Jan 13, 2013

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'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 in the porn flicks? 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. A timber-framed bed done in cherry imitation, a mattress and dirty sheets, a discordant collection of things that speak of my financial (and mental) condition.



Yet Alex isn't waiting for the cotton kiss (besides, he doesn’t wear any fly-enhanced leg-wear but is still clad in his hospital sweatpants). Instead, he undresses unceremoniously. T-shirt, pants, briefs, shoes, socks are all arranged into a neat pile on the second chair.

He climbs onto the bed, folds himself into 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 changed my life.
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, used by Serge Gainsbourg, the one and only basis for his fame, this noun phrase, meaning "me neither"), 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.
"No sweat," Alex comes back—bypassing world literature from Homer to Spielberg. Have you ever heard anybody saying 'no sweat' 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 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 pecs, my tummy, my nipples, retracts to my shoulders with his versatile hands, pays attention to my biceps. "You are still quite OK, gym-wise."
"Thank you," I reply, not reciprocating further—there are no words for his Adonis corpus. His eyes appear to know this while they are kissing other parts of my body. 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 in 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, oh my God. Touch and go, silence.

"The average sexual intercourse lasts sixteen point two minutes," he says, breaking the spell.
"That's long."
"I can't believe it either, but that's what the medical literature says."

He could say something to the effect that we should help the statistics along by compensating for apparent over-reporting by making love forever, but he doesn't. 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 'no sweat,' remark, or for the size of his (uncut) dick (however irrelevant), or the record size of mine at this moment, or his beauty, or the touch of his fingertips, or his smooth, supple skin that I'm now caressing.

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, fluent movements rule. He's at it. He's at it.

"Hold on," I say, "I'm about to pop already, not so fast." He can't speak now, due to 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'm cumming, I'm cumming, finally, too early, squirting, shooting, exploding, no superlative is spared. He's still sucking, quaffing my load, holding on to my dick. He relents. His position has changed, he's next to me, his dick throbbing over my face. He's so sweet. He's stroking it now, his member, we’re in for a facial. His ministrations continue fluently. He doesn't groan, he doesn't make any noise whatsoever, except for the squishy remarks of his foreskin (supplemented by uppity 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 knob and 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 features, then licking it off with his alpha-tongue.

He sits. "Time for a cigarette," he says.
"I don't smoke," I say.
“It’s a 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 unfolds, 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 ebook and printbook on Amazon, under this link:

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