- Tell me about yourself, he says as I start to unbutton my shirt.

- Is that… usual?

- No, not really. Sometimes it's useful - to loosen up the talent.

- Do I look like I need loosening up? My pants hit the floor, belt clanking against the tiles.

- I haven't made that evaluation, he says nonchalantly, loading film into his camera.

I'm in my birthday suit. His lens captures me and crops me below the waist.

- Ready? He lifts the camera to his face.

- Shoot.

 

"Is that the best you can do?" I yell as Josh pushes deeper, his sweaty jaw wedged between my neck and my shoulder. His arms wrap up and around under my armpits: his spread fingers smoosh my skull into my pillow.

I have to admit, Josh is learning. He's the most earnest guy I've ever been with - and I don't mean that in some Wildean code for "queer" sense of the word, Cecily. Or maybe I do. Regardless, he's responded to my need for more shall we say variety in the most earnest way imaginable. Which is to say, he's doing it all for me, to make me happy and content in our various attempts at sexual congress. The problem is, he doesn't seem get off on it.

"That was hot," I exaggerate. I'm curled up into Josh, who's spooning me. Or sporking me is probably more apropos. "Mmmm," he mumbles into my hair. "I love being with you," he says. "Hey, ditto," I echo, watching some shadows dance in the corner to kill time. "I love you," he says, softly. "Mmmm," I mumble to no one in particular.

 

Snap.

- Relax, he says. You look really tense.

- I don't want to talk about my personal life.

- Fine, then don't.

Snap. Snap.

- It's private, you know? Some things are private.

- I agree with that. I agree with privacy. He says the word with a fake uppercrust British accent.

- Good.

Snap.

Pause.

- Just relax, all right?

- I am relaxed.

- Not from where I'm standing.

He crosses to me and cuffs the back of my neck with his free hand.

- Loosen up. You can be yourself with me. I won't tell anyone, he whispers huskily into my ear.

 

miguel231.jpg (89k)
< K J D K L ( * 9 0 2 9 8 E J K l 9 2 0 J N 0 9 8 9 0 8 0 3 0 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ v b o i U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 ) _ ( 8 N 8 N O I U N % 6 C V 4 5 3 X & * ( ) ( * & H G H J G K J H G Y 5 6 8 5 7 6 5 8 & ^ % ^ & * & ^ % * 6 7 This one's pretty good, he's my type. He's latino, has a big cock, not too long but thick. Juicy. He's uncut too, which is a plus. He's wearing a tanktop, a wifebeater really. That sparks my imagination for a few seconds. He's wearing boxers - standard white, a bit oversize - and his thick hardon is jutting out of the fly. He's got a handsome face, clean cut, but not too polished or model-esque. He seems like a real guy and the couch he's sitting on seems like a real couch in a real living room in someone's (maybe his) real apartment someplace real. In other words, this shot's not a setup. I really hate the kind with cheesy backdrops or some idiotic pastel-colored seamless. So back to his face: very masculine, not overly groomed, square. His nose looks broken, and his lips have the slightest smirky look on them. The best part is his eyes: they're staring straight into the lens, maybe at the photographer. They're taunting almost, saying yeah look at my fat uncut latin cock, which as I said is jutting out of the fly of his shorts. The overall composition's pretty close to perfect, his legs spread slightly, his whole body positioned directly at the viewer, his full erection, along the bottom of which are two tight nuts, at attention, ready to be licked and swallowed. I didn't mention his armpits; they're visible, since his arms are spread and resting on the back of the sofa, giving the whole thing a casual air, as if the viewer has just wandered into this situation and is getting more (much more!) than he expected. I picture myself in that situation, and I'm getting hard fast. I reach down into my pants, my dick is harder than usual. This guy is turning me on, there's even some precum oozing out of me, which is pretty much the point of no return, so if you don't mind I'm going to have to stop off here and J D K L ( * 9 0 2 9 8 E J K l 9 2 0 J N 0 9 8 9 0 8 0 3 0 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

So I'm currently dating the aforementioned Josh. Nice guy, sweet, maybe a little too "unabashedly queer" - quotes intended - for his own sake. In other words, he sort of has an agenda, that equal-rights-be-visible-support-gay-marriage thing I grew out of a couple of years ago. He's very cute, adorable actually, which is frankly not as hot as it is romantic. The fucking's good enough, if a little low-key. I'm starting to tire of the constant direction though: suck this, eat that, put your tongue there, etc. Admittedly, there are times when he seems to transition out of his usual personality to try to "get his sex on," but these performances always come across a little forced. But good boyfriends are hard to come by - the ones who love you and don't sleep with all of your friends anyway. So I'm happy with him in the warm and fuzzy way, if not on a more carnal level.

"I think it's really cool the way we connect," Josh says out of nowhere. "Huh?" I ask, wiping the sherbet off my chin. "You know, versus most queer relationships." He's about to go on a tangent. I hate the way the word 'queer' sounds coming out of his mouth - like he thinks he's some kind of tired Larry Kramer or early Tony Kushner or something. I mean, get over it, what are we fighting anymore? "I'm serious," he says, dabbing a spot I missed with his napkin, "With you I feel like I can totally be myself. I've never felt that before." His eyes focus on mine, insistent, sparkling annoyingly. "We're lucky. We have something really special." His lips push onto mine; his tongue shuts me up.

 

- Josh. Nice name, he says as he zooms in on my ass.

- Right.

- Hold it, don't move, there.

- Ok?

- More than ok.

- Really?

- If I say yes, something tells me you will become more difficult in the future. If I say no…

- You'd be lying.

Pause.

- You're very… sure of yourself, he says, measuring the last few words carefully.

- I believe the term is cocksure. Heavy on the cock.

He checks the light meter, then looks back at me. He wears little more than an amused expression, but it manages to conceal everything attractive about him.

- How long have you been dating?

- Who?

- Josh, he says.

Snap.

 

tony23.jpg (56.4k)
< * 9 0 2 9 8 E J K l 9 2 0 J N 0 9 8 9 0 8 0 3 0 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 _ ) ( ) __ This model has my ex's body but not his face (thank god), but the face he's got isn't so hot, so I consider transplanting a more appropriate face from my collection of other, er, models. But that always looks fake, no matter how much I photoshop the new image, match colors, blur the boundaries, etc. Plus whenever I do that I'm always aware, mid-jerk as it were, that the image isn't a real person but rather a mosaic of preferred body parts - forgetting, for the moment, that even an untouched image isn't a real person but a collection of pixels on a monitor. But I can usually suspend my imagination to that degree. So I decide to simply obscure the face and render his less-attractive features nonexistent. I could do the black bar over the eyes thing - which is sort of sinister and sexy - but his eyes aren't his only problem. So I decide to apply a mosaic filter to his face, turning the whole smorgasbord of eyes, nose, mouth, etc into a neat grid of flesh-toned squares; this, in itself, also has a fantasy element, arousing associations with Cops episodes or doctored surveillance footage. L ( * 9 0 2 9 8 E J K l 9 2 0 J N 0 9 8 9 0 8 0 3 0 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

- Four months. More or less.

- More or less.

Snap.

- I can't remember how long exactly. About four months.

- That's a long time.

Snap.

- Is it?

Snap.

- For queers anyway.

- Do you have to use that word? I purposely stop flexing.

- Which euphemism would you prefer?

Snap. Snap.

- It's just - someone I know says that all the time. And it drives me crazy.

Snap.

- Think of it as reclaiming an epithet.

- Give me a break, I say. This isn't the nineties anymore. All that crap is over.

He lowers the camera and puts his hands on his hips.

- You've got to be kidding.

 

Some days, when I'm horny and Josh is around, I find myself less interested in fucking him, him sucking me off, etc. than in finding a picture of some really hot guy on one of the newsgroups: alt.sex.binaries.erotica.gay.male., alt.sex.binaries.erotica.male, alt.sex.binaries.erotica.latino, etc. I don't know if it's weird or not - but that's the way it is. It can be pretty awkward, since Josh can usually tell if I'm horny or not (i.e., loose shorts, pup tent). He'll start to get frisky, and I'll have to make excuses all over the place. I used to be able to blame my "lack of interest" on the sexual side-effects of my antidepressant medication, but now that I'm off the pills he doesn't buy it. On these occasions, our happy-couple scenario usually crumbles like fall leaves and he exits, feeling "undesirable."

The phone rings half an hour later. "Hey," he mumbles. "Hey," I sigh. "Maybe we should just break up," he says. "If that's what you want," I say. "You always say that," he yelps. "I always say what," I reply rhetorically. " 'If that's what I want.' What about you? What do you want? You obviously don't want me," he drones. "What do you want me to say?" I ask. "I don't know. How about something comforting." His voice sounds so flat through the receiver. Our conversation ends soon thereafter.

 

amat3412.jpg
< * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 ) ( * ) ( Amateur stuff's usually ok, if the model's not fat or anything. At least this pic is of a skinny guy with a relatively big dick. The important part is that he isn't really "posing." The shot looks more candid than planned, as if maybe it was a "dare." I also really love the fact that the location looks very impromptu, messy even, dirty laundry on the floor visible in the lower right corner of the shot. He's got glasses on, which have the effect of rendering him "real." Like he took the opportunity to "express himself" inbetween study sessions. Great, the college dorm fantasy just kicked in. Which provides some awesome fantasy possibilities: wacky fraternity rituals, drunken dorm games. That would make him 18? 19? He looks the part, cornfed and ready for action. His mouth is parted slightly, not to be alluring, but because he's probably saying something to the cameraman/woman. I imagine their dialogue. And while his fingers dance up and down the length of his dick, I lose myself. 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

- What turns you on?

Snap.

- What?

- What's your turn-on? he says.

- Do you always ask so many questions?

- I mean, besides my taking your picture.

Snap. Snap.

Snap.

- Oh, right. Trust me, dude, it's not about you, I say, running a hand through my hair.

Snap.

- This obviously gets you hot, he says. If I am to judge by the evidence at hand. Or in hand, to be more precise.

- Ha ha.

Snap.

- Listen, I'm serious about what I said. Privacy? I mock his fake accent.

- He clearly doesn't do it for you.

- Who?

- Josh.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

- Why are you so interested in Josh?

Snap.

- I don't know. Why are you so interested in Josh?

 

Josh has this really annoying gay habit. I call it Perpetual Coming Out Syndrome. I've seen the symptoms manifest in a lot of gay guys. Basically, it's a constant need to "just be honest" and tell others you "really feel" about anything and everything. I think it's a side-effect of the whole coming out process - and it makes sense when you think about it: coming out, the penultimate moment where you can finally tell the truth and say "I'm gay!" can be addictive, like a drug, a warm bliss that washes through your veins... Suddenly you become dependent on this "truth-telling" and begin to force your innermost feelings on friends and lovers because you're sensitive and Out and ready to "just be real." That whole wearing-your-heart-on-your-sleeve thing, stuck in Wonder Woman's magic lasso. Josh has this condition. He's way infected. Maybe I'm more conservative with the sharing of my emotions, and Josh's attempts to talk about "our problem" are strangely sweet and all, but I would rather not. I mean, there are some things that belong to ourselves, right? Do we have to share everything with our lovers?

"Do you think I'm sexy?" Josh says. "Of course I think you're sexy. We have sex, don't we?" "You know what I mean," Josh says, significantly. "Ok, Josh, what's up?" "You think I'm being stupid," Josh says. "No, I don't. But you always do this." Josh thinks for a second. "Sometimes when I'm sucking your dick, I look up and your eyes are closed. What are you thinking about?" his eyes scan my face hungrily for answers. "Nothing. I'm just… enjoying the blowjob or whatever." "You're not thinking about someone else?" he presses, eyes down, watching my hands. "You're paranoid," I say. "Why don't you keep your eyes open?" Josh pouts. "It feels too good," I say, touching his chin with my finger in an elaborate gesture. His eyes skid my way, but I avoid them. "It feels too good, it's like heaven," I exaggerate.

 

manny322opl.gif (68.9k)
< ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 Ok, this is one of those "youngest teens on the net" photos which, to my chagrin, do tend to get me off pretty quickly. I don't know what it is. I wouldn't call myself a chickenhawk, and I don't necessarily agree with the ideas put forth by NAMBLA. But this kid's got something going for him. He's of dubious beige nationality - he could be Mexican, Czechoslovakian, Filipino - and something about his warm skin tones, slightly oily and shimmering in the bounce of the camera flash, is incredibly appealing. He's very slight, and his eyes have this wide-eyed innocent expression - like Bambi. I imagine he's flattered by the cameraman's attention. I imagine he feels special being the subject of this photo, that he's excited by the small sum of money given him because it's more money than he's ever had in his whole teenaged life. His prick is up, pointing towards his navel, is probably that way all the time what with hormones at that age I imagine. One hand is on his hip, which is cocked slightly to the right. It's an outside shot, and there's jungly foliage around, which maybe rules out Czechoslovakian when I really think about it. Which I try not to do, since the photo is probably criminal, what with the age of the "model," this kid who's too young to know better and too hungry not to take the money. I push that out of my mind and settle back into an easy, regular stroke, pretending my dick is his, feeling its blood-filled arousal in my hand, mine, imagining this kid feeling the same, knowing it's his forever, wielding it before this troll with a camera and a tripod, wielding it like a scepter knowing that it's his source of power but not knowing at that moment it's the only thing, the only power, the only moment of rule he'll ever have. I close my eyes, savor his passing moment and spill a load all over his thin brown chest. 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

Snap. Snap.

Pause.

Snap.

- You're suddenly quiet. He crouches down behind me, surveying my balls through the curtains of my thighs.

Snap.

This setup reeks of the amateur cock shot genre. He motions for me to change position. I cross to the couch and sit, slapping my half-hard cock against my thigh to keep it hard.

- Like a dormouse.

- I don't feel like talking.

- Did I say something? He feigns mortification.

Snap.

I don't answer.

- Or maybe you said something, he says.

 

Josh just left. He discovered the stash of porn on my hard drive. He was shocked, to say the least. "Aren't I enough for you?" was his stock cliché response. I didn't want to say "Yes," which would be caving and equally cliché, or "No," which would be the truth. Instead, I chose to look down at the floor, which, incidentally, turned out to be in desperate need of a good sweeping. I imagine, just prior to his exit, that he glared at me: a hard, cold, angry look the likes of which I tend to try my best to avoid in life. This time was no exception. "I can't believe you need this crap to get off." When I heard the door slam, I paced back to my computer, sat down at the keyboard and checked to make sure he didn't delete anything.

 

jake2df.gif (23.7k)
< 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N Usually I don't go for this type, the butch bear-wannabe. Body hair. Pumped-up pecs. Attitude. This guy's got a cigar clamped between his teeth, and his hands hold out his dick for my inspection. He's seated on a couch, totally nude, ready for whatever I think I can handle. And then some. He's in charge, that's certain. No doubt about it whatever. I did have a boyfriend once who was hairy. I initially thought I might freak out when we got together in bed, but I loved it. It was softer than I expected, and it was unapologetically masculine - although he was slightly embarrassed by it, which I thought was more than a little cute. The way it sprung under my fingers, the way I could let my hands wander through his underbrush… I loved that. Like this guy in the photo, though his pec hair is neatly combed in concentric circles around his nipples. I focus on his snarl, and the smelly cigar between his teeth. His dick comes into the picture later, after he's tamed me, made me his, secured my devotion forever. 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

- So quiet, he says.

Snap. Snap.

- How will I get him to talk? he muses, circling around me with the camera aimed. Perhaps if I pay him more compliments…

Snap.

- Are we almost through? I shift onto my other ass cheek.

- I give you two weeks.

- What?

- You and Josh.

- You don't even know Josh.

- I don't even know you, he says, his upper lip curling slightly over his canines. But I'm taking pictures of you naked.

 

Josh just called. He said he's still freaked out by all the porn, but of course he wants to talk about it. It's weird, how the distance between people is disguised by the intimacy of the telephone. His voice was as familiar as ever: medium-deep, a tad gravelly, this time tinged with anxiety and a touch of self-righteousness. He mounted his soapbox right away, preaching to the choir about the way gay men are so fucking shallow the way they objectify the male body, always looking for the perfect face, the perfect ass, the perfect cock and sacrificing a good personality for some preconceived idea of the erotic. He said he thought I was different, that I saw things the way he did, that I was more progressive than that.

"Than what?" I yawn into the receiver. "Than some perv who sits around all day jerking off to his computer screen." His voice gets all staticky, courtesy of my fucking cordless phone. "Don't you ever jerk off?" I ask. "Of course I do," he replies, defensive as hell. "Ok, then what do you use? Magazines? Videos? What's your fantasy? What do you think about when you're doing it?" Long pause. Static. "Do you really have to ask?" He bleats.

 

jackoff.jpg
< ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N I'm jerking off to one of my doctored images. This guy's sprawled out on a couch, one leg touching the floor. His "face" is looking at the camera, but I've mosaiced him out. Where his face should be is a rectangle composed of flesh-colored squares. Josh is on his way over; I have to relieve some tension. This guy's dick is pretty nice. I guess this is a dorsal view, the underside of his wide cock curving up towards the head. His fist wraps around the base of it, pressing his balls down, polished between his meaty thighs. Josh insisted we talk; I told him it was absolutely out of the question. I'm imagining the situation where me and this guy might be together, the intersection of variables which might allow me to rename this particular image "blowjob.jpg." Josh doesn't give up easy; he said we could have it my way, but he's coming over. My eyes concentrate on the pixellated dick, sort of sorry I modified his face since I remember he was kind of cute. I start to wonder about the reason I covered up his face, and my dick starts to deflate. So I accept that it's a done deal and try not to second guess myself. I've finally got a good rhythm going when there's a knock on the door. 4 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

 

- We're through, he says over the hum of his camera rewinding.

- Good, I say, pulling on my clothes.

He passes me an envelope.

- The money's in there. You can count it - if you don't trust me.

I count the money. He smiles, packs up his tripod, etc.

- You're cute. Nice ass. Unfortunate attitude. But you're going to make a lot of people very happy. He raises his eyebrows and pats the rolls of film in his pocket. He heads towards my front door.

- Do I get to see them?

He stops short and turns, mock-surprised.

- Of course. Everybody gets to see them.

 

Josh is in his underwear, which I chose for him. They're boxers, oversized, roomy enough for him to swing loose in. He's self conscious about the whole operation, even though it was basically his idea. His brow has this deep furrow going for it, like he's thinking really hard. "Don't intellectualize it," I say. "I'm just going to take some pictures."

"How's this?" he says, flexing his bicep in an imitation of one of my jpg's.

Snap.

"And this?" He lays back on the couch, legs spread, cock full but not hard - snailed between his thighs.

Snap.

"Why don't you suck this?" He holds his blood-filled cock in his fist and bares his teeth at the lens.

Snap. Snap.

Snap.

 

Josh is across the room. He's watching me tug and pull at my cock, my eyes glued to the computer screen. I loaded the photos of him onto the computer so he could watch me jerk off to them. Just out of his view, on the monitor, full-screen, is a shot of me I found on alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.male.

tjm23.jpg (82.3k)
< 1 0 4 9 8 6 2 * * ( ) _ ) ( 8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 0 I look surprisingly good. Definitely smacks of the amateur shot genre, with a tinge of bel ami. The photographer did a good job. I'm sprawled out on the floor, ass to the tiles - in this very room, actually, six o'clock from the kitchen. My legs are spread, and my half-hard dick is resting on my thigh. My nuts are tight and ready and freshly shaved. I'm leaning back on my arms, which force my shoulders into a sort of shrug, caving in my chest a little. On my face is an expression I don't exactly remember concocting. My eyes are bound up in a couple of clumps of black pixels. I don't look amused, or excited, or cocksure or anything. I look kind of… confused? Which kind of blows my fantasy. When I think about it, it wasn't as hot as I thought it would be - the shoot. The guy was a total asshole. He told me things just to keep me hard. He complimented me so I'd keep posing. So he could get more rolls of film. So he could sell more pictures. What kind of a fantasy is that? I look into the two clumps of black pixels, my eyes, the windows to my soul, and see nothing.8 7 B 3 2 9 8 J 7 9 8 7 0 9 8 6 7 0 9 7 9 8 7 0 V % ^ 8 7 9 ^ 7 8 9 6 * & 6 7 8 6 9 8 7 6 7 8 H H 9 0 9 8 Y 8 9 H 8 9 Y H 9 8 0 H 8 9 8 9 & * & ) ( * & b & ) ( 8 7 N 8 9 7 0 B I K J B F T Y C 6 5 $ c ^ % $ % ^ & $ U N 9 0 8 N ) ( * _ M N 8 9 0 N 8 0 9 N 8 >

Josh wanks his own cock, watching me watch "him" on the screen. I'm looking from my image on the screen, then to him on the couch, and back again. Sweat's beaded up on his forehead. He's really into it. His balls jump up and down as he jerks his cock. Precum oozes out of me, making me hotter, harder. I've never seen Josh so into it. My dick surges more, if that's even possible. He looks so hot, across the room. I look back at me on the screen and my dick deflates a little. Josh's breathing is sharp, and me eyes are drawn to him. He's close, he's really close. The look on his face takes my breath away: absolute concentration mixed with total abandon. My nuts suck up into the base of my dick. I can feel the come starting to course through me, ready to make a break for the surface.

I can feel him across the room, his warmth. Heat shimmers off him like a mirage. I'm watching him; his eyes are like pinpricks - clusters of tiny black pixels that suddenly link up with mine.

On my monitor, the screensaver clicks on.

Across the room, he self-extracts into all of my fantasies.

We both explode.

©2001 travis jon mader - Contributor's Bio