My Adventures with Nick, Part Two
When I awoke, Nick was standing in front of my computer, "bare-ass naked." I got out of bed and walked over to where he was. He didn't look up, and I spent a moment admiring the pure masculine beauty I saw before me.
"What?" he said, finally choosing to acknowledge me.
I laughed.
"I'm gonna get into your fuckin' gifs, man. Count on it."
I laughed even harder. God, how I wanted to jump into his arms and stick my tongue down his throat.
"Come on. Let's take a shower and go get something to eat," I said.
"I ain't takin' a shower."
"But we got all this nasty stuff all over us."
"It's called cum, man. Cum. It ain't nasty; it's us. It's fuckin' us. Say it. Say 'cum.'"
"All right. We've got 'cum' all over us. Let's take a shower."
"No."
"Why not," I asked. I was surprised at the heat in his reply.
"'Cause it's us, man. You and me mixed together. Yeah, I know people can smell it, but so fuckin' what? You and me made love; we had sex. I ain't ashamed of that, and I don't care who fuckin' knows it. I want people to smell us on each other. So put your goddamn jeans on, and let's get out of here."
I almost started to cry. What we had done a half hour ago must have really meant something to this boy. To me it had been the "first time," the "deflowering," the sexual coming of age I'd thought about for months. To Nick, though, it must have meant much more than I had realized. I went over to our pile of clothes and got my things. I started getting dressed. Nick was still busy at the computer, but I saw him shoot a glance my way. I took his clothes to him, and he said "Thanks, buddy." My heart melted.
Once in his car, he fired up his engine but didn't pull out. He turned to me with a touch of sadness in his face.
"Look, man, I'm sorry for getting mad a little while ago. It's just that I like you a whole lot, and what we did was special to me. I could have gone to, like, five different parties tonight. I could've fucked ten girls and ten guys at each one. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted to be with you. And another thing, I knew that was your posting in that newsgroup. When I saw it last night, I thought of you. I called the number, and, when I heard your voice on the answering machine, I got a hard-on. I set this whole thing up this afternoon. I fuckin' engineered it. I'm sorry I got pissed when you wanted to take a shower. We can go back inside and take one if you want to."
"How did you set it up," I asked.
"Today in physics, our lab partners were out because I called them last night and asked them to be out. They owed me, and today I collected. They weren't out because they're goin' out of town or having brain surgery or whatever the hell they told the lady in the attendance office. And at Chubby's place, the way I acted was really shitty, and I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. You've got more character than me, Brad. I mean. . . I all but pulled my dick out and begged you to jerk me off. I ain't proud of it, but I'm damn glad I did it. And I'd do it again."
Jesus! My ego was a mile high and two blocks wide. I couldn't believe my ears. I leaned over and kissed him.
"That's to say you're forgiven, although you don't have anything to be sorry for."
Sitting in the car in my driveway, Brad pulled me to him and kissed me. It was a wonderful kiss. I couldn't imagine where this would lead, but I would surely follow.
"What do you feel like eating," he asked.
"You," I blurted. I don't know where that came from or what I really meant by it, but it was how I felt at that moment. I'm sure I blushed deeply, but it was dark in the car, and I doubted Nick could tell.
"We'll get back to that subject later," he said nonchalantly. "I mean, what kind of food do you like?"
"That was a joke. I knew what you meant, fuck-wad," I said.
"Oh, yeah, asshole?" Nick was warming to my little game.
"Yeah, dickface."
"Oh, yeah, cum-jockey?"
"Yeah, tit-sucker." I didn't know how many more of these I could come up with.
Nick and I started laughing at the same instant.
"That's the first time I ever heard you curse, man," Nick said when he was laughed out. He started up the car and began backing out of the driveway. I figured he had his mind on someplace to eat, and he certainly knew the city better than I did.
"You curse, as you call it, enough for both of us," I said.
"Does it bother you, man? 'Cause if it does, I'll stop." The unexpected seriousness in his voice surprised me. It was, in fact, rather touching.
"Bother me? Hell, no, man," I said, echoing his speech mannerisms. "It's kinda arousing a little bit, ya know?"
"Yeah, I do know. But sometimes I think I curse too fuckin' much."
After a momentary pause, we both burst into laughter at this last statement.
Nick pulled out his pack of cigarettes, flipped it open, and offered me one. I accepted, again patted for my forgotten lighter, and accepted a light from him.
"So why do you curse so fucking much," I asked as I suppressed a laugh.
We laughed again.
"Seriously this time. Why?" I certainly wasn't offended by his language, and I truly did find it alluring. I've always thought of coarse language, and even bad grammar, as tough, masculine traits. I sometimes wished I'd have the balls to use it myself, but it just didn't feel comfortable. I've never thought of myself as the "tough" type. I'm not at all swishy, but somehow talking the way Nick did didn't fit the expectations other people seemed to have of me. I wanted to see if that philosopher had given the subject any thought.
"I guess it's the environment I grew up in. You know, mostly guys. It's kind of a way to stake out your territory, like a dog pissing all over everything to tell other dogs that this place belongs to him. It's kind of a way of telling other guys not to fuck with me and my stuff."
So, indeed, he had thought about it. That boy reminded me of a deep pool that is calm and polished on the surface but turbulent and filled with snags beneath. I wanted to know everything about him. Was he gay? Did he often do what we had done? What was his family like? I decided to change the subject.
"Where are we going," I asked.
"To a place called The Climatis. It's just a little neighborhood place with a bar on one side and a restaurant on the other. There are a bunch of these kinds of places all over New Orleans. You can get all different kinds of food--steaks, seafood, Italian, creole. You know. I eat here now and then, but I'm not one of their regulars or anything."
I didn't respond. I noticed he got through that whole utterance without using an obscenity and without making a grammatical error. It was almost as though he was relaxed and didn't have to put up a defensive line around himself.
We rode in silence except for the radio that Nick had turned on. We had finished our cigarettes, so I rolled up the window on my side to keep the chilly spring air at bay. Nick noticed what I did and rolled his window up as well. He also tossed his cap onto the back seat.
We got to The Climatis in a few minutes, went in, found a table, and started looking at the menu. There was an array of dishes I'd never heard of, much less tasted. "Stuffed artichoke," "crawfish bisque," "okra gumbo," "grillads and grits," "stuffed eggplant." The list went on in the same vein.
The waitress asked for our drink orders. I assumed Nick would order a beer, but he ordered a Coke instead. I did the same.
"What do you recommend, buddy," I asked Nick. He smiled when I addressed him as "buddy."
"It's all good. I'm going to get a bowl of okra gumbo to start and fried softshell crabs for my main course. I'll decide about dessert later, if I have any room left." He looked at me for my reaction.
"I've never eaten any of that, but I guess I'm game to try," I said.
I looked around the restaurant. There were people at three other tables, and they all appeared to be families. None of the men had on ties, but two of them were wearing white dress shirts they had probably worn to work that day. There was an enormous stuffed sailfish on one wall, and several other mounted fish on other walls. The tables had black formica tops with aluminum edging around them. The table was set with paper placemats and silverware rolled up in white cloth napkins. In the middle of the table was a rather bewildering array of bottles. Not ketchup and mustard, as I would have expected to find, but Tobasco Sauce and unlabelled bottles of clear liquids with peppers and sprigs of what I assumed were herbs floating in them. I guessed I was experiencing the acclaimed New Orleans cuisine, neighborhood style.
We had come into the place through the outside door marked "Restaurant," but to the right of that door at the other end of the building was another one marked "Bar." Through the arched opening in the wall that separated the two establishments, I could hear music from a stereo or jukebox and occasionally the sound of a pinball machine.
The waitress brought our Cokes and took our order for dinner. After she'd gone, Nick broke the silence.
"What do you want to do after dinner," he asked. "I know of a couple of parties we could go to, if you want to."
"I'm not really in a party mood," I said. "Why don't we go back to my house and just hang out? In fact, why don't you spend the night with me?"
"I had already planned to," he said and grinned.
"Don't you have to call your parents and ask them if it's all right?"
"No. If anybody wants me, they can call my pager." Nick reached down to the waistband of his jeans where I knew his pager would ordinarily be clipped on, and a puzzled look came over his face. He looked like he was thinking hard, trying to remember where the pager might be. Then he smiled a little.
"What," I said.
"I don't have my pager on me, and I was trying to remember where it is. Then I remembered it's in my jacket in the car."
"Do you need to go get it," I asked. "What if your parents have been trying to reach you?"
"My parents are dead," he said softly.
"Nick, buddy, I'm sorry." I never know how to handle moments like that one.
"Thanks, but they've been dead for six months now."
"How'd they die," I asked. Then, as an after thought, "Do you mind talking about it?"
"No, I don't mind. They were killed in a plane crash. It was my mom and dad, my dad's brother, Matt. And the pilot, too. They were on their way home from a business trip to Houston. They got caught in a really bad thunderstorm, and the wind sheered off part of the tail. They went down west of Lafayette, and everybody was killed instantly. Or so they told us."
"How old were you," I asked.
"I had just turned eighteen about a week before."
"Who's been taking care of you? Do you have a guardian, or something?"
"Not much of anybody, really," he said. "I have two older brothers, Scott and Matt. Scott's twenty-two and Matt's twenty. I've been pretty much on my own since my folks died."
"Do you live by yourself?"
"Oh, no; we all live together in our same house. Our folks left us pretty well off financially. Plus, we're in business together. We get along pretty well, considering."
"Where do you live?" I knew he lived near me, but I wanted to know everything.
"Just a couple of blocks from you. On Live Oak."
Not having had much to do in the previous couple of weeks, I had walked around the neighborhood several times. Live Oak was a beautiful street, with huge oak trees that formed a canopy over the road and sidewalks. The houses were enormous; some of them might have even qualified as mansions.
"I've been on that street. Which house is yours?"
"It's 1632," he said.
"No, I mean what's it look like?"
"You really can't see much of it from the street because there's a brick wall along the sidewalk that's pretty high. There's an iron gate you can see through, but there are so many bushes that it's hard to see the house very well."
I knew exactly which one it was. I had wondered who lived there. The place is magnificent, almost like something out of a movie about rich people in Beverly Hills. Our house was nice, but it was a shack compared to Nick's.
Our gumbo arrived, and we got busy with it. It was a really thick soup; brown. It had rice in it, and small shrimp, and half of what I thought was a crab. It smelled wonderful.
"Be careful. The gumbo is hot," the waitress said.
"Thanks," Nick said.
The gumbo was indeed hot. I took a spoonful and blew on it gently to cool it a little before I tasted it. When I did, my mouth exploded with flavor. That may have been the best food I'd ever eaten.
"Mine needs some salt," Nick said, after he'd tasted his. I handed him the salt shaker, took it back after he'd used it, and sprinkled some in mine. When I tasted it again, the salt had only made it better.
After we had settled into our bowls of gumbo, I wanted to get back to Nick and his life. So far, what he'd told me had been fascinating.
"So, you and your brothers have a business," I asked.
"Yeah. Well, really, it's my brother Scott's business, and Matt and I just work for him."
"Scott. He's the older one, right?"
"Right. Actually, all three of us own it, but Scott's in charge. And I really only work part-time, kind of on a fill-in basis."
"What kind of business is it," I asked.
Nick barked a laughed and looked a little embarrassed.
"I guess you've got to know this," he said. "We have three strip clubs. Male strip clubs."
"What do you mean 'male' strip clubs? Do guys come and watch women strip? Men strip? What?"
"No, women come and watch guys strip. It's like the Chippendales or something. You ever heard of them?"
I had heard of the Chippendales, all right. "So, do you strip?"
"Well, yeah. And dance. And . . . ."
"And what?" The suspense was killing me.
"Look, Brad, you've got to know about these places. But I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me."
I could tell Nick found this whole conversation difficult. I set my curiosity aside and said, "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."
"No, I want to. I really do want you to know. See, these places have back rooms, private back rooms. We only strip down to g-strings on stage, but we strip all the way in the back rooms. It costs a hundred dollars for a half-hour private 'show.' And it's not really a show. It's sex."
Wow! I couldn't believe what he was saying. Talk about fantasy fulfillment. When I hadn't been wondering if I was gay and imagining guys like Nick, I had thought about being a male stripper and doing exactly what Nick was saying.
He lit a cigarette and continued.
"There's a group of twenty-four guys, eight for each club. Six guys dance every night, and two are always on their days off. They rotate from club to club to avoid monotony. There are a lot of 'regulars,' and they get tired of seeing the same guys all the time. I'm a substitute for when one of the guys can't make it or for when some guy quits or something. Sometimes, like now, I don't have to work at all. Other times, like night before last and most of the last two weeks, I have to work."
Nick took a drag on his smoke and flicked the ashes in the ashtray. He exhaled the smoke slowly and looked at it and away from me. I had a million questions, and I wanted to get to the important ones first in case he decided to change the subject. I wanted to pry into every aspect of his life, but I couldn't appear to be doing so.
"So, is this just a job, or what?"
"Do you mean do I like it?" He gave a knowing smile. He was bright, that boy.
I nodded.
"Yeah, Brad, I like it. I like it a lot. But I also like what we did this afternoon and what I hope we're going to do later."
"So you're what? bisexual?"
"I hate those fucking labels, man." I was a little surprised at the passion in his voice. "Gay. Straight. Bi. Who gives a fuck! I like sex, and sex is sex, no matter if it's with yourself, with a girl, or with another guy." He realized then that there were other people in the room and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Why can't sex be treated like any other normal bodily function? Why do we have to label it and categorize it?"
"But shouldn't sex mean something? I got the feeling that what we did this afternoon sort of meant something to you. That's why you didn't want to take a shower."
"You're absolutely right," he said. "What we did did, I mean still does, mean something to me, and that's why I didn't want to wash you off me. But that's only one kind of sex. Kind of like 'emotional' sex, or something. There's also just pure physical sex. When I'm getting it on with a customer, it's not emotional. Hell, most of the time I don't even know her name. But when she comes and I come, there's a kind of animal joy in what we're doing. And that has meaning, too. Physical meaning."
It was obvious Nick had thought about all of this before, but I wasn't surprised that he had.
"Do you ever have male customers," I asked.
"No, not at the clubs. Some of the guys take on men as private clients. I just don't ever do that."
Just then our food arrived, and Nick laughed when he saw the expression on my face. There were two large fried softshell crabs on a platter, and they were surrounded by steamed vegetables and fried chunks of potato. The waitress placed containers of tartar sauce and cocktail sauce on the table, said "I hope y'all enjoy 'em," and left. Not knowing how to begin my assault on this meal, I watched Nick. He took tartar sauce onto his plate with the spoon in the container. Then he smeared some on part of one of his crabs, cut off a piece with his knife, and delivered it to his mouth with his fork. He closed his eyes to savor the mouthful, and then smiled.
"Great," he said. "Eat up, buddy."
I took the plunge, following his example. And he was right; it was great. The texture was like nothing I'd ever eaten. Nick later told me that crabs grow by shedding their old shells. For a few hours after the old shell is gone and before the new, larger shell hardens, they are, quite literally, soft shelled crabs. People catch them in that state, kill them by opening their top shells and removing the inedible organs, and chilling them immediately. If they stay at room temperature, the shells harden even after they're dead. What we were eating were the pre-hardened shells and all of the crab meat they contained.
We both concentrated on our meals, saying little. When we had finished eating and had lit cigarettes, I asked Nick to continue where he had left off.
"You said some of the guys have men as private clients. What do you mean?"
"Most of us have people we give private shows for." He smiled at this euphemism, and I did, too. "Some women are a little nervous about doing it at a club, even in a private room. They want to see us, but they want it to be at home or at a hotel or something. So they set it up. We have a guy who's in charge of scheduling, costumes, choreography--everything, really. He's the one they usually go through. Sometimes they ask for a particular boy; sometimes just for anybody who's available. The set-up guy--Philip's his name--gets ten percent, but we keep the rest. Plus any tips."
That was the next aspect of this whole thing I was eager to know about. My innocent-looking little Nicky was really a call-boy. The thought of that made my penis start to swell.
"You don't have a problem having sex for money," I asked.
"No, I don't," he said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I consider that I'm being paid for my time. And for my skill. Not every guy's great at sex, you know. A lot of women are unfulfilled sexually. Their husbands or boyfriends don't know how to please them or are too selfish to. I can do that."
I felt as though I were talking to a much older man, certainly to a man who had had experiences I hadn't even fantasized about. I thought about everything that had happened to me that day--school, Chubby's, my house. That guy could apparently have sex almost any time he wanted it and probably with almost anyone he would care to. But he wanted me. That day, at least. I wanted to hug him; to kiss him; to pleasure him.
The waitress was back. "Do you boys want some dessert," she asked. "We got bread puddin' and lemon meringue pie."
Nick thought for a moment and said he wanted some bread pudding. I was stuffed and said I was fine.
"Do y'all want coffee," she asked.
"I do," Nick said.
"It's chichory," she said, quizzically.
"That's cool," Nick responded.
"And what about you, dawlin'," she asked me. I told her "no thanks." Where I came from only grown ups have coffee after dinner. But I guess Nick really was a grown up, compared to me.
When the dessert and coffee came, Nick took a bite and said, "You've got to at least taste this." I ate the spoonful he extended to me and was immediately sorry I hadn't ordered a bucketful.
"That's good, isn't it," he said. "You can still get some," he continued before I had a chance to reply.
"It's fantastic," I said, "but I really am too full to hold any more. That was a mansize meal I ate."
"Yeah, and I noticed you scarffed up every bite."
When the check came and I went for my wallet, he waved me away and said it was on him. He dropped a twenty on top of the ticket and told the waitress to keep the change.
"Gee, thanks," she said, apparently genuinely pleased with her tip. Once outside I said, "Just out of curiosity, how much was that?"
"Thirteen fifty," Nick said.
I was dumbfounded. In Minneapolis, a meal like that would have been in the sixty- to seventy-five dollar range.
Before he cranked the engine, Nick put his hand on my left shoulder and said, "Come here." He leaned into to me and I into him, and we kissed--long, wet, deep. "I really like you, guy, you know that," he asked. "You little dick-cheese." That ended whatever seriousness there was at that moment. We both collapsed in laughter. I knew I couldn't top that one, so I didn't even try. I said, "Fuck you very much," and we both laughed again.
After we recovered and Nick started the car, he said, "Brad, why don't you spend the weekend with me at our country place? You don't have anything else to do. What do you say? Please."
There was a pleading tone in his voice that was entirely unnecessary. "I'd love to," I said.
"Great! I need to stop and get some stuff, if you don't mind."
I didn't mind, of course. We stopped at a large supermarket that was part of a local chain. We coursed the aisles with a shopping cart, and Nick picked out items I assumed he thought we'd need for the weekend. Most of the stuff was what my mother called kid-food: frozen pizzas, a large bag of fried chicken and assorted sliced coldcuts from the deli, chips, Cokes, hot dogs, canned chili. That kind of food. He also picked up a carton of Marlboros and asked me if I needed any. I told him I had some at the house. In the drug department, he casually dropped two large tubes of KY jelly into the cart, and I'm sure I blushed. Two aisles over was the liquor department. Nick asked me what I drank. I probably blushed again. I told him to get whatever he liked. I'd never had a drink of whiskey in my life. Beer, yes, a few times, and once I had even gotten drunk and had thrown up. But never whiskey. I wondered if this weekend was going to be memorable in more than one way.
I was surprised that the checkout girl didn't ask for any ID, but she didn't. She was about our age, and she scanned and bagged the KY with the same indifference she had toward the pizza. Nick had asked her to put all the groceries that needed to be refrigerated together, "so we can bring them into your house tonight and leave the rest of the stuff in the car," he explained to me. I marvelled at the guy. I would never have thought of that.
When we loaded the groceries into the trunk, I saw an overnight bag that I assumed was packed for the weekend. When we unloaded the refrigerator bags at my house, he left the overnighter in the trunk.
After we took care of the groceries, Nick filled an ice bucket, got two glasses out of the cabinet, and picked up a grocery bag he'd brought in without my noticing. "Booze," was all he said. Then, "Let's go upstairs." My skin prickled with excitement, and my penis responded in kind. I glanced at Nick's crotch, more openly this time, and saw only the customary bulge. He saw me, of course, and smiled. "Don't worry, buddy; it'll get there." We both laughed, and I'm sure I blushed.
Upstairs, Nick poured us each a drink--scotch, I think. It wasn't too bad--about like the first time I had drunk a beer. We sat on the sofa in my bedroom, close but not touching. "Let's talk," he said. "We'll get horney later." Then, "Tell me about you."
Tell you about me. Where do I begin? I was an only child and had always wanted a brother. My parents had split up when I was three. My mom had never remarried, preferring to throw herself into her career. My dad lived in Tuscon, Arizona, and was re-married but didn't have any other children. My mom was one of three partners in a computer consulting firm that specialized in networks for businesses, government agencies, colleges, that sort of thing. She travelled a lot, and I spent a lot of time alone, especially since we had moved to New Orleans so that she could be closer to the southern market and Latin America. I had been on the debate team at my other school and had this real thing for language. I had gone to a private, all-boys school in Minneapolis that was a carbon copy of Colton Academy. My best friend, my only really close friend, was a freshman at Emory University in Atlanta. I had played varsity soccer the previous three years. What else? Oh, yeah, and I thought I was gay.
"Fucking categories, man," he said when I mentioned the last fact. "Quit with the fucking categories, okay?" His tone was that of a bored and frustrated teacher who's been over that material a hundred times.
"I'm sorry, Nick, but I'm a product of my culture. I've got to know that about myself."
"No, you don't," he said. "If I disappeared right now, and a beautiful nude girl walked in that door, sat down here, and put her hand on your crotch, what would happen?"
"I'd get aroused," I said truthfully.
"And then she took your hand and put it on her breast and started moaning with pleasure? And then she stood you up, took off your shirt, and started sucking your nipple?"
I suddenly had a raging erection. Then I realized what he had been doing. "Cocksucker," I said, expecting him to laugh at another one of our insult exchanges. Instead, his face remained serious, and he said, "Don't call me that." I thought I had really offended him. "Yet." Then we both laughed hard.
When the laughter died down, Nick spoke. "Back to what I was saying. What happened to you when I described the girl? You got a hard-on, didn't you?"
I nodded.
"If she had been here, you'd have wanted to fuck her, wouldn't you?"
Nod.
"Would you have done it," he asked.
"If she had let me, I would have," I said. "At least I think I would have."
"Damn straight, you would have. So what does that make you in terms of society's categories? Bisexual, right?"
"I guess."
"And what if that had happened before we got it on this afternoon? What would you have been then? You'd have been straight. Do you see what I mean? Right now you and I are queer. Night before last, when I was fucking my brains out at the club, I was arrow straight. What good are the categories?"
I don't know what I felt at that moment. Relief, maybe? Love? Acceptance? Confusion, certainly.
Nick lit a cigarette and got up to get the ashtray from where we had left it on the bed, ignoring the one on the coffee table in front of us. He took my glass and poured fresh drinks for each of us. The beers this afternoon had given me a buzz, but after the meal we had just finished, the scotch wasn't yet having any effect.
I finally broke the long, reflective silence. "Nick," I said, "how often do you get it on with a guy?"
He didn't say anything. Then I realized I might be venturing into territory that was too private. Before I could tell him I was sorry I'd asked, he spoke.
"It's hard to say how often. I really don't schedule it. I hunted you down today, but I knew you wanted me to--me or some guy like me. And I wanted to, too. Until last November, my best friend, Sean, and I were pretty regular fuck-buddies. Then he went into the Army, and I haven't even seen him since then. Sometimes my brothers and I horse around and end up jerking each other off or something. Sometimes a private client wants it to be a three-way scene with her husband or boyfriend. Or it happens at a party. I really don't keep books on it, though." Nick's tone was serious and sincere.
We both kept still for a few moments. Then Nick said, "This is getting too heavy. I want to see your gifs, and I think I've figured out how to open the viewer."
I had forgotten about that. "In a minute, okay? I want to ask you something about gifs. Do you ever post any?"
"No," he said flatly. "My brother Matt does, though. Why?"
"The first time I saw you at school," I said, "I thought you looked familiar. That night I wanted to see if my computer had made the trip south with everything intact, so I opened the directory where I store .jpg files and started going through some of them. One series is called '18 and Horny,' and another series is called 'Birthday Suit.' The guy in those pictures looks just like you."
"That's Matt," he said.
"That guy is your brother?"
"No, it's me," he said. "Matt took those pictures at my eighteenth birthday party and posted them. I asked him not to, even though I really wanted him to. He said they'd be completely anonymous. So far you're the only person who's mentioned seeing them."
"That was at your birthday party," I asked incredulously.
"Yeah. Birthday orgy, more like. Things got out of hand a little. It lasted a whole weekend, and by Saturday night everybody was naked and groping each other." He smiled.
"Well, I've had my fun with them, all right," I said, blushing.
Nick beamed at that, obviously proud of the pictures and of their effect on me.
"Come on. Let's take a look," I said.
"No, that's all right. I just wanted to see if you had them." We both laughed.
Nick put his hand on my thigh and looked deeply into my eyes. I thought this was the beginning of what I had been looking forward to. Tenderly, and with all seriousness, he said, "I've got to take a piss." We both laughed. Nick came back from the bathroom completely naked. He stood in front of me and started kneeding his nipples. In seconds, his penis started lengthening and thickening, and so did mine. After a minute or two, he stopped and walked over to me. "Get up," he said, and I did. For the second time that day, he started undressing me. Like before, he worked on my nipples before moving to my jeans. Like before, I had a steel-like erection by the time he got all of my clothes off. I expected him to start stroking me, and it even crossed my mind to ask him to wait for me to get a towel so we wouldn't make a mess on the furniture. Before I could say anything, he had my penis in his mouth. It was warm and wet. I felt his tongue play on the tip and around the edges of the head. He didn't make any attempt to take all of it into his mouth or down his throat, as the pornography I had read led me to believe he would. Instead, he held firmly to the exposed portion of the shaft with his right hand and occasionally pumped it. I didn't last long, but it was probably the most powerful orgasm I'd ever had. I didn't see any of my cum, so I assumed he had swallowed it.
I looked down at Nick, and he grinned.
"Cocksucker," I said in the contemptuous tone guys use when they call someone a cocksucker as an insult, and we both howled. We obviously clicked in the "sense of humor" department.
We moved to my bed in the other part of the room. Nick spread the towel we had used earlier. It was now dry and stuck together in spots, and I heard a sound like velcro makes when you tear it apart as he opened the towel. We got into bed and started kissing. I wanted to suck Nick off the way he had done me, but those weren't his plans. Instead, he made me open my legs wide, put a pillow under my ass, and got between my legs. A wave of apprehension washed over me because I thought he wanted anal sex. I'd have done it if he had asked me to, but the thought of it was a little scary. But that wasn't what he wanted.
He got down low between my legs and started licking my scrotum. It tickled a little, but it was also a turn-on. My penis began to stir almost immediately. I could feel his tongue on the hairs of my sack, and his licking them made me tingle everywhere. He moved lower to the spot between my sack and my anus, and the sensation hightened. Then he hit my anus itself. I'd never thought of myself as being anally erotic, but that was before that night. He teased it and tongued it, tongued it and teased it. I couldn't see what he was doing because of the angle, but it felt wonderful, and the wetness on the end of my cock doubled in volume.
Nick looked up at me, grinning. "How ya doin'," he asked, in a really heavy New Orleans accent. "Great," I answered. "I want to stick my finger up your ass. Are you cool with that?" I nodded.
He lubricated the second finger on his left hand with the KY jelly that was still on the bed from earlier, and, gently, sensitively, he glided it into me. I had always been afraid to do that to myself. I had read about that many times, of course, and I expected an instant splash of pleasure. That didn't happen. He wiggled his finger a bit, pressing here and there until he found my prostate. There was a kind of pleasant burning sensation, if that makes any sense, but still no wave of ecstasy.
Leaving his finger where it was, Nick then inched up a bit and took my cock into his mouth, this time much deeper than before. After the initial lick, he released it and said, "Fuck my mouth, okay?" "I don't know what you mean, exactly," I said. "Move up and down like you were fucking someone," he said. I did what he told me to do--or, at least, how I imagined someone fucked, never having done it myself-- and he moved up and down on me to counter my movement. After a couple of awkward thrusts, we found a rhythm. Nick worked his finger in sync with everything else, and in a few minutes I felt the blast of a lifetime. The orgasm started inside me where Nick's finger was. Then my hole started contracting, and my hips bucked rhythmically. Somewhere inside me it all came together, and semen shot into Nick's mouth. He raised his head from my cock when the bucking had subsided and swallowed. He grinned at me, and then caught a drop of cum from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. He removed his finger, wiped it on the towel, then used the towel to clean the KY from my anus. He held my cock in his left hand and licked several times, avoiding the head.
"Is the head sensitive," he asked. "Will it hurt if I touch it?"
"No."
He drew the head into his mouth and gently sucked. In a few seconds he withdrew his mouth. He moved up next to me in bed and kissed me deeply. When we finished and he lay beside me, my whole body felt as though it were aglow. I wondered if that was what it felt like to be in love. We snuggled and I might have even drifted off for a moment or two.
Very shortly Nick got up to get cigarettes and an ashtray. I noticed his hard-on.
"Prop up against the headboard," he said. He did the same, and we lit up. "How was it," he wanted to know. "Or do you even feel like talking?"
"In a minute, okay? I'm still floating," I said. He just grinned, drew his right leg over my left one, and moved closer.
We finished our cigarettes in silence. I luxuriated in the warmth of his body and in the incredible sense of peace and deep relaxation that washed over me. We stayed that way for some time, and his erection began to sag. I reached over to touch it, but he brushed my hand away.
"But. . . " I started to say.
"I'm cool, buddy. This is your day. I don't always have to come to have a good time, and I'll have plenty of chances."
He put the ashtray on the nightstand on his side of the bed, and we snuggled down into a sleeping position. He turned me onto my right side, and he made his body conform to mine. In a minute or less, we were both asleep, most of the lights still blazing.
I slept until nine the next morning. When I woke up, Nick was already up making coffee in the kitchen. He brought two cups back upstairs. We sipped our coffee and smoked cigarettes in silence. Then we got up and straightened up the bed.
"You want to take a shower," he asked. "We made our point last night, so I think we can clean up."
My bathroom had a shower stall and not a tub, so it was easy for both of us to get in at the same time. After we were both wet all over, Nick took my bottle of shampoo and poured a generous amount into his hand. He then reached for my hair and started washing it. I've already mentioned that Nick is rather generously endowed. He stood very close to me as he washed my hair, and his dick was touching mine. At first he didn't appear to notice, but, in no time at all, I had a boner. He rinsed my hair and lathered it a second time. That time he managed to drape his flaccid penis between my hard-on and my stomach. Risking shampoo-filled eyes, I opened them and looked at him for a reaction. As usual, he grinned. In a few seconds he was as hard as I was.
After he finished with my hair, he handed the shampoo bottle to me and told me to wash his hair. When I finished his shampoo, he took the bar of soap, lathered his hand, and washed my face and upper body, concentrating on my chest and nipples. This, of course, made me even more aroused. I did the same for him. Then he turned me around and washed my buns and crack. His touch on my asshole was electrifying, and he inserted his longest finger just a bit. Then he tackled my balls and my cock. He rubbed me the way I like best, but he stopped before I came. "Don't rinse off," he said. To ensure I wouldn't, he turned the nozzle of the shower head off to the side so that the water hit the wall and not us.
I washed Nick's ass as he had mine, and I stuck my finger into him as he has his into me. I was surprised how easily it went in compared to how he had had to work with me. After I washed his cock and balls, he turned his back to me, placed both of his hands against the wall in front of him, and, bending over, said, "Put it in." At first I wasn't sure what I had heard, so I asked him to repeat.
Nick turned and faced me. "I want you to fuck me," he said. "Don't be scared of hurting me, but take it slow at first. Once you're in, reach around in front of me and jerk me off as you're fucking me. I want us to try to come at the same time, so when you feel like you're getting close, say so. Don't pull out until I tell you to, okay? Are you cool with this?"
I was very cool with that. I nodded.
Nick turned his back to me again and leaned forward onto the wall. "Okay, let me have it," he said. "Put it in me."
My cock and Nick's asshole were both very soapy, and I slipped into him with little effort. My cock fit him like a hand fits a perfectly sized glove, one that had been warmed to precisely the right temperature. Nick groaned when I went in, and I thought I was hurting him. "Does it hurt," I asked.
"No, it feels great," he said. "Don't forget my cock."
I circled his waist with my right arm and found it. Nick started moving first, and I followed suit, slowly at first, then gradually adding speed and force. It didn't take long for me to reach my peak, and I told him so. He tightened the muscles in his ass, and that slowed me down just a bit. We kept at it a little longer, until I was again at the popping point. Once again he squeezed, and once again I was able to keep going. We did this twice more, then Nick said,
"I'm ready, buddy. Give it to me."
His asshole began to contract involuntarily, and this had the opposite effect the squeezing had had. He began his rhythmic jerking, and I followed him as I had the night before. I shot off at the same moment I felt his cock explode in my hand, and the two of us bucked and jerked uncontrollably. When we were spent, I lay my head on his back, completely satisfied. I had never imagined the depth of the pleasure I had just experienced, and my whole body glowed with white heat.
It took Nick a few more seconds to fully catch his breath. Then he said, "We're both still hard. Let's do it again."
I started pumping at both ends. I pumped and pumped and pumped. I moaned and gasped and grimmaced with pleasure. This time it took longer, and the intensity of my orgasm was in direct proportion to the time it took to reach it. When our spasming subsided, I knew instinctively, I guess, that he wanted me to continue. The third time was the strongest and most intense climax of my life. I thought for a moment I might even lose consciousness, the pleasure was so great. I slumped over onto his back, released his slackening cock, and sobbed with joy. Nick heard me and felt me heave. He pulled away gently, stood up, and faced me. He wrapped his arms around me and licked the tears from my face. He moved the showerhead back into position, and we were suffused in the warmth of the water and of each other. My initiation was complete.
We stayed that way for a time, and then reality, in the form of rapidly cooling water, intruded upon us. He looked into my eyes with the sincerity of a fervent nun and said, "Ass-pump." We laughed until we ached. Finally, the then-cold water brought our reverie to an end. We quickly rinsed off the little remaining lather and jumped out of the shower. We dried off separately and silently dressed for the day.
Nick collected his cigarettes, lighter, our coffee cups, and the bag of booze and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I spent a few more minutes throwing clothes into an overnight bag (remembering my lighter that time), turned off the computer and the lights, and gathered the glasses and ice bucket from the night before. When I got to the kitchen, Nick had a cup of coffee ready for me on the table. I joined him, and fired up a butt.
"You like," he asked.
"I like," I said. "You like?"
"I like very, very much."
We drank our coffee in silence for a moment. Then Nick said, "I want this to be a weekend you'll remember for the rest of your life. You got some paper and a couple of pencils around here?"
I got the notepad from next to the phone and a couple of pencils from the drawer where we kept the phone book. "What's up," I asked.
"I want us to write down the most number of times we've each come in a single day. What we did was just the beginning, and we're going to keep track of how many times we bring each other off today. Tomorrow, when we get up, we'll compare today's total with what we write down. Okay?"
Nick had thought this through, I could tell. It was a game that certainly had its appeal. When I said okay, he immediately wrote a number. For me, it wasn't that easy. Not that I had had epic ejaculations on numerous occasions. I just had to try to remember each time I'd come the day before. Once right after school, once in my briefs, twice with Nick before we went out to eat, and twice last night. Six. I wrote the number.
"Okay, write your name on the paper and fold it up."
We both did that.
"Now, you got an envelope?"
I got one from the desk in the kitchen. Nick put both pieces of paper in the envelop and sealed it. He folded the envelop and put it in his back pocket. "I don't know what you wrote, but we're going to play this game until we break both our records. Deal?"
"Deal," I said. Fucking deal of a lifetime, I thought.
We finished our coffee, rinsed the cups, turned off the coffee maker, got the food from the fridge, and were ready to go. Nick remembered the liquor, too, as we were walking out the door. I turned off the lights and locked up. We were off to the country place.