John E. Smith
P.O. Box 7762
Port St. Lucie, FL
34985-7762
CHIAROSCURO
In times past, before the scourge of AIDS, when gays could have sex promiscuously, with only the fear of the police or of contracting a curable disease like syphilis to inhibit them, I used to cruise the New York subway T-rooms. After a night class in Abnormal Psychology at New York University, on my way home, I usually cruised the men's room on the mezzanine of the West Fourth subway station. This T-room had been an excitingly active homosexual meeting place with group orgies taking place right there; but, it had become less active because plain-clothed cops, acting as paid Peeping Toms, getting their voyeurist kicks by looking through the gratings, had made several arrests.
My reason for cruising this T-room, even though it was risky, was because, like a pilot fish, swimming, for protection, under the belly of a shark, I thought that I could do it safely and turn the police presence to my advantage. I was not an obvious homosexual -- I did not swish and scream outrageously. I even wore a wedding ring, for social camouflage, when I was cruising. Therefore, the police did not drive me off, as they had driven off the flaming queens, who, in safer T-rooms, always stole the really desirable tricks away from me. As a result, I was sometimes able to pick up some lovely, bladder-heavy straight, who had not heard that the big action had moved elsewhere. He had to settle for me, in desperation, because he could not risk loitering.
Now, you might think, from what I have said, that I was a completely satisfied homosexual, skillfully working my ecological niche, happily feeding on horny strangers, like a sea urchin feeding on unwary clams. But, that was not the case. I felt no great enthusiasm for my activity, as I walked toward the T-room door, at least not as enthusiastic as I would have been if I had believed that a naked Mr. America with a twelve-inch piece of muscular manmeat was eagerly awaiting me behind that battered, black-metal door. I had no anticipation that this occasion would be any different from the other times when I had risked arrest, assault, blackmail, disease, and frustration in my never-ending search for that one man who could satisfy me so completely that I would no longer feel the need to search. I had no expectation that I would discover an Eden of carnal pleasure, a cornucopia of sexual delights behind that T-room door because, you see, experience had been a bitter teacher. I had been disappointed and frustrated enough times so that I had no hint that this particular excursion would be more satisfying than the rest. In fact, as I walked toward the door, I felt exasperated with myself for not learning from these experiences, for not resisting my compulsion to cruise. I had no premonition, as I dropped the coin into the slot, turned the handle, and was admitted to the stale urine stench of that tiled netherworld, that, without suffering the slightest agony of metamorphosis, I was stepping into Paradise.
At first, I thought that I was alone, for I saw no one at the urinals, or in the first, cut-away booth where the available sex-hungry studs usually stood, playing with themselves. I thought to myself, "Oh, hell. Nothing here, again, and again, . . . and again." I nearly turned and left for home. But, I didn't. From force of habit, like a losing gambler who continues playing because he does not wish to face the reality of how much he has lost, I continued down the aisle, checking out the two remaining, fully-screened booths.
Then, in the last booth, I saw him. He was standing at the side of the stool, half-turned with the door of the booth open, so that he was exposed to anyone who had a desire to look at him. He was very tall, muscular, handsome, and black, with all of the pure negroid features that I, a white man, had come to find so sexually exciting -- flat nose, full lips, small ears, closely-cropped wooly hair, thick-muscular neck, broad shoulders, and slim waist. He was just standing there, looking downward as if he were unaware that I was watching. I followed his gaze downward to his huge, black hand that was casually stroking his immense, hard, uncircumcised piece of black horsecock.
As soon as I realized what I was looking at, that this beautiful black man was sexually available, it hit me like a bolt of lightning on a clear summer's day. My heart skipped two beats and the surge of prickly tingles that formed in the pit of my stomach, raced outward through my blood stream to my extremities, where, when it hit my brain, it made me feel as giddy as a sailor on shore leave who had just chug-a-lugged a couple of shots of whiskey.
Even though he seemed to sense that I was looking at him, he continued to look at his rampantly hard piece of black stud meat; then, he turned and looked directly at me. His eyes did not have the calloused cynicism or lackluster indifference of a hustler. Rather, his eyes seemed to reveal an inner intelligence, good humor, and kindness that warmed my heart. Our eyes embraced, for a few seconds, then he smiled as he returned his gaze to his cock, so insistantly, so directively, that I also looked again, and in looking, was hypnotized by the blacksnake, like a helpless bird.
It was his deep bass voice, rumbling like Paul Robeson in the shower, that aroused me from my hypnotic state. "Do you have a place where we can go?" he asked. His voice and movements completed the picture. I am sexually excited by masculine men. Any trace of effeminacy and I am chilled sexually. His voice and movements strongly communicated his masculinity.
"Yes, but its outside of the city. We could go there in my car," I replied.
"Alright with me," he continued, "I've got all night." Then he added, somewhat hesitantly, "Will you bring me back to the city sometime tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"Where's your car?"
"Across the bridge. We have to take the subway to get to it," I replied.
"By the way, my name is Dave. What's yours?" He offered me a big, black ham of a hand.
"Brad." I replied.
"Well, then, Brad. Lets go."
We took the subway to the place where my car was parked, drove to my apartment, and went inside.
"Nice place you've got here," Dave said.
"Yeh, its big enough," I said as I rubbed my hand over the prominant bulge down the leg of Dave's Levis.
"I need to take a leak," he said.
"Alright. The bathroom is in here," I said. I led the way up three steps through the walnut-paneled dining room to the mirrored bedroom. Dave went into the bathroom and took a leak without closing the bathroom door.
When he had finished, he turned toward me with his hank of black manmeat still hanging out. "Do you want it now?" he asked.
"Any time you do."
"Well, then, come take it."
He stood akimbo, legs apart, pelvis tilted forward, like an ebony Colossus, head lowered, abdominal muscles tensed, waiting for me to take him. I heard my breath exhale in a little sigh as I felt myself float, dreamlike, onto my knees on the bathroom floor, before him.
Now, I should tell you that I don't enjoy any of those silly vanilly "slave and master" games when I have sex. Even though, in my life as an active homosexual, I have knelt before many men, I never viewed my kneeling as an act of subservience. I had dirtied and torn many trouser knees kneeling in many T-rooms, in front of glory holes, in wooded glens by the side of the road, servicing a veritable army of horny truckers, servicemen, and civilians, eager to present their "short arms" for my intimate inspection, eager to use my mouth for their sexual release; but, I had never felt humiliated by the act. Kneeling was merely a matter of convenience. It placed my mouth close to the cock that I wanted to service in order to satisfy my own carnal lust. It had no more significance to me than any other bodily movement such as lifting my foot or bending my elbow.
Unlike kneeling before all those other men, kneeling before Dave had a profoundly moving effect on me. Even in this age of civilized democratic equality, when no man bows to another man, Dave's regal bearing stirred some primal urge in me so demanding that my obeyisance to his superior masculinity seemed as natural as if I were a medieval peasant kneeling before his lord or a primitive tribesman humiliating himself before his chief. Now, as I knelt before Dave, I could never remember being so spiritually moved by the experience. Piously, I accepted his proffered symbol of masculinity, slid the hood from the head of his love-scepter, that primitive symbol of regal power, and savored the heady aroma. "Don't take Tiny's overcoat off unless he's doing something," he said.
"Why?"
"I don't like to feel him uncovered. . . Feels cold or something."
"I'll fix that." I put the chalice to my lips, took a hearty draught, and moved my head back and forth eagerly on his mating tool like a child gobbling the ice cream from the top of an icecream cone.
"Keep your teeth covered," he ordered.
I replaced the napkin over the rim of the goblet so that none of the intoxicating aroma would be lost. "Its so damn big that I can hardly do anything with it."
"Sure you can. You've got to keep a regular motion up and down. . . Keep a tight suction, but no teeth. . . Harder with the lips. . . Ah! That's better. . . Now just stick with it. . . Take more of it in your mouth. You're hardly even taking the head. . . Come on, take it!" With his hands on the back of my head, he forced himself deeper and deeper into my throat until I gasped for air and gagged on my own saliva. "You're not very good at sucking, are you?"
"I'm better in other ways," I replied.
"I'm going to teach you to take care of me that way because sometimes I like a good head job," he said. "Alright, lets get undressed and go to bed."
Even though I tried not to be obvious about it, I could not help watching Dave out of the corner of my eye. He undressed, with not a sign of embarrassment, laid his clothes neatly on a chair, then proudly handsome as an African prince, in complete nudity, he strode majestically to the bed and lay down, as regally as if he were King Louis holding court in his bedroom at Versailles.
"You're going to finish me off with a good head job first, aren't you?" he asked.
I nodded my head, "I'll certainly try."
"Alright, come and take it!" he ordered. I undressed quickly, layed on my belly between his legs, pressed on the veins on top of his cock, close to his body, to make it engourge more fully, and took his cock into my mouth. "Not so much tongue," he said. "Keep a tight suction in your cheeks. . . Tighter with the lips, but no teeth. . . That's better. . . A little faster. . . Keep up the motion, don't slow down. . . That's better. . . Now, just take it a little deeper. . . That the way. . . Now you're getting it."
Giving him good head was very painful to me. Moving my head so rapidly up and down while squeezing down on the shaft with my lips caused the inside of my lips to be chaffed by my teeth. My jaw muscles ached and my neck muscles burned from the strain. My throat was sore from forcing the big head of his cock deep down into my esophagus while suppressing the gagging reflex. Occasionally, when I tried to relieve the pain by missing a stroke and tonguing around the head, he said, "Keep up the rhythm. Don't change the beat like that because I lose the feeling," and the pressure of his hand on the back of my head, forced his cock back down in my throat with the rhythm he wanted.
I kept up this agony for what felt like hours, synchronizing my motions with breathing and swallowing so that I would not choke on my own saliva. Just when I thought I could take the pain no longer, he said, "That's it, Brad, that's it. Now you've got the rhythm. . . Keep it up a little longer. I'm just about to come."
I kept plunging on him at the frantic pace that he needed. I didn't break the rhythm, until, "Now, don't move!" he ordered, as he forced his cock all the way into my throat and held it there with his hand on the back of my head. "AAAAGGGGGGHHHHH," he moaned, as his chalice relinquished its precious burden of delicious sexual wine and I felt spurt after spurt of the elixor of life conveyed to my eagerly receptive esophagus by the most erotically exciting delivery system that I had ever before experienced in my life. I lay there, held motionlessly by his hand's firm grip around my head, impaled on his love spear, like a suckling pig skewered on a spit, until his lust had spent itself in my body.
Finally, his grip on my head relaxed and I was able to move so that just the head of his cock was in my mouth. I stripped down his urethra with my fingers so that I could get every last drop of his precious male juices. Then, remembering to suck Tiny's overcoat over his naked head, I took Dave's cock from my mouth, and said, "Whew! Dave, that was wild."
"Yeh. That was a pretty good head job," he said. "With a few more hours of practice on Tiny, you should be one of the best cocksuckers around."
I moved up the bed so that I was laying along side of him, still stroking his cock, and said, "I hope so, Dave, because I sure want to please you."
"You do, Brad, believe me, you do." He put his arm around me and kissed me. We lay there together resting and holding each other.
"Let's take a shower," he announced, as he got out of bed. I got up, too, and followed him into the bathroom. He adjusted the shower, and got in.
"Want me to scrub your back?" I asked.
"Alright. Just wait 'til I get wet."
I opened the curtain and was overwhelmed by the beauty of his dark skin sparkling under the droplets of water like tropical rain on a black orchid, London drizzle on a black Rolls Royce, a spring shower on a black-leather clad biker, surf on a black wetsuit, spray on a fireman's shiny black rubber rain coat.
Dave's quizical expression returned me from my reverie. I put my left hand on the middle of his chest and, using a wash cloth that I had previously lathered, I scrubbed his back with my right hand. He relaxed, head tipped forward, eyes closed, apparently enjoying the feeling. Creamy white suds spilled over his shoulders, tracing white lines down his dark-brown chest where tightly curled hair at the center of his chest, divided the rivulets into two streams that cascaded down each side of his belly. I moved my hand on his chest, exploring every ridge and valley with my finger tips, memorizing every contour in my minds eye like a blind man, envisioning the slabs of muscles that lay under the polished ebony of his satiny black skin, savoring the contrasting textures that titillated the sensitive nerves of my fingers. He did not object so I smeared the lines of suds into the hair on his chest with my left hand while I ran the cloth over his sides and buttocks with my right hand.
As I scrubbed him, I marveled that here, under my soapy hands was the tangible result of thousands of hours spent searching. Here was my reward for enduring the stench of hundreds of public toilets, steam baths, and all-night movies. Here was my prize for suffering through the sight of thousands of ugly little penises, thousands of ugly little bodies, and thousands of ugly little souls. Here, under my hands was the results of rejecting hundreds of drug-addicted hustlers, tramps, bums, thieves, swishy queens, and violently insane criminals. Here was the winner from a long line of candidates chosen from innumerable soldiers, sailors, motorcyclists, students, body builders, laborers, truckers, and tradesmen, not to mention, doctors, lawyers, preachers, and teachers. Here was the man I wanted to live with forever. Here was the man who could make me end my search.
In addition, when I thought of the thousands of furtive moments of sexual pleasure stolen in YMCA shower rooms, through "glory holes" cut in the walls of public toilets, in steam rooms, in cars, in the sleeping compartment of trucks, why I even had sex with a black railroad switchman on the floor of the switching tower, forty feet above the trains, being able to enjoy hours of ecstacy with the man I loved was statistically highly improbable. Compared with those other situations, I was in Paradise.
Dave swayed gently under the pressure of my motions. I lathered my hands, smeared more soap on his neck and shoulders, then proceeded to his belly. He seemed to enjoy what I was doing because he neither moved nor opened his eyes, but his pendulous penis protruded from his body and swung back and forth. I soaped my hands and gently stroked the shaft of that beautiful penis, from the base to the foreskin. Now, even though his cock stuck out quite prominently, I did not move to arouse him further. I teased him a bit by gently lathering his testicles, the inside of his thighs, between his buttocks, and down each leg. He accommodated me by putting one foot at a time on the side of the tub so that I could lather the soles of his feet and in between his toes.
Now I returned to his cock. First, I lathered my hands, then I worked the soap along the shaft, gently peeling his foreskin back to expose the head of his cock, a little at a time. His black foreskin was quite long and generous. In fact it was long enough to completely cover the head of his cock when it was fully erect. But, unlike many men with a long foreskin, his had plenty of looseness so that the head was easily unsheathed and his foreskin became invisible along the shaft when it was pushed back.
Under my gentle massaging, his cock got fully hard. It was very large, and while it was not the largest I had ever seen, it was the most beautiful cock that I had ever seen. It was straight and it angled upward slightly from his body. The shaft had no massive veins to scar its smooth symmetry and it had the same diameter from his body to the head. The head of his cock, with its two pouty little vertical lips at the end, was perfectly sculpted at the end of the shaft and was a little larger, in diameter, than the shaft. The inner, firmly engourged shaft, was covered with unblemished, tissue-thin, satin-smooth black skin that, combined with the freedom of his foreskin, gave exceptional mobility to the surface. I amused myself with this work of art by gently pushing and pulling his skin to its limits in each direction.
"Want to rinse off, now?" I asked.
He opened his eyes and looked at me sternly. "I'm going to tell you once again and I want you to remember it. Don't leave 'Tiny' with his overcoat off unless he is doing something. Now cover him!"
Since I was startled by his severe tone, I moved quickly to replace his foreskin over the head of his cock. "Do you want me to rinse you off?" I asked.
"Do you have any shampoo?"
"Yes."
"Wash my hair. All of it," he ordered.
I reached a bottle of shampoo from a shelf over the sink as he soaked his closely cropped wooly black hair. I massaged the shampoo onto his bent-down head until he bore a crown of white lather. When I had finished, he tipped his head back under the stream. His crown dissolved into puffy clouds of foam that raced down his body like children's sailboats before a summer gale. I massaged shampoo into his pubic hair, converting it into a radiant white halo of foam that was starkly pierced by the black-onyx shaft of his magnificent love-baton.
He reached for his cock to rinse it. "That's my job," I said severly, mocking his stern reprimand about Tiny. He smiled, dropped his arms to his sides, and obligingly thrust his pelvis toward me. I took his soft penis in my hand, stroking it gently, exciting it so that, with each beat of his pulse, it flipped up toward my face. I glanced up to his eyes to appraise his mood and expectations. He met my gaze with a faint smile and an almost imperceptible flick of his head that I interpreted to mean, "Take me." I lowered myself to my knees, put the covered head of his cock in my mouth and tongued around the head of his cock, underneath the foreskin. I peeled back the foreskin with my tongue and forced the head down my throat while gripping that tissue-thin, amazingly mobile skin of the shaft with my lip-covered teeth. He responded with an erection that was as hard as iron. "Wow! Almost too big to suck," I thought.
I moved on his cock in an irregular fashion, occasionaly plunging, but mostly just tickling it with my tongue because I wanted to prolong our embrace and I didn't know how much it would take to make him come again. He solved the problem. "Hey! Lets dry off," he said, gently running his hard hand under my chin and lifting me up. When I was standing, he bent and kissed me, his thick negroid lips covering mine.
I did not forget to put Tiny's overcoat back on him, this time, before I shut off the shower. I reached an immense beach towel around Dave, and scrubbed him dry.
"Got any vasoline," he asked. My heart missed a beat. Vasoline had come to be associated in my mind with anal intercourse, which I preferred. I inter preted his question as an exciting proposition.
"Sure."
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. "My skin gets flakey and vasoline keeps it smooth."
"Oh, damn!" I thought to myself, disappointed that I had misinterpreted his question. To cover my mistake, I responded, "I have some body lotion. Do you want me to put some of that on you?"
"Alright," he replied. I took a bottle from the shelf and massaged spice- scented body lotion into his skin.
"I'll never understand why some blacks don't love their black skin," I thought as I ran my hands over Dave's beautiful black body. "When H. Rapp Brown says, 'We are black and we are beautiful,' I say, "Amen to that Brother Brown."
Dave's body, coated with the lotion, glistened like the polished black marble of a Rodin statue. I reached out and touched him gently, wanting only to confirm his presence, wanting only to reassure myself that he was really there, that he was not some heavenly hallucination.
"What's the matter?" he asked when he felt my touch.
"Nothing. You're just so beautiful."
"A man isn't beautiful!" he declared.
"Alright, then, you are the most handsome hunk of masculine pulchritude that I have ever laid my eyes and hands on."
I think my declaration embarrassed him because he changed the subject abruptly. "Here, put some more lotion on my chest. It looks dry."
"Sure," I said, massaging more lotion onto his muscular chest.
"That looks better," he said as he turned from the mirror. "Do you want me again?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, Dave," I replied.
He got back in bed. "Make it hard," he ordered. I climbed between his legs, took his cock in my mouth, and tongued and sucked it. He reached down and guided my head in the motion that he found most satisfying.
When he was fully hard, he lifted my head from his cock and said, "Lay on your back." I did as I was told; I rolled over on my back. He climbed between my legs, lifted them, and leaned forward so that the head of his cock was pres sing on my ass hole. Now, the chalice was transformed in function from a passive vessel, waiting to deliver Dave's sexual wine to my eager lips, into an extension of Dave's will, like a knife in the hand of a priest in a pagan sac rifice. "Loosen it," he ordered.
"I'm trying to, but you're so big."
"You wanted it! You made me hot! Now you take it!"
"Please, a little vasoline. Its on the bed table next to the towel," I begged. He greased his cock, and wiped his hand on the towel as I greased my ass.
There was never a sacrificial lamb that reached out so willingly for the priest's knife, that prayed for the ecstacy of insertion, that sought to pro long the ritual. "Not so fast, your hurting a little. Give me time to relax. Ah! That's it. . . Let me put a pillow under my ass. Maybe that will help.
. . Good. The angle is better." Dave groaned as his ass-sticker was im mersed to the hilt, instigating a dialogue with his victim's entrails. "Oh, God! That's good!" I sighed.
Dave pressed his thick negroid lips against mine as he darted his tongue in and out of my mouth in imitation of his cock that darted in and out of my asshole like a humming bird sipping necter from a flower, savoring each de licious plunge. My hands on Dave's back felt his muscles flex as he rolled and ground his cock into me with little sideways twitching motions. I matched his every motion, to increase his pleasure, gyrating when he rolled, tightening my ass hole when he moved away, relaxing it when he plunged, all the time kissing his lips, tonguing his neck and his tiny ears, so beautifully unlike a white man's.
"Alright, roll over," he said. "I want to finish you off from the other side." Dave withdrew his lust sword from the sacrifice, rolled me over on the alter, slipped his arms under my armpits, grabbed my shoulders to hold me under him, and reinserted his hot flesh blade back into the living sacrifrice beneath him.
"UUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHH," I moaned, as I felt it plunge, full depth, into my bowels.
Dave was a masterful performer. He pulled his cock out of me, complete ly, then he worked his still-wet cock into me with a grinding motion that soon had him buried again in me. We fucked in this position for a long time, his rough hands sometimes cupping my chest muscles, like they were a woman's tits, and sometimes pressing my belly to hold me to him and to guide my motions.
He continued this virtuoso fucking, like a skillful musician extracting every delightful note from his chosen instrument, my body, until I felt him fucking me with reckless abandon and with unrelenting regularity, again, and again, and again, faster and faster he stabbed his sacrificial knife into my willing body, until his body shook, I heard a mighty groan, I felt it swell in me, and with a final plunge, I felt pulse after pulse of his sexual offering spurt deep in my bowels as his body cast out its unwanted demons.
We both lay there, pleasantly exhausted and emptied of further sexual desire. "Go wash up and wash me again," he ordered. I did as I was told. I washed and dried his cock for him. When I had finished, he swung his heavy arm around my neck, pulled me to him, kissed me, then said, "Did you like that?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, Dave, very much."
"Thats good. I'm glad you liked it," he said. "You'd better pull up the covers or we'll get cold." After I had done this, he put his arm around me, pulled me to him and kissed me, a long affectionate kiss. We went to sleep that night in each other's arms.
After I had gone to sleep, I awoke during the night. Dave was sleeping on his back. I gently ran my hand down his belly to his soft cock, "Yep, its still there," I thought to myself. I went back to sleep holding his cock in my hand, my cheek against his muscular shoulder.
In the morning, I was awakened by Dave's getting up to go to the bathroom. When he came back to bed, he saw that I was awake and asked, "What time is it, anyway?"
"About eight-thirty," I replied.
"I have to be back in the city by noon. Got to meet a guy. You'll take me, won't you?"
"Sure," I replied as I ran my hand across his muscular body to his cock and grabbed it.
He looked at me with a sly, sideways glance, and asked, with a faint smile, "Didn't you get enough of Tiny last night?"
"Never," I replied.
As I continued to stroke his cock, I asked, "Why don't you come live here with me? You could get a job around here."
He thought a long time, then replied, "I can't, right now. I have to take care of things in the city?"
"What things."
"Don't push me, Brad!"
"OK, Dave. I'd love to have you live here, but I can't force you. Will you come out here and visit me again?"
"Sure."
"When?"
"Get me a piece of paper and I'll write down an address for you. Pick me up in front of that address next Friday."
"Are you sure you'll be there? I'd hate to make that trip into the city for nothing."
"I'll be there 'cause I want to get some mo' of that nahce whaht ass of yours," he said, imitating a deep South, black accent, as he leaned over me, gave me a kiss, ran his hand across my buttocks to the cheeks of my ass, and played with my ass hole with his finger. As we kissed, I stroked his cock, which was getting hard without my sucking on it. When it was hard, he greased his cock, lifted my legs onto his shoulders, and slid his cock into me. "Oh, Dave," I said. "I love you so much that I don't want you to leave. I'm afraid of losing you."
"Don't be afraid. I'll be back." He kissed me reassuringly as he fucked me.
Dave fucked me for a long time, I don't know how long, because the erotic ecstasy he aroused in me, put me into a state of suspended animation as far as time was concerned. But, this fuck was different from the fuck that we had enjoyed the night before. This time he only fucked me in the missionary position because this wasn't a "virtuoso-sexual-performance" fuck. This was a "comforting-and-consoling" fuck. He fucked me and kissed me. He stroked my hair soothingly with his hands, as if he were trying to reassure me of his reliability. I responded by trying to give him the best fuck he had ever had, so that he would think of it later and want to return to me for a repeat performance. I moved my hips like a frantic whore trying to please her favorite customer. I used every trick with my ass hole on his cock that I knew, and I even invented a few movements that hadn't been discovered before.
Now he was moving more frantically, with that rapid, regular rhythm, that I knew would bring him to climax. "UUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH," he moaned as I felt his cock swell in me and I felt spurt after spurt of his semen, loaded with all that black-baby sperm, bury itself deep inside of me. I wished that my ass were a uterus and that he could make me pregnant so that I could have his mulatto baby, to keep, a living momento, to remind me that he had been there and that he had made love to me.
He got up off of me, went to the bathroom, washed his cock, went to his clothes, and put them on. I got up, made breakfast for us, and drove him to the address in the city he had given me. When we got there, he offered me his hand, and said, "I'll see you next Friday." I took his hand and shook it believing that I would never see him again.
True to his word, Dave met me when he said he would, and, over the next months, we spent many happy nights with each other. Then, one day he phoned.
"Hello, Brad, this is Dave."
"Yes, Dave. What can I do for you?"
"Brad, do you still want me to come live with you?"
"Yes, Dave. You know I do."
"Well, Brad, I just broke up with the guy I was living with and I need a place to stay."
"Where are you? I'll come pick you up." He gave me an address.
I got in my car and drove to the address he had given me. He was standing there forlornly on the sidewalk with all of his belongings in bags and boxes around him. I pulled up and parked the car in front of him. We piled his belongings into the trunk of the car and onto the back seat, got into the car, and headed for my apartment.
As we were riding, I asked him, "What happened?"
"Oh, I was living with this guy since I got out of prison. He wanted me to have sex with him as long as I stayed with him, but he didn't turn me on like you do. When I couldn't have sex with him, on demand, he threw me out."
"I'd be a liar if I said that I'm sorry."
"I'm not," he said. "I guess I've known for a long time that I wanted to be with you. I only stayed with that guy out of loyalty because he helped me when I needed it. But I've known that I wanted to be with you since the first day I saw you in the men's room of the West Fourth subway station. You were so cute, and you looked so lovestruck, when you looked at me, that I wanted to hold you in my arms and cuddle you, right there in the subway toilet, and reassure you that it was alright to love me because I am a caring, responsible person, and I wouldn't hurt you. Brad, I'm sorry it took so long, but it just took this breakup to make me realize that its you that I want to be with."
Dave's emotional declaration moved me very much because I knew how hard it was for him to let down his macho defenses. I knew how difficult it was for him to bare his soul to me, as he had, because it left him vulnerable. He would be hurt if I rejected him. Tears swelled up in my eyes and I had to keep blinking so that I could see the road. I reached over, put my white hand into Dave's big black hand and squeezed it to reassure him. We rode the rest of the way back to the apartment in silence, holding hands.
When we got to the apartment, we seemed to have the same thing in mind. We left Dave's belongings in the car, and went up to the apartment. After I had unlocked the door, Dave turned me around, kissed me, picked me up in his muscular arms, and carried me across the threshold, like a newly-wed bride. He bumped the door shut with his shoulder, carried me up the three steps, and into the bedroom where he laid me gently down on the bed, lay down on top of me, and kissed me. "This is where I belong," he said.
Dave sure cured my compulsion to cruise. Since he moved in, we've lived happily ever after and I haven't cruised another subway toilet.