Me and Elvis and Lorrie

I am sucking Hipster Dad's cock. It is very nearly the only appendage he has without inked adornment, not that it needs anything to make it more beautiful. It is, to date, the most beautiful cock I've encountered. In every aspect. It's a Super Model cock.


I met Hipster Dad-- I call him this because he is a hipster and a father, mind you, not to fulfill a sugar-daddy fantasy, which I may or may not have-- in the Square. Well, I didn't "meet" him then, only became aware (obsessed) of (with) him. We actually met in line at Barnes and Noble, waiting for our turn at the register. He was buying Lorrie Moore's short story collection, "Birds of America," which is one of my favorite books, a book I've bought several copies of to give as gifts, it's that good. I told him as much, and he laughed, telling me he was giving it to his sister-in-law as a birthday present. In-laws hint at betrothal, although not always, and I sneaked a peek at his left hand and, oh yeah, nice ring, congratulations, man, how's the old ball-and-chain? Anyway, somehow, between there and here, I find myself on my knees. It amazes me, even.

Holding my head and pumping his hips, he rides my mouth like he owns it, all of it-- fat, flat tongue, dodgy teeth, uvula, and all the other soft tissue that envelopes his great dick. I don't want him to stop, even when he's stopped up my throat and I can't catch a breath. Who needs air?

His name is Eric, but I call him Elvis. I used to like a boy named Eric in high school. What's become of him, I wonder. Cute boy-- short with inky-black eyes. This Eric/Elvis is lanky, long muscled. He grips my head and says, "Look at me." I look. I gag. He lets some spit drool out of his mouth to land exactly on his thick shaft just as it slides complete into my mouth. He pulls back, out, smearing my face with our spit until my lips miss their stretch and my gullet longs to be filled again.

"Open up,"he says, my mouth gaping.

(One of my favorite stories in that book he was buying for his sister-in-law is "Dance in America." It's about a woman, a dancer, who is in "Pennsylvania Dutch country" lecturing in classrooms, "spreading Dance's holy word." She meets up with an old friend, who, with his wife, has a child with Cystic Fibrosis. It sounds sad, is sad, but is also something else, something brilliant, about hope and love and now. Staying present. Like when you're dancing. Buy the book. Read the book.)

"Nipples," he says. Commands. Directs. He's bossy, doesn't give a shit about me or my dripping erection that he won't even let me take out of my jeans. My hands go where he wants them. This sets him off: the harder I am on them, the harder he fucks my mouth. He begins to curse like a man with a hammer who's missed the nail. I am forced to snort into his pubes, choking on his buried length and girth. I feel the same way when being smothered by a sweating ass-crack. It's that good.

Grunting, he tears out of me and tries to aim his load out of harm's way and, while I'm grateful not to get an eye-full, I regret the sweet reward of nut.

"Sorry," he says, maybe sensing my dismay; "I don't cum in dudes." He flicks some jizz on my cheek-- to compensate?

"No problemo," I say, getting up out of my crouch. My hard-on is hard-to-ignore. I see him regarding it with not much interest before he puts his hand over it and starts rubbing it through my jeans. It doesn't take long before I am huffing his shirtfront and pissing cum and wondering what his wife looks like.

In My Humble Opinion

I think Kanye and Serena should get married and then shoot each other in the head.

Again, A Loaf of Bread

To continue: I happened to doze off. Two things happen to me on trains-- sleepiness and hard-ons. I can't explain it; it just happens, and I accept it as a matter of course. I woke up in New Jersey, startled and hoping I hadn't drooled or snored. I was, of course, obviously erect. I looked down at it and then over at my neighbor. He had his jacket over his lap and was clearly, plainly, masturbating under it. Watching me. The punching motion under his coat stopped and he looked away. I had the impression that I had interrupted a moment. He folded his hands on top of his jacket, and I tried to make out what he'd left behind, curious now, having heard delicious rumors about red-headed guys. He seemed to be inspecting the passing landscape.

And then he turned his head slowly and wet his lips with his tongue. The train car rocked and rattled, and New Jersey drew past behind him, a smeared backdrop.

"Go back to sleep," he said, quietly; "Please."

I saw his hands press down on the jacket and understood what he was saying, what he was asking of me. I closed my eyes and hear the rustle of jacket and then the noise that skin makes, and I could only imagine what he looked like, his huge marbled cock rising up from his copper bush and zipper teeth. I could hear his breath, how it quickened and caught in his throat. I opened one eye as he tried to direct his load toward the floor. He was bigger than I'd imagined. And then we were swallowed by a tunnel, and the car went dark. He put himself away and got up from his seat without any acknowledgement of my presence-- I was a loaf of bread again-- and made his way to the restroom. He never came back. But I still have that stupid, unreadable book he left behind.

Loaf of Bread

So. Shit happens to me. I mean, shit happens to everyone, but I feel like I get more than my fair share. I should clarify, too: sexy shit. Like that Sunday morning when I was training up to New York to have brunch with my family in Manhattan. There were a total of five people in this particular car, which is why I picked it to ride in. And then this guy came on, unremarkable as far as I was concerned. What I did find remarkable-- not to mention completely annoying-- was that he decided to sit in the seats directly across the aisle from me. It struck me as strange and stupid to sit there when he had so many opportunities to sit by himself (so to speak). It was like I was invisible or something-- he didn't pay me the least bit of notice. Somewhere in his 30's, attractive-ish, I guess. He reminded me of an uncle, one of my own, back in the day. There was something a little throw-back about this guy, a little retro. Maybe it was the mustache. And he was wearing carpenter jeans (please, I know!) and a rugby shirt. His hair was the color of an old penny and cut short. We made eye contact, but it was as though I were a loaf of bread or something. He took off his jacket and pulled a book out of its pocket, an old paperback edition of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." (Hell, Straighty!) Thus snubbed, I turned my attention to my Times' crossword puzzle...

(Yikes, I'm going to be late for a meeting-- more later...)