The Price Of Dick (2 page)

So there I was, quickly regressing to puberty,
sitting in a sauna with the object of my lust. Looking at his thick muscular legs, broad shoulders and other weight-developed bulges properly bulging and glistening with a sheen of hot sweat, I wanted to eat him alive. We soon exited the sauna together.

Unburdening myself of common sense was
an easy task standing in the shower with him. Every inch of his make-me-growl masculinity, covered in blond fur, ass like two ripe honeydews just daring me not to look when he turned his back. I caught a quick glimpse of that gloriously long, circumcised, purple-capped cock and balls hanging between his legs under an unpruned patch of dark pubes. I remember thinking I hadn’t ever bought that much meat in a delicatessen but I still bet I could eat it all in one sitting. It took every bit of restraint I possessed to not pop wood in that shower. The mating dance was an endurance test. Think tearing down the Washington Monument using only your mind.

He invited me out for a drink this time, and we drove to
Houlihan’s again. It was a Friday and the line out the door consisted of families with brats and people with an hour to waste after work. I suggested we get a six-pack and go to my apartment, which luckily, was only three blocks away, with a liquor store right on the way.

I
’m sure it wasn’t in his mind, but it was in mine that this was a hookup. And I’d like to think he wasn’t completely naive about my intentions. I was in testosterone hyper-drive. I got him to my apartment and we drank and talked like good ole buds. He was comfortable telling me about his recent college life, the break up with the girl of his dreams who left him for another man because she had cheated on him and was pregnant. His heartbreak. All the things I couldn’t have cared less about—good riddance to anything that would have been competition anyway. Dick got into his high school days of playing football and wrestling, and I sat there picturing that mass of muscled man-ass crammed into a singlet, me trying to pin him on a mat with my head pressed deep into a musk-reeking ass crack.

He was a frat boy. I should have guessed. The
y all had a certain look to them. And his frat brothers were his best friends in the world and meant everything to him. He missed their daily camaraderie. I wondered if he’d jacked off with any of them. Used the fraternity paddle in an un-fraternity-like manner. You’ve seen the porn. Don’t tell me your mind didn’t go there.

It was a disappointingly platonic get-together
, like any dull straight boys could have had, but I learned a lot about him. How many couples fuck on a first date anyway, right? I consoled myself with that lame excuse. Shame on me—I should have paid close attention to the story he shared with me that night. While in his freshman year of college, his parents tried to surprise him with a friendly unannounced visit. Lo and behold, in his dorm room a snooping mother had found a used condom in his wastebasket. She collapsed into pious, Catholic tears and left before he got back to his room. A few days later she sent him a two page, single-spaced, typewritten letter preaching to him about the Catholic stand on premarital sex, and especially condemning the use of that horrendous tool of the devil, the seed-killing prophylactic. Don’t worry. Those facetious words weren’t hers. I paraphrased. This boy was more browbeaten by mommy than Norman Bates.

Didn
’t matter to me that he was a mommy’s boy. He could have been wearing prison orange and had the tattooed tear of a brazen killer on his cheek and it wouldn’t have stopped me wanting him. That he was double-fisted clutching onto his “I’m so straight” persona with his stories, I found cute because I was reading something different in body language and eye contact. He was in my company for a reason. I thought he was just a bit backward about the how-tos of getting naked with another dude. I’d get him there...eventually. I felt it in my bones. One in particular.

So our little beer-drinking,
life-sharing, guy get-together ended with him thanking me for a nice evening and shaking my hand at the door.

In my head I fucked that butt so hard I made myself cry
.

The next day, during one of my photo shoots, Dick called me from his job. No reason. Bored. Wanted to shoot the shit. If that didn’t say someone was interested, nothing did. You saw these type of phone calls every day as part of that mating tango performed by most hetero couples. I continued the photo shoot with the phone tucked to my ear, listening. He liked to talk about himself. He liked hockey, baseball, football, fishing, camping, and running. All the typical jock predictables. It would all have been dull if not for that fact that this was a super-hot, virile stud who could be wasting his time talking to any number of women who drooled over him at the gym, and he was choosing to spend it on me. Did I like to run, he asked? I didn’t mind running. But it was a roundabout way of asking, “Do you want to run with me?” So, I lied like any horned-up moron and said, “I love to run!” And so, because the weather was nice, we made a “date” to run that evening rather than go to the gym. He’d pick me up.

I did what any respectable running partner would do. Trimmed my pubes, shaved the crack of my ass
, flossed and gargled so my breath was minty fresh. I made sure there was plenty of KY in the cabinet and Trojans readily available in every drawer of every table and nightstand of each room. There was a six-pack chilling in the fridge if he needed courage. I was more than ready to run.

He came ready. Which meant he
’d already changed into his running duds. I’d hoped he’d arrive in his work suit and I could watch him undress. He was gulping from a bottle of water, looking like an ad for Muscle and Fitness when I opened the door.

We took his car to the park.
As a runner, he smoked me. I was four inches shorter than him and those oak-thick legs of his carried him like a muscular gazelle half a block ahead of me at all times. All I could focus on was the pronounced double bounce in the back of his red shorts. I could see the outline of a jock strap cupping the cheeks. I wasn’t complaining. Eight miles of park later, I was a panting, sweating mess. He looked like someone who had been caught in a brief but refreshing summer shower. I would have lapped it off him like a dog, begged with paws up for more.

We drove back to my house. I invited him in for a shower and a beer. My libido was
waving NASCAR homestretch flags at this point. There was a smile and then a polite, “thank you” before he told me his mom was waiting dinner for him. I grinned like the Joker, thanked him for the run...and went inside to curse.  Balls aching with sexual frustration, I called my friend, Mike from the pool. No go. Then the young attorney. Not in. In a world teeming with horny guys looking to bust a nut, I couldn’t find a soul. This is why porn will always be a thriving business.

I ate dinner, watched television
, and hit the sack. Sometime after midnight my phone jangled me awake. It was Dick. He was whispering. His tone was despondent. He hoped he wasn’t waking me or bothering me? My curiosity was piqued. I told him to talk, holding the phone between my ear and the pillow.

His mother had been on his case. (Not surprised.) No details why. (See: Catholic mothers.) He wasn
’t happy with his situation. He was working hard to get out; get a place of his own. He felt like his freedoms were being imposed upon by her. (See: typical Catholic mother behavior.) This was a scene straight out of any number of movies. Just substitute your brand of religious or ethnic mother. As much as I felt sorry for him, I knew the only way anyone could really be an adult was to not allow their mother to tell them how to be a man. I didn’t say that to him, he felt bad enough. I just encouraged him to keep doing what he was doing in his efforts to get out of that house and he’d be fine. At the end of the hour of listening to his “sands through the hourglass,” he thanked me for being a friend and hung up. I lay there wondering if he slept naked.

Following th
at midnight call, I didn’t hear from Dick for a week. Yes, I did check my voice mail compulsively. I looked for him at the gym. He wasn’t there. I had his phone number at work, but I didn’t use it. It felt too stalkerish to call him to find out “where he was; what was going on; why didn’t he call?” But I
was
stalkerish. Leaving the gym, I took the roundabout way home by driving past the building where he worked to see if his Toyota was parked in the lot. It was. I tried not to think about reasons why he hadn’t called, but I always ended up imagining so many. First you tell yourself it’s his job. Then you tell yourself it’s the problems at home. And then you tell yourself he found someone else. Probably a girlfriend to get mommy off his case. That’s the worst possible supposition in these on-going obsessive scenarios. It makes you want to kick yourself for missing opportunities that had presented themselves to you, but you’d been too polite or too much a gentleman to take advantage. This was not a world for polite gentlemen. You snooze, you lose.

It was a Saturday night
, a week later before I’d hear from him. I was sitting watching a movie, having some pizza, and drinking a beer. Typical bachelor lackluster weekend rituals. I’d called everyone (except him), to see if anyone wanted to hang with me. But they were all twenty-something and had bars to go to with other twenty-somethings.

My phone rang. I didn
’t expect to hear his voice on the other end. I went from couch slouch to sitting up straight like a boy in the front row of choir. I had the pitter-patters immediately upon hearing his first word. He asked what I was doing. One word answer: bored. Beer kickback? I said sure. He said, “Open your door.” I opened my door. There he was standing, phone to his ear in one hand and a twelve-pack of Budweiser in the other. He was still wearing his suit, but the smile he wore looked sharper. He didn’t bother putting the beer away; just sat it on the coffee table next to the pizza box; tore open the side, and pulled two out, handing me one. He took off his suit jacket, folded over the arm of the sofa and fell down onto the cushion like the weight of the world threw him there. His legs came apart wide. I could clearly see the outline of his jumbo-sized man-package through the fabric of his suit pants. The seam had pushed the entire mass to the left side. He couldn’t have better aimed it at me with a sniper scope.

I started the movie again. It was background noise. Neither of us watched it. He wanted to talk and vent. His work was tough. He was trying to get established
in the investment business. If he made the right contacts he could be making a six-figure salary. He just needed help to find the right people and he’d be pulling in enough money that he wouldn’t have to live with his folks anymore. Listening while being distracted by his crotch bulge was a Herculean task

I told him I knew a number of
people. In my business I made contacts all the time. I could actually talk to a few and direct them to him if that would help out. It was a half-hearted promise made to just get him out of his mood. But it was one he latched onto as a real promise, one that brought a gust of appreciation from him. He told me how grateful he was that he’d made a friend like me. Someone that he could confide in. He couldn’t confide in his own friends like this. His fraternity brothers had a different image of him. He was Mr. Macho to them; the daredevil, the risk taker. They wouldn’t like seeing him being “just a vulnerable man.” Who wouldn’t fall for that kind of sentimental baloney coming from someone who looked like a big-balled Adonis?

He kept cracking the beers, handing them out. He drank as the movie played on,
but his attention was on me, as his eyes grew glassy with the buzz. His legs never came back together, and as I got my drunk on, I could have sworn that he was getting half erect. The pants seemed to be straining around the zipper flaps. The center seam appeared to be distinctly separating each of his balls. Every now and then he’d grip and arrange himself.

The
twelve-pack went fast. There wasn’t a doubt about his frat boy status. He was ahead of me two to one. A can of beer was two gulps for him. I probably nursed a single for ten minutes. I’d guess I had four out of the pack and he had the remaining eight. When he got up to go to the john, he did the side-to-side walk that said he was feeling good but maintaining. He left the door open when he pissed and talked the entire time. Just more home-hate.

Coming back from the third piss-trip, his dress shirt was unbuttoned
. He pulled it off, folded it, and laid it over the suit coat that he'd earlier placed on the arm of the sofa. He rummaged through the beer box for another Bud where there were none. I told him I had more in the kitchen, and went to get us another. Before I could open the refrigerator door, he was behind me. Close enough to rub his crotch against me. He took the beer from me, thanked me; asking if I had anything stronger for shots? He was in a drinking mood. I had half a bottle of Ron Rico clear rum. I handed it to him with a shot glass from the cabinet. Staggering a little, he carried both the bottle and glass back to the living room.

“
I think this is the first time I’ve actually relaxed since I graduated,” he confessed. “There’s just something about you that makes me feel like I can really be myself.”

“
What do you mean?” I wanted to hear more; get some more compliments out of him. Loved those ego strokes.

He poured and downed a shot quicker than
I could shudder. He offered me one. I declined. “There’s so much about me no one knows. I’ve never felt like I could be myself. I always had to be what others expected of me. I’m one person to my fraternity brothers. I’m another person to my family. Especially to my mom.”

The fumes of his breath hit me from across the room
. His body swayed. Occasionally he paused as if he lost his train of thought in mid-sentence. Absently, he brushed his nipples through his T-shirt with the palm of his hand. I enjoyed that part of his inebriation. The ending credits were rolling on the movie we'd barely watched. He fell back into the sofa, sloshing his beer onto his T-shirt and the seat itself. He cursed. I got up to get a towel. One large hand waved me back to my seat.

“
No, no I got this, pal!” he said, setting the beer on the table. He pulled off his T-shirt, stripper style, two hands at the bottom and then up and over his head. He used it to dab at the wet stain on the seat. It was a free floorshow for me. A one man Chippendale. Once the spot was dry, he sat back down, wadded the T-shirt and stuffed it inside the empty beer box. Grabbing his beer, he leaned back, still shirtless and continued to drink.

“
Sorry ‘bout that. I’m a little drunk,” he said with a seductive grin. I felt like a gay Mrs. Robinson in reverse. Well, Mr. Robinson to be gender appropriate.

“
That’s okay,” I assured him. “I’ll give you my bed for the night. I can sleep on the couch. I don’t have any photography appointments until late tomorrow afternoon, so we can sleep in.”

He didn
’t resist. The way he’d been drinking, I suspected he never had any intention of driving back home that night. “You sure, man? I won’t be in the way?”

I wouldn
’t have it any other way. I was mentally picturing him stumbling into the bathroom in the morning, his tightie whities all stretched out of shape with morning wood.

Getting him into
the bedroom was easy. He was hammered. Sheets had all been changed that day, so all I had to do was turn it down and guide him in. He stripped off his slacks, down to his underwear. He was as pretty in them as I pictured. He laid the pants on the bed, then said, “Wait, wait!” and reached down to pull his phone out of his slacks pocket. “Gotta tell my mom I’m okay.”

I stared at him, disbelieving. Nothing like complaining about someone and then jumping through your ass
to please them. I left to make up my own bed on the sofa. I could overhear his conversation.

“
Yeah. I’m okay. Just drank a little too much. Yeah, I’m staying with...” and then he said someone’s name I didn’t recognize. I found that interesting, because my name wouldn’t have meant anything at all to her if he’d said it.

We both tu
rned in after that. He was asleep before I turned out my light and got under the sheet. I heard him snoring.

I was deep into la-la land
, dreaming prick-teasing naughty goodies, when I felt something touch my shoulder. I cranked myself up and out of fantasy world to find him standing over me. This was disturbing for two reasons: one, I thought he was a fragment of the dream that had given me a raging hard on. And two, it wasn’t a figment of my imagination that I had a raging hard on. More than that, my sheet was halfway down my thighs and my dick was poking out of my Fruit of the Looms. No mystery to me even in the gloom of the room.

“
Hey dude, I feel bad about taking your bed. Why don’t you change places with me? I can sleep on the couch. This is your place.”

God,
he was tall
I thought looking up at him. I assured him I was fine and didn’t mind.

“
Then come on and share the bed. There’s plenty of room. No need to not sleep in your own bed.”

I couldn
’t believe my ears, or luck. I wasn’t going to turn down that invitation. I gathered my sheet around myself and trailed him back to the bedroom.

Now if any of you have ever had gay camp-out fantasies
, you’ll understand why when I laid my head down on that pillow I woke wide the hell up. There wasn’t an ounce of sleepiness left in me. My blood was moving like the Mississippi current.

He
’d turned his back to me. I could see the outline of his wide shoulders and small waist; the tantalizing white undies. His breathing said he was asleep. My brain couldn’t rodeo-roundup the filthy things stampeding through it.

Do you know what nine words can make your mind explode?
“I need to rub one out. Do you mind?”

At first I wasn
’t certain I’d heard them, but then he rolled over, looked at me, reached down and pulled his underwear off, kicking them off the bed. In the faint light I could see that fire hose and nozzle pressed far up past his navel. I called cocks like his
breeders’ tools
; huge, cut, and thick, with a head that looked like he could beat someone to death with it.

Fingers were
already toying with his balls. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was moving his legs back and forth. I could hear the musical friction of his heels against the sheets. The heat of his body radiated across the sheets to my side of the bed. He had all the man smells: alcohol breath, deodorant and sweat, damp balls drying in fresh air and pre-cum warming as lube in a hot palm.

My heart skittered
, and my own dick instantaneously swelled seeing the impressive silhouette of his.

“
It’s been a while since I’ve even been naked with someone. I kinda miss it,” he said as he shifted in the bed. His leg came close enough to graze mine. Leg hairs tangled with mine. It felt like tiny sparks igniting across the nerve-endings all over my flesh. A quiver ran through my stomach.

He was looking at the
growing hump of sheet covering me. “Don’t be shy. Just two guys getting a nut,” he said. His eyes were like polished jewels a few inches from me. He was doing a luxurious, slow stroke on the entire curving length of his tool.

I was fascinated
, being manipulated by him. A new role for me. I pulled the sheet off, my underwear followed. I kicked them to the floor at the foot of the bed next to his. I was sweaty all over, my ass stuck to the sheet.

“
I shared a dorm room in my fraternity with these two brothers. I used to watch them jack off all the time,” he was telling me, hand still doing the slow jack on himself. “They both used to whack so fast you’d think they were in a race. They both made the same face when they popped their loads. It looked like this.” He made a scrunched up face for me. I laughed self-consciously.

He turned
to face me, never breaking the seductive tempo of his hand. His thumb did a circular rub over on the entire bloom of the tip every time it reached it.

He reached across w
ith his free hand. Fingers tapped along my chest until they found, pinched a nipple. “You’re so smooth,” he said, the slur still in his speech. I had no chest hair. Never did. I felt the peaks of both nipples stiffen.

He pulled my free hand to his own chest, ran it through the
short, close hair. It was soft, whorled. There was a natural path through the forest on his chest to his pubes. He guided my fingers down the trail. The hair texture changed to dense and coarse. My hand found its way around his cock. He made noises of a man enjoying himself. Low, deep sounding like he’d taken lessons from straight porno flicks. I could ignore the phoniness of it while feeling him pulsate in my grip. He leaned into me. The stiff hair-gelled bristles pricked my shoulder.

“
I like it slow,” his voice was in my ear, his breath furnace hot.

Everything about the
encounter had an odd feeling to it. I remember thinking maybe he wasn’t as experienced as he bragged, or that he was covering his insecurities with pretense. He did all the things one expected. If you watched porn. He undulated, panted, deep-voice whispered what most of us thought during sex. The only thing the scene was missing was the camera. There was no mistaking that his cock was responding to my persistent grip. It was slick and big like a boa popping through my fist as he pushed his hips back and forth. Whatever else seemed faked, the pleasure I was giving him was real. He was a heavy leaker. The kind of guy who never needed lube. My fist was covered with pre-cum.