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Jay-O-Naise
by Moonheathen69 (moonheathen69@aol.com)
***
A One-Time Arrangement with a dangerous younger
straight dude turns into something longer-lasting, more
meaningful, and sadder to end. (MM, straight/gay, 1st-
gay-expr, prost)
***
Call me Mark. It's one'a my names, anyway, though I
often go by my middle name Neil -- spelled like the
first guy on the moon. Most everyone else's name will
be changed somewhat for the purpose of anonymity, if
not innocence. And, as one stranger said to me after we
got it on together a few times, when I told him my name
was Neil, he said, "Huh. It suits ya."
Perhaps he thought I'd said 'kneel,' hah!
I'm not saying things didn't go the way I would have
wanted them to with Jay, at least at first. The main
thing is, I couldn't be the one to propose what
happened. By my own rules to myself, it had to come
from him -- and I even tried to talk my way out of it,
for friendship's sake, since I'd paid the price
emotionally more than once before with so-called
"straight" buddies -- or it couldn't have happened at
all, but the way it turned out in the end was exactly
why I went to the trouble I did to avoid it.
In the end, I fell in love.
In the end, I just couldn't fucking resist. Neither,
apparently, could he.
It seems like a hundred years ago already, so much has
happened between us since, and of course there were all
those months in which circumstances of living together
brought us closer before it all happened, but the
history is, in fact, pretty brief -- just 'jam-packed'
is all.
The first time Jay and I met, he flew off the couch
from a cold sleep on my arrival with my new key; he was
ready to pound on who he thought might be an intruder
in our mutual friend Wanda's home. When he asked, "Who-
the-fuck-are-you?" in that more-than-belligerent
friend-or-foe tone and ready-to-fight stance, I threw
out my calm-talk voice, answering as though I perceived
no threat whatsoever, a horse whisperer. "I'm Mark,
Wanda's new roommate. Hi, and who're you?"
Doesn't sound like much of a start to our friendship,
in retrospect, but I did and still do love the guy, and
this telling constitutes a kind of betrayal of that
feeling, and of my word, and of myself as well if
anyone who knows us both recognizes us from this
account. So be it. I can't waste what was a beautiful
experience and a powerful lesson for me.
Flashback to the place in Eugene, Oregon, where first
he and I lived together, where a good deal of all-
nighters were being pulled on a regular basis around
partying and the general sexual freakiness that often
entails. I was not new to partying in other ways, nor
to recovery, for that matter; in the previous four
years since I'd graduated from self-assigned
residential treatment, I'd managed a miraculous stint
of two-years-plus-four-months in one stretch, and a
year-and-a-week in another, more than three years total
I used my tools to stay clean and learned a lot about
myself.
Before coming to Wanda's, however, it would have been
accurate to say my "kryptonites-of-choice" were mainly
alcohol and grass despite a real flirtation with cola
in the 80's. I was a relative newcomer to this other
stuff, but being well-schooled by the company my
current housing situation threw me into...
As it happened on this one occasion, I was using
Wanda's computer online, quietly partying and composing
an email to a former lover by the name of Christopher
whom I'd met in treatment, a heroin addict I'd also
lived with after we both graduated.
Jay was up as I wrote that night, well into the
morning, and it was just the two of us as I went about
the business of telling my ex, who used to charge some
gay strangers up to forty bucks to blow him (my
experience with the stunningly tall, dark and handsome
hustler had been free, except for the emotional impact
later on), that I was coming into some considerable
cash soon and would love not only to re-live some of
our former sexual acrobatics, but would be happy to lay
out a hundred bucks by way of 'improving his resume'
and sharing the wealth.
Besides, though not in love with me, I knew he in fact
felt love for me, had few resources himself at the
time, and wouldn't feel morally compromised because it
was me... The money would be useful, and a good
justification for both of us to enjoy ourselves
sexually. Christopher was the first to admit that what
I did for him felt really good...
Sitting at the computer as I composed this email,
though, listening to Jay as the beer and what-not
loosened his tongue (and releasing his 'inner freak,'
as I mentioned) and he proudly regaled me with accounts
of his various sexual conquests over the 'fair sex,' I
was, I freely admit, horny as fuck and attracted
strongly to his lean, young, kind'a mean bad-boyness.
I guess you could say we were becoming friends already,
and his open nature around the house in terms of
hanging out in his boxer shorts and freely lavishing
affection on the nineteen-year-old daughter of the
residence in front of me, the clean way he smelled --
all kinds'a shit about him, not the least of which was
a good heart and a friendly, smiling regard for my
differences, pushed my ability to remain comfortably
distant, even in my head.
I knew the dangers, not only learning from my
experience with Christopher before, but also from what
I'll honestly confess was a self-defeating pattern of
hooking up with straight dudes in a way which,
ultimately, could not last, and sometimes remained
forever secret other than from some shrinks and a few
crisis hotline workers.
However...
Asked by Jay at some point late that night or early
next morning what I was up to as he peered over my
shoulder, I explained in no uncertain terms. Since this
studly younger man (he was 26 at the time, while I am
rather more than a decade older) knew I was mostly gay
and unashamed about it, he smiled, nodding his
understanding.
It would be a mistake for me to presume Jay was
anything but straight at the time, in fact very much
so, almost hyper-masculine in some of his behaviors and
thinking, and even more than that, he'd bedded at least
three of the women on that apartment's floor -- two of
them a mother-daughter thing, separately -- some of
them more than once, one of them plenty, with much
attendant drama.
He attired himself in the fashion and mode of a thug,
claiming 'West Side' as his allegiance (whether family
or gang, I could not distinguish, and there seemed to
be no obvious 'opposing' side in evidence that I could
discern, anyway) and, other than his apparent
acceptance and liking of me as a person, nothing about
him would have in any wise encouraged me to consider
the guy as a candidate for sex, much less actually set
out to make it happen.
A punch in the mouth or nose seemed just as likely.
However...
It was common knowledge within the household I
routinely went out into our neighborhood and managed my
own rather volume and repeat business sexually, or was
a 'slut,' to put it another way (not that the term is
bad) -- at any rate, that I saw to my own needs and to
those of quite a few others for free, since I was
perpetually broke most of the time then.
As I explained to Jay, I felt I'd reached a time in my
life I'd imagined and planned for even when much
younger, wherein I could actually spend some money to
get not just the usually-good freak on, but exactly the
sex I wanted. I'd never paid for it up to that point,
but had been paid myself, and knew much younger dudes
who'd been Johns, or enjoyed sharing the services of a
girl someone else had paid for, Jay himself being among
them.
None of this shocked him, though I myself was a bit
astounded at my own practicality around the whole idea,
and I gave Jay another example of someone I'd 'engage'
that way, a mutual friend of ours named Mike who was
not only gay -- or "tribal," as I sometimes put it --
but so damned cute and pleasant and downright tough-
looking in his own rite (and an ex-con, which for some
reason lends spice to my appreciation) that I would
gladly lay down a hundred bucks for the fun.
Except for a few vague exceptions, I'll declare as
word-for-word much of what Jay and I exchanged in this
account. Though entirely accurate in spirit, some will
probably have to be paraphrased, meaning the substance
is true but that I simply can't quote like a court-
reporter precisely what was said. But the important,
relevant bottom line in this historical instance is
that my then-buddy, Jay, wiry, hawk-like, grinning
while somehow managing not to meet my Irish blue eyes
with his own, gripped his tall can of malt liquor a
little tighter and said he might not be opposed to an
arrangement of some kind like that with me, too.
I was, and I expressed how... well, words like
flattered and honored came to mind, and I spoke them,
perhaps even surprised. Just the offer alone, I said,
was kind of like being nominated for the Oscar, if I
was, indeed, the first and only guy he'd even seriously
considered accepting that way. He assured me I was, and
I thanked him, saying I couldn't help but think about
it seriously, never saying never.
It was only a matter of a day or two at most in which
we somehow quietly sealed the deal, even as he began
spending most of his nights away from Wanda's address
to live with a new girlfriend named Christina, whom I'd
only spoken with over the phone. He was begun by that
time getting over Wanda's daughter, Rose, after too
much drug-inspired unfaithfulness and in spite of his
loving her forever in a way, anyway. There was more
than a little additional confusion around the household
at the time, which doubtless served our purpose.
Wanda prepared to relocate to another apartment in the
neighborhood owing to mounting tensions in the
"recovery-oriented" complex where we lived in the
aftermath of a car theft, and she'd also begun a
relationship with a younger man named Shawn, who
presented other challenges of his own, while Jay and
Wanda's daughter were at odds with each other at every
meeting.
So, in all, the count of days from Jay's and my
agreement to the arrival of Mike on the scene looking
for me was a couple or three days at most. Possibly, I
could have gotten away with paying nothing, or very
little, given he'd come to me, not knowing I'd made up
my mind aloud to rent him if he accepted, but I kept my
word and so be it. I followed through with Mike,
enjoyed myself a lot, and have no regrets whatsoever
afterward.
Astonishingly to me, I was the first man ever to toss
this handsome, generous, agreeable dude's salad, and he
proved to be the first young fellow I ever so freely
threw lots of money at. We had a very sweet time; I
enjoyed myself very much.
Back to Jay...
I remember him sitting at the kitchen-end of the dining
room table while no one else was around, and expressing
to me he was afraid our deal was off since I'd had the
pleasure of Mikey since last we spoke, at which point I
smiled and said Hell, no, we were still on if he was,
and he grinned back, answering in the affirmative.
Of the two of us, I think he seemed to maintain the
better comfort level about it, if truth be told; I was
beginning to have nerves, even when we went out one
night to do laundry using Wanda's van, after which he
drove us up to the top of Skinner's Butte in Eugene
with the stereo pounding out rap music by West Side
Connection, and established in my mind one of what I
would always consider one of 'our' songs. The CD was
since stolen, but the memory of how much closer we
quickly grew remains.
Besides which, there was another song, but that'll wait
for later...
Fast-forward this time to my bicycling around a rainy
Eugene on the day I meant to follow through with our
arrangement. Unaware as to the identity of my would-be
partner, Wanda had previously recommended the Express
Inn on 6th Street, where she and Shawn had stayed, for
its new-ness and price, and I secured room #109 on the
first floor for our rendezvous, then purchased some
stuff to make a "cocktail" as Jay called it, for our
enjoyment.
I went to Wanda to ask for paraphernalia I never used,
but which Jay did. She gave me a rather pointedly
inquiring look, I remember, since I'd never done stuff
that way, and she'd stated quite clearly and more than
once she'd kick my ass if ever I were to start.
My promise to Jay at that point was to maintain utter
secrecy regarding our friendly contract, and I gave him
permission to "take my life" if I were to tell anyone,
a promise I absolutely made in confidence I'd be able
to fulfill, given he'd already more or less moved out
of the house and I'd be going on soon to other things
as well. Further, I assured him that he would NOT,
after the fact, see any look in my eyes which had not
been there before.
"I'll keep it a secret even from you," I said.
Little did I know how much it would end up meaning to
me, or how long the friendship would last.
**
Be it known, for whatever it's worth, that after I
rented the large motel room, carted in my VCR---all of
this on bicycle, mind you, in the pouring rain --
straight porn videos, beer, other provisions -- and
generally made the place ours, I did two kind of
slightly admirable things. One, I cut through the
paranoid letter-drop nonsense Jay and I'd set up to let
him know when and where we'd do our 'crime,' so to
speak, and just phoned the dude where I knew he'd be.
See? It's easy, I showed him, myself without secrets by
nature. The other thing, immediately after I hung up
the phone, was to hop onto and race my bike to where he
was to talk him OUT of the whole venture.
You see, I already cared about Jay by then, and told
him I'd rather we remain friends than to transact the
deal -- a hundred bucks for the pleasure, yes, and
privilege of going down on him like I would a straight
guy, non-reciprocal, with my consumption of his
'product' as my goal.
What I argued against went like this: "What I'm saying,
buddy, is that I don't want you to think I reduce you
to a lousy hundred bucks by doing this, y'know? I think
you are worth way more, hell, you're fucking priceless!
You're tough, you're a Scorpio and we all know about
them, you're a dad who loves his kids, I've seen ya.
And hell, look at you -- you're young, good-looking and
you've got a great body and ya know it."
"Well," Jay said tentatively, going about the business
of dressing after a shower in readiness to go to his
temp political canvassing job, "I could just borrow
half of it and pay you back when I get my check." He
looked so damned good-nasty in his red plaid boxer
shorts and a dress shirt, still unbuttoned. He almost
always smells great, I might as well add.
"Yes! Yeah, that'd be fine, dude, whew, sure..." I
almost couldn't get the usual rumpled cash from my
pocket quickly enough, and at the same moment felt a
stab of bitter sweetness at the way it would turn out,
me walking away voluntarily---against all natural
behavior---from this blue-wearing soldier. "Cool, so
that'll work, then. Aren't ya almost relieved?"
Jay shrugged, squinting a little without quite meeting
my eyes again, but his smile appeared very genuine.
Maybe the honest compliment was worth more than the
cash, anyway, but the gesture he made at my question
suggested that 'relieved' might be the word he'd have
chosen.
Truth be told, another thing to be enjoyed about the
man is his language. He has a pretty salty vocabulary
and can be quite raunchy talking about sex. It's dirty,
and I like it that way most'a the time, yeah, I do as I
enjoy hearing someone say those things to me in bed, or
on the floor, or in the woods, or a booth... anyway...
In fact, Jay wasn't at all above recounting some of his
antics with 'da bitches' in very descriptive ways, and
once he asked me, "Isn't 'Eat my Fuck,' like, the
nastiest thing ya ever heard?"
I answered, "Yeah, and please feel free to say exactly
that to me when you're moved to, you know, at just that
moment."
He left for work and I lingered a while longer at
Wanda's apartment; he didn't really live there with us,
anymore, but stored clothes and used the facilities
when not hanging out at new-girlfriend-Kristina's home.
I found myself in the company of Wanda's boyfriend,
Shawn, helpless to describe to such a guy the awfully
noble sacrifice I felt I'd just made; he would have
been clueless, anyway, so I left.
A couple of hours later, having hit the adult book
store and serviced a dick or two and not getting off
myself, then hitting a super-market for comfort food to
take back to the motel---hell, I had it, I might as
well use it, I figured -- I came upon the door to room
109 (like the PT boat in the JFK story) to find a small
piece of paper inserted into the jam with tightly
scrawled letters in pen.
It said, approximately, that he'd taken off work, that
I should contact him ASAP at Kristina's, and gave the
phone number. I wheeled the bike into the room and did
exactly that. I don't recall whether Jay answered or
someone else handed off the phone, but the terse
conversation went something like:
"Hello?"
"Jay? I got'cher message. Is everything...alright?"
"Yeah, y'know, I been thinking..."
"Yeah, me too."
"I could sure... use that money."
"Huh! Well -- yeah, sure, uh, right-the-fuck-on, man!
How -- whaddya wanna...?"
"I'll have to make it quick, 'cuz I gotta come back to
Christina's right after, and then we were talking about
maybe coming by so she could meet you."
"Okay, I have beer, pop, chips, dip, rented a couple'a
movies from Hollywood, I can entertain. When should I
expect you?"
"I'll be there soon as I can... Uh..."
"Do it quick, Jay. Just rip it off like a band-aid..."
"Okay. I'll see ya." We disconnected.
Hey, I tried affording a way out for the dude, against
every greedy, hungry, sexual instinct I possessed --
and I suppose I could still just hand off the money for
nothing, but the truth is, I didn't want to, and he was
down for it -- hell, he suggested it in the first
place... and I viewed such a trade as victimless. A
win-win situation if I got the guy off, even if it was
technically criminal.
I cued up the straight porn, two thugs, one black and
one white guy taking on a white chick in all three
holes, her orgasms hugely authentic. It didn't matter
what the fuck I wore, I figured, since this was going
to be all about Jay as far as I was concerned; I went
ahead and tied a blue bandanna over my closely-shaved
blonde head so that, if he were a grabber like some
men, his hand would encounter fabric the color of his
gang association instead of close-shaven scalp. Beer on
ice, I put the motel room's door slightly open so he
could roll his bike in under the middle-Eastern
manager's radar in a hurry. It was raining like a son-
of-a-bitch.
I don't know how long it took, but Jay arrived around
dusk, a little after, maybe. What we exchanged
conversationally, I think, had something to do with the
matter-of-fact arrangements with Kristina to follow.
The movie was already playing while we sat down to
partake of some refreshments, and Jay moved over to the
foot of the big bed to watch TV while he did a portion
of the other his way. I found myself in the position of
acting nonchalant, way more than I felt, stationing
myself on the floor beside the bed. My outwardly
apparent attention shifted from the double penetration
taking place on the tube to how Jay was doing.
He has nothing to prove to me; the guy's straight as
any straight guy I know, I guess, but I thought it kind
of poignantly funny and sweet when he asked if I had
any video with lesbian scenes in it, which I didn't,
but the adult store I'd visited earlier in the day had
a bunch of movies on super-low sale, and it was just up
the same street as the motel.
So I readily volunteered to hop back onto my bike and
pedal through the rain a few blocks to buy him just
what he asked for. It cost like six bucks, chump
change, and a gift he could keep if he wanted to after
-- I knew it didn't have anything I wanted to look at,
especially, and figured my head would be facing the
opposite direction, anyway.
When I got back, there Jay was at the door to greet me
in those loose, red plaid boxers that still managed to
present the mound of his package, white socks, and that
was all. He never did take off the socks, by the way,
but I didn't give a fuck; the guy was dressed for
business and that's what struck me. Struck me hard...
in a good way.
We popped the tape in and resumed our places on and
beside the bed; even Jay would tell you it was a pretty
inferior movie, all things considered; it lasted maybe
twenty minutes and had only the briefest physical
interaction between the females, all the rest of it
basically two chicks sitting on a couch talking,
leading up to some light work with a cat'o'nine-tails
and then... whatever.
I wasn't watching the movie...
It was not just the sight of Jay's slender-yet-toned,
Irish-in-Oregon white body all but completely exposed
for my benefit on the bed before me, nor the fact that
his dangerously chiseled features were so gallantly
trying to maintain an expression of cool
professionalism as he fixed on the images and
manipulated his cock still inside those boxers.
All of this moved me more than I can say, for sure.
I've seen and pleasured younger, stronger, more
classically 'beautiful' bodies (though his is
dynamite), been all but forcibly taken by men without
names whose dicks were lusty weapons of huge
proportions, and fallen to my knees in the face of love
so strong it eclipsed all reason.
But the thing about me and certain very special blow
jobs like the one I was yearning to give Jay is this:
when I go down on that one occasionally very personally
significant dude, there's no denying I go into an
altered state of mind and being.
Devotion is not too strong a word in that kneeling
posture and, more than that, for a time, that organ
becomes nearly my entire universe. Every vein, fold,
texture, smell and taste consume me as I consume them.
In no other place or time do I feel so clearly safe,
whole, who I am and where I'm supposed to be...and even
these attemptedly lofty-sounding words do not do
justice to that animal Nirvana.
All of this and more in me were primed for what, even
paid for, was still Jay's gift to me. He could not have
been more sure of my coiled readiness when he smiled
sheepishly and admitted, "I dunno, it's starting out
kind'a slow to get hard. I..."
With more understanding than diplomacy for my straight
buddy under these cherry-breaking circumstances, I
gently encouraged, "Dude, no wonder. You're straight.
Just some normal performance anxiety. No problem.
Believe me, I'm pretty good at jump-starting these
things... if given the chance." I'm sure there was a
detectable question yet, or plea, in my voice then.
"Wellll..." It was amazingly not the sound of
hesitation or reluctance on his part; it was more, as
he lay back on the bed and---bravely, I felt -- peeled
down those boxers from his hips the tone of, 'Okay, if
you say so...'
But it was not, had not been MY "say so" that brought
me here to this place. As I took in the uniquely
handsome prick which Jay had proposed I pay him to
suck, it was my pleasure and power and need to submit
to HIS "say" which made this triumph and surrender
possible.
"Ohhhh, wow," I acknowledged without false flattery as
I almost timidly took the organ in first with my eyes,
"look at this! That is fucking BEAUTIFUL, dude!" And
his eyes looked down at me, his naked torso propped up
somewhat by his elbows on the bed, his still somewhat
relaxed cock juxtaposed against my admiring face.
No doubt the hunger for it shone in my eyes, lending
more than truth to my praise. I believed him to be a
virgin only in this lone regard, with another man, and
I wished him to feel not only safe in this new exposed
vulnerability, but confident, appreciated, respected
and, before I was done, worshipped.
Of this homey's dick, I will say my first impression
was of reward. The shaft in this state, before I gently
took it in hand, was a very decently lengthened
cylinder which swelled midway and then tapered only
slightly again as it came to a friendly and inviting
pink helmet of a head. He was cut, and the entire cock
lolled over to his left atop two generous-sized balls
like delicately veined eggs. The whole configuration as
I dared to reach out the short, immeasurable distance
to Jay's sex with my hand was like a bold numeral 9
tipped on its side.
Though the lesbian flick behind me cast sufficient
light to perceive all this, it's with pride and
humility I can attest I held James' attention visually
to begin with. My fingers, both hands, proceeded first
to touch, then lightly fondle both his nutsack and
shaft in unison. While Jay released an involuntary sigh
of sensation above me, I know that my breath issued
hotly over his manhood as I audibly groaned.
There I was, a manly kneeling bitch in that seemingly
miraculous, life-changing moment, simultaneously never
feeling more safe from the world outside or more
excited within than in that privileged position between
this bad boy Scorpio's lightly-haired legs. To suck
another man's cock is, in itself, a very intimate and
signature way of knowing him that others who have not
cannot lay claim to, even between anonymous strangers.
The trust in yielding one's self that way to be sucked
is implicit, undeniable, since even from the cradle, we
boys instinctively know to protect that part of
ourselves, even before we know what they're for.
But for myself as my wet, dexterous tongue sought out
his masculine body, there was more significance to this
pleasure than that distinctive knowledge. There was the
huge matter of Jay himself, different in his way to me
from all my many other lovers -- for, regardless of the
exchange of money, the friendship prior to and after
the fact of it.
My attempt to forestall or avoid it altogether for that
friendship's sake, our spoken avowal of mutual love
that very night, living together, and countless gifts,
large and small, given since -- for that brief,
shadowed, hidden, brilliantly shining span of less than
an hour, I was his lover, his friend and his bitch-of-
a-trick.
There was, regardless of his unchallenged preference,
talent, weakness and power where pussy is concerned --
the dude's been a natural cocksman from boyhood -- an
almost immediate response in his dick took place once
my lips and tongue began their joyous play. Still
looking down at me from that vantage at the foot of the
bed, Jay's eyes remained fixed on mine as I took his
expanding, stretching, straightening and beginning-to-
harden cock (not absolutely the biggest I've ever had,
even among white men, but greater in stature for other
reasons I'll name, and in the top ten percentile,
anyway) and I slapped my happy, dirty-smiling mouth
with it several times for him to see.
"Oh, yeah, FUCK, buddy..!!" I truthfully praised, or
words to that effect, gratefully complimenting the
soldier on his weapon and my satisfaction with it in
every regard.
I felt Jay relax somewhat more, both of us essentially
aware where we were to go from there. On only one elbow
now, he used the remote control at various points to
rewind the video so as to repeat-view the limited
action onscreen behind me while I lovingly and
submissively serviced his dick. Even as a slave to it,
and to him in my heart and mind then, however, I'm
guided by something like aggressive instinct and higher
power, or special purpose all rolled into one,
especially for such as he whom I'd come to esteem so
much. In physically adoring this young man's living
manhood.
I lavished his fighter's heart, his daring, his
determination, his passion for women and their pleasure
from him, his fire, humor, his code of right and wrong
so similar yet different from my own, his lean, wiry
strength, energy, his crimes, his trials, the love of
his children, their love of him, the man's struggles
and victories... all of them and more were included in
that devotion, at that fucking dick -- and yeah, his
dirtiest mind and Scorpio's seed I wanted, too, a part
of him.
There had to be, for Jay, I felt, a kind of internal
contest taking place; if he were to be believed and
contrary to a couple of gossips' suspicions concerning
one other possible similar union, I was his first and
only dude so far. Three times at points he went from
lying back fully and 'taking it,' to partially sitting
up and jabbing at the remote, his almost emotionless
eyes staring past my head at the TV.
I observed an ebb-and-flow of blood like the tide
through his delicious, clean-smelling, Jay-smelling
organ in my face. At his hardest, he pushed clear back,
well into my throat and nearly choked me more than
once, bringing tears to my eyes. Then he'd lie back
again, arms thrown to either side like a sacrificial
messiah, single noises like Mm! emerging from his
throat. I could not know, of course, all that he was
thinking, what mental imagery he skillfully employed in
the man's situation to approach and achieve orgasm, but
I do know my ministrations were a definite part of it.
Up and down, I could willingly have gone forever on his
widening tool. It rose upright past Jay's lightly
reddish bush of pubic hair, riding the sparse trail of
fur to his navel, an "inny," and I went with it to the
increasing frequency of his subdued, deep-chested
sounds. The struggle, so far as I cared (other than to
give Jay his nut and reap that benefit, swallowing)
only prolonged my time in this incredible trance-like
state I was under.
My hunger was both tender and fierce; I licked and
sucked and rolled his baby-making balls in my mouth,
placed two fingers of my right hand on either side of
the base of his shaft and massaged the hollows where a
man's balls will next at times as I rabbit-fucked the
dude's sensitive head with the silken roof of my
palate.
I approached a kind of nirvana as I tongued below his
scrotum to that seam of skin between sack and asshole,
knowing I could only graze the lowest hemispheres of
his butt-cheeks and dare not intrude upon his gate. I
wanted to, but thought, right or wrong, Never in this
lifetime. I was the servant, and glad of it.
"Mm, mmm, mm..." he almost let himself moan, allowing
me after returning to his stiff cock to run my hands
not only over his hips, thighs and the flanks of his
ass, but higher, lightly over his flat stomach to his
chest. My left hand covered and rested heavily on his
right nipple, just below his unfinished blue tattoo,
palming it but without pinching or tweaking, in no way
as a man might touch a woman.
"Mmmm," his chest rose and fell, the pivotal gyration
of his hips before me more urgent, signalling a change,
a shift in gears or perhaps even a degree of
frustration. It had been more than ten minutes since my
gangsta-bud so much as glanced at the lame-ass lesbian
movie. "Mm, M..."
I lifted up my head, disengaging my mouth from its
groaning ecstasy long enough to whisperingly ask, "Is
sthetre one thing more than another I'm doing that's
bringing you this close? Feel free to tell me exactly
what it is you like." What else would a servile
cocksucker like I can be beg to know?
"Uhhh...just keep doing what you're doing..." he
instructed to my sincere happiness, and I went straight
back to town on his business, loving the sudden
certainty that home-boy was gonna blast his wad really
soon in my mouth. Oh, gods, God, I loved sucking that
guy's fucking dick!
More than that, I'd achieved that state through his
permission that is not unlike a trance in itself, a
state of oneness with the object and temple and focus
of my worship. More than that, he had told me to ride
it hell-bent-for leather now, to keep going, to not
turn course or go back for anything, but to make him
cum.
That and his invitation to "the deal" in the first
place, my paying his tithing of a hundred bucks proved
even before I knelt that he was willing and I was
living for this moment, for his manhood, for his seed
and all it held, for this now-increasingly swelling
cock to bathe the inside of my head with his essence. I
was in lust; I was in love!
His indecently white hips shifted as his ass ground
almost helplessly into the well-adorned mattress
beneath him. His breath tore raggedly out his throat as
it opened up near-to-exploding with air; no longer
could he contain what approached under close-lipped Mm-
noises, amazingly quiet though he still was compared to
my soul-shattering outcries.
This was fucking it, I knew from blessed experience,
and the somehow-muscled hands of the man which I had
watched tirelessly for hours working on some handy
engineering project clutched the shining abstract reds
and blues of the bedspread and twisted them tightly...
("Eat my Fuck....!!!") That part of me which is wholly
without shame, utterly mutant freak in the presence of
such inspiring prick wanted to hear those words come
out of my friend, my partner in bed, my whore-for-a-
moment in the vast span of eternity, to know what it
felt like -- as if I didn't, already -- to be so
dominated by the sexuality of this hot Scorpio, this
man, by Jay, of all the people in the world, as he had
in his way taken women before, and would again.
Instead, amazingly, once and for all time as the dude's
hot white lava ejected from his heavy balls into my
waiting orifice, he called out my fucking name, my
fucking first name, my Christian name no matter who
says otherwise, for the whole length of his great
exhale...
"Mmmmmmaaaaaarrrrrkkkk!" It may have taken a full ten
seconds to express, more amazing, touching, and
captivating to me, it turned out, than any sex-fiendish
utterance I could have wanted before. He was callin'
out MY name!
Not that it mattered, for I would have relished any
taste his sperm would have offered, but on this
occasion -- and, so far as I knew, only Wanda and I, as
of now, were the two people on Earth Jay been with to
actually swallow, incredibly to me -- the stuff that
first splashed and then rolled about in my mouth for as
long as I could make it last in my full ritual with
'cum that counts' -- was the bitter bite of his drug of
choice.
Behind THAT was the potent after-flavor and scent of
Jay's natural animal secretion. While he breathed and I
audibly rewarded him with praising touch and tongue and
tone of throaty purr, I placed one finger into my mouth
and scored a portion of his baby-making potion -- what
he jokingly, lewdly refers to sometimes as "Jay-o-
naisse," the nasty fucker, and applied it in part to my
blonde moustache just beneath my nostrils, the better
to smell him longer, and at points without his
observation upon the lids, and into the weathered lines
on either side of my eyes, the proteins and vitamins
quickly absorbing into my skin as his bittersweet cum
trailed down my throat and more deeply into my body.
"You da mannn!" I declared softly, warmly, happily as I
knowingly withdrew my hands down the front of his
thighs and off of his body, which had now fulfilled its
contract and might not wish further contact in the
immediate aftermath. I could lay no further physical
claim, but I meant what I said: He was the man.
He half-rose, up on his right elbow, half-smiled, half-
whispered. "You the man... This... never...
happened..."
"I know." I answered, reaffirming my earlier promise,
or commitment. "I've told you, you have my permission
to take my life if I ever let this secret get out..."
And I meant it, truly I did, though I couldn't know how
deeply my feelings would run in the unexpected
continuation of our friendship, Jay's and mine. I
couldn't know how soon again I would see him, or how
willing he would remain to hang out and party with me
in the weeks and months to follow, or how dangerously
open his mind would seem to be with respect to who and
how I am...
**
Later, he very nearly pimped me out to a stranger he'd
encountered during the two-weeks we celebrated his
turning twenty-seven, hitting bars, throwing money at
female(!)strippers, striving to set up a scene with
some chick, almost any chick of decent appearance and
low boundaries, to share or just photograph their
getting it on.
I mean, after all, the man WAS between girlfriends at
the time... It was wild, the two of us living out of
motel rooms, downgrading from the Express Inn to
conserve money after a while to a rather more seedy
locale run by Middle Easterners in the center of town.
It was during this run that Jay allowed me to take a
few Polaroids of him in various sellingly candid poses,
and that kick got started off first by him
photographing a nice fucking shot of himself, bare-
naked, that centrally-swelling cock leaning hard to
port, right on down to his bare feet, one leg crossed
over the other.
"How much would'ja pay for a pic like this?" he asked
me after I walked into the room and caught him
flashing, with flash. This was some time after that
first night together, and somehow his Irish blues and
canine teeth got involved in the flashing as he asked.
"Oh," I said, wanting that shot BAD, "I couldn't
possibly offer you less than thirty-five bucks for
that, Jay..."
He grinned widely. "Really! Cool, I was thinking no
more than twenty, probably..."
"Dude," I said, before starting to finish the rest of
the roll of film on him in less compromising stances,
"THAT'S a fat fucking gift, bro and I mean fat in every
sense'a the word."
To finish the telling of that one all-important, life-
changing night, though, before further involvements,
before moving in together for four months when I
finally got my own place, before his next girlfriend
who, bless her -- and I do love her, now -- changed
everything.
I will say that, after dressing and preparing to meet
the love-interest, Christina (whom we'd planned to come
back to the pad for a night of beer, eats and a couple
of rented flicks), Jay did pause on his bicycle at the
open door of Room 109, looking out into the cold, still
downpouring rain and answered my convincingly "bro"-
sounding, "I love ya, Jay." with an, "I love you, too,
Neil."
He dashed out into the darkness then, and instead of
returning some time later with his new squeeze, Jay
flew in briefly to account that they'd had a rough
patch over his delay getting to her, and then he (!)
presented me (!!!?) with the totally unexpected gift of
a nugget of green bud for me to smoke. And then he was
gone again.
The next morning, Jay arrived as I was pulling myself
out of a very soothing masturbatory bath session in
that historical room -- after all, I now had a lifetime
of tape to play in my mind from the previous night --
and brought yet MORE amazingly thoughtful surprises in
the form of 7-11 breakfast burritos and cold bottles of
Starbuck's ice cappuccino.
We were due to go to Wanda's that day to help her move,
but only I ended up making it there. Jay's job working
for ACT actually paid money, so that was
understandable. After all, some months later, he did
help me move into my -- our -- own place and set it up.
The point was, or seemed to be, that we were able to
proceed as normal from there. Not just for others, but
for ourselves, between us as two guys.
It was really great for me especially, though we didn't
have sex again following that first time. We grew
closer as friends; his kids spent Thanksgiving with us,
and we got into the spirit of Christmas, too, because
of them. I hadn't felt that way about the holidays for
a long time.
He was so fucking cool that on two occasions Jay
contained his spunk from jacking off in one room or
another (at my hinted request) as a warm gift for me to
swallow in his absence afterwards -- though the second
time I deliberately smeared a bit on my lip while we
were playing a game of darts JUST so he'd have that
still-shot of his swimmers on my mouth to remember.
There was a song or two which I've taken to heart as
what you might call OUR songs, aside from that one rap
tune by West Side; one of them Jay dedicated to me at a
Karaoke place, "Turn the Page..." by Bob Segar, and the
other, to me more meaningful as it reflects US, is an
Eagles song we both sang aloud -- the only one we ever
have -- while at either end of my living room with a
party of unaware people around us. The song was "Wasted
Time" from their Hotel California album, and the
message comes through clearly at the end. "...that it
WASN'T really wasted time..."
Things changed once he was re-united with the girl from
his past whom Jay called his "soul-mate," and I gave
into some pretty unattractive-though-unconscious-at-
first behaviors in front of her, taking his inventory
about not doing his share of the dishes, etc., until
one night it ballooned into a near-physical argument
between us. Our first, the way it felt to me, and Jay
this close to throwing down over the issue.
It was the fighter in him that in part so strongly
attracted me to him, and now it was in my face. I was
so stupid, I didn't even realize I'd been so petty and
mean to him in front of her -- and she didn't have a
clue, either, of course, thinking my issues really WERE
about chores -- but he and I managed to get through it
without his becoming characteristically physical.
Jay soon moved upstairs with his girlfriend and his
parents in the same complex he'd helped me to move into
four months earlier -- and, gradually, I suppose a
healthy distance helped us appreciate each other
better, which is one of the proofs, I believe, of
friendship, the love they call platonic, after Plato.
Fuckin' Greeks... Gotta love 'em...
In a move of some painful generosity on my part, not
very long ago, in fact, I pulled Jay aside one evening
to give him an envelope which contained literally all
but one of the photos -- and Kinko-enlarged color
copies -- of Jay taken back in the days and nights we
ran like crazy together.
I knew the fact of them, even the one he'd sold to me
to begin with, weighed on him during those occasional
frictiony periods we suffered; they might have been the
only thing, so far as I knew, sometimes, which
prevented him from just hauling off and gifting me as
he has so many other guys with a belt in the mouth or
wherever. That wasn't reason enough for me to keep
them, however, and much as I miss them, I tendered them
to him with the words, "I don't care what'cha do with
these, Jay, or where you put them or where they are..."
Seems we were driving at the time. "Anywhere but on
your mind, though, buddy. Anywhere but on your mind..."
"Exactly..." he said gratefully, having never asked for
them, and I think suspecting how they'd be missed.
Sometimes, friendship's about giving till it hurts, and
I'll never forget the pictures in my head, anyway, or
the fully dimensional memory of events which can never
be taken back... Comfortably or not, I stand alone in
at least one sense among Jay's buds. There is honor and
pride attached to that fact on my part.
You tell me now, guys. Knowing as I do, trusting as I
hope you do, that the above is all true, was this a
story about drugs and living on the edge, prostitution
and life in the fast lane, the account of an
aggressively-passive gay pervoid having one of the
times of his mostly-undocumented career as a
cocksucker, a simple blow-job tale -- or do ya think,
somehow, on my part and perhaps even to a degree on
that hot-tempered, scrappin' Scorpio, Jay's -- a love
story?
Blow job--Love story.
You tell me...
moonheathen69@aol.com
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 38