An ordinary weekday evening at home, not long ago: there is nothing on my calendar, but I've got something in mind. I pick up the phone and select a number from my recent calls list.
"Hey there," I say when he answers the phone.
"Hey, how's it going," he replies brightly, sounding pleased to hear my voice. "What's up?"
"Not too much. What are you up to?"
"Just finishing the dinner dishes, getting ready to walk the dog. How are you doing?"
"I'm okay. Getting over a slight cold, but it's almost better. I wouldn't mind some company if you're not doing anything. You feel like blowing me? I could use a little TLC."
"I'll be over in ten minutes," he says.
Jay is forty-something, but with a boyish quality that he works at preserving with the dedication of a museum conservator. Slight of frame, shorter than me, very blond, with blue eyes and a deep, deep tan that sets off a band of white skin the size and shape of absent swim trunks—and a body that reflects many a spare hour profitably spent at the gym. The boyish effect is somewhat diminished by a face lined from too much ultraviolet radiation; he has had numerous pre-cancerous moles removed from various parts of his body—so many that his dermatologist no longer wastes his breath on lectures about sunscreen. But Jay doesn't care. He has an image to maintain: a man with priorities.
His default affect is that of the cute little gay boy, accustomed to having any man he flashes his smile at. Lately, though, he is frustrated because the men he fancies don't fall as easily as they used to.
"Your problem," I tell him, "is that you still fancy twenty-eight-year-olds. And so do they."
"I know," he says, aghast, dejected and disappointed by life's unfairness. "But I keep feeling like have to try. Every now and then I still get lucky."
He likes to act the role of the adorable airhead plaything, but, in fact, he is far from dumb. Not among the deepest of thinkers, perhaps, but he has a masters degree and a sense of humor, and can hold his own in conversations about politics and world affairs, and a variety of other topics. He is pleasant company, and we have started seeing each other fairly often - even though we don't share a deep personal or intellectual bond.
What we do share, however, is a deep, mutual respect for the fine art of cock sucking - at the Ph.D level. I have rarely met anyone as talented as my friend-with-benefits Jay, and I tell him so often.
"You really do sort of know what you're doing down there, don't you?" I say. And he lights up, unable to speak, but tickled and amused by the compliment.
"What makes you such a wonderfully gifted cocksucker," I say, "is precisely the fact that you love doing it so much." He nods rapidly, wiggling his cute little butt like a puppy being fed tidbits of fresh bacon. "And you love hearing that, too, don't you?"
"Mmmm."
"I know. You like being told what a good cocksucker you are. You like it when people notice." (I know this because I feel exactly the same when complimented on my cock sucking skills.) He nods again, and then I force his head down until his nose is flattened against my skin. I hold it there for a full minute.
"Good boy," I say, running my fingers through his sun-bleached hair. He smiles, and contentedly redoubles his efforts. "There's really nothing better than having a nice, warm cock in your mouth, is there?"
"Mmmm."
"Good boy," I say again, patting his head.
He chuckles silently, not only from the pleasure of being appreciated, for a skill of which he is justifiably proud, at a level achievable only by the true amateur (literally, one who practices an art purely for the love of it), but also from the absurd comedy by which we are both continually convulsed: to wit, the taking of unbridled satisfaction from accomplishments that much of the population would regard as, shall we say, less than ennobling (an assessment with which I, for one, take vigorous exception). It is as if we belong to an obscure circle of cognoscenti awake to the finer points, invisible to the mere connoisseur, of an art-form of such subtlety that only another artist can truly appreciate: the regard of one prima-ballerina for another, in an age when the most popular entertainments are NASCAR racing and professional wrestling.
"You are my role model," I tell him, eliciting a burst of laughter that, unfortunately, dislodges from his throat the object under consideration—at least temporarily.
Jay has been coming over for evenings devoted to cock sucking for nearly a year, ever since we met last summer. Although this evening the focus is entirely on my cock, owing to my recent cold, which makes it hard for me to breathe through my nose – essential for giving truly inspired head, most nights Jay's cock spends much more time in my mouth than my cock does in his.
Jay is a lot of fun to suck off, although he doesn't have a very big cock. It is a bit smaller than average, I would say. But he is pleasant company, looks good naked, and he produces an almost ridiculous amount of jizz. He can get off multiple times in quick succession, shooting big loads all but the last couple of times. His record for feeding me multiple loads, as near as I can remember, was seven separate orgasms in the space of about ten minutes.
His cum doesn't taste very good, however. It is strong, salty, and acrid, to the point where sometimes I am almost disgusted by the taste. But there is something hot about that, too. Often, though, I don't taste very much of it, because his favorite way to cum is while shoving his cock as far down my throat as it can possibly go. If he is fucking my face from above – one of my favorite positions – when he is about to shoot he bears down, forcing my head against the pillow, and burying his stiff meat deep in my gullet. If I am laying on my stomach between his legs as he reclines on his back, he will grab my head with both hands and force it down, squashing my nose against his pubes, and then holds it there until he finishes shooting.
After a guy shoots in my mouth, I like to savor it, nursing on the spent cock while my mouth is still full of cum. When I do that with Jay, oftentimes his cock stiffens again within a minute or less, and he grabs my head and begins pumping another salty load into my mouth or down my throat. There have been evenings when he has done that three, four, or even five times in a row – sometimes even more - all within the space of a couple of minutes. The man is a veritable jizz factory.
There is something about that I find quite thrilling. But after about a year and a half I begin to feel that I need to find playmates with nicer-tasting spooge, and I taper off, and then stop calling him altogether. I have since found other feeders with much more palatable semen, which I continue to relish unabashedly.
. . . to be continued.
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