Good-Looking Latino "Model," Part 3
"I'm coming, too," I announced. I also stood up, grabbed my towel, hurriedly wrapped it around my hips, and tucked it in at the waist to hold it there, so I could catch up with him. I wanted to go with him because I didn't want to let him out of my sight, even for a few moments. I was afraid that some other ditsy queen would get her claws into my "model" on the way to the bathroom and back, and steal my prize away from me.
While he had his back to me, opening the door, I quickly grabbed my douche bulb from my trick bag and, like a clever old whore, wrapped it in an extra towel so he wouldn't see it. I did this because I was afraid that he might be offended by its sight. Some men feel that use of this practical instrument of sexual cleanliness, before a sexual encounter is unromantic. Their fantasy is that fairy-tale lovers are supposed to be so swept up by passion that thoughts of douching would not even enter their heads. The idea that the Fairy Princess douched before Prince Charming carried her off into the sunset, ruins that fantasy.
The idea of douching after a sexual encounter is repugnant to some men for several reasons. Based upon a peasantish preAIDS view of heterosexual relationships, they are offended, I guess, because of what they feel douching says about them and their lover. A "nice girl" didn't need to douche before sex because she was always sweet and clean and unsullied. Her pussy was always pristine pure and virginal. Furthermore, a "nice girl" wasn't supposed to want to douche after sex because she was supposed to want to retain her lover's semen in her body, as a symbol of love.
This prejudice against douching, retaining semen as a symbol of love, is the basis, for some men, of wanting their lover to swallow their semen, instead of spitting it out, after giving them head. Those men, who tell their lovers, "If you really loved me, you'd swallow it," take a proprietary interest in the disposal of their semen, once it has left their bodies. The body fluid, that, when masturbating in private, would be flushed down the toilet, takes on symbolic, almost religious, importance to them, as if, in the presence of their lover it had been transmogrified by the sexual experience, into preciously rare, thrice-blessed sacramental wine. They act as if it were the blood of Christ that they were imparting to their lover's lips. Not a precious drop should be wasted. This attitude, that a lover's semen is somehow precious, is demonstrated in porn videos when a guy gathers his lover's semen from his belly, or wherever it was spilled during ejaculation, and sensuously consumes it.
A douche bulb, on the other hand, like black mesh stockings, to some men, is the symbol of a whore. Since a whore needs to douche after sex to prepare herself for the next customer, douching symbolizes to some men, a whorish preoccupation with cleanliness. In addition, some men are insulted by douching after sex because it implies that their semen was unclean, that it dirtied the vessel that received it.
Furthermore, douching implies to some men that they were inadequate lovers. It implies that if they were doing their job well enough, their lover would be so intoxicated with passion that he wouldn't be concerned with mundane matters like cleaning up. All of this unreasonable prejudice in our society against these instruments of sexual cleanliness, are revealed in the greatest insult one man can call another -- a "douche bag." Because of this unreasonable prejudice, I concealed mine from Jorge.
I followed Jorge out the door. He walked down the hall to the bathroom, with me right behind him. On the way, I glared menacingly at a couple of queens who turned and admired his stunning beauty as we passed. My threatening looks told them that he was mine, that they could look, but that they shouldn't even dare think about touching, or I'd scratch their eyes out. They got the message. Knowing that he was not an available free agent, they didn't even bother to follow us.
Jorge went to the urinal and pissed a horse-strong stream for a long time. The sound of his piss hitting the water as he relieved himself, became more muffled as it whipped up a froth on the water in the bottom of the urinal. While his back was to me, so that he couldn't see what I was doing, I quickly filled my douche bulb at the sink, went to the booth, and douched, to remove any pollution from my Love Canal, in preparation for our next round of love-making. We rinsed our hands at adjacent sinks and returned together, without incident, to room 320, followed by the lovelorn stares of other Barracks patrons, smitten by our beauty.
Jorge took off his towel and lay on the bed, on his side with his back against the wall, so that I would have plenty of room, to lie next to him on the narrow cot-wide bed. His pinga hung, still somewhat engorged from our previous love-making session, across his thigh like a delectable sausage, definitely not the worst wurst that I had ever seen.
Then, in that delightful way that macho men have of communicating their desires through body language instead of words, when he saw me looking at him, he flicked the fingers of the arm he had sprawled out across the bed, signaling, I thought, that he was ready for some more love-making. At the same time, he hunched his hips seductively, flipping his pinga a little in my direction, beckoning me, I thought, to hurry to his arms and take him.
I locked the door to the room, took off my towel, and joined him on the bed. I lay on my side, facing him, my neck over the arm that he had outstretched across the bed. Then, I felt that arm wrap around me and hold my shoulders, supposedly to hold me onto the bed.
He might have been just a skillful courtesan making his "client" feel good. However, in my enamored state, his arm around me communicated care, concern, responsibility, kindness and protection -- in other words, it felt like love to me, love that I knew intellectually, from my experience with Todd, I could not rationally expect from a "model." For a moment, I felt like I was getting the love that I was missing from my life by buying sex by the quart instead of husbanding the "cow," or, in this case, the bull. It was the love, that I longed for so much, that was denied me by my association with "models."
Even though I knew all this rationally, I put my arms around him, closed my eyes, sighed, and wilted into his arms like a silly love-struck school girl, until another insistent hunch from his hips reminded me of why we were there. I reached down and took his pinga in my hands, stoked its smooth shaft, and frigged his luxuriant Won Ton wrapper up and down over the Spring Roll.
I thought, as I played with his sausage's casing, that circumcision for any reason other than disease, such as cancer, was unnecessary. After all, if crooked teeth could be straightened with braces, phremosis could be cured, without surgery, by stretching therapy. (Besides, think of how much fun it would be for the patient.) I thought that the routine circumcision of babies by doctors for a medical reason no more serious than convenience for lazy mothers, "it makes the baby easier to keep clean," was reprehensible and should be forbidden by law.
Furthermore, I thought, as I toyed with Jorge's luxuriant altar cloth, that circumcision, particularly for religious reasons, was an affront to God because it said, in effect, that man thought that God made a mistake. It said that man thought that God put a foreskin on man's sex organ for the trivial purpose of enriching money-grabbing doctors and for giving mohels (the Jewish circumcision specialists) something to do.
I believe that if God wanted man to be circumcised, He, She, or It would have made him without a foreskin. I believe that God made man with a foreskin for a purpose, that man's foreskin is God's will, and that tampering capriciously with God's will is religious sacrilege.
Another insistent hunch from Jorge's hips aroused me from my soliloquy on a foreskin theme, and reminded me of the business at hand -- his magnificent pinga, already semi-hard from my frigging, impatiently demanded further attention. "Suck it," he said softly, not contributing too much to the enchanting cacophony of sexual sounds that pervaded the atmosphere of the Barracks, but, loud enough for me to hear him. And, the sexy-tough, demanding way he ordered me, erotically aroused me further, because there was nothing I liked better than being ordered to do what I wanted to do, anyway.
His order was reinforced by his gentle, insistent hand-pressure on my shoulder, guiding me down to the area he wanted me to service. Believe me I didn't need any kind of guide to find his pinga. I could have found it even if I were blind and the room were completely dark.
I slid my legs off the bed and knelt with one knee on the edge of the bed, bent over, hovering over his erect pinga, admiring its symmetrical beauty. After I had memorized its cumliness from that vantage point, like the Eiffel tower viewed from the Montgolfier's hot-air balloon, I plunged on it again, treating its slick sensitive surface to every tongue trick I had gleaned from years of eminently successful cock sucking. I treated him to oral feats of erotic performance from my vast repertoire of oral tricks -- tricks that I had learned from successfully satisfying bikers, those leather-clad knights of the open road who were, as a group, the most knowledgeable epicures as well as the most demanding task-masters of cock sucking. Anyone who could satisfactorily give bikers head had to be good because those guys really liked to have their cocks sucked and they had definite ideas about how it was to be done. Believe me, I really learned to suck cock when I took on a whole bike club, THE LONG ISLAND STUDS. But, that's another story. Needless to say, however, my cock-sucking skills benefitted from that post graduate course at Morehead University. Now, I can report to you, with all due immodesty, as a result of that experience, I am a cock-sucking expert.
I put all that experience to work on the project at hand. I plunged on Jorge's pinga, taking it into my throat and tongue-tickling the urethra, the pisstube, on the bottom side, with little electric-shock-like tingles of my tongue, up and down its sensitive surface, causing his cock to jump with joy from the feeling, sending shock-waves down his urethra like ripples down the surface of an electric eel, sending erotic messages to his brain. I tongued and tickled and plunged on that magnificent monster as if I had a biker with a chain around my neck, threatening to throttle me if I didn't do it right.
Then I decided to experiment a little. I bit his completely rock-hard monument to masculinity a little, tentatively, to see if he liked a little rough treatment. In the heat of passion, he moaned and groaned, "Yeh! Bite that big Mother!" I gathered from his response that he liked it a little rough so I bit and raked the surface of his mighty meat as if I were The Grand Inquisitor on an especially evil day, extracting a confession of heresy from a Spaniard accused of witchcraft.
His response was remarkable. He moaned and groaned in sweet agony, from the abuse I was inflicting on his pinga, like a flagellante enjoying the scourge of the whip. Then, in his heightened state of erotic arousal, a strange thing happened. At least, it startled me, at first. I felt his hand creep up between my legs and grab my nine-inch everhard Rodney in a firm vice-like, death grip.
I say that this event surprised me because, usually, the macho bisexual "models" that I patronized, never touched their "client's" penis in passion. Oh, sure, if you paid them enough, they's "submit" to a little reciprocation, but never voluntarily because they enjoyed it. Always for an additional fee. In the heat of pain-induced passion, Jorge had sought out my cock for comfort. He had sought solace from me, as if I were his Daddy, (which I was old enough to be), to help him deal with the delicious pain and the implied castration threat that his reaction revealed. "Indeed," I thought, "This was an interesting turn of events." I wondered where it was going to lead.
I didn't have long to wait to find out. As if it were the handle to my body, Jorge pulled my cock toward his head onto the bed along side of him into the sixty-nine position. In the heat of passion, he had regressed to the innocence of childhood, when he could, without guilt, express his innocent curiosity about his body parts and those of the men around him, before society taught him sex, especially sex with other men, was supposed to be naughty. He could put my cock in his mouth as innocently as a suckling babe, expressing a natural desire to nurse.
I sure didn't resist him. I let him suck my cock into his mouth and down into his gullet like a child slurping a strand of spaghetti, when his Mother wasn't watching. Then, he got on his hands and knees over me, in the sixty-nine position, with his cock still in my mouth, and sucked on my best asset as if he had been born into the cocksucking fraternity. Without skinning back the foreskin, he plunged on my nine-inch lust-sword to the hilt. He sucked up it to the tip, only to plunge on it again and again.
Furthermore, for a beginner, I thought he was very good because he was unbelievably gentle. I felt none of the teeth or rough treatment that I had come to expect from neophyte cock suckers who were just learning to perform the art. His tongue and his lips were so gentle that it felt like a warm summer breeze stroking up and down my Johnson. It was the most gently, sensual sucking my cock had ever had, and I loved every minute of it.
He must have known that if he kept up that rhythm, he would bring me to climax, because he broke the rhythm. He plunged all the way down on my cock and, even in that inverted sixty-nine position, it felt like he was tonguing my balls! What technique! I thought that I had died and gone to sexheaven. Here was this good-looking macho Latino, secure enough in his masculine self-concept to suck dick uninhibitedly. Here was a man who had voluntarily studied what master cock suckers were doing to his cock when they sucked him. Here was a man who had obviously practiced, as I had, to emulate their performance. And, all the time he was sucking my dick like a pro, he was fucking his pinga in and out of my throat, using my mouth as if I were the world's champion slut. His ambidextrous performance presented me with a delightful dilemma -- I didn't know where to focus my attention. I didn't know if I wanted to relax and enjoy the feeling that his enlightened cocksucking was giving to my cock, of if I wanted to focus on enjoying the Latino love muscle that was pleasuring my mouth. I decided to focus on my mouth because, if I thought about my cock too much, his skillful ministrations would bring me to a premature ejaculation, something I wanted to avoid at all costs because I wanted this ecstacy to last as long as possible.
I put my hand to my lips around his bazooka as if I were holding a musical instrument to my lips, and I played a tune on his love trumpet that would have made Satchmo proud. I blew more blues notes than Jimmy Dorsey. I triple-tongued his lust horn like Wynton Marsalis playing a baroque trumpet concerto. I improvised an involuntary Trumpet Voluntary on his sex trumpet that would have put Henry Purcell to shame. I gave such a virtuoso performance on his meat whistle that I expected a contract to perform next season with the Boston Pops.
We both continued that way, competing with each other, each trying to outperform the other in oral virtuosity, until I felt his fucking of my mouth became more rapidly rhythmical and I knew that he was climbing for his second climax. Even though I could not move my head, I opened my throat and kept my teeth covered with my lips so that no pain would now distract him from his headlong race for his climax. I made my cunt-mouth as sleek and smooth as the best pussy he had ever fucked.
At the same time, I used my hands on the shaft of his magnificent pinga to accentuate his basic copulatory rhythm and embellish his movements, like the harpsichord continuo in a baroque concerto, adding elegantly fine, filigree-like grace notes to the melodically simple architecture of the primitive, jungle-drum rhythm of his hips, that beat on my face like the boom, boom, boom of the kettle drums in the opening passages of Brahms First, driving his pile-driver deeper and deeper into my cunt-throat, going, like Star Trek, "Where no man had gone before," exploring new galaxies of erotic delight. I had to capture quick gasps of life-giving oxygen between each plunge, like a virtuoso trumpeter playing the trumpet part of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto.
On and on he raced, oblivious of my needs, using my body as a willing receptacle for his mindless lust, raping and pillaging my throat like Atilla the Hun sacking a village on the day after his lover had a headache. Higher and higher he climbed until I felt my cock vibrate in his mouth from the moan of his climax and the air that had been captured in his lungs as he started his climb, was released through his nostrils like a raging bull, tickling my love jungle like a fairy's blessing.
"UUUUHHHHHMMMMM," I heard him moan as I felt him plunge, full depth into my throat and I had to swallow madly to keep from being inundated by his cum, like a tsunami hitting a low-lying Pacific atoll, sending wave after wave of his semen washing over my tongue, as he released his pent-up lust like a giant electrical condenser discharging its stored up energy during an artificial lightning display in Steinmetz's laboratory.
At the same time Jorge was venting his cajones into my throat, his skillful stimulation of my "pinga" brought me to climax and I ejaculated a healthy load into his mouth. He did not take my cock from his mouth as soon as he had spilled his seeds in me. As a symbol of love to me, he did not allow my seeds to spill out of his mouth onto my belly. He kept the firm but gentle pressure of his mouth on my cock, deep in his throat, swallowing until I had discharged every precious drop in him. Then, still not satisfied, he stripped down my urethra with his finger tips, and gently licked every remaining drop of semen from my piss hole as if it were rare ambrosia. Only then did he gently stroke my foreskin over the head of my dick and lay it gently between my legs.
He rolled off of me, onto his side on the bed along side of me, his cock, retreating from my mouth as he did. I got up and lay again in his arms with my head next to his. "How did you like that?" he whispered in my ear.
"Great!" I replied honestly. "I can't remember when I had a better blow job. You sure are gentle. How did you know that I liked it that way?"
"Oh, I just guessed from the way you acted, that you didn't like rough sex."
"You were right. Just gentle love for me. None of those S & M games for me. I have a T shirt that I wear with my leather 'drag' that says, 'Just because I have a leather fetish, how dare you assume I'm into S & M.'"
"Yeh. I know what you mean. Sometimes those guys get pretty heavy duty with castration, branding, mutilation and all that kind of shit."
"I don't understand how they can think that kind of stuff is fun," I said, revealing my intolerance of another aspect of "gay" life. "It's not for me. Your gentleness is just right for me."
"Glad you liked it."
Jorge and I lay there, resting, enjoying the sweet afterglow of passion, the mellow feeling that follows release of tension that comes after a satiating climax. We shared the contentment of intimacy, the gratification of knowing that we had sexually satisfied someone else at the same time that we had sexually satisfied ourselves.
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