GROWING UP | EPISODE 1 | WAKE--UP CALL

by theo roberts

// PREFACE: Sup, world? So, listen: I've always been a writer by trade, but I've never traded in this sort of writing. This is my first go at getting people all hot and bothered, so be kind, but I also wanted to record a kind of meta--fictional account (I'll try to be clear in the header when things move beyond the bounds of reality--the below is 100% certified true) of my experience with intergenerational gay relationships. It's a topic I once studied extensively, and if I can help work lil gays through just an ounce of their ageism with this series, then I'll have accomplished something. Worst case, I help a lot of young men like me shoot their load (and maybe some more seasoned readers too? If there are any daddies out there: Hi! Woof!!).

// CONTACT: Know who I am and want to blackmail me for eternity? Wanna have a heady, intellectual conversation about intergenerational sexXx? Wanna show me your cumshot from reading? I welcome all questions, comments, and date invitations via email -- 00theo.roberts00@gmail.com //

I FOLLOW THE NERVOUS GUY INTO THE MEN'S ROOM, THOUGH I'M NOT COMPLETELY SURE WHY. The door swings shut and we are left alone, face--to--face, a rippling undercurrent of static rumbling from his belly to mine. Jeez, this guy is really not my type, I muse, taking in his thoroughly average physique, his borderline--pedophile glasses, his bushy mustache.

My type isn't too specific, but it's never more than a handful of years older than I am. I graduated college a few months ago with a figurative little black book filled with hunky South American history majors, beefy student body presidents, and one creepy guy who gave me crabs. That last jaunt excluded, I had a track--record in which I took pride. Though some dudes my age went for middle--aged men, I stayed carefully in my lane. Don't tell anybody, but I'm the slightest bit prude.

So, to be honest, this third-- (or fourth--?) rate Brian Cranston is not the kind of partner with whom I'm accustomed to hiding out in men's rooms (although a similarly--aged guy did once walk in on my boyfriend and I fucking on the baby--changing station in the bathroom of the National Gallery of Art--not proud of that). The guy's gotta be in his mid--forties, and he's looking at me with this quiet desperation that's making all eight inches of my dick twitch. I don't see it as much as I can feel it, burning off of him. Actually, I'm not completely sure from whom it's coming. But something's going on. The moment stretches out for longer than should be possible. He smells like sweat.

He looks down to flatten his crumpled tie, and before his eyes come back up, I figure fuck it. He's surprisingly hard to kiss--the only time I've been with a guy this much taller than I was, we were horizontal the whole time. For the record, it was the student body president--a conquest who, though handsome, proved that height and, uh, endowment aren't always so closely correlated. That is to say, he had a little dick.

Our lips come together and I can feel every square millimeter of skin where we connect. He exhales involuntarily, grunting hot, musky air into my mouth. Someone in the room replies, but it can't be me. That desperate, effeminate sigh can't be me. I didn't even know my voice went into that octave.

We're still kissing with a modicum of chaste--his tongue, though definitely curious, is careful, tender--when somebody moves their foot and our hips come into alignment. My cock--once resting stiff and upright in my jeans--slides onto something wide and firm. It's him. Our dicks press together and a surge of arousal slams me like a ton of bricks. His meat twitches against mine. My entire body twitches back. I need this man. I need this middle--aged, average--looking man.

It seems the feeling's mutual, as, simultaneously, his tongue stops being careful and he lifts me up onto the counter, setting me down gently before I feel him start fumbling for my belt. He's having a hard go of it, moaning loader now, his kisses growing wet and ravenous. His mouth moves to my neck and his mustache electrifies the nerves behind my ear. He mumbles something. "What?" I ask, breathless.

"I said, `Come here, boy,'" he intones, louder this time, looking me straight in the eye. One of his hands reaches my lower back--covering the whole thing--and pulls me in to him, tight. My legs are spread; he fills the space between them as his hand seems to pull me even closer. My cock is smashed up against his, my chest pressed into his body, my face at his neckline. I look up at him and he holds my gaze as, one--handedly, he rips open my pants. He pulls them off, underwear and all. I lift my butt of the counter while his broad torso leans over my lean frame and he yanks. I have the acute sensation of being a little kid.

My jeans and yellow boxer--briefs fall to my ankles, as do his slacks. A jungle of thick brown hair covers his thighs, teasing my eyes up towards the considerable bulge in his tighty--whities. The head is soaked; he's leaking for me. My cock, freed from such imprisonment, waves haphazardly in the air before me, twitching for attention. I feel exposed and vulnerable with my manhood out there like that, while he's still nearly fully--clothed. I feel like a little of my power's been stripped away, transferred into his big, hairy hands. The thought makes a pearl of precum emerge from my cock.

He barely looks at it before ripping off my shoes, freeing my legs, and pulling me back in, tighter. My quads instinctively wrap tight around his back, my arms around his neck. His hands hold me tight, secure. Nothing was getting in or out of that grip. I could feel his forearms flexing as he kissed me much harder now, much deeper. The kind of kissing you do before you fuck somebody. My cock--pushed up against his underwear and the rough hem of his oxford shirt--is harder than I think I've ever felt it. Holy shit, am I gonna--?

My hands are on his pecs now. They're tight with the force of his kisses. That female porn star in the room, turns out, is me, and I'm moaning so loud it's impossible no one outside the bathroom hears us. His cock moves in his underwear, brushing just under the head of my own. The sensation sends my skull jerking back, and he goes for my throat, kissing and sucking and eating away at me like I'm his last goddamn meal. Something's building behind my navel. He grunts the kind of grunt I'd never expect to hear coming from such a mild--mannered, white--collar guy. His demeanor has shifted. No longer apprehensive, the big guy seems like he wants to consume me. His hands somehow cover more of my back, pull me closer, push my cock harder up against his. "Yes..." I manage.

"Oh, you like that, boy?" he grumbles into my ear. One of those big hands moves to my tailbone, the other arm pulling me up off the counter.

"Yes..." I repeat.

"Yes, what?" he demands, his finger brushing my hole.

"Yes, daddy!" I moan, and my cock is dripping wet and he's telling me that I'm a good boy and that feeling in my gut builds and builds and--

"Fuck," I cry in disbelief, white--knuckling the fabric of the shirt. "I'm gonna cum!" My momentary embarrassment at shooting so prematurely is immediately replaced by an orgasm so powerful, I have to brace my forehead against his chest to withstand it.

His voice is in my ear. "Go on, show me that cum, son." There's an authoritative edge to his words. I lose my grip. "Oh, boy," he coos, wrapping his arms tight around me, bracing me against the feeling. I shoot again and again, yelping with each rope, the sensation shaking my whole frame. I squeeze my eyes shut against the impossible force until it passes. I feel spent. I feel wet. An aftershock slams me into the present and my eyes snap open.

The man--my Don Juan Walter White--is gone, and I am alone, face--up on my bed, spread eagled with my cock still more than half--hard, marking a large, dark outline in my yellow boxer--briefs. The fuck--? My name is Theo, I'm twenty--two years old, and I've never had a wet dream before (that I know of). I've certainly never woken up in a puddle of my own cum, and definitely not thanks to an erotic dream about an older guy. Daddy? Did I really say that? I wasn't even pressed against the mattress. I shot completely hands--free. Last time I did that, I had my back against a fraternity house pool table. Remind me to tell you that story sometime.

My phone chirps out a new text. It's my roommate: < No idea you liked `em gray, bro. Oh also, please, PLEASE go have sex, so I never have to go through that again. >

I make some kind of squelching sound as I stand up and begin to hobble towards the bathroom. A trail of my own cum slowly snakes down my leg.

Oh, boy, indeed.

TO BE CONTINUED

// One last thing! If you made it this far, and your stomach is covered in sticky fluid, go ahead and clean your dirty ass up and then go donate a couple dollars to Nifty. I don't think I'd ever have even had this dream without this site. Do it! //