seen another cock, certainly not in person, nor had a single speck of interest, frankly. Who knew that one day I'd be staring, wide eyed, at my best mate's raging hard-on ... one that, mind you ... I fucking well caused ?
Alright, I can't exactly say it's love at first sight, and for that reason alone I guess I'm disappointed. But then, in truth, it's not like I entertained a lot of thoughts about his cock; dreamed about it, or whatever. I've been curious, yes, and have felt, to my vast surprise, general sexual feelings towards him, but I guess I never conjured up any specifics as to what we might do if naked ... and now here it is, staring me in the face, as specific as you get.
Christ, it's so fucking strange ...
Not that it's horridly unattractive. I mean, at the moment I can't imagine wanting to put that in my mouth, but it at least seems girthy enough, which maybe isn't surprising. What the lad lacks in height, he's made up for in a body which he's carefully toned pretty much into the Greek ideal. A quick glance upwards, over the tanned expanse of Max's 'best feature' abs, arms, chest, neck, which really are pretty amazing, I admit, I mean, the lad is well cut, confirms this – even a straight guy can see it.
But shit, I'm no longer defining myself that way, am I ? My eyes certainly jump right back down – I mean, it's new, and weird, and does have a certain odd appeal ... and if I'm honest, I'm definitely feeling a growing compulsion to ... what is the word ? Explore.
Thing is, I now know what it feels like, being touched here, and not just what it feels like, what it bloody well means, in your gut, and soul, and marrow, and shit ... when you're exposed, naked, in every way – and there is someone before you, who fucking well loves you, who in a way is holding so much more in his hands than your cock.
Oh holy motherfucking christ. He's raising his hand to it.
"Tone," I squirm, "seriously, you don't need to-"
He looks at me, confused, sincere.
"-Do you not want me to ?"
"No ... yes ... I-I mean ... I-I just don't want you to feel obligated."
"Obligated ?" His eyes return to it, hand hovering close. "Shut the fuck up, Max. Sorta ruinin' the moment."
The moment ? ! The MOMENT ? But ... what can he ... ?
No time to ponder it... hand hovers, shy, tentative ... and I'm stock-still, eyes shut tight, breathless; afraid, on impact, that I will leap through the ceiling.
What to do ?
Where to start ?
What if I'm no good ?
Fuck it. It's not rocket science.
And then ... oh fuck ... just a soft, cautious, barely-there test caress ... and I swear to god, I almost fall off the planet.
"Wow", I remark out loud. I can't help it. It's ... smooth and warm and weird and ... instantly reactive, both it, and the boy it's attached to, or rather, judging from his reaction ... the boy attached to it.
And fuck me if his hand doesn't feel like warm, silken velvet as it runs, oh-so delicate, once, and as he sees my reaction, twice, upward, agonizing and slow- he's curious, he's exploring, remember, and then ... oh sweet christ ... over the tip ... and I'm choking back his name.
Christ, talk about plugged in – fantastic ! I swear to god, I had no idea. I mean, I'm barely doing anything ... and he can barely fucking stand it ! Brilliant !
The world flashes in and out in waves, a part of me convinced this is some fantasy, after all ... that this couldn't right now be Tony ... sitting here, naked ... diligent and willful as he slowly fists my cock.
If I had a quid for the number of times I've cursed my nonexistent sexual memories, blaming, right or wrong, that one big blank spot for at least a possible source of the impotence ... only to now be faced with the supreme irony in the realization that ... there's sorta maybe nothing like being, in every way, a virgin.
Okay, he's pondering whatever he's pondering, and meanwhile ... I'm dying.
Straightboys, normally, for fear, I gather, of appearing fey, always seem to go at it too hard. Here by contrast ... it's whisper soft – gah ! – unbearable ! ... drawing it out ... the detail, oh god, the detail – that callused edge inside his forefinger, developed during physical therapy, that provides just that extra bit of rough in the middle of all the creamy velvet ... the curve of the heel of his hand, which proves an eerily perfect cleft, in particular, for the sensitive spots down low ... and up high, the genius, the key, of a buttery smooth and loosely cupped, slowly swiveling palm ...
"Are you absolutely sure," I want to scream, "that you've never done this before ?"
It's increasingly weighty and swollen in my hand, the more I touch it, which ya, is basic bird-and-bees stuff, but I have to say, this graphic an illustration of that most elemental of human responses, right before your eyes, is indeed, pretty fucking amazing, for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that it makes you feel, and I hesitate to use the term, but, powerful. Which I'm guessing was it, the clincher, for my former self, the person who once actually read aloud in class a treatise he'd written entitled The Role of Sex in Power Relationships.
Which, I'm happy to report, this is not. The 'power' I'm talking about here is that it's making me feel ten motherfucking feet tall to be able to return the favor, to be able to bring him pleasure at all, even in this small way.
'Small' in that nothing I could do could possibly equal what he's done for me, tonite, and for all time.
My head raises off the pillow, holds there a moment, and flops back down, turning, twisting, muttering, drooling, biting the sheets.
Did you know it, instinctively, or is it that it's obvious ? Or, did you just sense it ? Are you one of THOSE people in bed ?
Or is it that I once admitted to you, among the many, relentless times you grilled me about my sex life, that slow was my very end-all, be-all, numero uno secret favorite thing in the world that, out of a desire to appear more badass than I actually am, I'm usually too embarrassed to request ?
What a fucking life I'm living, that I'm right now doing this, creating this crazy buildup of energy and tension and heat and mayhem in another person. It's written all over him, how tight he's wound, fists gripping, little agonized squirmings and moans that escape all attempts to keep his mouth shut ... the way his balls jump! and his cock twitches and dances, and that I can actually feel, are you ready ? his pulse inside it, meaning ... christ: it's jammed full of blood, packed to the hilt, at any moment ready to burst, to shatter his brain like smashed crystal ...
Soon ... oh yes ... oh god, soon ... toes twisting, brain a washout, balls gathering, tightening ... quickly ... Does he realize ? Does he understand that if this keeps up, I mean ... am I ready for this ? Seriously ?
For coming right in front of Tony ?
In the back of my mind are all his words for it - joystick, happystick, and, my personal favorite: bangstick , which normally make me laugh, but in the middle of it all is something so, just, heavy, majorly epic and like, so cool and beautiful it genuinely defies description, defies all it's crude nicknames – defies maybe even human understanding.
Okay, I'm getting a little flowery here, which is maybe what happens when you almost die at age 17, and as much as you've adopted the concept of taking things – everything – for granted, like everyone around you does, a part of you can't ... won't ever be able, for example, to not be effected by the sight of someone you love twisting about helplessly on the mattress ... blinded by need and sensations so intense and life-affirming, he has no hope of remembering his name.
I'm moving with him, clinging to the last edges of sanity ...
"Fuck ..."
"Shit ..."
"Ohfuck ..."
"Ohmotherofshit ..."
Why must pending orgasm make one so embarrassingly inarticulate ?
Holy motherfucking christ ... it's fucking leaking – completely forgot about this ! Droplets of pearly fluid oozing from the tip, meaning ... he's right on the very edge ! Fuck ! Wow ! Guilty, proud, excited, freaked, thrilled. I stifle a nervous laugh, wanting to step back and watch the fireworks ... as if stopping now was any option.
... squeeze/smooth/sweet/flick/flutter/burn/hum ... up ... along the seam, melodic, over the veins ... grip, there, there ... silk ... thump ... there ... upward, to the crown ... over ... up ... yes, there ... over ... up, over ... up ...
whiteout ...
Shit ! There go his hips, unmistakable, his back, arching up off the mattress ...
... My head ... my head ...
is
caving
in.
... sharp intake of breath followed by a weird strangled stuttering noise ...
... brain melting ... heart hammering ...
... something indecipherable I don't recognize ...
... My signature just-before reverse overheated whimper ...
... face beet red ... veins busting out of his neck ...
... Blood charging through my veins like a steam engine ...
... head snaps back, eyes cross ...
And ... gaaaah ... here, here ... blinded ... brain short circuited, white hot ... melting ... fuck ... fuck ... FUCK ...
... SCREAM ...
... shouts out loud ... cock vibrating, face contorted, whole body thrashing ... and ... holy motherfucking christ I can actually feel it shooting out of him ... tremors ... white hot spurts, again, again, again ... high in the air in crazy random arcs, messing my hand and landing everywhere ...
Holy fuck ... thighs, toes, balls, convulsing, shaking, twitching through the aftershocks ...
... until he falls back to the mattress, dead weight like somebody hit him, glassy eyed, spent, wheezing.
Tell me again ... was it me, or him, who hasn't come in a year ?
Wanked stupid and brainless ... stunned ... no clue who or where I am, lids weighty, and through the curtain of my lashes ...
... yes it's true ...
There sits Tony, pale and wide-eyed; glowing like the moon.
God ... I'm just ... christ, speechless ... heart bloated, so heavy with what just happened. It's the love, it has to be, that makes everything so intense.
There is easy to love, always popular Just Before, and then there's the far more complicated, potentially disastrous, make-or-break state of Just After, in which you quickly learn What's Going On Here (If Anything),and more importantly, What He's Really About.
Indeed.
Is the bloke immediately buckling up his trousers and making excuses ?
And what about you ? Having had this glimpse into his soul, or vice versa, are you disappointed ? Uncomfortable ? Regretting it ? Wanting him to leave ? Wanting to run quickly from the place yourself ?
Or is it 'even' ? A quickie ? Both of you got what you wanted and let's-not-pretend-it's-anything-more ?
Particularly precarious and treacherous is the state Tony and I are in right now: First Time, Just After, When You Both Believe You're In Love. To which I will add the frightening post script:
And You're His Very First Boy.
I stare; it can't be helped. He's seriously to me right now just such a fucking vision ... so frigging catastrophically beautiful, like nothing I've ever seen; eyes alight, body burning, a tangled, frazzled, wasted, gorgeous mess.
Suddenly coming to mind is a line from a song, I think called, aptly, The Tower of Learning, by this gay singer guy, Rufus somebody, that Max likes:
'All the sights of Paris
Pale inside your iris.'
He says nothing and his face is maddeningly hard to read – he's wide eyed, but who knows if that's wonder, or love, or disgust, or embarrassment, or if he's maybe right now stifling a need to vomit, or worse, to laugh.
How awkward; how scary. I mean, his reaction to this is pretty much going to define what happens from here on, if anything – with us, I mean.
I want to speak, but won't anything I say at this point be very much putting him on the spot ? What would I say, anyway ? So how did I look just now while you wanked me off ? Just how badly did it gross you out ? Or simply, are you sure you still wanna do this ? Or even, do you still love me ? Surely at this very early stage we're well within the 'no questions asked/ return for a full refund' period, no ?
An old lyric by my new favorite singer Rufus Wainwright, that I hope is not apt, comes screaming to mind:
'Save your poison for a lover who is on your side.'
I lean, without a word, and nervously yank out a tissue.
If there was ever a test of a man's 'straightness', this, unquestionably, would be it.
I watch the path taken by a single tissue as it makes it's way across the torso of a beautiful, damp, panting boy I love, whose perfect, heaving torso is being mopped of the still-warm come that covers it ... down a jutting hip bone ... dabbing at pubes ... along the bumps of his abs ... up his neck ... over a pair of firm, honey-brown nipples ...
And fuck, if it isn't leaving me a bit of a bloody train wreck.
Why? Why is this peeling my eyes back ? I just saw him do this same thing a minute ago.
A minute ago the world was different; you hadn't yet witnessed Maxxie in the throes of orgasm. You were in a haze; you'd just come yourself for the first times and all you could see was the glory and the love.
At the moment, now that they've been duly woken up, you're seeing him, for the first time, with your balls.
I blink. Yes. As if watching him come, making him come wasn't enough, what he's doing right now is so far gone erotic, so feral, so flat out raw, that the brain can't entirely take it in, can it ? The nether reaches, however, completely understand, have maybe long since understood, it was just you that got in the way, of the quite obvious fact that Maxxie, the center of your world, is at the same time (you lucky bastard), a searingly hot motherfucker.
One that, right now, you must have.