Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (9 page)

I stayed behind to catch my breath and reflect on my incredible encounter with the hot Hispanic stud. I leaned back against a tree and started to jack off until I had shot another load of hot, sizzling cum. Yeah! Maybe I’d see Mario tomorrow. After all, there’s nothing like the taste of hot, sweaty ass!

RIMMING KRZYSZTOF

Simon Sheppard

I
like to stick my tongue up guys’ assholes. I think that, if we fags are honest with ourselves, many of us do. Like it, that is. Just why we like it is an open question. It is not, however, an open question as to why I hardly ever do it anymore. It comes down to a killer case of shigella I picked up in a steam room at the baths, one misty evening many years ago. Since then I don’t eat ass very often. It has nothing to do with morality or aesthetics; it’s just a practical decision. I remember how lousy I felt waking up in the middle of the night with chills and cramps, and I’d rather not feel that sick again.

Now, about Krzysztof. I met him at a so-so bar one Tuesday night. We decided to go back to his place. He was Polish, had actually come from Poland, still had a nice accent, had that fine-boned look some Polish guys have and light blond hair that, unstylishly, touched his shoulders.

“Nice car,” he said as he climbed into my Jaguar.

“I bought it used.”

“It’s still nice,” he said. I looked over at him. Now that we were outside the bar, he looked a little shabby around the edges.

“You sure going over to your place is a good idea?”

“Sure. I have a roommate, but he won’t mind.”

When we got to his apartment building, in a marginal part of town that left me worried about parking the Jag, his roommate was awake, padding around in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He was good-looking, but not as handsome as Krzysztof.

“Hey,” the roommate said.

“Hi,” said my date. “Ron, this is…sorry, I forgot your name.” I lied, figuring I could backtrack later.

Krzysztof’s room was monastically bare. Not messy, not dirty, just bare, nothing on the walls but a plain wooden crucifix. A mattress on the floor. Some of those candles in glass holders decorated with pictures of Jesus and the saints, which Krzysztof went around lighting. A pile of books in one corner, next to a small CD player. An open closet with a handful of clothes on hangers.

“I have to take a pee,” Krzysztof said. “Be right back.” He closed the door behind himself.

I picked up one of the books. The poems of Saint John of the Cross. Not the kind of thing I’d find in most of my tricks’ rooms. I opened it up, and Krzysztof’s name was written on a bookplate inside.
So that’s how you spell it,
I thought.

The door opened. “Back,” Krzysztof said. He was already pulling off his shirt. Even in the candlelight, I could see how pale he was. There was a flurry of golden-brown hair on his lean chest, a little thicket between large nipples. He never took his eyes off me as he unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor. His briefs had a couple of holes in them. My dick leapt to attention. I put the book down.

Krzysztof walked over to me and dropped to his knees, rubbing his face hard against my crotch, gnawing at my stiff cock through my pants. I grabbed a handful of his candlelight-blond hair and pushed his head into me. He whimpered and squirmed.

“Unzip my fly,” I said. He did. “Take my dick out.”

“Can I suck it?”

“Not yet. Stand up.”

Krzysztof rose to his feet. His torn-up briefs were stretched by his hard-on, the distended holes revealing the pallor of his hip, a flurry of honeyish pubic hair.

“Now turn around.” The rest of him was slim, but his ass was perfectly formed, curves and masses beneath the white cotton briefs. There was a tear in the fabric, running halfway down his butt, exposing part of his crack. I went over to him and laid my hand on his ass, and he shivered slightly. I grabbed hold of the cloth with both hands and pulled hard, till his briefs gave way with a rip. He trembled even more.

His ass was pale as milk, smooth as silk, beautiful. Most of his body might have verged on the scrawny, but his butt was astonishing. At the top of the cleft there was a dark tone to his skin, bruise-like, the kind of thing you sometimes see with very pale guys. I ran my fingers over the spot, then down into the crack. He shifted, relaxing so I could slide my fingertips over the moist heat of his hole.

“Okay,” I said. “Get down on the bed, on your belly. Keep what’s left of those briefs on.”

“Yes,” he said, lying down, looking expectant, nervous.

“Untie my boots,” I said, standing on the mattress to either side of his head. He squirmed around and untied the laces, then pulled my shoes off. He kissed my right foot.

“Now get your butt in the air.”

The shreds of white cotton fell away, exposing even whiter asscheeks which, slightly parted, revealed a trail of dark blond hair. I reached down and spread his ass. His hole was perfectly shaped, clean pink nested in a halo of cinnamon-colored fur, and I wanted it.

“Can I turn on music? My roommate…”

“Sure.”

He reached over and hit the button on the player. The chanting of medieval nuns. Unbelievable.

There was so much I could have done with Krzysztof. I could have fucked his mouth, his ass; from the look of things I could have tied him up and beaten him. I could have shown the weedy fucker what a truly demanding top I can be. Didn’t, though. I knew then, with the certainty of damnation, that I was going to eat out Krzysztof’s ass. His ass. My mouth. Magic. Poison.

I breathed in. Slightly musty but clean.

“What?”

Krzysztof repeated himself. “Yes, please,” he said.

The nuns chanted away about salvation or something. I dove face-first into the Eye of God, started at the bruise-dark beginnings of his crack, tonguing flesh against bone, then lower, toward another sort of darkness. My spit matted down the hair. Lower. Lower. Toward the heat. My tongue brushed, just brushed, the soft pucker of flesh, then moved down to the ridge between his furry blond upper thighs, to the base of his balls, my chin resting against the baby-soft sac, the smell of his asshole sweet in my nostrils.

This time I understood what he was muttering into his pillow: “Yes yes yes.” I pulled his perfect asscheeks apart and looked down at the now-shiny hole nestled in swirls of damp hair. A hole that led to Krzysztof’s guts, to his shit, his heart, his soul,
his essence. An Easter egg. Gobble it down.

I spit on my forefinger, rubbed it tentatively around the damp hole, pushed slightly, met initial resistance, then welcome. I sank in to the first knuckle, pulled my finger out, sniffed at it, sucked at my fingertip. My passion. His asshole was my passion. I lowered myself to his butt and stuck my tongue in.

Krzysztof sighed and pushed his ass up at me. I burrowed deeper, tasting the brink of his insides, wanting to go farther, to commit myself utterly to him, to eat my way to wherever he truly was, whoever he was. Krzysztof.

The door opened. The roommate. I gave him a sidelong look, then I backed off and spread the pale asscheeks so he could see where I’d been. The hole was wide now, shiny, engorged. Licking, kissing, sucking, I dove back inside Krzysztof.

I hadn’t thought of my dick for what seemed like a long time. Why would I, when it wasn’t my cock but my tongue, my heedless, hungry mouth, that connected me with the risky blond boy lying askew on his barren bed? But now I realized that I’d been leaking precum like a motherfucker, that my cock was slimy-slick inside my pants.

I reared back, kneeling, and brought my hand down hard on Krzysztof’s ass. I didn’t want to hurt him; I’m not a sadist. I just wanted to leave my mark on him, the way he was leaving his mark on me, the way I could smell his asshole on my upper lip. The angry-pink print of my hand rose on his very pale flesh, tearing with unexpected ferocity at my heart. I bent over and kissed the mark I’d left, then spread his cheeks and trailed my tongue again toward Krzysztof’s musky hole.

“Let me get on my back,” he said.

While he rolled over, I looked up at the roommate. Ron. The guy was just standing there, not even touching the hard-on that bulged inside his boxers. I didn’t know if he was waiting to be
asked to join in or what. I didn’t even know whether he was Krzysztof’s boyfriend.

“Leave, please,” I said. He didn’t. I was in no mood to argue with him.

Krzysztof was on his back now, knees up to his chest, his arms looped around his bent legs, ass stretched, open, his hole wet, exposed, his dick stiff against his lean, hairy belly. Nice dick, uncut, dripping, but it was his ass I wanted, needed. I lay on the floor and licked at his asshole, which quivered, responded, opened even wider for my mouth. My tongue strained to go up inside him, as far as I could go. It was all that mattered. I reached up and spread his hole with my thumbs. I had to taste Krzysztof, devour him, be devoured by him, his ass, my desire for him, for his hole, for Krzysztof’s ass. The nuns had stopped singing.

“Oh fuck!” said Krzysztof as I lay there shooting my tongue in and out, flicking it against his secret flesh.

“Have fun,” the roommate or boyfriend or whoever said, shutting the door behind himself with a small slam. Whatever. I took my mouth off the deep, dark abyss and looked up, across dick and belly and chest, at Krzysztof’s beautiful, blissed-out face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, and nothing was. Nothing at all, not in the whole world, a world that smelled like Krzysztof’s ass, a world that
was
Krzysztof’s ass, a world that was heaven, pure heaven.

He said, “I need to come soon.”

“I want you to sit on my face,” I said.

“I can do that.”

I tugged off my shirt, pulled my pants down to midthigh, scooted onto the mattress and lay on my back. Krzysztof straddled me and squatted down, his butt just inches from my face.
I marveled at his ass, its curves, its pallor, even the one small blemish on the left cheek. That blemish made him human; otherwise the perfection of it would have been too much, would have maybe made me cry.

I inhaled his smell again, then stuck out my tongue. He lowered himself onto my mouth and I gobbled at him, starving. I could tell he was jacking himself off; as waves of pleasure rolled through his body, his asshole tightened and expanded, again and again. My world, my universe, was his ass, his pleasure my utter subjugation, my triumph, my access to Krzysztof’s ass. Heaven. Heaven. No one who hasn’t been there could possibly understand.

He bent over and grabbed my dick. I was too close. I pulled his hand away. Too late—I was going to shoot. I didn’t want to, didn’t want to leave Krzysztof’s ass, not ever, but it was too late. I squirmed, arched upward, burrowed my tongue as far up into him as fate and love allowed, and could feel him pumping away, could feel cum landing on my chest and belly. His cum, my cum, ours.

Some moments are perfect moments. Krzysztof’s asshole was a perfect moment. There was nothing, really, to say or do after that. He pulled himself off me and I felt alone. He reached over to the CD player and the nuns started chanting again. He stood, walked to the closet, threw me a towel. I wiped off and got dressed. He wrote his name and phone number down on a slip of paper. When he handed it to me, I didn’t offer mine in return.

I knew that in a perfect world I would have spent the rest of my life rimming Krzysztof’s ass, but it isn’t, and I wouldn’t.

We kissed.

“I can taste my ass on your lips,” he said.

“Romantic,” I said, and meant it. “I’ll show myself out.”

I hoped I wouldn’t run into his roommate or boyfriend or whatever, and I didn’t. When I got outside, I crumpled up the paper with his phone number and let it drop to the gutter. I got to the Jaguar, paused, went back and picked up the paper, smoothed it out, put it in my pocket.

I was glad my Jag was in still in one piece. I was glad to be leaving that part of town. I was even glad, in a way I didn’t quite understand, to be driving away from Krzysztof.

Some moments are perfect. Just like that.

NIPPLES ARE THE NEW DICK

Mark Ambrose Harris

I
can have solo sex without ever touching my cock. Don’t worry, all of the elements of a typical jerk-off session are still present: erection, fantasies, orgasm and cum—and yet my hands never venture below my treasure trail. How am I able to achieve such acts of sexual wizardry? The answer is quite simple. I have phantasmagorical nipples.

To the untrained eye, there is nothing remarkable about my nipples. The left one has a silver horseshoe piercing. Aside from that, they look rather ordinary. They’re light brown in color, of average size and bordered by swaths of chest hair. However, their power rests beneath the surface; somewhere amidst nerves and tissue, some sort of biological sexual superhighway runs between my nipples and my crotch. Yet, this erogenous route is incredibly complex, and a lot goes on between my chest and my dick. If I simply jerk off, the pleasure principle rests almost exclusively in my genitals. However, making me cum through nipple stimulation alone offers a heightened sense of ecstasy.
An orgasmic pulse swells and ebbs throughout my torso as my nipples harden and become stiff. Dizziness overcomes me as my head swims with endorphins. I feel as though my eyes glaze over with a carnal haze—like a great white shark going in for a bite, only more voracious. A tingling sensation curls and wraps around my balls, and my scrotum becomes taut. My hole clenches, my cock throbs and translucent pearls of precum drip into my bush. The hairs on my body stand erect, filamentous tendrils vibrating with electricity. My face flushes with heat; I experience what might be described as a full-body orgasm.