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Okay to be Gay Day

Part 2


"I did it," he breathed in my ear, "I did it. And it was all because of you."


"Not because of me," I said, modestly. "You just were ready. You'd have had a wet dream real soon."


"If I have wet dreams," he replied, "I promise to dream of you."


Damn, he was sweet!


I hugged him harder, and planted a bunch of more innocent, tongueless kisses all over his face. He returned the favor. I was grinning so hard my face was starting to hurt, and I figure his extremely smiley boycheeks probably felt the same. His other boycheeks also felt pretty smiley to my finger, which was lodged between them, rubbing the tight little hole I'd recently been lubricating with my tongue.


I guess we dozed off. Afternoon sex can have that effect on you. I woke up when he began kissing me again. I opened my eyes, and put a kiss on his nose, which was handiest. "You know," he told me, "your finger's in my ass."


Indeed, somehow, while we were asleep, my finger had come to be inserted in his ass. It was my middle finger, and only to the first joint, but that first joint was feeling very warm and happy.


"Um," I replied, "I guess it is. Do you want me to take it out?"


"No," he answered. "It feels kind of nice up there. Does that mean I'm a bottom?"


I'd almost forgotten what I'd said to him earlier, about me being a "top." I guess he'd caught on, and figured out the rest of the metaphor. So we just lay there like that for a few minutes, hugging and kissing, while I stirred my finger around, ever so gently, in his hole. Finally, noticing it was almost six o'clock, I said, "Are you getting hungry yet?"


"For more of your cum?" he asked.


"That can wait. I was talking about supper."


"I guess so," he sighed in my ear, "but I really don't want to move yet."


I gently extracted my finger from his ass.


"Okay," he told me, "but don't forget to wash your hands before you start cooking."


..........


It was before I washed my hands that we invented our new game, which was called "stinky finger." What it came down to was me waving that finger from his ass next to his nose, and yelling, "stinky finger." Boys seem to like stuff like that, although there are not many boys with whom you get to play that game.


I had hamburger defrosted, and the rest of the ingredients handy, so I made a pot of chili. It was damned good, as I recall, with red and green and jalapeƱa peppers, and tons of fresh garlic. The beans were canned, but nothing ever is perfect. We watched the news with Walter Cronkite, naked and kissing and licking and gobbling down chili. I spooned a little warm chile onto his cute little pubic area and sucked it off as Walter was telling us the latest from Vietnam.


"Turn off the fucking TV," he told me.


I did. "What next," I asked.


He giggled. "Stinky finger," he replied. I obliged, shoving my finger up his ass to the second joint. Needless to say, I started thinking about the candles, and what might follow the candles. "Do I have to start with the candelabra candles," I wondered, "or can I just go plumber right off?"


I was waving the stinky finger around his nose when he said, "Why don't you just stick you dick up there?"


I had to think about it. Really, I was not sure I wanted to be known as the guy who raped his little bumhole if things went wrong.


"Please," he said, stretching out the "e" sound. How could I say no?


Now, as I think I mentioned earlier, my dick is not spectacularly large, but it's still a lot bigger than my finger, so I thought it would be prudent to loosen him up a little first. "Wait here," I said, "I have to get a couple of things."


When I got back from the kitchen, I had a plumber's candle and my can of Crisco. I think I may have used the Crisco once before, making a pie crust, but mostly I kept it around in the hope that somebody like Alex would happen by. It was everybody's favorite lube back in those days, being a lot cheaper than K-Y. "Hands and knees," I said, "so we can get you ready."


He did better than hands and knees. He did elbows and knees, presenting his adorable pink pucker for whatever I wanted to do with it. Well, as you might imagine, the first thing I had to do was get my face in there and lick it before it got all gooped up with Crisco, so that's what I did.


"That's real nice," he said, "but I really want you to stick it in."


"Patience," I told him. "We'll get there, but I have to get you ready first."


"I'm ready now!" the adorable little fag insisted, but I still didn't want to risk leaving him with a tear or a hemorrhoid or something else that would be uncomfortable and detectable. I grabbed some Crisco with a finger, and started working it up his hole. That time, I worked my finger up as far as it would go without my fist following, and gently pumped it in and out. I must have hit the "right spot," because he started moaning again.


"Pillow," I reminded him. He pulled the pillow under his face and muffled himself somewhat.


I extracted my finger, put a gob of Crisco on the candle, and started pushing it up his ass. A noise that sounded like "uuunnggh" came from the pillow, then "oooohhff!" Fatter than my finger, but still not as thick as my dick, it would get him loosened up some more. It was about eight inches long, which was longer than my cock, but there was no way I was going to insert the whole thing. There would be no incriminating emergency room visits that night.


Something that sounded like, "Oh, god, fuck me, fuck me," emerged from the pillow, so I guess he was feeling pretty good. I worked it around, and his cute ass started gyrating back and forth and in circles. He'd called it. He certainly was a "bottom."


He may have been crying with happiness when I finally pulled that candle out and lined up my dick. I never had the experience myself, but I figure a dick doesn't feel much like a candle. It's hot, and throbbing, and anxious to shoot a very big wad up a tight little hole. I gave it a light coat of Crisco, and pushed it up inside him. I pushed it straight in, all the way. Something that sounded like "grunnnggghhh" emerged from the pillow, and then I was fucking him, hard and fast, my balls slapping up against his every time I pounded deep into him.


It was hard to hold back, but I did. It was so hard to hold back on cumming until after he did, but I managed it. We collapsed onto the bed, my softening cock slowly dribbling out of his happy young hole.


"Oh, shit," he said. "I'm a bottom. I'm such a bottom. That was the best feeling in my life."


I kissed his neck, and caressed his hard little boynips with my hand. "Did it hurt at all?" I asked.


"No," he told me. "Well, not much. But it felt so much better than it kind of -- I don't know -- maybe kind of pinched a little that the whole thing together was, well, really nice." Under the circumstances, you wouldn't expect his to be particularly articulate, and he wasn't.


I slid down him, pushed his cheeks apart, and had a good look at where my dick had been. His hole was pretty well dilated, and dripping cum, but there was no blood or visible irritation. He was such a bottom. All these years later, I have to admit he was the best I ever had.


..........


I kind of needed a drink, so I went to the kitchen and got my vodka out of the freezer. I poured myself three or four fingers, gave it a squirt of lime juice, and poured down more than half of it in one gulp. Alex followed me, his beautiful little dick hanging soft like mine.


"You're not feeling bad about it, are you?"


I had to think for a bit. I sat down in one of my pink plastic kitchen chairs, which were more 1950s than 1970s, and finished the drink I'd poured myself. He came and sat in my lap. I wrapped him in my arms and kissed him, over and over again. Maybe I was feeling bad about it, but I couldn't understand why. Hell, he wasn't feeling bad about it. Not a bit.


"We'll do it again later," he whispered. "This is gonna be the best night of my life."


..........


I sincerely hope it wasn't the best night of his life, although it certainly was the best night of my life. More than forty years later -- almost fifty -- it's still what I think about when I jerk off.


I drank some more vodka, and Alex had a little too, mixed with orange juice. We went back to bed, and watched an episode of "Get Smart," and had some giggles. Then he said, "Turn off the TV and fuck me some more."


Yes, he really liked it. He really loved it. I was not about to deny him his pleasures, especially since they were my pleasures as well.


"Okay," I said, "on your back. Legs up. Hold them up with your arms if you have to. I'm going to fuck you just as if you were a girl."


"That's so cool," he replied as he obeyed.


I slipped on an extra slick of Crisco, leveled my cock at his hole, and gave him an thorough pounding. When he started getting noisy, which was almost immediately, I pressed my mouth against his and started sucking his tongue. He grabbed me hard, so hard that the scratches across my back still were there weeks later.


Maybe I'm adding some fantasy to my memories, but it really felt like his ass was sucking at my dick -- like it wanted it there forever, and just didn't want to let go. Anyway, that's how I like to remember it. I wish it could have been there forever. Well, it finally let go, and I picked my cum crusted t-shirt from the floor and cleaned us up again. We watched a little Johnny Carson, and fell asleep.


(Communications to heedon@tormail.org are welcome.)