Sep 25, 2012

Green Eyes --- Chapter 17: My penis has never been this large


Previously, Alex ("Green Eyes") offered to give us a ride, we took him upstairs for the same, and we've finally arrived in the bedroom.

(We publish this a bit out of sequence, but never mind)


We're back in the bedroom. We finally embrace, kiss. This is it, this is the moment. Should Alex expect me to sink to my knees now, unbutton his fly, like the porn flicks would do—or unzip his zipper, most porn flicks are so cheap, they don't have money for the more expensive, button-holed Levis—unzip his cheaper jeans and start caressing his briefs with my lips, drawing the attention to his budding tumescence under the cotton? Well, I might, at least in the sense that my bedroom looks almost as bad as the motel rooms where those flicks are shot, a chest, two wooden bedside tables, two wooden chairs (there's always hope), and a metally framed bed with an archy, be-barred headboard, done in brass imitation, a mattress, and fairly dirty sheets, a discordant collection of things that speak of my financial (and my mental) condition.



Yet Alex isn't waiting for the cotton kiss (besides, he isn't wearing any fly-enhanced leg-wear but is still clad in his paramedical sweatpants). Instead, he undresses unceremoniously. T-shirt, pants, briefs, shoes, socks, they are all arranged into a neat pile on the second chair. He climbs onto the bed, arranges himself in some relaxed, unassuming position, like a model in a drawing class, but without the attitude. The simplicity of his movements I will never forget, they have changed my life.

I follow his example and make an unusual effort of apparel-folding. Although we had fairly rough sex the previous morning, there is not the least suggestion of anything untoward between us in the past, for all practical purposes we could be virgins. I lie next to him. "You're beautiful," he says, caressing my face. I'm caressing back. This would be the moment to say 'I love you,' although you never know what you get back, like 'moi non plus,' statistically the most honest answer (moi non plus, French, invented by Serge Gainsbourg, the one and only basis for his fame, this noun phrase, meaning "neither me"), or 'I love you too,' but uttered unconvincingly, or 'I love you too,' uttered more convincingly, although you know it's bullshit.

(I hold back.)

(I cannot hold back.)

"I love you," I say.
"Likewise," Alex comes back—bypassing the world literature from Homer to Lucas, have you ever heard anybody saying 'likewise' in this situation? There's a teasing movement of his eyelashes, although his green eyes stay neutral, as if it's head or tail. "In human sexual behavior," he says, "foreplay is a set of emotionally intimate and physically intimate acts between two or more people meant to create desire for sexual activity and sexual arousal." Ooh, he's so sweet!

He does what he can. He caresses my breast, my tummy, my nipples, retracts to my shoulders with his versatile hands, pays attention to my biceps. "Your body," he says, "is still quite OK gym-wise."
"Thank you," I reply, not reciprocating further —there are no words for his Adonis corpus. His eyes know this while they are kissing my lips, my tummy, my nipples. We're in for the longer haul. He bends over, caresses my thighs, my legs, teasingly avoiding my package or other private parts, all of which have reached a state of extreme arousal. My penis has never been this large.

Should I tell him? It wouldn't go with the romantic flow of his movements, or would it? I know, I know, but this is me, John, always ready for a silly remark. "My penis has never been this large," I say.
"There's no significant correlation between penis size and sexual satisfaction, save extreme cases," he comes back. "King Farouk of Egypt had a two-inch penis, yet hookers loved it." He laughs. I could say something back, about kings and hookers, perhaps he's a bit naive here, but I don't. More caressing. "You're OK, though," he adds, "it's not too large, like mine." The teasing, tactile neglect of my sexual organs, when have we seen this for the last time, I wasn't even born. Touch and go, silence.

"The average sexual intercourse lasts sixteen point two minutes," he says, breaking the spell.
"That's long," I say.
"I can't believe it either, but that's what the literature says."
He could now say something to the effect that we should help the statistics along by compensating for apparent over-reporting through making love forever, but he doesn't, perhaps because it's not true. Instead, he moves—yes, he moves to embrace the cliché—he moves to a higher level. He takes hold of my cock, strokes it gently. We're in familiar territory now, well, we've been in familiar territory the whole time, except for his 'likewise,' remark, or for the size of his dick (however irrelevant), or the record size of mine at this moment, or his beauty, or his eyes, or the touch of his fingertips, or his smooth, supple skin that I'm now caressing myself. He bends over, and my cock disappears in his mouth. He has full, sensual lips, naturally, and his sensual tongue plays with my sensual soul. There's a flush in my abdomen, emanating, radiating, spreading through the known universe. We haven’t changed positions so far, as if we will always be side by side (this is something only very good porn achieves, and then only intermittently), fluent movements rule, continuous tenderness blends with tender continuity. He's at it. He's at it. "Hold on," I say, "I'm about to come prematurely, not so fast." He can't speak now, given present anatomical constraints. He must have heard me, though, but isn't relenting, he continues, effortlessly—this is really something, how effortlessly he sucks cock. There are no special effects, he's taking his time, there's no rush, only…(rhymes)… my crush.

I explode in his mouth. I' coming, I'm coming, finally, too early, no superlative is spared. He's still sucking, quaffing my cum, still holding on to my dick. Finally he relents. His position has changed, he's now next to me, his dick in upright position next to my face. He's so sweet. He's stroking his dick. We're in for a facial now. His gentle stoking of his own dick continues fluently. He doesn't groan, he doesn't make any noise whatsoever, except for the squishy sound of his foreskin (supplemented, as I might add, by squeaky comments from my mattress, which are not his fault). "Ready," he says. A first contraction, his body spurts back. A second contraction, a first spurt of cum spouts from his pee hole, ends up on my face. More contractions, more cum everywhere, we've been there before, you get the picture. Still holding his dick with the right hand, he touches my face with his left hand, wiping his cum over my lips, my cheeks (not my nose), and my breast.

He sits. "Time for a cigarette," he says.
"I don't smoke," I say.
"Neither do I," he replies, “it’s a pertaining poem by Tennessee Williams.”

We're silent for some time, and now, finally, our angel walks through the room. Alex stretches, another embrace, he's on top of me now, where he relaxes, as if we are forever suspended in a better space and a better time. Infinity.

Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out now, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:



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