I Hate You
“The following is a complete work of fiction.
*Disclaimer:*
The following story may contain erotic situations between consenting adults. If it is illegal for you to read this please leave now.
Any resemblance between the characters and any real life person is completely coincidental. Please do not copy or distribute the story without the author’s permission.
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*****
“I hate you,” were the last words spit at me as Justin slammed the door closed on me and our friendship. To say I was stunned would have been an understatement. I didn’t even notice when Tina slipped on her clothes, kissed me on the cheek and left, saying, “I’d better go.” My best friend had just stormed out of my life, and I didn’t know why.
*****
Taking English 201 while the sun was shining, and there was a soft breeze, and the temperature was 85 degrees, was torture. Don’t get me wrong, I loved language, I spoke three fluently. Of course, being a Theater Major, my primary interest was the spoken word. That was why I was taking English 201 over the summer; I wanted to clear up my schedule for more performance credits.
Most everyone else was there because they were retaking the course. I thought that was pitiful. There were three of us who really cared about the subject. One was Gloria; she was from Argentina and English was her second language. The other was Justin; he was a freshman who had CLEPed his way through his 100 level English courses and came to the University a semester early. He wanted to be a writer and we hit it off from the beginning.
Of course, we were an odd pair. I’m “Mr. Social”. Nearly everyone in the theater program knew me or knew of me. Hell, I was recognized all over campus. If someone had me in their class they remembered it. Justin was a geek. Saying Justin was a geek was like calling a trout a fish. He was almost the classic, academic nerd. Justin was a short, wiry guy with unruly brown hair, glasses that did nothing for his face and clothes that were best described as “skater geek”. His one non-academic pastime was his board. It was the only part of Justin that broke the geek mold. His board was as much a fixture for him as his book bag and laptop.
The first time I saw him really skating, not just using the board as a quick ride from class to class, was about mid-semester. I was heading down to the fields for a Saturday morning game of Frisbee when I caught sight of a small group of skaters using one of the twisting sections of the back lot to do tricks.
I’d been so impressed by one guy catching air off the steps that I didn’t notice I was walking into a “skate zone.”
“Look Out!” I spun out of the way and hit the grass. When I looked up, ready to curse the careless son-of-a-bitch out, I saw Justin looking down at me. “Hey, Bryan, you ok?”
He looked so different standing there, shirtless without his glasses, that I almost hadn’t recognized him. He was a wiry little fuck. He had laughing eyes that were all but hidden when he wore his glasses.
“Damn, Justin.” I got up and brushed myself off. “I know you like me, but you don’t have to plow me into the dirt to get my attention.”
Justin looked down. “Yeah, sorry Bryan.” He turned to head back to the start of the skate run.
Why’d it bother me that he thought I was mad at him? “Hey, how long you going to skate?”
Shrugging, he looked at his watch. “Another half hour I guess. Asphalt will be too hot to do anything after that.”
“Some guys are getting together for Frisbee down on the field. Why don’t you come down after you’re done?” He was a bit short but if he had the moves that’d make up for it.
He blinked at me. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’ll even hang while you finish your freaky shit.” The smile he gave me in response just melted me. It wasn’t sexual, I like girls, but he was just such a cute kid that it was like having a puppy.
He impressed me that morning. Justin was an ace on four wheels. He could do spins, jumps, twists, ride railings, and there didn’t seem to be anything he couldn’t do on a board. That sure blew away my original idea that he was a simple geek. I think he was showing off, but it worked. I couldn’t stop complimenting his skill as we got down to the games field.
“I just can’t believe a bookworm like you can skate like that.”
He beamed. “Dad insisted that I had to be outside doing something ‘physical’ any day it wasn’t raining. I hated team sports so I just rode my board around. After a while, I just got into it.”
I laughed and waved at the guys. “Hey guys, this is Justin.”
They all greeted Justin with smiles. I looked at our group and realized we could play teams of three.
“Want to do teams?” The affirmative nods went all around but Justin looked a bit unsure. I smiled and put my hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Well, since Just’s already shirtless, we’ll be skins.”
Tony decided he’d go skins since he was shirtless too. Teams were set. Smiling, I handed my Frisbee to Justin and peeled off my shirt. When I tossed my shirt beside his board, he just watched with a wide-eyed wonder. He probably couldn’t believe I’d just take him on my team sight-unseen. I laughed and mussed his hair. “Come on, squirt, let’s teach these lard-asses that brains and beauty always wins over brawn.”
Everyone laughed but I think I put Justin on the spot. He blushed. He did play like a pit bull though. His throwing arm sucked, but he wasn’t afraid to dive and roll so he could catch a hell of a lot of tosses the others would let go by. We didn’t win, but it was not for a lack of effort.
That was when we started hanging together more. We made Saturday morning board and game a ritual. Justin would skate till the asphalt got uncomfortably hot and then we’d head for the fields for a Frisbee or V-ball game. He tried to get me on the board a few times. All I ended up doing was breaking my ass on the pavement, and trying to look like I meant to do it. Of course, I got him back. I got to spike him into the sand more than a couple times in V-ball. It was kind of like sibling rivalry; I loved it. I’d always wanted a kid brother, and Justin fit the bill perfectly.
It was near the end of the summer session when I got my room assignment and realized I’d lucked out; I didn’t have a roommate. Justin had gotten placed in one of the older dorms, Brownstone Hall; the place sucked. We were having lunch just before exams week when I decided I didn’t like the idea of living alone.
“Just,” I asked between bites of my hotdog, “would you like to room together?”
I thought he was going to choke. I should have waited till he’d finished swallowing his bite of burger. He dropped his burger on his plate and took a huge swig of Coke. He blinked back the usual tears from just having something try to dive down the wrong pipes and coughed. “You mean it?” He looked at me like I’d just offered him a winning lottery ticket.
“Yeah. My freshmen roommate sucked, and since you didn’t sign up for anyone you know you’re going to be in a crapshoot for whom you get.” I shrugged. “We get along, and there’s a chance they’ll stick me with some jerk at the last minute. At least with you, I know this year I’ll like my roomie.”
He smiled; the only thing ruining his puppy-dog look were those fucking glasses. “You don’t mind rooming with a freshman?” For a guy who really had decent, if odd, taste in clothes, why he wore glasses out of the sixties was lost on me.
Laughing I punched him in the arm. “Nah, you’re a geek but you make me laugh!”
*****
Stafford Hall was a major step up from Brownstone. In Brownstone, there were two community bathrooms per floor. The rooms were like sardine cans. The only saving grace was the ceilings were high enough for people to loft their beds. Rooms in Stafford were larger and one bathroom was shared between two dorm rooms. As with every college student with obsessions, Justin and I had to decorate our halves of the room with examples of our interests. My half had posters of Shakespeare in the Park, Le Miz, Phantom, and Rocky Horror. Don’t ask me why I love Rocky but I do; something about the expressive freedom and audience participation was just a natural high for me. Justin put up a poster of Mark Twain, one that listed the requirements of creativity, and a couple pro skater posters. Along with the picture of his parents, he had a picture of a skater catching air. At first I thought it was a picture of Justin, but the guy had darker, longer hair.
“Hey, Justin, who’s the skater?” I nodded to the picture as he stuffed his socks and underwear into his dresser.
He came over and picked up the picture. His fingers traced it. “That’s Matt, Matt Thompson. He was my best friend.” I don’t know why, but the whimsical, almost longing smile that touched his lips when he said it made me jealous.
I bit back the stupid feeling. “Was?”
He just sighed and set the picture back down. “Yeah. He was a year ahead of me in school so I haven’t seen him in over a year.” Shrugging, he grabbed some shorts and opened a drawer. “We still email, but he went to school up north. Since I started University in the summer, I haven’t seen him since Christmas Break.”
“That’s less than a year.” I smirked and tried to keep the mood light but it didn’t work.
“Yeah, but he’d met someone and all he could do was think and talk about ‘love’.” He sounded a little bitter as he stuffed his shorts in the drawer. “I’m happy for him, but it felt like I wasn’t even there.”
The way his shoulders seemed to sag with the memory got me down. I liked his normal, bouncy self. He was a puppy, and when he moped it was just as bad as having a golden retriever pup that looked lonely. I draped my arm over his shoulders and mussed his hair. “Well, you’ve got me now. I won’t be graduating and leaving you behind.”
His smile nearly sparkled as he looked up at me. “You’re the greatest, Bryan.”
I laughed and went back to my unpacking. “Yeah, it’s hard to be perfect, but someone has to do it.” Oh yeah, I’m modest too.
*****
Rooming with Justin was perfect. We had enough common interests to never have boring conversations but we were individual enough to have lives outside of the dorm room. Once I got him used to being somewhere other than the library or the room, Justin made friends easily. There wasn’t any of the glomming that can happen when a new student makes friends with an older one. We just clicked.
One great thing was neither Justin nor I brought anyone back to the room. It was a sanctuary of study, relaxation and camaraderie. I’d dated a lot in high school. Sex was great, but I just couldn’t seem to warm up to anyone as more than friends. Being in theater I’d never thought much about who was gay and who was straight. It was never an issue for me; I liked girls. If a guy liked me, I didn’t freak and usually I’d be flattered, but I was sincere in my disinterest.
Of course, just because I liked girls didn”t mean I had time for one. I was as fanatical about my theater studies as Justin was about his writing. Neither of us dated, though we both had a handful of girl friends that might have wanted us to ask. I wasn’t alone; I had Justin. I didn’t feel sexually frustrated because my hand was one damn good lover. Life was good. Girls could wait.
We were kicking back, looking at the autumn leaves after a game of Frisbee, when Justin turned to me. “You don’t date.”
I laughed. “No time.”
Justin looked at me curiously. Something about the way he’d do that, his head cocked to one side and his lips set in a thoughtful pout, just made me want to hug him. He was just that damn cute; especially after games without those fucking glasses.
I grabbed him around the neck and nuggied him as he laughed and half-heartedly tried to get away. “How can I have time for dating with you around? You’re such an attention hound!”
He pulled out of my hold and stuck his tongue out at me. His face was flush and he studied his toes for a second before smiling. “Ok.”
We were best friends. That was enough.
*****
I don’t think I could remember when I was happier than I was with Justin as my roommate. We were buds. Nothing was ever an issue. We could just be honest and talk about anything. The other great thing was that we were just like brothers; personal space was a non-issue.
Justin really was a brain. He studied, he researched, he wrote constantly and he skated. The only breaks to his routine were my performances. He didn’t miss any. It was like having my own cheering section. His only area of academic weakness was exams. The boy totally freaked over tests. Away from a test he could tell you everything about the subject in complete detail, but in the test he was lucky to put four sentences together that made sense. He never felt he’d done them right, though he never received a grade below a B. The week of Finals had him in a total panic.
I tried to ignore Justin’s frantic search for some obscure note he was certain would be the focus of his Philosophy exam. After his third attempt to destroy his notebook I finally couldn’t take it. “Justin, chill out!” I tossed my textbook down and got up. “You’re driving me nuts.”
Watery eyes looked back at me and his chin was shaking. “I’m sorry, Brian. I’m so fucked up.”
How do you stay mad at someone like Justin? I certainly can’t. I went over and massaged his neck. He was as tense as a board. “All you need is a good night’s rest, bud. You’ve been drinking Coke like water and falling asleep at the desk for days. You’re going to be fried by finals.”
He bowed his head and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve always been like this. I used to drive my parents nuts.”
“So, how’d they deal with it?”
I was digging into one of the knots in his shoulder and he moaned. “It was really stupid.”
“What?”
“How Mom dealt with me.” He shrugged off my hands and stood up. “Thanks, Bryan.” He looked embarrassed.
“You didn’t tell me what they did.” I smirked. “How can I help my bro out if I don’t know what to do?”
“Drop it; it doesn’t matter.” He was looking more uncomfortable by the moment.
I reached out and mussed his hair. It was always fun to do. Justin’s hair was soft and felt almost like silk. “Come on, Just. What?”
He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Mom used to hold me and sing me to sleep when it got bad.”
Normally I would have laughed if someone told me that. Instead, I thought it was just too adorable. I’d long lost my image of Justin being a geek. He was just Justin, the guy who wore his heart on his sleeve and could still be cool about it. “Oh.”
He blinked at me. “Oh? I’m a fucking wimp and all you can say is ‘oh’?” His voice was trembling.
“It’s weird, but I accepted you’re weird when we became friends.” My first impulse was to hug him but that seemed a bit presumptuous. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get your Mom up here to help.”
Justin blew. “Oh, fuck you! I don’t need my Mommy to kiss my booboos!” He grabbed for his stuff and made like he was heading for the door.
“Hey!” I grabbed his arm. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
He tried to pull away but I’m a hell of a lot bigger and stronger. I had a wildcat on my hands as he tried to get loose. His books went everywhere as the struggle overturned his unzipped book bag. Landing on his bed, I held him to me and didn’t let go till he stopped fighting.
He started to cry into my shirt. “I’m sorry, Bryan.” By the way he was shaking; I knew he was scared. I think he was scared I’d laugh at him or reject him.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly ten, early by our standards, but not too early to catch up on some well needed rest. “Let’s get some rest, Just. I don’t think either of us could study any more tonight.”
I let him go and stood up. He nodded absently and got off the bed. We stripped down to our boxers and took turns brushing and using the toilet. I waited till he was back before I pulled back the sheets and climbed into his bed.
He just blinked at me. “Bryan, what are you doing?”
“You’re Mom’s not here; I thought I’d help my little bro’ out.” I don’t know why I was worried he’d say no. It wasn’t like I wanted to have sex with him. I just wanted my best friend to keep from losing it completely by Wednesday.
“You don’t have to…”
“Oh shut up and get in.” I snapped at him but kept a grin on my face. “I’m not going to threaten your virtue!”
That, at least, made him laugh. “Not that I could stop you if you tried.”
“Yeah, I could have had you any time I wanted; I’m such a stud. Now get in here before I change my mind.”
Justin got in, and I reached across him to turn off the desk lamp. It was a little weird at first. I wasn’t sure what would be comfortable. Finally I just wrapped my arm about him and pulled him up to me. Spooning felt too intimate but in single beds you don’t have much space. Justin seemed to be holding his breath.
I couldn’t think of any lullabies. Finally I just started humming a love song from one of the plays I’d been in. It was a soft, relaxing tune so I hoped it would work. After a couple minutes, Justin relaxed and just sank against me. He murmured something I couldn’t make out and his body trembled for a moment before he fell asleep. It took me a lot longer to get there myself. I really liked how it felt to hold someone. I fell asleep wondering if it was time to start dating again.
I woke to the horrible feeling that something was missing. I felt around the bed while my brain booted up. Justin wasn’t there. I actually had a moment of panic before I heard the toilet flush. Chastising myself, I stretched and tried to get the rest of my brain engaged.
Justin came in. He looked a lot more rested but he avoided looking at me. “Morning.”
I got out of bed, reached out and mussed his hair. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He rummaged around, picking up his books while I got rid of my morning woody and had a piss. His eyes followed me as I went back to my bed and flopped down. “Are you ok with me?”
I blinked. “Sure, we’re cool.” I smiled at the ceiling. “It was kind of nice. I’ve never sung someone to sleep before.”
He was giving me that puppy-dog smile again. That was the Justin I’d become friends with. He didn’t say anything but I think he was a lot happier.
Finals came and went without a hitch. Justin and I were having our breakfast ritual; Starbucks coffees, muffins and fruit out in the park. It was cold but we didn’t care. We’d started it last summer and had no intention of stopping. I realized this would be our last meal together till the next semester. We were both packed for the holidays and would be heading home to our families for Christmas.
I raised my coffee to him with a smile. “To a semester survived!”
He laughed and raised his cup. “To not freaking out in exams.”
That made my smile broader. I hadn’t thought about it all week. I picked up my muffin and brought up my idea between bites. “I think we should start dating next semester.”
Coffee spewed everywhere as Justin tried not to choke. He gasped a few times and stared at me. “What?”
I shrugged. “You know, girls, dating? I think we’re becoming hermits. Maybe we need some more social outlets, you know?”
When I looked back at him, he looked like someone had killed his dog. He just stared at me for a few moments and then looked back at his coffee. “Yeah, sure.”
I draped my arm across his shoulders and gave him a quick hug. “It’ll be great, Just. You’ll see.” Or at least, that’s what I thought.
*****
Things started getting tense when we came back from Winter Break. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Justin’s normal “easy going” smile seemed more strained. We never did get around to dating. Justin added another course to his load at the beginning of the semester, taking him to twenty-one credits, which was insane. I had been accepted into the “University Players,” the campus performance troupe, so I was too busy to think about it. We didn’t talk as much and we’d spend more time in the room in silence or with background music as the only sound.
I went back to the table where I’d left my books. There, between the pages of Same-Sex Bliss was a hastily-scrawled note: “Leave me alone, please!”
The note meant that he’d seen me watching him, after all. After seeing the books I’d checked out, he must have believed I’m gay, which, of course, I am, and he must have felt I was stalking him. “Leave me alone, please!” he’d begged.
“Okay, Mark,” I assured him. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Of course, I wouldn’t.
I couldn’t.
The employees, full-time, part-time, permanent, and temporary, parked in an area of the library’s parking lot that was reserved for them. Were the library a private, rather than a public, enterprise, these parking spaces would have been the most distant from the building. However, government bureaucrats make life as easy as possible for themselves. Consequently, the spaces for the library’s employees were the closest ones to the building. Once I’d located them, I staked out the vast parking lot, arriving early to select a spot close to the employees’ spaces. I wasn’t even sure whether Mark worked this evening. He was only a part-time employee, and, as such, his schedule was subject indefinite and changeable. He might not work at all for several days and then be scheduled for three days in a row. However, I assumed that he might be working today, as it was Saturday, one of the library’s busier days, and a day that extra help could be useful to regular, full-time workers.
Sometimes, logic is a beautiful thing. Just as I’d anticipated, through the exercise of reason, Mark showed up at 8:00 PM. I didn’t know what kind of vehicle he drove, but, of course, I knew very well what The Handsomest Man in the World looked like. When I saw him, my heart leaped with joy–or with that particular variety of extreme pleasure that I call “boy joy” and define as being the delight that derives from man-to-man intimacy, despite the fact that, to date, nothing intimate had happened between Mark and me and, after the way I’d scared him half to death, nothing intimate might ever happen between us. Still, I had to try.
Some people, straights mostly, doubt the reality of the existence of gaydar. A combination of the words “gay” and “radar,” gaydar refers to a gay guy’s ability to recognize a fellow homosexual through observation or intuition. As a gay man, let me assure any straights who may be reading my story that gaydar definitely exists. In fact, according to The Superiority of Male Love, one of the books I just checked out from the library, Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia (The City of Brotherly Love) determined that “gay me were found to be particularly good at detecting the scent of other gay men.” Likewise, a Harvard graduate student confirmed that, shown silent videos of the faces of various men, gay men are much more adept at identifying sexual orientation than their straight counterparts, the same conclusion that Dr. Nalini Ambady, conducting the same experiment, had reached before him. Likewise, Rudolph Gaudio showed that some gay men’s sexual orientation can be identified by their characteristic gay lisp. Well, Mark doesn’t have a lisp, as far as I know, but he’s gay, all right. My gaydar’s never been wrong before, and, according to it, The Handsomest man in the World is also gay. No question about it.
As Mark parked his car, a Corvette, had I needed further confirmation of his sexual preference (which I hadn’t), I saw that there was a sticker on his bumper that identified him as being of homosexual orientation. Similar to the American flag, but with the Greek letter lambda replacing the American flag’s traditional stars and the rainbow striped substituting for its red and white stripes. It was a bright, even garish, eye-catching symbol, flamboyant enough to suggest that Mark was not only out about his being gay but also proud of his homosexuality. If I could just get him to get over his fear of me, there was hope that I might be able to win him over. There was a chance that, through one another, we could both experience boy joy.
A few minutes after Mark had entered the library, I exited my Ford Mustang, scurried across the parking lot, and followed him into the building, using the same door through which he had gained ingress.
He wasn’t at the circulation desk.
I was about to take the stairs to the second floor, to see whether he was in the stacks–maybe he’d already taken a cart of books upstairs in the service elevator and was busily re-shelving them–when I glimpsed him coming out of the first-floor men’s restroom. He saw me, a moment later, and his features registered the same look of fear mingled with horror. He was about to flee again, when I called out to him.
“Mark, please, don’t run. I mean you no harm.”
The corridor that led to the restrooms was out of the way, and, at the moment, except for Mark and me, deserted. Nevertheless, it afforded him a large degree of protection, as it was a public space, not far from help if he needed it, which he wouldn’t–at least, not against me–and from witnesses if I started anything, which I wouldn’t do. It was a perfect place to talk, if he would talk to me, that is.
He paused, but the tense posture he maintained told me that he was on the verge of taking flight and that he would, without further hesitation, if he didn’t like what I said next. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you harassing me?”
“I’m Scott Roberts,” I told him. “I’m not harassing you.” The fact that I’d mentioned my name earned me a small degree of his trust, although he must know that anyone could make up a name, calling himself whatever he pleased.
“I saw you looking at me,” he charged. “You followed me upstairs. You’re here again, today. Why are you stalking me? What do you want from me? Wasn’t what you did to my car enough?”
“I didn’t do anything to your car,” I protested. “I didn’t even know what kind of car you drive until this morning.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t take all the valve stems out of my tires last week, leaving me with four flat tires and no way to inflate them? You didn’t write ‘Die, Faggot!’ on my windshield?”
I frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Because,” he said, a look of contempt on his handsome face, “you’re a homophobic latent homosexual?” he asked, sarcasm all but dripping from his words.
I laughed.
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“I’m not out of the closet, exactly, but my homosexuality’s far from latent.”
He looked shocked. “You?” he said, his tone incredulous. “You’re gay?”
I nodded, smiling. “And so are you, if my gaydar’s working.”
He relaxed. He even smiled. His face, handsome even when he frowned with anger was frightened, looked absolutely gorgeous, in a 100 percent manly way, when he smiled at deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. “It’s working, all right,” he admitted, “but, apparently, mine’s on the out of service. I thought you were the queer-bashing homophobe who vandalized my Corvette last weekend. I thought you might want to vandalize me this time.”
“That might be fun,” I teased, “but not in the way you mean.”
I told him about my research paper and about my belief in boy joy, the peculiar, intense passion that derives from man-to-man intimacy.
“I think you’re on to something,” he said. He gave me a slow, measured look as his eyes traveled up and down my body. His smile became a grin as he added, “You look as though you could be a source of boy joy yourself.”
“You read my mind,” I replied. “I’ve been thinking the same thing about you since I first laid eyes on you.”
Mark was no longer terrified of me. His flirtatious attitude and teasing manner made it clear that he was attracted to me, as I was to him.
“Maybe, after I get off work, we could research your thesis together.”
“That would be fantastic.”
“I get off at 10:00,” he told me. “Where can I meet you?”
“How about my place?”
“That sounds perfect.”
I gave him my address. “Sorry I scared you,” I said.
“Sorry I thought you were some psychotic homophobe,” he returned.
“I’m glad we got everything straightened out.”
He gave me an arch look. “We’d better not have,” he said. “I like being gay.”
I smiled at him. “My place is about 10 minutes from here.”
“See you at 10:10, then.”
I had no idea whether he’d show up, and I half-expected that he wouldn’t do so.
At 10:10, on the dot, my doorbell rang. I answered it, and, on my doorstep stood Mark Lane, The Handsomest Man in the World, grinning at me across the threshold.
“Come in,” I invited him, returning his grin.
He stepped through the doorway and into my arms. We held one another, his arms around my waist, mine around his upper back, and kissed. The press of his lips against mine made my cock twitch and stir, and I hoped the feel of mine against his had had the same effect upon him. Our lips parted, and our tongues slipped inside each other’s mouths, swirling about one another. His mouth was as warm and wet as a well-lubricated vagina, just as, I knew, mine was.
When we parted, I told him, “I wanted you from the moment I saw you.”
He smiled, remembering the initial horror and fear he’d felt as he’d thought I was some sort of psychotic homophobe out to get him. “I wish I could say the same.” I felt disappointed, and I guess the emotion must have shown on my face, because Mark added, “I sure feel the same way myself now, too, though.”
“You want to watch a video?” I asked him. “I have all kinds, even straight.”
“I want to watch you,” he replied. “I want to see you squirm as I suck your cock. Then, I want you to fuck my ass.”
I blinked. He certainly knew what he wanted. “That would be great.”
Without any further preliminaries, we undressed, watching one another as we stripped of our shirts, slacks, sox, and underpants. I noticed that Mark wore black velvet thongs, inside the front of which was a burgeoning erection to match my own. As he removed each article of clothing, I watched what its removal revealed. Even beneath his clothes, it was obvious, now, as it had been when I’d first seen him in the library, that he was a hunk. Sometimes, however, the revelation of a man’s physical charms is anticlimactic, occasionally even disappointing. Clothing, after all, can conceal as well as reveal, and guys who rivaled Adonis with their clothes on sometimes looked more like the famous 98-pound weakling in the ancient Charles Atlas ads or like John Goodman from the old Roseanne sitcom. Mark, however, did not disappoint. He was every bit–every inch, perhaps I should say–as handsome undressed as he had been dressed.
Mark had broad shoulders, a deep chest, washboard abs, a narrow waist, powerful thighs, calves that looked as if they’d been turned on a lathe, a strong back, and a pair of compact buttocks that looked as if they’d been designed for no other purpose than to be fucked hard and long. Just looking at his gorgeous, tanned body made my mushrooming cock swell and stiffen to its absolutely fullest dimensions. “You are The Handsomest man in the World,” I told him.
He chuckled. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I would have been content just to drink in his beauty, but Mark wanted to suck my cock; then, he’d made his desires clear, he wanted me to fuck him in the ass. Of course, I was more than willing. Any gay man would be honored to have such a stud suck his dick, just as he would feel privileged to fuck his butt. Hell, I thought, with a guy as fantastically good looking as Mark, even a straight guy might be tempted to cross the line, just this once.
“Do you want to go into the bedroom?” I asked.
“Maybe eventually,” he said. He took my hand in his. His palm was warm, and his grip was firm. His touch sent an electric thrill along my nerves, and my balls seemed to leap inside my tightened scrotum. He led me to my couch, a large, white sectional. “Sit,” he directed me, and I sat.
Mark knelt before me on the carpet.
I parted my thighs, wide.
Mark bent low at his waist, and I watched him as he licked and kissed the mushroom-head of my glans. Turning his head to the side, he opened his mouth, sliding his parted lips down the stiff-standing column of my swollen cock. When he reached my balls, he paused, licking the velvet-soft flesh of my scrotum before taking first one, and then the other, of my testicles into his mouth. I nearly came at the thought of the intimacy of this action and the total acceptance of me–or of my body–and of his willingness to surrender himself to me, sexually at least. Instead of climaxing, I moaned.
Mark trailed his tongue and open mouth back up my penis, to the tip. His open mouth plunged down the shaft of my cock, and I felt his soft, full lips, a warm, fleshly “O,” slide down the sleek, rigid column of flesh. I moaned again; the sensations. Like the intimacy of the act, were wonderful.
I watched his head bob up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm, his rounded lips riding my prick. It was thrilling to see my manhood appear and disappear between his pumping lips. The interior of his mouth was warm, wet, and soft as any woman’s cunt. When he looked up at me, with his sky-blue eyes, my cock in his mouth, I had to close my eyes: the sight of him this way would make me lose control, and it was too soon to climax, too early to cum.
I didn’t keep them closed for long, though; it’s too pleasant to watch a man, especially as handsome as Mark, with a cock-stuffed face sucking one’s prick. Any man who’s ever been sucked by another guy has watched him providing this exquisite service, believe me; I was no different.
He nodded, dipped, and bobbed, his head moving up and down, in the same maddeningly insistent, steady-as-she-goes way that was playing havoc with my sensibilities no less than with my nerves and muscles. Suck it! I wanted to say. Suck it! But, of course, there was no use in making such a comment, for he was already doing just this, and in a most satisfactory manner. Such a request, such a command, would have been only rhetorical, a way of expressing my pleasure, a word of encouragement and a plea that he continue. It was likely, I thought, that Mark, as a gay man himself, already fully understood that I was enjoying his attentions, that I was pleased by them, and that I most ardently wanted him to continue to provide them.
My hips rolled, slightly, involuntarily, and my cock twitched. These were the first in what was a well-known series of the telltale signs of imminent orgasm, I knew. Mark was binging me closer and closer to the climactic moment, when my building excitement would explode, ending in an eruption of semen and sperm. As if he were aware that I was almost there, Mark changed the tempo of his downward thrusts and upward glides. His open mouth, but closed lips, plunged down the length of my cock, to my balls, and jerked upward, sliding quickly back along the throbbing, erect shaft to plunge to its base again, repeating these motions with greater and greater rapidity, his saliva thick. His drool ran down the column of my cock, anointing my pubes and balls.
A shudder ran through my entire frame, and my asshole contracted violently, my thighs scissoring. My penis convulsed, and my testicles seemed ready to explode.
Abruptly, knowing he’d brought me to the very bring of ecstasy, Mark stopped, holding my captive penis hostage within the warm-wet-moisture of his mouth-cunt until the paroxysm that had seized and shaken me, cock and frame, subsided and my prick began to shrink and soften within his oral embrace.
I groaned. “My God,” I rasped.
Mark looked up at me, from between my legs, still on his knees, with my dick between his lips. He smiled around my limp member. Then, withdrawing from the flaccid penis that had, only moments ago, threatened to spurt semen everywhere, he kissed my genitals, as tenderly and as gently as any woman ever kissed a man in this manner, and rose.
“My God,” I repeated, smiling weakly.
He grinned at me as, taking my hand again in his, he helped me to my feet. “Now, the bedroom,” he announced. “It’s my turn.”
There’s a movement, of sorts, among some gay men to replace anal intercourse with frottage. Although the latter is extremely exciting, I doubt that it will ever replace butt fucking. Two cocks held together in the same man’s hand, as he squeezes or masturbates both simultaneously is an incredibly erotic sight, and the sensations are wonderful as well–the feel of velvety skin, of swollen hardness, of sleek flesh next to one’s own velvety, smooth cock is stimulating in the extreme, even before orgasm. Afterward, with one or both men’s semen a lotion anointing one another’s cocks, the sensations are all the more devastatingly passionate, intimate, and intense; these semen-wet pricks are also aesthetically pleasing to behold. On the purely practical side, the semen makes further cock play easier and even more fun, if slippery and messy. There’s a lot to be said for dry-fucking another guy, too. Nevertheless, I maintain that frottage will never replace actual anal intercourse. There’s nothing like it, not even fellatio, in my opinion, from an aesthetic, a psychological, a physical, a sexual, or any other perspective. It’s way better than penile-vaginal sex, too, let me tell you–especially when the ass one is about to fuck is as splendid as Mark’s butt.
There are many positions for anal intercourse, of course. My two personal favorites are the doggy style position and the missionary position. In the former, the fucker gets to see the fucked man’s cock and balls, displayed against his pubes and belly, as he lunges against his impaled ass. Watching a man’s erect penis and balls jiggle, sway, and bounce from the thrusts of one’s cock up his ass is superbly erotic, as is the fact that his genitals, his manhood, is being ignored, neglected, disregarded, as if his cock and balls–the organs of generation, of reproduction, of fatherhood–are of no more account than mere ornaments; they beautify, but, beyond this purpose, serve no significant end. They are superfluous; therefore, they are exciting. Idle and unused, especially for the purpose for which they evolved or, if you prefer, were created (I’ve always been open-minded as to the existence of God), a man’s cock and balls are testaments to the fact that he has allowed himself to be used as the living receptacle, or depository, of another man’s cock, that he has, so to speak, unmanned himself by adopting a woman’s role (to the extent that he can do such a thing), to the fact that he cares enough about his partner’s needs and desires, to put aside his own masculinity, for the moment at least, and surrender his asshole and his bowels to another man’s use. Of course, cramming and ramming one’s thick, hard cock through another guy’s tight anus and into his rectum is exciting as hell, too, and highly recommended.
The other position, known as “doggy style,” is, for me, even more erotic. Therefore, I counted myself fortunate, indeed, when Mark positioned himself upon his elbows and knees, legs parted wide, his back arched, and his ass high in the air, signaling his desire to be taken from behind. His upper body twisted to bear most of its weight on his rolled right shoulder, he looked back, over the curve of his left hip, and smiled at me as I climbed into bed and assumed my position, kneeling behind him on the gently shifting mattress. “Don’t be cruel,” Mark said. “Fuck me.”
“I plan to do just that,” I reassured him with a smile and a slap to the right buttock as I “walked” forward another couple of feet on my knees.
Taking my long, jutting cock in my hand, I guided it between the satin-soft mounds of Mark’s glorious backside. My cock met the stout resistance of his anal sphincter. Gripping my member more firmly, I pointed it directly into its target, the puckered asshole that seemed way too small to accommodate an organ as massive as mine. Driving my hips forward, in a slow, steady motion, and holding the tip of my prick firmly against Mark’s anus, I fed inch after inch of my prick through his asshole until, at length, I had buried the full length of my cock inside his rectum, my groin pressing firmly against his flattened buttocks. I remained still, delighting in the feel of the firm ring of muscle that circled the base of my cock and the feel of my pubes mashing Mark’s butt cheeks.