("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2005. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- 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