blond hair and a perpetual pose in his posture. He looked over at me in that odd way they have, suggesting that the only proper relation was the way in which I would worshipfully look at him. Paul was a queen in men’s clothing. He was one of those super-soft black boys who look as though they spent the first sixteen years of life on mama’s tit. Great pendulous lips and soft liquid eyes, his skin shone with a dull glow and his ass rose provocatively in a high tight curve through his clinging white pants. George looked like a librarian, with an indeterminate face. He could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty years old, and had a certain faded quality about him, like a piece of driftwood that has been in the sun a long time.
I sat down, took a proffered beer, and joined the party. It was at the small-talk stage, tales of last year on Fire Island, gossip about the raids in the local gay bars. There were issues of Screw and Gay strewn about. Within half an hour or so I would be involved with these men in a groaning tangle of bodies, with cocks and asses and fantasies open full blast, and all of us sucking and fucking and diving in and out of whatever forms of sexual excitement we dug, and yet here we were, indulging in inane chitchat, without any warmth or true humor or eye contact. We were like soldiers about to attack an enemy fortification, making small talk to cover our nervousness, or to give some social pretext to delay our readiness. Men don’t seem to need as much foreplay as women.
Roy stood up. “Why don’t we go make ourselves comfortable,” he said. We all looked at one another, sized up one another’s bodies and took a fix on the flesh, and headed for the bedroom. This was a different affair, bigger than the living room, and consisting mostly of two huge mattresses laid side by side on the floor. A red light made the room nicely suggestive. And one wall was a set of full-length mirrors. We filed in, hesitated for a moment, and without further ado, began taking off our clothes. There was something of the locker room about the activity, and part of me resented the stereotypic nature of the scene. Yet I realized that acting out one drama was as valid as any other, and elegance had so often got in the way of utility that I could appreciate the briskness of this approach. As we dropped our pants and took off our shirts, we exchanged more or less surreptitious glances, measuring the sizes of cocks and looking at how the asses hung.
Then we were nude. Paul fell forward and lay on his back on the mattress, squirming a little and stretching luxuriously. John struck a magazine cover pose against the wall, leaning his torso back and pulling on his cock with his right hand. For a moment I smirked at the silliness of the posture, but then an old familiar weakness made my knees go slack and I felt a pressure in my chest. His cock grew hard and bulged out from the pubic hair, thick and mean. His balls hung like oat sacks underneath. I found myself moving over toward him, mesmerized by the tool. I looked into his eyes and met the cool disdain with which he meets all men, the knowledge that the sheer presence of his body is enough to get men to suck him off and let themselves be fucked. I stood in front of him, and then sank heavily to my knees. The cock shot straight up before me, throbbing slightly. The purple tip contrasted with the pale white shaft. For a long while I drank it in with my eyes, feasting myself on the weight and succulence of it. Then, trembling and unable to bear the tension any longer, I leaned my head forward, and with a sob took the velvety lush knob in my mouth. My mouth was dry and his cock rasped against my lips. I licked the tip of his cock with my tongue and wet it. I pulled back and plunged forward again, this time using my tongue like a washcloth, lapping the cock all over, covering it with saliva, making it slippery. He drew in his breath with short hisses and put his hand on the top
I sat down, took a proffered beer, and joined the party. It was at the small-talk stage, tales of last year on Fire Island, gossip about the raids in the local gay bars. There were issues of Screw and Gay strewn about. Within half an hour or so I would be involved with these men in a groaning tangle of bodies, with cocks and asses and fantasies open full blast, and all of us sucking and fucking and diving in and out of whatever forms of sexual excitement we dug, and yet here we were, indulging in inane chitchat, without any warmth or true humor or eye contact. We were like soldiers about to attack an enemy fortification, making small talk to cover our nervousness, or to give some social pretext to delay our readiness. Men don’t seem to need as much foreplay as women.
Roy stood up. “Why don’t we go make ourselves comfortable,” he said. We all looked at one another, sized up one another’s bodies and took a fix on the flesh, and headed for the bedroom. This was a different affair, bigger than the living room, and consisting mostly of two huge mattresses laid side by side on the floor. A red light made the room nicely suggestive. And one wall was a set of full-length mirrors. We filed in, hesitated for a moment, and without further ado, began taking off our clothes. There was something of the locker room about the activity, and part of me resented the stereotypic nature of the scene. Yet I realized that acting out one drama was as valid as any other, and elegance had so often got in the way of utility that I could appreciate the briskness of this approach. As we dropped our pants and took off our shirts, we exchanged more or less surreptitious glances, measuring the sizes of cocks and looking at how the asses hung.
Then we were nude. Paul fell forward and lay on his back on the mattress, squirming a little and stretching luxuriously. John struck a magazine cover pose against the wall, leaning his torso back and pulling on his cock with his right hand. For a moment I smirked at the silliness of the posture, but then an old familiar weakness made my knees go slack and I felt a pressure in my chest. His cock grew hard and bulged out from the pubic hair, thick and mean. His balls hung like oat sacks underneath. I found myself moving over toward him, mesmerized by the tool. I looked into his eyes and met the cool disdain with which he meets all men, the knowledge that the sheer presence of his body is enough to get men to suck him off and let themselves be fucked. I stood in front of him, and then sank heavily to my knees. The cock shot straight up before me, throbbing slightly. The purple tip contrasted with the pale white shaft. For a long while I drank it in with my eyes, feasting myself on the weight and succulence of it. Then, trembling and unable to bear the tension any longer, I leaned my head forward, and with a sob took the velvety lush knob in my mouth. My mouth was dry and his cock rasped against my lips. I licked the tip of his cock with my tongue and wet it. I pulled back and plunged forward again, this time using my tongue like a washcloth, lapping the cock all over, covering it with saliva, making it slippery. He drew in his breath with short hisses and put his hand on the top
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