THE BASS PLAYER
By Dudley Jarvis-North
The ad in craigslist personals caught my eye immediately. It was posted by a man I'll call Jack who had written a porn story and was wondering if it was any good. "Review my story," the headline said. That was unusual since most of the advertisers cut to the chase with simpler requests: "Who wants this?" "Take my four-day load," "8 inches -- cum get it."
Jack said he wanted to publish his story in a gay magazine, although he was "basically" straight. He was calling his opus "My First Blowjob."
I'm a born critic, so I was eager to read the tale about a skinny, 18-year-old sandy-haired blond of dubious sexuality attending high school in Philadelphia. While waiting for a bus at the terminal, the story began, young Jack had been picked up by an out-of-towner in his 30s who said he needed directions to his motel, which happened to be near the young man's home.
It detailed the building apprehension that gave way to throbbing excitement as our young hero sat in the older guy's car and felt a hand snake across his thigh. The words weren't only about the physical side of a thrilling first encounter. There was inner questioning about budding sexuality and the almost reluctant assent to being touched by another man for the first time. Jack spun an exciting tale that built slowly to its conclusion, when he took that fateful step and entered the motel room. While the story was well written, it needed editing, and that's what I do for a living. It needed better transitions that would make one scene flow into another. "Tightening," "massaging," as we journalists say, to make it crisper. I sent Jack a note in praise of his fine writing but also solid, no BS criticism.
Next day to my surprise I got a reply from Jack saying that he was impressed with my critique. Our emails went back and forth, and I told him I had lots of porn books and magazines if he ever wanted to check them out to see how others approached the craft. Jack said he lived with his girlfriend, although the sexual part of their relationship had ended long ago -- and wondered if we could meet so that he could look at my collection.
A few days later, we met for coffee at Starbucks, near where his band practices; I recognized him right away from his description, and couldn't believe my luck. Unlike many of the gay guys who flood craigslist, Manhunt, and other sites, he came as advertised: 5-11, 160 pounds, blue eyes, with light brown curly hair, a long face, nice straight nose and white teeth. Handsome, confident, preppy. He wore a stylish but informal black suit one would buy at Urban Outfitters, white shirt, and thin red tie. Over coffee we talked about how to improve his story as I played the editor's role to the hilt. He seemed fascinated by the process and asked good questions. We had an easy repartee. After an hour I invited him back to my place, just four blocks away. He had on his coat before I had time to put down my coffee.
On the way home, Jack talked about leaving Philly many years ago in order to attend Boston's Berklee College of Music, his job as a musician in a local jazz band, and his frustration over being in a sexless relationship . Oh, he also admitted to being older than the 45 he had advertised. But I found his honesty refreshing, especially because he looked younger than 45.
When we got to my place, I brought out the magazines and books and got both of us a beer as we chilled on the sofa. He seemed in no hurry to comb through these items. Ever polite, he asked if I minded if he smoked as I searched for an ashtray. As he lit up, I knelt before him and pulled off his black cowboy boots steering his feet into my lap. He had been practicing with the band for a gig at a nearby hotel and, as he flexed his toes, he said his feet were tired. I removed his socks and massaged his feet as he ooohed with pleasure. I lifted one of them nearer to my mouth and licked the instep all the way to his toes. His toenails were clean and well-formed. He was getting excited and I wondered if I was providing the kind of anticipation that he had as a lad of 18. His foot tasted like cowboy boot leather and light foot-funk.
After several minutes of this, I moved up his body and unbuttoned his shirt. He had patches of curly hair on his chest and around his belly button. I buried my face in his chest and stomach, and eventually headed for his left armpit.
I love WASPy boys like Jack, particularly when they don't use deodorant, which he didn't. He smelled like a working man, slightly sweaty and moist, rather than some ad fouling Vanity Fair. I played with his nipples, which he seemed to love, and licked them nibbling the pink nubs, gently at first, then harder.
It was time to loosen his belt and see what I badly wanted to see. I pulled down his suit pants, wondering if he favored boxers or briefs. The answer was neither. He was wearing a tiny black posing strap made of nylon that looked right out of a Bob Meisner `50s soft porn photo shoot. I tossed his pants to the floor and slid the G-string down his legs. He was hard. I lightly rubbed the rim of his beautifully circumcised dick with my index finger, simulating a musician fingering a string instrument (he plays bass).
He lay back on the sofa and turned into putty, letting me do what we both wanted me to do. He wanted me to suck him right then and there, pushing my head -- ever gently -- down toward his crown. But I resisted. Much as I wanted to taste his mushroom, I wanted to let things build more slowly for my sake and his. Instead, I concentrated on the sandy colored hair around his pubes, inhaling the smell one can find in no other place. I stuck my tongue in his fine hair -- white boys don't seem to have that Brillo gene down there -- and slurped his balls into my mouth, wetting them with spittle and squeezing them with my mouth. I loved the heady aroma of his sweat.
When neither of us could stand it any longer, I made my move, licking my way up his shaft, pursing my lips around his grateful helmet. I lightly kissed and nibbled his head, waiting to see if he would become more active. I didn't have to wait long as he gave the back of my head a slight push.
We were both ready to stop the preliminaries and get down to some serious work. But first, I filled my mouth with cold beer and put his dick in my mouth. None of the reluctant women in his life had ever done that, I bet. His moans told me he liked the sensation of cold beer on hot cock. Off I went, sucking and teasing, licking and nibbling, sandpapering his dick with my lips and tongue. Just when he thought I was going to bring him to completion, I stopped and made him wonder what was coming next.
I spread his body out on the couch and pushed him in a way that told him that I wanted to see his backside. He complied and turned over on his side. The guy in Jack's story had rimmed him, so perhaps he was wondering if I would go there. He soon had an answer. There was a slight tuft of sandy hair coming out of the crease of his butt, a sign of masculinity that makes me drool. I spread his cheeks and licked the place his girlfriend never dreams of visiting. My face was glued to his hairy -- but not too hairy -- crack, which smelled of sweat and funk -- a perfume that can't be found at Neiman's, no matter how much you wish to pay. I stretched out my tongue and penetrated his pink hole.
After a few minutes of in-and-out ecstasy, I turned him over so that his crotch again was in line with my mouth. As I sucked him, I could taste his precum, which had a slight cigarette flavor along with sweat. His dick juice told no lies -- he was a smoker all right. I reached for his G-string and wrapped it around the base of his balls, tying it as tight as seemed comfortable. I was wrapping a gift for both of us as his hard-on took on a whole new dimension.
It was time to give this "straight" white knight the best blowjob of his life. And that's what I would do, going deep, feeling his mushroom brush my tonsils, pursing my lips on the head only, then another dive all the way down to his fragrant pubes. Repeat and make sure he didn't come too soon. This lasted a good half-hour.
As I showed off my intense oral skills, eventually I could feel him begin to spasm and hear what was coming next (soft-spoken white boys are never louder than when they're ready to unload). Which Jack did, as he blitzkrieged in my mouth, filling it with a load as copious as the 18-year-old's in his story. I swallowed every drop of his cream. It was tasty, spicy, distinct -- cum laced with a bit of nicotine. I hadn't had a smoker in a long time. I licked him clean, so that his girlfriend wouldn't notice any evidence of our encounter. Not that she would.
We watched a couple of innings of the Red Sox game on TV while he had another cigarette and finished his beer. Then he left with my edited version of his story in tow. He hinted that he loved single-malt Scotch if I might like him to visit again and gave me his card. His band was called The Rebels with a Cause. I asked what brand of Scotch he favored and made a note in my head.
Jack's going to "massage" his story -- journalese again -- and get back to me for some more "editing." I'm thinking that my "editing tool" needs sharpening. I wonder what he's doing tonight.