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.