Skill Seekers and Fantasy Finders (Fascination…) Side by side, face to face – with the immediate evening daylight filtering from the floor-to-ceiling windows into my Midtown West aerie and onto our nakedness – I answer to your confusion with what is more and more natural to ask: “What do you think about when you masturbate?” read more..
Side by side, face to face – with the immediate evening daylight filtering from the floor-to-ceiling windows into my Midtown West aerie and onto our nakedness – I answer to your confusion with what is more and more natural to ask: “What do you think about when you masturbate?”
And in an instant, time capsizes, roles reverse, and I’m wizened by a pre-to-early-teen who went from savvily salivating to this disconnected man in midlife, spent, in defenselessness. You, my latest lover, disclose that you’ve come increasingly to relive the times when, rolled out and reared in the 1970s of the American Southwest, you’d seduced and sucked off a handful of friends’ sex-starved fathers as a precocious pubescent.
At 12 my unofficial Sunday morning ritual had me hurrying down the stairs to unearth the throwaways hidden in the middle of the Kalamazoo Gazette after my stepfather and mother had glanced at it, before we four prepared for church. Maybe one Sabbath per month, to my great gratification, I’d come upon an underwear ad. I’d sneak up each step to hide the whole newspaper away and save the sacred visuals within for private peeks of bed-humped peaks when my stepbrother was outside playing. Gol! Those fitted states of undress and bits of flesh with the intermittent shock of armpit hair – It was in the mystery of these models in white shirts, short socks, and brimming briefs with their tucked away cocks and pretty visages finding me drizzling face down until the day I realized my right hand as my eyes mapped each man’s body. I peered to my side as I jerked to full-on squirt, fizzling from the riddle of myself in the sensational middle of an age of alienation. Within the enigma, without a fantasy, and with the threat of detection forever looming, I fruitfully fumbled my way into a handy new skillset deep in the boondocks on that dead-end dirt road in Southwest Michigan.
By 13 my pa and I were routinely viewing Dances with Wolves for the umpteenth time when he muttered, “Something must be wrong with the VCR.” As Lieutenant Dunbar surfaced from the prairie grass singing “Soldier, Soldier, Will You Marry Me?,” carefully concealed cack swinging, his bare ass was reduced to blur and static. Over and over, I’d paused the scene of this ruggedly sensitive Yank in the Heartland to erratically heat my hand with my hard part to spit in tissue in a fit of puerile passion to the point of wearing out the videotape. Gosh! I’d tug my boner as I bit my tongue to those white cheeks, that lanky frame, and the fur on his chest and manicured mane on his face, quiet virility causing me to be cautiously feral as I’d climax to Costner’s rubbed buttocks. Quickly, quickly, I’d jack it before my father would come stumbling downstairs to that closet-of-a-basement on M-119 in Northwestern Michigan. A faint notion of a fixation streamed in my consciousness to the enrapturing motion of the lieutenant swimming in the pond, pondering the magnitude of Kevin’s nudity in my ruptured mind as his shadowy anatomy was but a rebellious spot on my dad’s wide screen.
Now 14, back downstate and upstairs, my stepbrother has run away and – after years of having split a room – I claim a lone space in relocating my bed to the window with the added, advantaged view across our cottage and toward the close of our cove. Man Alive! There’s Bill Schweitzer, shorts filled with middle-aged might, faced away from my post. He dove into the lake – then straightaway is lifting himself on his dock, his dick and low-hangers accentuated in sweatpants shortened to form his meaty enormity in makeshift trunks as he lies in the sun to laze in his brazen hunkiness. My vision wanders from the bedroom, by way of binoculars, to savor his large bulge to each military tattoo that favors a once perfectly sculpted physique on this pristine afternoon of charged rest. And my righteous hand approaches my pants, palm to touch my entireness, as I strip Mr. Schweitzer of his personhood to slip myself into that swimsuit to imagine this manhood. His legs through the lens, my eyes meet his thighs, and summer sweat blends with freshwater wetness to attest to my swelling in the middle of his – this – Midwestern moment.
So you, dear suitor, and I mirror our queer selves as we head back again and again in more than a mere prurient pursuit of the elusive… In healing and heightening – reliving… relieving! – the wonderment of discovering what once was to uncover a sense of awe at all that is today… Reawakened to adolescent revelation, I trace the indent of your briefs on your waist so as not to waste away the brevity of our skin-to-skin leveling – and, civil in my native land, you free my man push and fixate on my boy tush.
And, strengthening the length of yourself in me, you long to feel shrewd and fresh again. And, astutely surrendering to you, I yearn for a youthfulness that grasps little and has yet to get anything. And we’re letting one another identify the indescribable – uncontained in this insistent instance.
And I take our time, slowly undressing begetters familiar and foreign, as your mouth travels south… You hastily taste me to slurp and best this unraveling, Western clambering to capture the fleetingness of a meeting between your pal’s pop as he pulls his sweatshorts down in that bygone garage and forces his full salute toward your young front, yanking you by the chin as he interjects ejaculate in your yap, coming to be immortalized in your captivated – surprised! – portal.
And you reclaim your innocence for the first time as I gain a know-how with beginner’s mind as we take turns being ourselves through the ages, sharing our lustfulness and shedding light on our wondrous woundedness as we lick one another’s chutes, facing up to freedom’s being freed from affectation as we shoot and miss to hit anew.
And that night, having masturbated, I lay sated in gratitude for the nurtured recollection of you and him and you and him and you and him… in times when the gratuitous was occasional and not an everyday occasion – while eureka effects were year by year, paced in a space where idolization transmogrified into idealizing, as awareness arrived, briefly, sidewise…
Stop massage creaming your keyboard (that’s my scenario, anyway), clip after clip, as you hasten the next best thing, Men Alive! Instead, stick with the anticipation and finish to this, calling forth a Northerly force of nurturing fascination.
Or be a real rebel and yank it to what you reliably know. Companions parted, infatuations past, melded with a less inhibited you in a time formerly inhabited.
Squeeze the covert in constancy, and be tamed by your own nature.
(Note: I may not have gotten Moroccan cock in me, but an altogether different dream came true and I got to ride a camel in the Sahara Desert! I went expecting an unrequited love, but it turned out that each beast adored me. ☺ The ecstatic happening is captured here.)
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