Date: Thu, 3 Apr 2008 23:06:57 -0700 (PDT)
From: Ted M <mpls_ted@yahoo.com>
Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: Remember The King:  Part 3

Fitch is standing next to me uncomfortably in his club clothes, his
expensive shirt and that gorgeous baby-blue underwear. It makes my dick
hard to think of that muscle butt and what I'm going to do it later --
how I'm going to breed it with cream.

But not for a while.

We've got a little work to do.

We're standing under an abandoned bridge, a temporary haven for the
homeless, whether Father River sets up operations on Friday nights. Father
River serves dinner off a rickety metal cardboard table. Chili or stew made
with leftover meats and discarded pinto beans from a sympathetic Mexican
restaurant.

Maybe that's why Fitch looks uncomfortable here. This really isn't his
scene.

The homeless in downtown and north Minneapolis knows that Friday dinner is
served under this bridge. They can't all make it here, but we're not that
far from downtown and so a couple dozen will wander in for free food. It's
not far from the railroad tracks and some of these guys are rail riders.
There's an influx of drug addicts, homeless folks, and the poor and proud.
The last group show up and pretend to be looking for a friend --a friend in
need -- but then casually shrug and loudly announce as long as they're
here, they may as well have something to eat.

I hang with Fr. River because he doesn't preach; he thinks there's too much
of it. "If they ask, I'll talk about religion." He said with irritation one
night. "But if they don't ask, they're not interested."

Father River is sizing up the grimacing Fitch.

"Is this another one of your `dates?'" Fr. River says to me.

I nod. "This is Fitch."

Fitch blushes at being referred to this name out in public.

"You're kinda weird." says Father River to me without judgment and then
gives us orders on what to serve and how much quantity. Fr. River knows
that I'll want Fitch to dish out dinner. This way Fitch can see the looks
on each person's face.

For a while, we're besieged with hungry people, folks in their their 30s,
their 40s, and 50s. And 60s. And 70s. The ones that impact Fitch are the
20-somethings, the guys who are hyper and shaking when asking for seconds,
and swear to Fitch and I that they're `just about to get it together,' and
finally quit using.

Fitch flinches during these encounters, nods and tries to end the
conversation quickly. But the problem with serving a trembling drug addict
dinner is that often they want to talk and Fitch hears more than he wants
to hear about keeping rats out of your hair while sleeping.

This talk doesn't bother me. You get used to the rats eventually.

Fitch is not loving this part of the date. It was a lot more sexy when he
was naked and cumming in the orgasmic grid. He's still exhausted,
physically, actually. It's just before 7pm and he's trying to ascertain how
serving turkey chili is going to help his next orgasm.

It is.

Compassion for others opens the heart. Open heart = better sex. It's not so
hard to comprehend, really. Compassion moves us into surprising places.

There's a break after a while, less people asking for food and Father River
is chatting with regulars, refusing them money and arguing with them about
his regular rants: clean clothes, get some fresh needles, and for gods
sakes, eat something. He's a good man, King River, the Generous.

"This place reminds me," I tell Fitch as we watch the gloomy dusk descend
under our dirt pile, our bridge. "Of the lost kings."

He nods in recognition of the thread I had started before.

"Remember the words." I warn him a little.

"The lost kings." He says and smiles at me, a genuine smile.

We've turned a corner, Fitch and me. He's never had a hands-free orgasm and
this buys me some big credibility. The doorway was submission. So he's
ready to play along now, whatever it is.

He now understands that this is only life-changing if he participates
fully, and while he may not be comfortable or understand why we're here, he
accepts this and gives me his trust.

Fitch is in.

"It was actually Vladimir the Finder of Beauty who started the trouble, the
first of the lost kings. King Vladimir Vitchnokker."

Fitch serves a woman in her 40s a bowl of turkey chili with white beans,
Father River's entrée tonight. She takes it and says mangled words to
Fitch. He frown a little, smiles a little, and nods to her. That's
compassion, that thing he's doing. The trademark of kings.

"Yeah, King Vitchnokker could see beauty in all things."

"Because he was gorgeous." Says Fitch, automatically completing the next
logical thought. "A total stud."

"Oh no." I laugh. "Not at all. God, he was hideous to behold. He was ugly
without peer."

Fitch laughs in surprise. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. His eyes were uneven and one eyelid drooped. Bad, splotchy skin
and thick jowls. His teeth were crooked and yellow. His eyebrows were
owlish and his hair was long and unkempt. It was patchy, thin, and might
have looked better short, but King Vladimir kept it the way he liked it,
because he didn't care about BEING beautiful, he was passionate about
discovering beauty.

"But here's the thing." I tell Fitch and he's listening.

"You'd think his hideousness would make people avoid him, right? But they
were constantly seeking him out. You would see King Vladimir sitting next
to someone, a king who was dejected, and Vladimir held his hand. Touched
his face. Vladimir reminded this sad king about the best of himself, the
way he performed a gifted skill or natural ability that was uniquely
his. Nobody left Vladimir without feeling more wonderful, a little bit more
sparkling green or orange instead of pasty gray. He found your beauty."

"So this is King Vladimir." Fitch says, stirring the remaining chili in the
sterno-heated pan.

"Right." I say, pleased that he's listening.

"And then he left. King Vladimir left the tribe." He summarizes.

"Yes."

Fitch serves another person, a woman in her 30s and she has a small girl
hugging her leg. Fitch is kinder to her than most. Maybe because of her
child. Or maybe it's getting to him.

"Why?" He asks lazily. "I mean, if this is such a perfect utopia and all,
why'd he leave."

"Why not?" I ask him. "They weren't in hiding, this tribe, trying to
protect their own borders. They were never in danger of being attacked,
because the tribe could only be found by kings. They weren't afraid of
losing anything."

Fitch frowns.

"They were KINGS," I tell him as if this explained everything. "And
investigating the unknown was natural for them. King Vladimir was the first
to wonder aloud, `What beauty exists beyond these walls, this sacred land?
I bet it's gorgeous. And honestly, if it wasn't him it would have been King
Egil the Hearty Explorer, or King Mai the Curious.

"When King Vladimir left his brothers were sad because who doesn't want a
king around who reminds you that you're beautiful when you don't believe
it? But he was definitely coming back so they missed him with their hearts
but rejoiced looking forward to his return."

Fitch nods.

"But King Vladimir was gone too long. Too long."

We're standing, waiting for the next couple stragglers to approach
us. They're regulars here and one of them points at me and smiles. He has
very few teeth. "I know you."

"You do." I tell him.

We make small-talk that is important for those without homes: the weather,
the cops, the weather, stolen belongings, the weather and finally, cops.

Meanwhile, Fitch watches a man eat, wolfing it down, gorging himself before
anyone else can get it from him.

"Where did he go?" he says softly. "King Vladimir."

"Nobody knew."

I watch Fitch from the corner of my eye.

"Kings had gone out exploring in years gone by, but nobody was gone this
long, nobody. And he didn't join them in greeting the dawn, their one
chance to find each other on the ancestral field, no matter the distance.

"This was of particular concern because even if a King were exploring the
Arctic circle, he would still greet the dawn twice a year, to celebrate his
kingship and to greet his brothers. But King Vladimir had not shown up in
more than a year.

"A battle cry was raised, for your see, the kingdom had lost its
king. You'd think that in a land of all kings, the loss of one would be
nothing, insubstantial. This was not the case in the tribe of All Kings.

"Every king mattered, the one who made toast well, and the king who made
decisions about budgets and roads. King Derrick the Aged, a king who was so
ancient he could not walk to his own front door was just as important King
Tyrol, the king who administrated the largest city. The loss of a single
king was devastating, because what would the brotherhood do without that
one necessary man?"

"They sent scouts," I tell Fitch. "Search parties. King Heroff the Loving
and King Edmond the Gruff. But these men did not return."

I trail off into silence and Fitch is not quite curious enough to ask,
"What happened?"

He's a little embarrassed to ask what happened in a fantasy tale, a stupid
made-up story. But hell, we're under a darkening bridge and there is no
other entertainment, so in a minute he'll ask. Just to take his mind away
from here.

At that moment, a man walks up. His hands are old, wrinkled and worn. He
nods to me, this man, then a light of recognition goes off. We know each
other from bridge meals.

"You." He croaks.

I nod to him and he offers me his left hand. He knows me. Knows what I will
do.

I take his hand in both of mine, and tell Fitch, "Look at him."

Fitch is shy at first, nodding politely and avoiding eye contact like a
good Minnesotan.

The man stares at him, eyes blazing and uncaring what Fitch thinks.

"Look at this hand." I tell Fitch and offer it for his inspection.

The back is worn, it's aged. His flesh is wrinkled. This man has seen too
many years outside. From previous conversations I happen to know that he
doesn't spend the winter here. He catches a train to somewhere in southern
Illinois or Missouri, or a city that will let him be. But he always comes
back to Minneapolis in the late Spring, hoping to restore something of his
former life.

"He's 28." I tell Fitch and Fitch audibly gasps.

The man has a black beard with lots of white strands, dirty, unkempt. His
face has aged well beyond 28 years and his eyes are tired.

I lift his hand. I uncurl the dirty fingers and expose the soft underbelly
of his hand, the fleshy palm, the meaty part of the thumb, open and facing
up.

I look at this broken man, this 28 year old. And he looks at me, tired and
resigned.

I whisper to him so that only he can hear.

I kiss it, the part of his palm, just under the thumb.

"No way." Fitch says, his voice shaking. "I won't kiss the homeless guy. No
way."

"Don't worry." I say, staring into the eyes of this stranger who I know. "I
won't ask you."

With the threat of personal involvement removed, Fitch relaxes a notch; I
can feel him rev down while standing next to me. And then he looks at
me. And the man. And wonders about what he just saw.

"It's not beef." Says the 28-year-old harshly. "They tell you it is, but
they lie. They LIE!"

I nod to him. "Yeah, they lie."

He jerks his hand away and continues arguing to himself and pulls back from
us, fighting imaginary slights that seem to crowd him.

"That was weird." Fitch mutters.

I hum an agreement. "Weird things happen when kings get lost."

"Him?" Fitch jerks his head. "That nut job? He's one of your lost kings?"

"They sent search parties for King Vladimier." I tell Fitch, ignoring his
question. "And just before a king left the tribe, his remaining brothers
met him on the grassy fields at the kingdom's southern gates and they asked
him two questions."

Fitch stirs the remaining chili slowly.

"What would you risk?" I say in a voice that is strong and quiet. "What
would you do to find him?"

Fitch breathes when he hears this and remembers it from earlier, when he
was stripping for me.

"The second question asked was this: what if you find King Vladimir, or any
lost king, and he does not remember you?"

"As he left, King Andrew the Singer of Souls, responded by saying, `I will
show him my love. I will show him all my love.' King Andrew's response was
so poetic, that this because the standard answer to the second question: I
will show him my love. I will show him all my love."

Fitch is silent for a moment.

"What happened to all the other king dudes?" Fitch turns to me and waits.

"They forgot they were kings." I say quietly looking around us. "They just
kept wandering, forgetting they had a home, forgetting they were searching
for their lost brothers. They kept disappearing, forgetting to greet the
dawn."

Fitch follows my gaze around this dumpy little area, spilled bowls of
turkey chili on hard-packed dirt, car ruts brimming with mosquito water,
broken beer bottles, and a half-dozen men sitting stunned in the dirt, with
nowhere to go and already there.

And if Fitch is thinking anything like me, he's saying to himself, `King
Vladimir, you should have stayed home.'

***

We arrive at Rainbow Chinese somewhere between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m.

Our first stop is the Mens' room, where we scrub our hands. I make sure
Fitch sees me wash my lips, so that he won't be freaked about me kissing
the 28-year-old homeless man. We return to the foyer in silence.

I whisper to the hostess and she disappears into the kitchen.

Fitch is next to me and seems a little down, his time under the bridge
having dulled his recent orgasm. It's not as much fun to brag, `I had a
crazy mind-shattering orgasm tonight without anyone jacking my cock' when
that man is going to nod and say in return, `I haven't slept in a bed for
two months.'

"I'm hungry." Fitch says without any real conviction.

It's probably the smell of myriad vegetables grilling or the deep friend
wontons being served six feet away. I smell shrimp and ginger, co-mingling
meats that make it hard to decipher the one thing that smells so great. The
air is rich and fragrant of many things, many possibilities.

The kitchen door swings open and a tall Chinese man emerges with brilliant
black eyes and matching black hair. He is slender and moves with grace,
with deliberation. He looks at Fitch with curiosity. He wears a stunning
salmon shirt, light orange or crimson depending on the light, shimmery and
distracting.

Without smiling but with great affection, he greets me in a most unusual
manner.

Fitch takes notice but does not say anything. Not right away.

"Hello, Greg." I laugh in return.

To Fitch's surprise we are led through the kitchen, straight to the back
into what appears to be a manager's office: a large desk, strewn papers
everywhere, invoices and stuff, empty cardboard vegetable boxes stacked on
the dented filing cabinet. It's not very big, smaller than a cramped New
York bedroom, and all the available free space is consumed by an
out-of-place café table and two iron chairs with cushions.

An orange cloth is on the table and an orange candle. I indicate a chair to
Fitch.

As Greg departs he turns out the light and it's different sitting in the
dark with the flickering candle, listening to the mad sounds of
slicingyellingfryingvegetablesdishesclankingmoreyelling all rolled into
one. There's one-way glass in here so we can see the restaurant chaos.

We sit in silence for a minute, occasionally watching a sous-chef run by,
furiously barking orders in Chinese.

"If I can speak," Fitch says cautiously, "what did that guy say to you? Was
it Chinese?"

"Was what Chinese?"

"What he said. It was like...mai chang, mai chang. Was that like...Chinese?
Mandarin or whatever?"

"No." I say simply.

"He kissed your hand." Fitch says cautiously. "The same way you did that
bum. Right under the thumb. What's that?"

I smile at him and study his face for a moment.

And we stay silent until Greg returns with a large bowl of steaming peanut
noodles. It's Greg's parents' most famous dish at this restaurant, and for
an item so simple, it's profoundly delicious. The aroma is intoxicating and
Fitch inhales deeply. King Vladimir would like this restaurant.

"There's no silverware." Fitch observes. "Or chop sticks."

I dip my fingers into the bowl and attempt to pick up a few
noodles. They're hot, almost too hot, and the daintily chopped scallions
slide right off.

"No way." Says Fitch wrinkling his nose. "Hands? That's disgusting."

"Open up." I tell him.

He looks at me with the old Fitchy attitude, the scrunched up frown that
automatically means, `No. You repulse me.'

But Fitch is already slightly different than he was a few hours ago, a
little cleaner in the soul, and a man with a little more trust, so that
expression melts like wax and he looks into my eyes, seeking an answer to
the question, `Can I still trust you?'

Fitch opens his mouth.


Several of the noodles don't make it, between my slippery grasp, the peanut
sauce, and our not getting the ends into his mouth. They slap against his
chin and he mutters a short uncomfortable laugh at having peanut sauce on
his face, smeared over his lips. But two noodles make it in and he sucks
them like spaghetti.

"It'sgood." He runs the words together. His eyes arch in
surprise. "Reallyfuckinggood."

I nod and pick up some more.

Like a baby bird, his mouth opens again as I struggle to get a couple
noodles in my fingers. He chuckles at my effort.

It's sloppy. Delicious. And strange to get slapped with a noodle.

Soon we're both giggling.

Fitch's face is smeared with peanut paste, and not just around the
mouth. Then, mine too. Fitch and I take turns feeding each other the
delicious noodles and it's no easier for him to pick up noodles than it is
me.

We're soon laughing and guffawing, and I must look ridiculous to him
sucking down his latest offering because he busts out laughing, a deep
belly laugh, and I respond in kind, chewing and laughing at the same time.

We spend another five minutes this way.

Fitch is grinning ear to ear, and it's not the practiced, seductive smile I
saw him flash potential conquests in the bar. This is stupid and loopy,
unaffected and unrehearsed. He's laughing now, and doesn't care about the
squiggly noodle on his expensive bar shirt because I don't think Fitch has
had this much fun in a year.

During a big laughing jag, he catches a ghostly reflection of his peanut
smeared skin in the one-way mirror in the manager's office -- and freezes
at the unfamiliar face. It's obvious in his slightly-pained expression that
he can't remember the last time he has laughed this hard. He just can't
remember.

Fitch doesn't live like this, with boyish wonder and ease. He's looking at
a version of himself that he had long ago forgotten.

Sometimes, it's not fun to be reminded of how wonderful you used to be.

Time to snap him back. Back to fun.

"Race to finish?" I leer at him with my fingers poised over the remaining
pile of noodles and Fitch snaps back.

"You are so fuckin' on." He grins a competitive smile, and we go.

He cheats and digs in first with his fingers, stuffing noodles into his
mouth. I yelp and snatch at the fistful of noodles in his hand and he
laughs and jerks back. We're diving in with our fingers, knocking each
other's slippery hands away, and trying to get noodles in our mouth.

Fitch flings one into my hair and it hangs over my forehead almost to my
nose. I cross my eyes to look at it and Fitch claps his peanut hands
together, howling with laughter.

At last the plate is clean. Licked clean. There are noodles on the floor,
the table, and various parts of our clothes, but the plate's clean.

We're grinning at each other, chewing. A while ago, Fitch thought that
cumming with no hands was amazing. Now, he's not so sure it's going to be
the highlight of our time together. It might be this -- simply
laughing. Laughing with abandon, like a kid. That might be the highlight
now.

I hand him a roll of paper towels from the manager's desk and knock gently
on the one-way glass, leaving a slight peanut smear.

Greg returns two or three minutes later, just after we're presentable and
takes the empty bowl and our soiled towels without comment. He returns and
delivers a plate of mango and sticky rice.

"Hoo boy." Says Fitch with a mischevious grin.

But this dessert is more about sensuality than goofy.

I feed him sticky rice easily and he licks my fingers, delicately at first
and then with more relish. He is discovering that this is also sex. The
mango is in season and melts on his tongue and he likes it when I rub the
juicy fruit across his lips.

Fitch licks it off and there is lust in his eyes.

I feed him and begin talking.

"They discovered something wonderful, the few straggling kings who managed
to return. Good news and bad news. King Ray, the Healer Through Touch, had
found King Andrew, the Singer of Souls, and had managed to remind him who
he truly was."

Fitch listens now, accepting this story. He realizes now that he's not
going to be quizzed on names and so it's less stressful to listen than it
was when he was naked and bound.

"They learned that the kings could be reawakened. Restored. That the kings
could remember."

Fitch nods and accepts an offering of mango delicately. He laps the orange
juice off my fingers with enthusiasm and his eyes are glazed over, letting
me know this fact: I will totally suck your cock if you ask me. I will suck
you dry.

"The best chance of restoring a Lost King," I continue, ignoring his offer,
"was to take him to greet the dawn. Seems that the dawn awakened the king
within. And this was news -- the kings of the old tribe did not know why
they met the dawn, they just did it. But greeting the dawn was more than
symbolic it turns out. Greeting the dawn awakened a man's inner king. The
inner king that fell into slumber if ignored for too long."

Fitch nods to me. He's still listening and I think that perhaps, just
perhaps, he's truly listening the story at last, not just seeing it as
verbal interruption to his sexual experiences.

"The surefire way to awaken a king was to send him to meet the dawn dressed
in glorious raiment. It was the only way. You sent him to the dawn alone,
and he would awaken, remember who he truly was and who he was destined to
be. He came back from the dawn a king."

Fitch absorbs this a little bit. "What's raiment?"

"Beautiful clothes, a robe, a scarf, something that only a king would
wear."

"Huh." He says licking his lips. "And what was the bad news?"

"I'll tell you later." I tell him and smile.

He shrugs a little and his hand hovers over the sticky rice.

"May I?" he asks with a shy smile.

I have seen Fitch in many ways, but not shy.

I nod.

He feeds me sticky rice and is careful, attentive in how he feeds
me. Fitch's touch is filled with kindness and his is loving me the best he
can right now. He is smiling at me with a different smile, the one that is
closer to his true nature. It is the smile of compassion.

I will show him my love. I will show him all my love.

When the mango and sticky rice is gone, we thank Greg and leave.

 ***

It's not even 11:00 p.m. and Fitch is exhausted. It's not just the hour,
it's the everything: body-altering orgasm, the internal mental trials of
his own submission, the night with someone he doesn't know, spending
uncomfortable time under a bridge, and laughing until his sides actually
ache. Yes, laughing is quite tiring.

I drive us to downtown Minneapolis in my Subaru Impreza. It's a 2000 model,
cobalt blue and it's my favorite car. I have several, but I'm no a
millionaire. I'm a mechanic. I fix broken things. Make them whole.

We park on the deserted city street right near the famous banking
skyscraper, the second tallest building in Minneapolis. Architecturally,
this beauty is yellow stone and carved gargoyles, shining at night like a
beacon of the 1920's achievement. I call it `the Superman Building,'
because it looks like it belongs in Metropolis, the golden city where
Superman hangs his cape. From the trunk I grab Fitch a sleeping bag, rolled
up. I take another. He is confused, my Fitch and he jumps a bit when I
pound loudly on the skycraper's revolving doors.

"We're not going in there," he protests. "It's closed."

It's my turn to smile mischievously.

The lumbering security guard comes to the door to check us out. He's 6'2, a
large guy. He's half bald, and half not, with an enormous black moustache
that seems a bit too large from his face. He tugs on his crumpled white
security shirt in a few spots. He looks at me, then Fitch, then me, and
with a silent nod motions us to the left side of the revolving door, a
regular door which he holds open.

I enter and Fitch follows.

The security guard turns away, and lumbers across the lobby to the elevator
bay. He pushes Up. We walk into the first available in silence and my
security friend pushes the button for the top floor.

No words are spoken as the three of us ascend. Fitch is the only one
terribly uncomfortable, fidgeting and shifting slightly from foot to
foot. There haven't even been introductions.

The security guard leads us down a series of elongated hallways, a maze it
seems, until we come to the stairwell leading to the roof door. He sticks
his key into the lock at the top of the stairwell and then leaves his thick
key ring dangling as he turns to me.

He unbuttons the white shirt, starting in the middle.

"Oh." Says Fitch.

He assumes we're going to have sex with this man.

But the security guard unbuttons his shirt, sheds it, and he is wearing
another underneath. But this shirt is lavender. It's a gorgeous light
purple, almost even blue, and it's threaded with delicate little
plum-colored flames, arching up and down the left and right sides. The
material is satin and it doesn't wrinkle easily, so the impact is that
instead of looking disheveled, our security guard friend suddenly looks
glorious.

He takes my left hand in both of his and flips it over, so the palm is
up. He raises it to his face and without breaking eye contact with me,
kisses it gently on the meaty part under the thumb.

"Jesus." Says Fitch. "It's like a fucking cult!"

He mutters this loudly and so misses the exact words which Ray, my security
guard friend says to me.

"Thank you for this, Ray." I tell my friend the security guard. "Thank
you."

He nods at me without smiling and opens the roof door.

As we're standing on the roof, taking in the beautiful city during the warm
June night, Fitch asks me, "So is there ANYONE you haven't slept with?"

I laugh.

"I never slept with Ray. Not every king is gay, you know. I fix his SUV."

Fitch shakes his head in disbelief, but he starts looking around and
forgets to be skeptical.

"Hey, did he say the Chinese thing to you too? Mei chang? I thought I heard
that."

I don't answer him. Instead I point to downtown Minneapolis.

The city is amazing from this impossible perspective. Most people associate
Minneapolis with cold weather, and sure, that's partially true. But like
most things, it's true, but not the truth.

The city is simply gorgeous, winter or summer, but in summer it's
appreciated more. The air is fresh, the city is green and vibrant, and it's
enough of a big city that certain neighborhoods can still surprise
you. June is particularly supple, warm and fruity, sometimes hot enough to
go shirtless, and other times chilly enough that you wished you were the
kind of person who wore cardigan sweaters.

Tonight is warm and supple.

I'm sure that Fitch thought I insisted on meeting tonight -- Friday
instead of Saturday - as part of some power move of mine. Well, that's true
but it's not the truth. I wanted stars. Lots of them. And tomorrow night is
supposed to be cloudy. He's not looking up yet, seeing the stars, but he
will.

In less than ten minutes, he's going to be naked on his back.

Fitch is cautiously edging towards the southern ledge, peering out into the
night. We can hear June wind raking through the minty leaves, and the sound
rushes through us atop a city roof.

"Look." He says to me, pointing to a dark and light-less space. "That must
be Lake Harriet and Lake Calhoun."

We play tourists for a moment or two more and then I instruct him to unzip
our sleeping bags, laying them on top of each other. We're sheltered from
the stronger winds by a structure jutting out from the roof, but it's dark
and the biggest aspect of our visible landscape is the enormous canopy of
midnight sky.

"Strip." I order him.

Fitch grins at me and he's naked before I can count to 10. He's standing on
the sleeping bags, hands behind his back, looking at me with a curious and
affable, `what's next?'

"Lie down." I tell him. "On your back."

He drops.

The Fitch Dick is standing up straight and tall.

"Oh." He says. "The stars."

"That's my boy," I whixper and lower myself to my knees and lick the head
of his dick.

"Awwwwww...!" he groans softly.

After about 15 lollypop licks and a few Fitch whimpers, I pop the head into
my mouth.

Another yelp.

It tastes like fresh sperm, his fat Fitch Dick, and his dick wriggles in my
mouth. I'm not a size queen. I prefer an average sized cock, myself, but I
can handle what he's got. I trained on bigger than this.

I glance up.

He's grinning and the lust from earlier has returned. He wants me. It's
funny because I'm not his type and in his mind he can totally `do better,'
but this lust isn't based on back muscles or the right-sized calves or
carefully sculpted arm pit hair. This lust comes from a deeper part of him,
the part that secretly remembers love and lust are connected.

I slurp down to the base immediately, his cock deep in my throat and my
throat muscles milking him.

"OH!" he groans instantly and I wonder if guys suck his dick well.

For all our bragging and amazing porn stories, we homos can be kinda naïve
about cock sucking. Seriously. There are strokes, and there are
s-t-r-o-k-e-s. There's depth, and then there's true throat depth. Everyone
wants to suck a cock like Fitch's -- overweight and long, pink and veiny
-- but then when it's in their mouth, I bet most guys focus on the head
and upper half, unable to take it deep enough into their throats to satisfy
him.

Eh, maybe I'm projecting.

But Fitch is groaning and his hands find my skull.

"Suck it," He cries, "Oh god..."

And that is my cue to stop. I pull him out of my throat and slide my lips
back to the head.

"One condition." I tell him.

I look up at his face and he arches his head to look at me.

His pecs are twitching, those fat muscle slabs. The roof shadows highlight
his smooth body and his stomach is all six-packy and I'm sure it's very
hot. I bet there are men around the world right now jacking off to the
memory of this view: the Fitch Dick inches from their warm mouths, the
six-pack abs, and Fitch's growling face looking down with expectation.

He still smells like garlic and I gotta admit...that's probably more of a
turn on than his heaving chest.

"One condition." I repeat and then kiss his dick head.

"Anything." He gasps. "Please!"

I shoot him a wry look. "Make noise."

His head falls back on the sleeping bag and his cock jumps a little. He's
not a pre-cummer, my Fitch, but the head bounces around and it's getting a
little chilly out here in the night air.

"You gotta make noise." I tell him. "Whatever sound comes out of you is
cool. Growling, panting, yelling...whatever it is. Make the sound. Don't
fight it, don't censor it. Nobody can hear you up here. Ray's back in the
lobby. I don't care if you fuckin' hum the national anthem. Make the
sound."

"Yeah, yeah" he says quickly. "Just do it."

Oh Fitch. You may not want me to suck you off if you knew the truth. I'm
going to suck his dick...that's true. But it's not the whole truth.

My spit is drying on his fat cock so I engulf it once again, right to the
base immediately.

He groans, quiet at first but then I take my mouth off his cock and remind
him with more energy, "Do it. Make the sound."

Fitch groans as I engulf him again, louder, just a tiny bit more
freely. He's still people-conscious, even at the top of this deserted
tower, this modern-day castle where there is only one building that could
possibly have late-night watchers and we're completely shielded from their
view. Fitch cares about what people think.

I slobber his cock to the base repeatedly, licking his nuts with the tip of
my tongue while his cock is wedged into my throat. He arches his back off
the sleeping bag as if he could *just* get that cock a little bit
deeper...all his problems would be solved.

"FFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" he yells loudly.

I clamp my throat around his cock.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" he yells even louder.

Now, my Fitch is finding his voice. Good boy.

I focus on the head for a moment, using my teeth for gentle scraping. Most
guys think TEETH BAD when it comes to dick sucking. Yeah, that's an amateur
way of thinking of things. TEETH GOOD if you know how to use them and
when. It's bad to nick a guy, suddenly chomp on him with your biters. But
it's cool to gnaw his cock gently, ravenously, so he feels like his dick is
being devoured with love.

Fitch loves it.

His butt is humping off the sleeping bag regularly, fucking his dick into
my mouth with long strokes and I can't help but wonder who the fuck is
sucking this guy off? Surely -- SURELY -- he must have fuck buddies who
have learned how to suck his dick. But somehow...maybe...the answer might
be no. Because he seems really awfully eager to get in as deep as he does.

Fitch is swearing now, loudly. Yelling words.

He's getting closer.

I'm a little surprised, quite frankly. I thought it would take more than
this.

I edge him further down the path, making sure plenty of my saliva drips out
of my mouth and down to his nuts so they're wet by the time I start
stroking them, individually at first and then as a team, slightly -- VERY
slightly -- mashing them together to create this incredible maddening
sensation. That's nut sensation #3. It's a good one.

And when his nuts start to churn and he's now yelling formless words,
actually YELLING because it feels so good to let go, I stop.

"The few straggler kings returned," I start speaking casually, his nuts in
my left hand and his dick sliding against my goatee, still trying to
fuck. "With good news and bad news."

Fitch is bewildered. So close! So fucking close!

"Good news, and bad." I continue in a calm and even voice.

"You're kidding me!" Fitch cries loudly. "Now? NOW with the fucking king
shit? Dude, I was almost there!"

I kiss his dick head affectionately and he groans and falls back on the
sleeping bag.

"The good news was that kings could be restored. That they had forgotten
the king -- their slumbering inner king who guided their power, their
energy, their very life... They could awaken him under the right
conditions."

"Your timing sucks." Fitch complains into the darkness. "Seriously."

"The bad news," I continue, ignoring him. "Was that the kings had ventured
into a land that was not friendly to kings, and that was dangerous.

"The land where King Vladimir, Finder of Beauty, had wandered did not
believe in kings. The other kings had wandered into that land as well, full
of determination and then gradually losing their way themselves. In fact,
this world went out of their way to convince men they were not kings. Oh
there were men in this land who *claimed* to be kings, but they did not
know true kingship. They were televangelists and CEOs,
mostly. Politicians. Men who considered themselves kings but who acted
exactly as grubby paupers, gasping and stealing what little abundance they
could stockpile."

I lick his cock from the balls to his tip because I want to make sure he is
listening.

Fitch groans and his fat baby-maker bounces. The Fitch Dick is not used to
being interrupted. And it's driving Fitch mad that he can't just command me
to suck it until he nuts down my throat.

"And so the kings lived as paupers and forgot who they were. They made
mortgage payments and rented movies and figured they were getting a sweet
deal when they could use frequent flyer miles to get out of town for four
days."

I continue to massage Fitch's nuts during this with my right hand, as I'm
watching him squirm. I'm taking his measure. I want his dick deflated a
little, but not fully down, so I'm breathing warm air onto his dick, the
promise of imminent sucking to make sure he doesn't quite give up.

"And the lost kings were quite convivial to this plan. Once they had
forgotten, then they refused to believe that they were once kings. Once
when King Malcolm the Restorer found a lost king and tried to convince him,
the lost king told him to `fuck off. Stay the fuck away from me.' They were
completely inflexible, the lost kings in their new world."

Fitch doesn't like this turn of the story. Or maybe he just doesn't like
the lack of cock sucking.

"What if there are no kings?" he says with a snarl. "What if this is all
just some stupid, bullshit story?"

"Then look around." I tell him softly. "Because this world is what it's
like without kings."

I don't let him respond.

I suck his cock again, straight to the base.

Fitch gasp in surprise.

I vary my strokes this time, my mouth suctioning him in pulsating waves,
like jellyfish kicks. I'm sucking him deeper and before Fitch can get too
philosophical, I'm drowning his brain in sensations.

"Eyes wide open." I command him, during one of my infrequent breaks.

He does it. He's staring upwards at the stars, the bright specs winking in
conspiracy, seeming to encourage him: do it, buddy. Fuck his throat.

I want him to think about cumming. About getting swallowed. I want him to
see it: Fitch seed pulsing out of him and streaming into my belly. I want
that vision jumping around in his head, all his baby making seed pulsing
out of his dick head.

He has one hand on the back of my head, urging me deeper, but there's no
deeper to go, so he's just holding me there, not believing I do not need to
gasp for air. Fitch, you have no idea. I can do this for hours. And
actually...I'm about to. My cell phone is set to vibrate an alarm at 2:00
a.m.

Fitch is writhing on the sleeping bags, squirming, his naked, muscle boy
body twitching to the left and to the right, but his fat cock is lodged in
my throat and I won't let go. The sounds emerging from him are gurgling
noises, that remind me of his uncomfortable first laugh at the Rainbow
Chinese restaurant.

Then I suck the head only, gently nipping and gnawing it, to make it even
more sensitive.

Fitch gets close again.

Both arms lock rigidly on my head and he thinks that now is when he
nuts. This is it. Now.

Nope.

I pull off his Fitch Dick and he squirms. His hips buck up in frustration,
but he collapses after a minute.

He's staring at the stars, eyes wide open, and he chuckles.

"You're a fucker." He says to me and it's light, it's playful.

He may not laugh if he realized we were going to stay here another two
hours with me continuously edging him, bringing his nuts closer and closer
to spilling their seed without ever letting him cum. After that, we're
going back to my place and Fitch will be leaving the lobby with a painful,
continuous hard on, a throbbing confused dick, probably hidden behind the
rolled-up sleeping bag.

I am going to draw every sensation, every nerve's synaptic firing response
into his dick. That way, when I assault his ass back at my place, he'll be
completely vulnerable, and won't have the ability to resist; he'll be so
focused on the impossible tension radiating from his swollen cock.

I decide to `dog throat' him when I sense the orgasm has receded enough.

I attack his cock with gusto and a low growl, barking on it, growling,
sucking roughly and with an intense hunger.

"Yow!" Fitch cries. "Holy SHIT!"

I suck and slobber him with rapid, crazy strokes and it probably feels
totally wild to him, as if any minute it could go too far, too feral, and
suddenly there would be teeth. Well, there won't be teeth and it's not
going to go to far. But Fitch doesn't know that.

He's just hanging on for the ride, and holding his breath as I suck him
rock hard, growl on his bone, and twist him around with my hands. I haven't
even begun to tease his thighs yet. Those waxed-sensitive areas on his
thighs and stomach are going to be fun to tweak in a half hour.

I stop suddenly, and resume lapping his cock like a lollypop.

The transition is so abrupt, so ridiculously sudden, that Fitch laughs out
loud.

"Keep your eyes open." I tell him.

"You're a real fucker," he laughs again. "Holy shit, you're a crazy
cocksucker. I mean...it's good -- real good. But holy shit!"

Fitch laughs again.

He doesn't know how long this can go, how I can take him beyond the fun
part, to the part where his very breeding instinct is frustrated and
furious.

I clamp my mouth over his cock head again and slide all the way down the
length of his thick shaft, wetly sucking, making sure my spit is slicking
him up.

Fitch gasps and laughs, this laugh lasting longer.

It bubbles out of him as I suck him. His hands have collapsed off the sides
of my head, as if he finally realizes that clutching my skull doesn't give
him any actual power over me. His arms are sprawled on the sleeping bags,
palms up to the sky.

Fitch is amused by this entire scene, how he ate noodles at a Chinese
restaurant and served food to homeless bums, and how earlier in the night
he got trapped in an orgasmic web made from ordinary box string and now
he's getting sucked off on top of a Minneapolis landmark where he should
not be. It's pretty fuckin' crazy day in the life of Fitch.

And so he laughs while staring at thousands of stars, laughing while
getting his mighty dick sucked and sucked. He laughs without reserve
because nobody can hear him, nobody can see.

I hope he remembers what I told him earlier, about the kings who laughed at
the stars while they made love.


*****
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
mpls_ted@yahoo.com