The conversations had died out as wild fires do, gone from intense discussion of politics to talk about the best way to cook salmon. Words limped out in tired sentences as if language had left us in the sweltering heat.
Having gone south for a conference on teaching the arts in school, I was sitting with four people I did not know. That was fine with me. When I go to conferences, I often sit alone, not being inclined to spark a conversation. As an introvert, I like observing people. Despite my reserve, one man broke though the veil and started a conversation. He was at a workshop on spirituality and education, a topic I found appealing since it seemed to me that the standards and drive to drum ideas into students had leached out the imagination, the quest for meaning and, in that sense, spirituality. This extroverted fellow, Dana, had been an ordained priest and decided that his sexuality was as central to his life as his spiritual. He spoke openly about his ideas.
"In fact, my sexuality seemed to me," he told me quite openly, "as close to anything spiritual as I had been taught: it was a union, a joining of one and the other. The mystics always used sexual metaphors to describe their union with God.Spirtuality is as much Eros as it Agape, as much love of the body of God as the idea of God."
I felt the same way. We had lunch together. His dark hair and dark complexion-he was Latino--and flamboyant manner drew me out. It turns out he knew a friend of mine in Vermont, another former priest who lived about twenty miles from my house. He liked the arts and invited to his place because he was already having a little dinner party. I accepted. Not having to spend the evening wandering the streets, going to book stores, finding some place to eat was a relief.
He scrawled directions on a sheet of paper. Getting to his house was quite an epic. After driving north of Asheville on the interstate, those veins of traffic that moved in unswerving lines as if they were all part of one body, I turned off the superhighway, turned left, followed the road for five miles as it snakes through low hills, then up steeper ones, and spilled into another, even more narrow and more winding road, to the house, set half a mile back from the road, under a ridge of mountains that rose steadily toward the west.
Dana stood at the door and greeted me with a handshake and ushered me into his house. He introduced me to Fred and Bob, a couple from out of town. They came from Chicago as I remember, one of the suburb-the northern suburbs. They had come to Asheville to sing in a local choral event which included showcasing groups from larger cities. Another fellow, effervescent, wonderfully gay, embraced me and told me that he adored men from the north.
"I am Michael, but call me whatever you like," he gushed and kissed me on the lips.
I liked him too: he was young, very attractive-a young version of Sidney Portier-and enjoyed touch. His hands were all over me. It was a delight to have someone honor my body, which, after days of sitting in tired room with tired people talk about art, which, by the fourth day, had become tiresome, was hungry for any touch, even a handshake.
There was another fellow, Larry, who was gracious yet reserved. He stood and said, "Hello," then sat back and seemed as introverted as I was, his eyes darting from one person to the next as they talked.
The guests from Illinois complained of the heat. But Dana pressed on, telling them, "Oh honey, let go of it: the south is hot," and invited us to the dining room table to a fine meal-a veal with some mixed salad and home grown squash in a light sauce. He served a white wine that I drank sparingly. The other quests-except for one quiet fellow-clearly drank as a way to welcome oblivion.
After dinner, we sat in a living room. The conversation bounced back and forth like a tennis match. Dana was center court and kept it moving it like a referee, keeping his attention to whomever should speak next. I was not the best at conversation but could do it if needed. It was needed; silence kept asserting itself, so I talked of my work as a teacher, some of my students whose vocabulary was terrible.
I had ignored the fellow whose looked quite intense as I listened to the discourse. Occasionally I would glance over at his angular face reminded me someone I knew, but I could not place the person.
Whenever the conversation sagged, I looked at him; he sat across from me. He had been quiet for most of the evening, but when he did speak, he knew what he was saying. In white pants and orange t-shirt, he appeared in his late thirties, slim yet broad shouldered. His sandy blond hair fell quixotically over his face, the long strands limping over his forehead.
The host, Dana, had invited me out to his home in the foothills outside of Asheville to "get me away from the hotel where I was turning into a prune" and to meet some of his gay friends, and he had succeeded. But I was dreading the drive home, the stay in the room with furniture that looked as if it had been put in a movie set. Dana wanted to breath live in the party and asked if anyone wanted anything else to drink, standing up abruptly. The couple and the dancer immediately stood, the two from the chorus leading the way, and the exuberant one, following behind them as if they had been told the ship was sinking, shouting out , "Yes, wonderful idea."
They were drinking wine, which, after two glasses, I had given up. The imbibing of the wine had cracked open the conversation. I noticed that everyone began disclosing more about themselves as one bottle emptied and another opened. The three other men-with all quite distinct stories, recounted their first attempts to come out. The young African American with the fine posture of a dancer was the most animated, recounting stories of his childhood and two recent affairs that had gone nowhere. The other two, the ideal couple, here on for the big concert, had lives that would make novelist drool. They had been abused and rebelled, gotten into trouble with the law and finally found one another. They were my age-maybe forty five-distinctive, dressed elegantly in conservative slacks. But they did not really like telling stories, no matter how hard the dancer tried to probe. They enjoyed the topics of food and finance, neither of which appealed to me as matters of urgent concern, which to them, they seemed to be. I was relieved when they went off for drinks and stayed much longer than I expected, their voice melodiously drifting in the other end of the house. That left the quiet man and I alone.
"What is your name again?" I asked, trying to make conversation.
"Larry," he said, leaning forward to take my hand, "and yours?"
His hand was long and gentle. He kept the holding onto me and look me in the eyes. I smiled and he did too, a half smile, one side of his face going up. I felt an odd shiver and told him my name. I left go of his hand because it felt almost too comfortable just leaving it there and that seemed indiscrete on my part.
"Where do you live?" he asked politely, shifting in his seat, turning his legs sideways from me.
I told him that I was visiting from up north, Vermont, taking part of a week long workshop on educational theory and chemical dependency.
He shook his head, "I know that one. Deep in my family and even deeper in our gay culture." His eyes glanced to the door and the voices that seemed to be getting louder by the moment.
We talked about his history and mine, his father and mine, two patriarchs who enjoyed the perks of male power, discussing intimate details of our lives, including how we came out without any inhibition. It was as if the engine of language had been reignited and we found words dripping off our tongues. He had been fired from his first job when a friend told the principal that he was gay. The next week, the principal told him, "We cannot take the risk of your being with young men, if you know what I mean." He was told to resign and there would be no trouble. It was an era when that could happen.
After we talked for twenty minutes, I realized that sentences could court and make love as much as people. They reach for the other, touch them, caress them with verbs.
When I talked about myself, I could never entirely take my life seriously-by which I mean I took what I did seriously but my self was not an entity I invested much stock-so I made a joke of how out of touch I was with my own desires, how late it was before I accepted my innate attraction to me, poked fun at myself, he laughed. His eyes would crinkle and squint. He would make a slight humming sound in his throat as if resonating with the pitch of my humor.
When the others came back, he fell silent again. The others came back with glasses brimming with a new mix. They offered me some and some to Larry. It was iced and cold. It felt like an elixir. It was hot, so Dana suggested we move to the porch in case "there was a breeze back there."
I could see perspiration on the shirts of the two other visitors. Their shirts stuck to their chests. They kept pulling at their slacks to keep the air circulating. My shirt clung to my body, my shorts stuck to the inside of my legs.
When we were on the back porch, the distant mountains were rimmed with the last of the sun light, a sheen of orange over the tips of pines. We sat in green plastic chairs, sipping ice tea. But now breeze made even a guest appearance. The conversation toiled toward ending. The vast expanse of yard, extending for miles up a mountainside and the silent air weighted on us. Indolent, quiet, we stared at one another, the perspiration seeping into our clothing, beading off our foreheads.
Dana pronounced, "It is one of the hottest nights yet this summer."
Larry stood up, "Too hot of clothes. I am going to take mine off."
He proceeded to slip off his shirt, blue shorts and tight red underwear and announced, "This is better." I was stunned, never having seen anyone do that in a public setting. He had a long elegant body with fine muscle tone, narrow hips and glabrous body with some delicate hair on either side of his chest and a fine, narrow crop of hair from his navel to his pubic hair. Once I realized that, indeed, nudity was an option, I waited to see if anyone would take up his challenge.
His initiative lead to the Dana imitating him who had a thin body too but toned from weights. I sipped on my new drink and looked out into the valley where I could see the faint outline of a creek. The two singers sat like tourist looking at a local attraction, a scenic sight. My saturated clothes were clinging to by body. Taking them off made practical sense and I followed.
Dana and Larry moved around the deck, leaning against the railing. I was impressed with their lean, sleek bodies and their seeming natural affinity for nudity.
Self conscious of my own body and aroused by the sight of them, I immediately got an erection. At first I leaned over and tried to cover it up.
But Larry saw it and walked over, rested his hand on my shoulder and whispered, "You look great. Just let it be."
He looked directly into my eyes. I felt as if some magician had waved his wand and I was under his spell. No one else said anything. I stood alongside him, breathing.
Michael, the dancer, gazed at me and slipped fluidly out of his clothes, disclaimed, "I am the satyr in the forest," and leap around the porch, his erection bobbing up and down, causing us to break out laughing. He stood by Dana who put his arm around him. Michael cupped Dana's cock in his hand and soon, he too was erect. He moaned and slid his hand on Michael who was uncircumcised and gently slid his foreskin back and forth, exposing a rubescent tip.
The two visitors kept their clothing on. I could see, however, that they were enticed by the nudity as they kept pushing at their pants and keeping the hands on their crotch.
I sat back down, picked up my drink and tried to act natural. Larry came over to my chair, stood in back of me and said, "You look like you could use a back rub." His hands melted over my muscle, soothing me. The conversation picked up, leading to our talking about our first coming out, our first date, first sex, the whole time, he massaged my back, keeping his body back from me, using his hands, mincing his fingers together, occasionally resting them on the back of my neck. My erection kept at full attention, but I accepted it and kept talking as if it were a punctuation mark in the conversation. The host came over once and put his hand on my cock, jiggling it, as he headed to the living room, refilling our drinks.
Michael came by too, got on his knees and took me into his mouth, just held me there, then leaned back.
"Honey," he said, "You are delicious."
Taking his head with my hand, I reached over--acting more daring than I ever had-- and kissed him, "You are sweet too, honey."
He and Dana went into the living room and stayed there for a half and hour, then came back, both looking refreshed and flushed.
By midnight we had said much more than we wanted to say and the words were punctuated my longer silences and stares. The two men from Chicago kept looking at me and swinging their legs back and forth. I could see that they had erections. But they said nothing. They sipped their drinks and chatted as if they were contestants for a game show called, "Act Like Nothing is Happening."
Larry gave my back a deep rub and announced that he had to go to work the next morning, slipped into his clothes as nimbly as he had taken them off, came back over to me, leaning forward, kissed me tenderly on the lips, "I hope to see you again."
Stunned with his discrete, almost shy exit, I watched him walk back into the living room, heading for the front door. Caught with a pang of fright, "Wait, " I called, "How would I reach you?"
He turned around. We were three feet from one another.
"Good question," he raised his eyebrows, looking carefully at me. "I was just thinking that myself!"
He went over to a desk and wrote down his number and his full name, "I am home usually about 6." He handed me the paper. "You should put this in your pocket, when you get one."
I laughed. "Short of one now." I looked down and we both saw my erection.
"Well," he said drolly, "It will do for some other things."
He stepped forward, took me by the shoulders, "You are a lovely man," then pulled me next to him, his body pressed against mine. His head was resting on my shoulder and I held him tightly. It was then, as we stood together, listening to each others breathing, that I felt his member rising along the face of his shorts, distinct, inching upward. "Nice," he whispered. Soon we were both pressing our arousal against each other. "What have we going on here," Dana chirped, "Two love birds." We slid back. Larry said, "Oh, we will see," look down at me.
I tried to reach him several times, but only heard his lovely, soft voice on the answering machine. Then, a day before I was to leave, he called back, asking me if I wanted to come over for dinner. He also lived in the country, some twenty miles from Dana, on a river. I arrived in the late afternoon. He was on the porch and came down to greet me. I put out my hand to shake his hand, but he held out his arms and embraced me. We held each other for some time, the contours of our bodies aligning. We drank a glass of wine and talked. He had put a candle on the table for dinner, letting its gentle flame waver in the muggy air, as he kept the lights off, letting the evening come on us without interruption of artificial light. We ate slowly. The mix of summer squash, onion, garlic, herbs and rice soft on the palate. He was a vegetarian. I found he practiced yoga as I did. He moved like a dancer, his back and head held high, with almost a backward lean and his legs were lithe, supple, as if he were about to leap at any moment. We drank another glass of wine. Words flowed as if they had been poured into us by an unseen host.
He suggested we sit on porch. I laughed, "So we can strip," and he nodded his head, " A very good idea." He took me by the hand and lead me to the porch.
His hands took hold of my waist and pressed me to him. We kissed shyly. His lips on mine. I felt his tongue assert itself and opened my mouth. He slide into my mouth and held his tongue in my mouth rigidly. His hips pressed to mine. I could feel his cock rising as it did the other night. I pressed against his lips and pressed my cock against his, realizing that I could feel mirroring mine. Five minutes. Ten. He stood back and unbuckled my belt, slipped off my pants, underwear, then pulled off my shirt. I put my hand on his belt and loosened it, pulled down his zipper, and knelled, taking off his tights, and seeing for the first time his cock, randy and happy and licked it. He reached down and pulled me up. I took off his yellow shirt. Our clothes were carefully draped over a chair. We sat down next to one another in separate chairs, carefully kissing and sipping the red wine. He would occasionally put his hand around my cock and groan deep in his throat. I would do the same. We were letting lust build up. The heat of his cock in my hand quivered, pulsed as if it had its own vocabulary. When he put his lips on my nipples, sucking them, I would reach over and hold onto his cock, look at its red glans, moist with pre-cum, and rub the tip, feeling it twitch under my touch.
We sat together, conversing, sipping wine until he shuddered as I caressed his belly, his body tightened and stretched out as he moaned, " Oh God, I want you so."
He reached over and took hold of my penis. "It is quite remarkable, isn't it?"
I looked down, feeling his hand encircle my penis.
He went on talking quite clinically, "You know the penis is comprised primarily of two cylinders of sponge-like vascular tissue called corpus cavernosa that fills with blood to create an erection." "Yes, I learned that in high school," I said. "But so what?"
"Think about it: the blood is pumped into the penis under great pressure and a series of valves keep it in the penis to maintain the erection. And in this cylinder of flesh," he tightened his grip, "The blood stops. It wants to get out, wants to move on yet it stays here, filled with your heart's blood, your heart's desire." "I never thought of it that way," I looked down as he licked the pre-cum which had teared up on my glans. "Are you a doctor-how do you know all this?" I asked.
"Not a doctor, just a reader of sacred texts, searching for why, as gay man, my feelings are as they are and finding, as such a long tradition of love, going back centuries, back to Rumi and to the mystics," he looked off at the mountains in back of us. "The traditions are buried, but each time we make love, and make love well, from the core"-he thumped his chest, "we unearth them."
He put his finger to his mouth after he had moistened it with the viscose liquid on my glans. "Tastes good," he grinned. His pointer finger pressed against the front of my penis. "The only way to release the pressure of these two chambers is for a third cylinder, the urethra, a tube to fill with ejaculate, your seed, and release you from desire. Until then you are under the spell of desire, engorged, producing sweet lubricant." He put a sticky finger in my mouth.
He swirled the pre-cum over my glans. "Then there is the he knobby head of my penis, the glans, swollen, almost purple, and the blood flows to the penis by two very small arteries that come directly from the aorta, arteries are the same size as the arteries to your finger, all interconnected and pumping blood from the organ that keeps you alive, that cleanses your system, provides you with oxygen, your body's center."
I must have looked perplexed for he kissed me, long and passionately. Then he said, "In theory, our cocks are just vehicles for making love, for reproducing. But when you think of them, they are our passion's core, an expression of our vitality, our heart's intensity. When we make love, in theory, there is nothing stopping us from loving all night, for days, as long as our hearts beat, as long as our desire wants."
His hand was moving very lightly over the erectile tissue, corpora cavernosa and corpus spongiosum, as he called them and, as he caressed me, my penis expanded, reaching out the him.
He explained, as he kissed my neck and shoulders, "We can increase the holding capacity of this tissue of yours, allowing higher amounts of blood to be held by the penis tissues during our love making, causing an increase in size, making you feel as a god, allowing you to go on forever."
My hand was now on his member, noticing the uthera, bold and distended and the two swelled chamber, which, as he said, were like the two chambers of the heart. His idea was that you could make love as long as your heart could stand it. When I had made love to other men-men certainly got aroused and became impassioned-I was struck, as I imagine women often feel, that after they had cum and cleaned up with hand towels, it felt as if they had just changed oil in their car-a release and chance to go another five thousand miles without a lube change. It felt mechanical. They loved not so much out of passion but out of necessity, the urge to release. The heart never entirely engaged in the act; the release was more a formula for feeling better than being together. He was proposing an entirely different engagement: both spiritual and sensual, both erotic and sacred.
My body tingled as if someone had turned on a switch-but not quite that, nothing mechanical: more as if someone had reached into my chest and held my heart and then reach down and took my phallus and blessed them as one. I had no idea what to do with my feelings except to sit with them, to let them guide me and to trust him with this rapture. For it was rapture: my body was transcending not out of its skin but into its skin, not out of lust but into it, not away from being but more fully into it.
We sipped some wine and held onto our cocks, kept our hands still, feeling our hearts systolic and diastolic beats, the normal rhythm of our heart, the rapture of the senses as they vibrated with our bodies as if at once I could feel my natural rhythm of expanding and contracting, of reaching and arriving, of wanting and having. If this was all we would have-and if he were some mystic initiating me into some tantra---I was content. Words stopped. Silence came between us. We listened to distant hoots and chatter of birds. When he spoke again, I was more attuned to his ideas.
"If we just follow the normal rhythm of our heart, let our lust beat with it, speed up with it, slow down with it, follow our heart's will, we could make love forever," he said, tightening his grip on the base on my penis. We lightly and gently rubbed each other, our free hand circling the heart of the other. His testicles pulled up as did mine. We took the scrotum and massaged it, the loose folds glistening.
My legs widened, as the tension grew in my loins. I leaned back in the chair. His legs had pulled together and straightened out.
"I want us to cum together," he said, his voice wavering with the vibration of desire.
"I am getting close," I told him, trying to control my breathing.
"Go slowly, just build it up gradually," he instructed me, Listen to your heart inside your cock." I could feel the semen in the shaft, the testicles were taut, but I could hear my heart too, his chambers thumping in my chest. He licked his lips several times.
"Now," he said, "just hold me." We sat still and I felt a little eddy of cum slide from the tip of my cock, a bead of white semen. I felt his cock twitch as mine had and a small glob of glorious white semen slipped out and perched on his glans. "Feed me," he said. I nipped the glob on my glans and put it in his mouth. He did the same. We sat for another minutes and another contraction and another glob. He took it between his thumb and forefinger and I tasted the salt of his cum. It was a communion as I have never experienced it before, a oneness.
We sat there exchanging dollops of our love, savoring them as we would a delicacy. I never noticed the salty flavor, the thick moist pudding like quality of it.
Then he said, "We need to get more comfortable."
He stood up and I followed him into the bed room with a large king size bed and on three walls, mirrors. Over the bed were photographs of men, nude, some partially erect. He knelt on the bed and pulled me onto it with him. We fondled one another, rolled back and forth, each being on top, thrusting, and then switching, getting used to our bodies, his long and lean, mine long too, yet more muscular.
He began to caress my anus, licking his finger and sticking it in me. I leaned back and pulled up my legs. He put his tongue in me, shoving it back and forth, delicately entering me, then take one and then two fingers, rubbing me. As he sat up, his erection magnificent, nearly touching his belly button, he hopped on top of me, stretching out, his cock on mine, frenzied, manically writhing against me, our bodies sweaty, hot form the air, glistening, becoming as one body. I told him to take care and kissed him, holding the back of his head.
It was as if I were going on a long journey and knew that he would be my guide. He stared at me and I saw for the first time his blue eyes were like blue fire. It was dark by now. The flicker of the candle painted its pastels on the wall outside the door. My body tensed and released, his two fingers pumping into me in a steady rhythm. He sat back, stoking his erection which was slick and taut. I held it and felt its wantonness. He came forward, his hips against mine, and I tilted upward.
When he entered me, he was gentle, the length of his member sliding centimeters at a time, slick, full. I could feel head of his cock pulsing. He was leaning over me, his abdomen on mine, and I kissed him. His tongue went into my mouth. I could feel it lick and join my tongue. His eyes looked intently as he pressed very slightly against me and I groaned, "You are beautiful." I took his back, his strong shoulders, and pulled him onto me. Our bodies were smoldering. His cock pulsed yet stayed only inches in me. We hugged from several minutes.
When he began to stoke back and forth, I cried out, "Larry," and he kissed my cheek. His movements increased and kept a steady pace, his mouth nibbled on my neck and my shoulder, and I could feel his cock enlarge, fill me, the whole of it distended, then his pace quickened and he opened his mouth, gasping.
I pushed against his shoulders as he arched his back, thrusting now with amazing force, the cock seeming to be sliding in and out with such vigor that I waited as he said, "I am coming," and his neck arched back and his screaming, "Ahh, ahh, ahh," I could feel his cock lengthened, that last final trust and the semen poured into me, eddy on eddy of it, first one thrust, then another and then another, and he moaned and paused, "This is so good," and I affirmed it, "Oh god you are wonderful," and his face look startled, and his neck arched again," Ahh, ahh, there, there," and I felt the engorged cock tighten and reach as if trying to find a home and semen pulse out, one after another.
The sweat poured off us, drenching the sheets.
I held onto him.
He was breathing hard and stared at me, leaning over kissing me, his tongue reaching into my mouth, down my throat, and at the same time, I felt his cock extend, the head swelling, tumescent, and more semen shooting out, cascading into me; I held him up, leaning into him, sticking my tongue as deeply as I could in his mouth as he reciprocated, kissing me back, his tongue in his mouth, the sweat covering out bodies, my body filled with is semen, and he gasped, "I do not believe it," and his hips jerked, violently, spasms that shook his body and I felt his getting larger and the semen throbbing into me, one burst after another, my body filling with his seed, and he keep trusting and after a few minutes, would orgasm again, the smack of his hips against my anus making a loud sloshing sound as the semen poured out of me, back over his cock, and he kept coming and coming, pausing for a moment, kissing me, rubbing my belly with the semen now oozed between us, saying, "DO you feel me?" and I would nod and say, "You feel so good." Then he would start to harden and push gently upward and his smooth, careful thrusts would quicken once more until I could feel his toes taut against mine and his legs stiffen and then the cry and the semen.
It was as near to religious as I could imagine. If there was such a thing as a second coming in actual experience, this was it. Words were flesh. Love was incarnate. I was thinking that the spiritual was as much physical as it was some ethereal element that theologians discussed.
I was transported, unable to think, just wanting more of him and his wanting and giving it, and I cried, "This is wonderful," and he held onto my cock and it spurted as his had, come sticking onto his chest and he took it and licked it off his hand, and gave me a taste, the smell of cum enrapturing us, as he thrust and said again, "I am coming," and I felt him, as if his cock were inside mine and my cock ejaculated and he took the semen from me and fed himself and then me, the semen becoming our nourishment as he stayed hard and rested, wiping the sweat from my face, kissing me gently as he got erect and said, "I felt the semen in my cock and it is rising, do you feel it there, it is ready, it is in my cock, it is getting longer," and I would feel it and sensed it moving up the shaft and then he would trust and I could not tell if he was moving or I was moving and then his whole hold would straighten out and the veins of his neck would distend and out it would pour.
I could see two of the veins like blue cords curve up his neck.
I said, "Is there not end to it?" wanting more, feeling it pour out of me, the fullness of the seed. He said, "No, there is no end," and would embrace me and kiss me and we would wait, hour on hour, moment by moment, filling each other with semen, coming into each others lives, until, late in the evening as a siren screamed and a bell tolled from a distant church, I felt him soften and he rolled over, still in my arms and slept. When the light came in the window, sliding along the wall, tipping over us, we were still embracing, and the juice from our love making held us together. It was then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, I felt my own member slide up his belly and his member arouse too.
We rolled back and forth, ungluing ourselves and as we moved, the delicious smell of cum, its musty languorous odor, overwhelmed us, making delirious with lust. We kissed, slide our tongues inside our mouths, licked each other bodies, the salty taste of our perspiration, neck, shoulders, back and legs, particularity the inside of the thighs and then, the cock, first his cleansing me and taking me in his mouth and then I did the same, until we were both holding delicately the tips of our erections and letting them feel the warmth of our mouths. I felt his hips twitch as did mine, then ever so slowing we pumped and could feel the testicles rise with our hands, and inserting our fingers in each other, lubricating ourselves and waiting as we stiffened and then involuntarily the cum erupted first in my mouth, filling me and then I came in his mouth, a communion of lust as the first light sipped over our bodies, drenching us in the gentle caress of morning.
Our cocks soft and pliable, we licked them clean and turned to kiss and hold onto one another. "I don't know what this is," you said, as you nestled in my arm, "But whatever it is, however it came to be, we are one." I agreed. If bliss had a name, this was it. The word "our" finally made sense.
I had never felt as I had for anyone. He craved me as much as I craved him. When he was near me, I wanted to hold onto him as much as he wanted to hold onto me.
We showered and I sat naked as he made us breakfast, melon and yogart and freshly baked bread.
At breakfast, he asked if I would stay the day. I was not sure. "Perhaps, I should," I looked up into his eyes, "I should get back to the conference.
I could see that he was hard again. He stood up and came over to me and I took his cock in my mouth. He held the back of my head and leaned into me. He was very gentle, sliding back and forth as if in a trace, staring at me. He never quickened his pace. He kept his breathing balanced. He put my hands on his buttocks. His hand, moistened with spittle, rubbed my nipple. Slow and steady, he pressed his cock in and out of my mouth. I kept very still, not putting too much pressure on it, letting it slide with as little friction as possible. He caught his breath once, stared at me, his eyes widened and I felt the full taut ejaculation pour into my throat, then another, it filling my mouth, running down my cheek with his cock never wavering, just holding fast, completely still except for the pulsating orgasms. I let him cum. It was a forceful yet gentle orgasm. I swallowed what I could. Then he pulled back, cum dribbling over his glans. He pulled me up and we kissed, his sucking his own semen. His hand sipped over my cock which was saturated with pre-cum.
He sat down in the chair. I put my cock in his mouth. He held it as I had done. Very slow movements and stillness and then wave on wave in perfect calm leaving me precisely as each ejaculation were timed to meet his slightest pressure on the root, each of the engorged vessels embedded in it, synchronized with the beat of my heart so it came as the blood pumped in and out. I saw my semen seeping down his cheeks. It was a communion. A union. This cylinder of my yearning in his mouth and his taking it all in as the room invests in the increase of light. I rubbed his long sandy hair and traced the curve of his eyebrows.
The day light was beginning to come fully into the room. He stood up and we were one body. I could feel distinctly the thumb of his heart in his chest. I could see the foothills in the distance, a mile hike up four slopes to the peak, a hike we would make later that afternoon and one we return to each year when I visit him, one that allows you to see a long way in each direction as if you can take in the whole world and see how it too throbs with the break of each day.