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An Unsent Letter
My stomach was knotted even before I asked the maitre d' where my date waited;
I couldn't remember last feeling that sour tug. The maitre d' was a porcelain dandy with pink shaven head, sitting in weary disdain of the fools besetting his pulpit from all sides. His watery blue eyes indicted me the moment I stepped inside. I cleared my throat and positioned plenty of diaphragm behind my words (just another interview to ace), as if the slightest faltering or indirection would betray my illicit intentions. These pricks first let you stumble, before rescuing you with their service battalions as if showing mercy.
His waxen moustache twitched at my vexatious sabotage, his hand pulling like a squeegy over his shiny pate. He so politely referred me to the lounge.
"Please return directly; your table awaits." I walked posthaste in the direction of his rolling eyes.
Paul sat in a leather chair, filling an olive double-breasted Armani, green eyes glinting at my approach. Square shoulders, chiseled jaw and cowlicked fason: you'd have been pleased.
As much as I chastened myself to slow, my face disintegrated into garish beaming, as months of letters and pictures became flesh and cologne and hearty handshakes. Remember our meeting, the eerieness of familiarity and freshness, like simultaneous hot and cold water that makes the breath flare and the eyes sharpen, hatching the goofiest of unnatural grins? Can the fingers be far behind?
I led him to the desk, and tried to remain composed as I followed, man in tow, the twitching babysteps of our mischievous host. Once seated, while our waiter babbled, it was surprisingly easy to maintain eye contact with this person across the table--surprising because we were strangers, really, and surprising also for what we were doing. For what I was doing.
He had been with men before, traded naturally with the concept, and his air was of confident nonchalance, although I was pleased to note my happy effects upon him: a contented grin whose persistence bespoke certain anticipation. To me, however, the situation was somewhat overpowering, though you know I thrive on pressure, and I was in that space I go to handle spots when the mercury goes red. Still, I betrayed my lack of concentration at times. Who knows what we talked about, probably that small banter we so adroitly engineer when the chemistry works. Certainly my lack of appetite gave me away. I hardly touched the first course of mussels in sauce. Mercifully he knew, and minutes later he was following my Benz CLK home.
It was a long elevator from the underground garage, beside an old couple, and then down the hall, his hands on my waist as I turned the locks. I led him by hand to the livingroom and the spectacular lake view. The moon shone brightly on the inky sheet of water stretching to the edge of the world, interrupted here and there by the white pinpricks of yachts. Truly beautiful. After reading one of my mawkish descriptions one night, he had expressed particular interest in seeing it, and he obviously was not disappointed, pulling me back against his chest, his breath warming my ear. I flipped on a dime and our lips met, my first mankiss, smoother than I'd feared. I'd somehow imagined that entre being more difficult than the perverser couplings of my fantasies, something to be gotten past, like an icewater enema or a donkeybrained secretary. More plainly, an erection appealed, a day's beard didn't. But it was nice, all of its own moment, lips and fingers and pulling sighs.
I broke away to get a soft lamp and a glass of cold Chardonnay, which I left with him and his wide, boyish eyes before the panorama.
In the bathroom, I removed my suit and the rest. In the drawer was a perfume sample (still addressed to Tracy). I dabbed my neck, armpits and chest, and then my balls and buttocks. Smirking in the mirror, I replaced the vial and lifted out what lay beside it.
I'll say my basic sexual appetites and behaviors haven't much changed; I mean, I prefer the dominant role, or more accurately, the aggressive role, because that other term implies a lifestyle I find studied and boring. But you know I prefer skinny girls who like it loud and hard in bed. That said, I've seen my notions broaden these past few years, contemplating acts I never knew existed, occasionally surprising myself by what bubbles to the surface. One of these notions I was indulging that night by meeting Paul. Another I'd considered was to cede control, to move at another's direction. I wasn't sure I could do it, and that's part of what made it exciting. Without overanalyzing, I suppose that each of these two new sallies was the spur and catayst to do the other.
Anyway, I found the device to help me with the leap--an inspired idea, really.
>From my fingers hung the fine silver chain and dangling faux gems of a waistlet, which attaches around and hangs from the waist, with three minichains dropping loosely from the front, each ending in a green glass stone, swinging above the genitalia. I'd discovered it last week at a street fair, and was struck by its exoticism; I didn't think until bed that evening that it fit for me, for last night, and I returned to purchase it the next day.
It's true, the perfume already had my mind in a kink, but when I snapped the locket and looked at myself anew, my hips cocked just so, it completed my persona: a man, about to surrender himself as a man's lover. I now recall our seeing Lear at the Organic and laughing at the staging, where Kent assumes his disguise merely by placing a floppy hat upon his head. That is what this trinket became, because I had vested it so. The chain was my icon and fetish, and with its snap I was transformed, fool and fucker and lickerish sucker.
A deep breath later, I strutted from the bathroom toward Paul on the couch. I wanted to lay across his lap, stroke his chest through his shirt, wrap an arm around his neck and suck on his lips, but when he saw me, he crowed in delight and stood watching my naked approach. I didn't break character. We necked standing, his arms pulling like iron bands. I raised my leg and snaked it behind him. A giant hand cupped my butt, spreading my buttocks with strong fingers, prodding insistently at my rosebud. So exposed, I ground my rod against his crotch. We licked at each other's mouths. A fingertip poked into me; I held on, panting into his shoulder, arching against the meat of his palm.
His finger slid free. "Get some rubbers," he said in my ear.
"Yes." I dragged my hand along his chin, hurried to my bedroom and back. Paul was slipping off his shirt, unveiling the muscled chest and stomach I'd envisioned. Slacks fell to the floor, then his blue bikinis, down his strong legs. As he folded his slacks over the back of a chair, I gaped at his athlete's bod, robust and sinewy sharp, the beauty of a six-day-a-week bodycon.
His prick curled red and magnificent toward his navel, with tight balls, and capped by a token tuft of brown hair. I fumbled the condom loose, but fell to my knees without covering him. It was what I was most curious about, to taste a man's arousal, to feel heavy flesh in my mouth, on my tongue for a few seconds at least.
I grew voracious by his subtle odor and taste, so that my oral muscles fell back of satiating my lusts. I tired quickly, clumsy and uncoordinated, so I deep-sucked chaotically around his cummy hole. His fingers in my hair and mine on his ass, the rhythms of hisses and hips, the popping of my lips, I liked it all.
He pulled me off; I dropped to all-fours, watched him squeeze a rope of K-Y along his shaft and lather it businesslike until the latex gleamed. I gasped when in the next instant he seized and turned me on my back, folded me open, knees beyond shoulders, hands like vises on my calves. Waiting breathlessly, my dick humming along the surface of my tummy . . . Paul scooped a dollop of grease from his rod, and with his fingertips prepared my gaping puckerhole. I moaned when he withdrew them, and caught my breath when they were replaced with his cock against my portal. I closed my eyes, and felt his head nudging inside. Mercifully, Paul kneaded my lonely guy while his swollen tip squeezed within. He rocked up and down a bit while I lay there, his expectant vessel.
He pushed, testing me, and pulled out again, then plunged deeper, more forcefully. I sighed. He pushed again. I moaned. That's when he started fucking me.
It was good, very good, the delicious fullness and friction, the tickling along my prostate, when I needed to throw back my head to gulp down deep in my lungs.
Soon, I was panting, "Fuck me, yes, more, so good," and he liked my banter, and I his response, "oh, fuck me, more, yes, yes." I remember thinking how funny such bathos would sound to someone next door, someone who wasn't being buggered until his eyes rattled like a doll's, someone whose body wasn't being used like an animal's, and savoring it so.
He stabbed into me a few decisive times, when his mechanical bucking told me he was close, close to rigid release, then crying high above me, yes, and collapsing, sprawled over my shoulder, while my hands read the musculature of his back, feeling him deflate and leave me. We chuckled playfully, warm chests pumping together, in indolent closeness.
Paul rolled on his side and fondled my pecker in his fingertips. I just lay back with an arm behind my head and traced the potent curvature of his arms and shoulders. My hips twirled with his every stroke. I was ready to climax from my first fucking, and soon his fist jerked more aggressively, my cumhole popping as he pumped. I closed my eyes and groaned as my seed pulsed through my cock and over my stomach, then drooled down his hand.
"Mmm." He smiled once, moved his head below, lapping the warm puddles of cum from my skin. "Ohhh."
He lay atop me again and we necked, now quite naturally. He had left a bit of me on his tongue. As he raised himself up on his arms, I followed him. Those strong arms tightened about me and turned me on my hands and knees. While he opened another wrapper, I chided, "Hurry," just to stir the pot, and ground my ass on him.
Play stopped, hands locked my hips, and I felt him on me again. This time he wasn't as accommodating, and fucked into me heavily, urgently. I braced against my elbows, and he really started balling me, and I balled him back. It hurt at first, and then the rhythm captured me, and then I wanted him to ream me hard. He did, for longer this time, to that point when you begin to tire, when your dual pumping goes out-of-sync, and you become two animals rutting and writhing against each other, struggling in any way of friction or climbing to get off. I didn't even have the second orgasm that he did, and yet it was brilliant, and all we could do to straggle to the bedroom and collapse.
Morning was a botched job, because we awoke late. Breakfast came in a tube.
Paul watched from his pillow and fondled my ears while I did him. I stopped, he pumped himself, and at his nod, I plunged with plenty of enthusiasm, and not a minute later he pumped warm silken threads down my throat. His final surges I milked spilling over knuckles and balls like coaxing a snake, creating semen with each squeeze of my hand, making the great body squirm by my one tiny touch.
Then I brought warm washcloths and bathed him while he lolled. He was up and dressed a few minutes later, and as there was no time for a shower or coffee if he were to make his flight, I shoved a candybar in his hand on the way out. In return, he pulled me out for a smothering whole-body kiss, and while the hall was usually without traffic, at that moment I didn't care if anyone saw me licking the lips of a huge, disshevelled guy holding a flightbag in one hand and my nude body in the other, still giddy from fucking.
Walking down the hall, he held up the waistlet, then pushed it into his jacket pocket. "Call me," he said. I stood in my doorway, nodding.
Washing, driving, the paces of morning work elapsed of their own accord, as if by my watch, and as my watch yields a reading without imparting any knowledge of Time, I was without thoughts on the day or what I'd done, on the meaning of what had occurred, beyond that it was physically wonderful. This afternoon--and I have never done this before--I broke away from a grueling closing conference, and masturbated in the executive bathroom. And knew I would again contact Paul.
Shocked? My suspicions said I wouldn't send this, but I wrote regardless, for my own therapy, sorting the day, reliving its flavors, certain a decision would evidence itself by this final paragraph. And now I feel a pinch of remorse that our friendship is a segmented one like the rest, that you are not privy to my entire being. Because I can't tell you, can I?