Clint Carlisle's Erotic Memoir, 2

Clint Carlisle's Erotic Memoir, 2

Clint Carlisle

Copyright Clint Carlisle, 2015.

The following is a work of fiction. All people and places are fictional or they are used here fictitiously.

Back when I was about 25, I lived with a roommate, Roberto, in a tiny apartment on the university campus. Roberto was a PhD student in chemistry, and he was from Venezuela.

We were very different people. Roberto was very sociable. He was always going out with friends, driving to New Orleans or Panama City, Florida. He would talk on the phone a lot, chattering in rapid Spanish and exclaiming "Que rico!"

He spoke English very well for a non-native speaker, always in a thick accent. I guess you might say he was fluent, but he still made several habitual mistakes. Mostly I just ignored them because I could understand him anyway. For example, he always mixed up things and stuff. It's sort of a fine distinction. We use things for a collection having number, and we use stuff for a mass of what-have-you that can't be broken down into discrete parts. And we often use stuff anyway even if you could break it down and count it. Roberto evidently found this very confusing--probably similar to the way English speakers have trouble with por and para. Damn tricky Spanish words that mean the same thing but don't.

One time he heard Jennifer Lopez talking in Spanish on some TV show and he laughed at her accent. I'm sure he could tell Spanish speakers from different regions and could tell when somebody's accent sounded wrong.

Roberto was an attractive guy. He worked out several times a week. He had muscular arms, a trim v-shaped torso, and dark skin for a latin guy. He was always very neatly groomed and shaved from his head down to his asshole. He had prominent cheeks and a round face and he was almost always smiling merrily.

He got plenty of action, but I don't recall him ever bringing anyone to our place to fuck while I was there. He was often gone all weekend, so he was probably fucking guys someplace else. Also, he'd have guys over when I wasn't home.

Roberto and I--for two people who lived together--our lives almost didn't intersect at all. We were friendly, but not exactly friends. We cooked our own meals separately. He was an early riser and he was usually gone by the time I woke up. On rare occasions, we might watch a TV show together.

I'm actually a huge fan of TV. But I couldn't stand broadcast TV or cable anymore. I got all my TV shows from the Internet. Clint + Netflix 4 eva. I enjoyed TV shows Roberto didn't like, such as old episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. He enjoyed shows I hated, such as this stupid reality show with a bitchy "diva" drag queen judging other wannabe drag queens. (I hate people who aspire to being bitchy.) I know the name of the show, but I'm not gonna plug it. Between us, there were a rare few shows we both seemed to like. Futurama we both loved.

Whenever there was tension between us, it was usually over the cleanliness of the kitchen. It's some kind of curse on me that I always seemed to find myself living with neat freaks. Roberto was the kind of guy who would stack spoons together in the drawer. Stack them! Who gives a fuck if the spoons are stacked together? I'd just grab the handful of dry spoons and forks from the dish drainer and toss them in the drawer.

That's not the kind of thing he would complain about though. Really, he wasn't some obnoxious, passive aggressive bitch always whining about tiny shit. Mostly, I bet he kept a lot of small annoyances to himself. But he would complain if I left a sink full of dirty dishes more than a day. I guess I could understand that, but all the same I'd rather live alone and just not have to put up with other people's standards of cleanliness.

Funny related side note: once a friend told me that she had been intimidated to invite me to her home before she got to know me well. She had assumed I was some major clean freak who would think less of her if her home wasn't spotless.

I asked her what about me would possibly give her that idea.

She recalled something I had written on Facebook about making my bed with hospital corners. It's true I knew how to do that, and I took a certain pleasure in the austere perfection of crisp clean white sheets on a bed perfectly made with hospital corners. But I almost never made the bed at all, fancy corners or no. It was usually just a pile of covers and my three special pillows of different firmnesses that served different purposes when I slept.

The reason why I lived with Roberto and tried to be a decently not-horrible roommate was not just about money. Mainly, it was because deep down I was afraid if I never learned to live with another human being I'd end up an old "confirmed bachelor" who could only live with cats. Or I'd be like Jack Nicholson's character on As Good as it Gets, throwing annoying yapping neighbor dogs down garbage chutes and weaving between people on the street saying, "No touching. No touching."

Roberto was a decent guy. There was tension between us sometimes, but I guess I liked him OK.

And yes, he was gay. I mentioned he was probably fucking guys I think. But Roberto and I had never been any kind of couple. We had fooled around, and that was before we became roommates. I met him at a bar. We went back to his place. We did some things. But he was the most confusing and noncommittal guy in bed. I'll guess I'll just say we had no chemistry. That's what people say when they don't know what the fuck is wrong or right about a situation.

He would never give a straight answer about whether he preferred to top or bottom. And if he enjoyed both equally, well, he never seemed all that interested in doing either one. But he didn't say he liked both. He was evasive. He said something like, "it depends."

I have 7 inches of dick. That's more than enough dick to give a guy a good time. I know this because of my extensive experience bottoming. He even said it was big one time, and it was bigger than his.

We tried fooling around on a few different occasions, and I usually slept over at his place afterward. I slept really well with him. It was nice. He would sleep in tiny, brightly colored briefs, and I'd get him to take them off because I preferred to feel his skin against me.

But if this was going to be a story about back when I was fooling around with Roberto, I guess I would have started when I met him. After we became roommates, we didn't fool around any more. I didn't want to and I guess he didn't want to either.

Around 6 PM, like many other days, I took a book with me to a nearby burrito place to have dinner alone.

I went through the line along a bar with all the meats and toppings, holding my book in hand, and they asked me what I wanted on my burrito. At the cash register the girl asked me how far along I was in the book. I showed her where my bookmark was. About a hundred pages in. They hadn't yet left on their grand trip to California.

The book was Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath.

"Do you like this one?" I asked.

She gave a noncommittal look. "I read it in high school, but I don't think you can ever really appreciate the things they force you to do in school."

"Exactly," I said.

I don't think I actually read it in high school. I think I probably read a few pages and decided it was a dusty, unrelatable book about the distant past. Then I just faked it. But that's how I had felt about The Scarlet Letter, too back then. Later, I had read it again and found it was a page-turner. God, how I wanted things to work out for Hester Prynne and her paramour.

I decided to give Grapes of Wrath another try because it seemed like Stephen King thought it was good--and King seems like a man who doesn't put on airs or suffer fools.

I paid for my burrito and nodded at the girl and went on my way to read and eat alone. I sat at one of the tables in the restaurant. I really didn't mind eating alone. I know people act like it's this embarrassing, lonely thing to eat out at a place alone, but I didn't give a fuck. I had a few good friends I saw occasionally, and aside from them everyone else could go jump in a river. I never felt lonely.

The place was fairly full. Lots of college age kids. There was a table right in front of me with five guys all around 19 years old, and one of them--sitting so he was facing in my direction--was looking at me from the moment I sat down.

The look in his eye was like he was drawn to me and he knew it was improper to hold the gaze that long. When I looked, he would break off. Then I'd look away and he would look at me again. Staring at me, unblushing and unsmiling. And I had no idea who he was.

Sometimes I take that to mean a guy likes what he sees. Was he thinking about doing dirty things to me? One of the guys he was sitting with was really cute. Had he thought about doing dirty things to him too? I guess I do the same when I pass a guy I think is really cute. I stare as long as I can get away with it. And on a college campus there were always plenty of hot young guys to drool over.

I received a text message then. He wrote, "Will you be arriving back soon?"

I sent back, "Maybe 20-30 min."

"Can you give me like 40 minutes?"

This wasn't the first time he had sent me a message like this, so he didn't have to explain. It meant he had a guy over. One of his guy friends was very afraid of anyone else knowing. I had asked Roberto about it once. After Roberto had asked me to stay out for an hour one night, later that evening I had asked him what the big deal was.

"I don't care who you fuck," I said. "What you do in your bedroom is none of my business."

Roberto said the guy was really antsy because he was married. (Roberto probably said it in his adorably almost-fluent English without using the word antsy.)

Ah. Roberto was fucking a married guy. All at once I thought that was gross and despicable. Then I wondered, seriously, if I would do it. Had I been with guys who had girlfriends? Maybe. It's not like I snooped into their privates lives before taking off their underwear.

After thinking all that, I decided it was just none of my business and it made no difference whether I thought it was wrong or not because it was Roberto who was doing it.

So Roberto didn't need to explain further. He was probably having the same guy over. And I guess somehow those two had fun together even though Roberto and I never really did. Chemistry.

I finished my burrito and debated with myself what to do. I wasn't going to just say no. Living with someone requires a delicate touch. I'm sure he put up with a lot of shit from me, so I tried to give back when I could. He could have his 40 minutes.

"Sure," I wrote.

He wrote back quickly. "Thanks!!! I'll tell you when he goes."

Roberto liked to use a lot of superfluous explanation points in his text messages.

Frankly, I was curious about this guy. I don't want you to think I was jealous. I sincerely didn't give a fuck who Roberto fucked. I had no feelings for him. But I guess it was the writer in me. Did you ever read that book--or see the movie--Harriet the Spy? Writers like to see things, and they like to know about people. I wanted to see this guy my roommate was fucking even though I wouldn't know him.

I began walking back home. I took my time. The walk would take about 10 minutes at a brisk pace. I arrived at our apartment complex about 15 minutes after Roberto's message, when he had asked for 40 minutes. How was I gonna do this?

After a moment's hesitation, I decided on a spot on the ground level by the next building over. I had my book, so if anyone saw me there I was just a resident enjoying the fresh air and a good read. But I had a clear view of the front door of our apartment up on the third floor, and I had another idea. I took my watch off and put it in my pocket.

I sat on the paved walkway near a corner of the building and I opened Grapes of Wrath and continued reading, glancing periodically at the outside of my apartment door. But I situated myself so I'd be able to see any movement that way from the corner of my eye.

Fifteen minutes passed. It wasn't hard. Grapes of Wrath was better than I remembered. I'll be damned if I didn't relate to this poor family just trying to make it in the world, hoping for a better future, and the strong, self-possessed Ma at the center holding them together.

But The Great Gatsby still sucked.

I saw a flicker in my peripheral vision and looked up. Our door was opening. A guy was leaving. At about 30 yards, I couldn't see much detail. He was black, and he was dark even for a black man. I wondered if maybe he was actually African. It was a big university with a very diverse population of students. I had seen Africans around and heard them talk in languages utterly foreign to me--and most such languages don't occur in Europe or Asia. The guy leaving our apartment was wearing baggy, formless clothes over a thin body.

I saw Roberto through the open door. He was shirtless. The man said something to Roberto and then walked away toward the stairs. Roberto closed the door.

After twenty seconds, I was already sure the other man was just a married American black guy. Africans didn't dress like that.

I stood up as I saw him reach the bottom of the stairs. Now he was on the ground level, probably headed to his car. I had planned to walk by him and ask him for the time, but I was wavering. I decided to do it after all.

He was walking at an uncomfortably fast pace toward the gate. I could intercept him, but it would be kinda strange. You don't often interrupt a guy walking at a fast pace to ask him what time it is. A man walking at a fast pace has things to do. But he wouldn't recognize that. Because he wasn't walking to get anyplace. He was walking fast because he still felt nervous.

He headed toward the gate and the visitor parking, and I aimed myself to be in his path and started walking, ambling really.

Once we were less then 10 paces apart, I said, "Excuse me, sir?"

At first he didn't think I meant him.

At that time, in the Southern United States, relations between white Americans and black Americans were still not exactly comfortable. And I could well imagine this 20-something black man in baggy clothes had rarely had a white man address him in such a way. I don't know. It's not like I've interviewed black Americans to learn about their lives. I only imagine things were just weird enough between races so that he was a little surprised.

I said, "Sir?" He realized I meant him. "Can you tell me what time it is?

He looked at me like he hadn't noticed I was there before.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "Sure." He looked at his watch. "It's twenty to seven."

"Thank you, sir," I said. I nodded thanks.

"No problem," he said. And we both went on our way.

He was American--I could tell that easily from his voice. And he was wearing a wedding ring. And his voice didn't have any of the lisping and nasal quality people associate with gay men. He was like a thousand black American men I had met before.

He was an attractive guy. I thought he would look a lot better if he wore clothes that fit his body. He wasn't fat, but he was drowning in those clothes.

As a writer and a white man, I'm aware that one of the things I struggle with is describing the physical appearance of black men. I'll say he had a wide flat nose, but to me it seemed like almost all black men have a wide, flat nose. I did mention his skin was quite dark. It was like coffee with no cream. His eyes matched. Maybe they were darker. His hair was cut almost to his scalp. He had a strong chin.

This is a bit nebulous, but even though he was nervous and uncomfortable when I spoke to him, he looked like he was a basically friendly person. I believed he was. He was surprised, but he wasn't agitated.

I wondered if just moments ago he'd had his face covered in Roberto's cum. Or had he plowed Roberto mercilessly and cum in his ass? Mostly, you never know what people do in private because they don't talk or write about it and pornography is all staged bullshit.

I received another text message then. It was from Roberto. "He's gone," it said.

I responded. "Cool. I'm almost there."

I decided to wait about 7 minutes before going up to our apartment. I found a place to sit and continued reading my book for a bit longer.

When I entered our apartment, Roberto was in his bedroom with the door closed. I turned on the TV. He stayed in this room. Sometimes he worked in there at his computer.

I put on an old episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had been missing that show like an old friend. I do that sometimes. I rewatch old favorites over again. Most new show suck. I played the episode titled "Hush". One of the best ones. I poured myself a scotch in water and sat on the couch.

About 30 minutes later, Roberto came out of his room. He was shirtless. Below the waist he was wearing pajama pants. I could see the outline of his dick in them. It kinda made me horny even though I knew there was nothing between us.

He walked like he was headed to the kitchen, but then he stopped for a minute to watch the TV.

"Buffy?" he said.

"Yeah," I said. "It's an old favorite. Do you like it?"

When I remembered, I tried to use fairly simple English and talk slowly when talking to a foreigner. But I was never that good at it. When I try to talk simple, the result is still like a paragraph from a book. But it's more like Hemingway rather than Melville.

Roberto seemed to understand me OK most of the time. He said, "Iss not my favorite, buh I like it some."

The way he said is was something in between the English is and the Spanish es with a lot of emphasis on the 's' sound. And he would often drop subject pronouns where a native speaker wouldn't. A native speaker would say, "It's not my favorite." Roberto said, "Iss not my favorite." But I say he was almost fluent because he could communicate with me fairly rapidly and easily, and I could understand him. I certainly couldn't speak Spanish anywhere near as well as he spoke English. So I don't mean to disrespect him. I respected him very much actually.

"I will have some friends coming over tonight," he said. "We will have some drinks and then we go out together."

That's what I mean. I could understand him fine, and he spoke with minimal hesitation, but the way he said things wasn't quite like I would say them.

I hated having other people over, but what could I say? I couldn't object to it. I didn't own the place.

"How many?" I said.

"Jus my frien Mauricio" he said. "We will go out by bout nine."

Oy. Small miracles. I like to say "Oy." I'm not Jewish.

"OK. Thanks for telling me, I said. When is he coming?

"Soon," he said. "Like tweny minute? I will cook dinner for us. You wanna join us?"

Roberto was a good cook. Like I said, we didn't often eat together, but sometimes we did. We were on good terms. Once he made black beans--a great lot of them. He invited me to have some. "Help yourself," he said. I had some. They were much better than the ones I bought in a can.

I wasn't sure if he meant would I have dinner with them or if he was just asking if I would be around all night.

"I had dinner already," I said. "Maybe I'll have some drinks. I have scotch if you want some."

Roberto smiled his merry smile, but all the same he had this nonjudgmental look of displeasure on his face. "Thanks," he said. "But I don't like scotch. I bought some rum."

Rum. I didn't like rum. So much the better. More scotch for me. Roberto usually drank mixed drinks like vodka in tonic rather than beer or wine because of carbs. He was very conscious of things like that. Roberto was a little older than I was. I think he was almost 30. He was very fit, but maybe he had to work harder for it.

Roberto went to the kitchen and started cooking dinner.

I turned to the TV. On Buffy, the black chick Giles had invited over was showing him her drawing of the monsters. It was horrifying.

I heard a lot of clattering pans and smelled onion.

I turned up the volume on the TV and I took a beer from the refrigerator. No way I was gonna be here sober while he had guests over. Beer first. Scotch later, if it came to that.

OK, I hear it. I guess I sound like an anti-social son of a bitch. It's just that this wasn't the first time he'd had guests over. Thankfully, he didn't do it often. But in the past when he had had friends over, they had stayed around until well past midnight talking loudly in Spanish and drinking. I can't stand that kind of discourtesy for others.

I think people should just be quiet after 10 PM. A man needs to sleep. I had to work. I didn't need to be up super-early, but a bunch of guys gossiping in Spanish until the wee hours of the morning--no to that. I like the quiet.

I didn't entirely believe Roberto and his friend would clear out by 9, but I hoped so.

A short while later, I was working on my second beer and there was a knock at the door.

I sat on the sofa drinking and Roberto answered. He opened the door and shouted, "Ah! Mau! Como ethas?"

Roberto had that kind of Spanish accent where the 's' sounds are often mixed up with 'th' sounds. He sounded very excited greeting his friend. Like, greeting his friend was the most exciting thing in the world.

The friend came in. He was another latino guy. I'd never seen him before. He wore dark jeans that looked like he had barely stretched them over his butt. His t-shirt was so small you could almost see the outline of his abs in it. He was a small guy. Thin and narrow and his figure was straight from his shoulders through his waist.

His best feature was his face. He was angular with short, spiky hair. It was latino black and had way too much gel in it. I'm not the most visual person really, so mostly when I see a guy I don't really see details about his nose or his lips, etc. In a word, he was hot. Mostly what I saw was the emotion on his face. I could tell instantly that was happy and outgoing. He thought he was attractive. You could see that in his merry smile and cocky way he held his eyes. And he was attractive.

I was already pretty sure he was gay, and he had probably been with a lot of men. It's not generally easy to know whether a guy is gay, but if that man's pants were any tighter, I would have seen the outline of his penis head.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries in Spanish. I don't understand Spanish that well, and of course between the two of them they spoke very rapidly and colloquially. Mau glanced around, and Roberto closed the door behind him. Mau noticed me on the couch.

"Ah!" Roberto said. "Mauricio, this is my roommate Clin'. Clin', this is my good friend Mauricio."

Roberto often dropped final consonant sounds.

At that moment, from the way Mauricio looked at me I knew he was gay. He wasn't even trying to be subtle. His eyes were saying "I want to fuck you" with a thick, latin accent.

I stood because it seemed appropriate. "Hi, Mauricio," I said. "Nice to meet you."

I nodded at him, and he put his hand out, so I shook his hand.

"Mi me Mau," he said. He smiled that smile of the consciously attractive.

His English was much more labored than Roberto's.

"Where are you from?" I said. I tried to speak plainly and just a hair slower than I would normally. I didn't want to be insulting. I just wanted to welcome the guy.

"I'm...from Puerto Rico," he said.

I realized I was holding a beer, and I said, "Do you want a beer?"

He smiled big. "I brought beer," he said, and I noticed he was carrying a plastic bag with a six-pack of beer inside.

Good. I didn't really want to share.

At this point I was quite awkward and didn't know what was supposed to happen next. I nodded politely and he grinned. He had perfect white teeth.

Roberto said something in Spanish which I think meant, "Dinner will be ready soon."

I sat down again on the sofa and went back to my beer, but I kept an eye on Mau. He sat on the sofa with me--not right next to me, but on the end away from me.

Suddenly I wondered if Roberto and Mau were fucking. Mau looked like a guy who would fuck anybody. Roberto was cooking the two of them dinner and they were planning to go out together. So...yes? Maybe? Roberto wasn't easy to read.

It didn't help that I couldn't understand what the two of them said to each other. They still spoke to each other in Spanish, which I thought was rude. But maybe Mau didn't understand English well enough for them to talk freely in English. That seemed likely.

Roberto said something. Then Mau said something. Then Roberto said something, and I think I caught, "pero no tengo plata!!!" But I don't have the money!!! You could hear the three exclamation points in Roberto's voice.

They laughed and I generally felt excluded, and I drank. Mau, a few feet away from me, opened one of the beers he had brought.

As he chatted with Roberto, Mau made big, exaggerated faces like he was acting for an audience. He stretched his angular face into caricatures of surprise, and joy--what was that one?--horniness? He laughed big and loud.

Roberto said something in Spanish and brought dishes from the kitchen to our dining table, which was in the middle of our tiny student apartment. Mau stood up and I looked briefly at his butt. I was sure he knew I was gay too. It was probably written all over his face the moment I saw him.

"Are you sure you don't want any?" Roberto said.

Roberto really was a good guy. We had zero chemistry in bed, and in annoyed me how much of a clean freak he was, but I liked him all the same. And it seemed like Roberto liked everybody.

"I'm not hungry," I said. "I ate at a restaurant earlier. Thanks."

Mau joined Roberto at the table, and I sat on the couch and split my attention between the TV and Mau's butt. Buffy was being a strong, powerful woman. Mau's butt was sitting in a chair looking like it needed to be licked.

Roberto and Mau took their time eating, and after a while they were just chatting. I sat on the couch nearby. It was still early. Mau was facing away from me. I missed seeing his face, but I enjoyed staring at his ass.

I went back to watching Buffy until Roberto stood up. He said something in Spanish. I think it meant something like, "Do you want to go?"

Mau nodded and stood up.

Roberto took their dishes to the kitchen and Mau walked to the doorway.

Roberto had cleaned up briefly and put their dishes in the sink. "I will wash these when I get back home tonight," he told me.

"That's fine," I said.

Then he went back to his bedroom and Mau followed him. He left the door open. I guessed he was changing clothes. Mau sat in Roberto's desk chair, and I could see him through the doorway. Roberto was out of view. They chatted more in Spanish. I stared at Mau. I liked his face. He look over and caught my glance, and he smiled. Just a friendly smile. But all the same he looked sleazy and cock-hungry. His neutral smile was like an invitation to put dick in his mouth.

Then Roberto came back out with Mau behind him. At the doorway, Roberto said "bye" to me.

Roberto said bye way more frequently than any American says bye. I guess we mostly just say "later" or "see ya" and we leave the word bye for when you're murdering your arch enemy and watching him slowly sink into quicksand: "Goodbye, Captain Awesome."

Mau looked at me. "It is nice to meet you," he said. Again, his English was halting and just a small bit wrong.

"You too," I said. I smiled. Then I was afraid I had spoken too quickly, and I added, "It is nice to meet you too."

He smiled, flashing bright teeth at me, and I thought about sucking his dick.

The two of them left right after that, and I turned off the TV. After all that chatter, I just wanted the quiet. And thankfully our apartment was pretty quiet at night. We had thick walls. I rarely heard anything from the neighbors.

I poured a scotch-in-water and went to my room. I wasn't quite sleepy yet, but I needed to sleep in a while, so I took a Benadryl. Those things always made me drowsy within an hour or so. I thought I'd read something, but nothing quite so heavy as Steinbeck. Or maybe I'd watch some porn.

I opened my laptop and put on a porno with a bunch of guys at a party sucking each other's dicks. God damn. If parties like that ever happened outside of porn videos, I wished someone would invite me.

I stripped to my skin and sat on my bed with my drink nearby.

Ugh. At that moment, I got a notification from Facebook. Some idiot had written a stupid comment on a friend's thread in response to something I wrote. I hate people. They're always writing stupid things and acting like they know things they don't.

I put some lube on my dick and started fondling it. I sipped from my drink.

I really hated to engage idiots on the Internet, because that only leads to annoyance. But by this time I was well on my way to drunk, and I was still sipping scotch. My ability to suffer fools decreased dramatically when I drank.

I crafted a response to the guy's stupid comment. I tried to be civil. Or at least drunk-civil.

Then I heard that sound my phone made when I received a text message. It was like 9:30 PM. I was surprised I hadn't already turned it off for the night.

I checked my phone. The message was from Roberto. It said, "My friend thinks you're hot."

Inside my head, I was thinking something like the friend thinks I'm hot. Really? I guess that's nice. Wait, is Roberto fucking him? Can I lick his butt? I bet his butt is really nice. Latin guys have nice dicks. He looked like he'd fuck me. He looked like a sleazy fucker who would fuck anybody. And me in particular. Yes. Yes to that.

I looked down at my body. I was naked, sitting on my bed and my dick was hard. My thinking was a bit cloudy from the drinks.

I wrote a message. "You two aren't dating?"

"We're just friends only," Roberto said. He added, "I don't sleep with Mauricio."

I sent Roberto a message: "You can give him my number."

Roberto responded. "Nice!!!"

Soon after that, I got another message. "Hey. This is Mau. Roberto's friend."

"Hey," I wrote back. "This is Clint. Nice to meet you."

"Let's do something together," Mau said. "I'll write you again tomorrow."

"I'd like that," I said.

I sat naked on my bed, sipped my scotch and played with my dick. I liked the feel of my naked ass cheeks pressed against my crisp white sheets. A drop of pre-cum appeared on the tip. I dipped it off with my finger and tasted it. I began writing another message I probably wouldn't have written if I had been completely sober.

I wrote: "Will you send me a pic, so I remember you tomorrow?"

The pretense was obvious and it was a joke. I just wanted a picture of him for my personal use. He would know that.

I sat crossed-legged and went back to jerking myself at a leisurely pace. More of my pre-cum fell on my shins. I wiped it off and licked it again.

After two minutes, I put my phone down. He's busy with Roberto, I guess.

I browsed to, which had been my favorite source for gay erotica for like a decade. I read erotica and I write erotica because it provides something porn doesn't. It provides a more immersive fantasy. It doesn't rely on the limited acting ability of beefy hunks blessed with pretty faces. And, sometimes, maybe it's actually true. For the record, I only plug products like this when I really believe in them. I went to Nifty for some jerk-off material because porn just wasn't doing it for me that night.

I found a story about two identical twins getting it on together. God damn. That kinda shit is so wrong and so hot. I don't have any idea what I would do if I had an identical twin and we were both gay. Would we have fucked? I bet we would have--at least when we were teenagers. I was a horny fucker.

My phone beeped at me. It was Mau. He'd sent a picture. Huzzah! I opened it to take a look. Good googa-mooga! The picture showed his beautiful body from a straw fedora on top of his black hair down to his knees. In between, he was wearing a skinny necktie like the fashion magazines loved at that time. It was purple. And he wore nothing else. Ay Caramba!

His dick was hard, and it pointed straight up, resting against his abs. It looked about the same size as mine, seven inches or so. But I couldn't see a lot of detail. It was just a small picture on the 3.5 inch screen on my phone.

His face was that same cocky, sleazy smirk, but he still looked friendly somehow. And even if he was sleazy and cocky, at least he wasn't one of those gays who walk around all the time looking like something smells bad. I fucking hate those guys. Get over yourself, bitch.

After a moment, he wrote, "You like my picture?"

"Yes I do," I said.

"Send me one," he said.

I didn't have a full-body naked pic of myself like that to send, and I didn't plan on taking one. My body was passable, but it wasn't my main selling point. Mau looked like he had had 2% body fat. He didn't have big muscles, but he was trim at least. Later I'd learn he ran a lot. I felt doughy by comparison. And pale. So much paler. Mau was beautifully olive-toned.

But even more than that, I just couldn't believe a guy would pass around a photo that had both his face and his dick in it. Who knows where that might end up? That took some kind of courage...or foolhardy disregard for consequences.

I studied that pic of his, and my dick liked it a lot.

I did have a pic I could send him. I had taken a shirtless pic in natural light where my hair looked pretty good, and I thought it was flattering. I was wearing jeans, though. And in pictures I usually remained expressionless, like an old woman from the 1800s posing for a daguerreotype. Once the girl who cut my hair saw me make my "expressionless" face in the mirror and she asked me, "is that your GQ face?"

Anyway, that's the face I was making. I sent him a copy.

Mau wrote back, "Sexy motherfucker."

Hm. I was a sexy motherfucker. Nice.

I thought our conversation would probably end there, at least for the night. I went back to sipping my scotch and reading my twincest porn. I stroked my cock and tweaked my nipples.

My phone beeped at me again. Normally, I'd find it annoying to keep getting interrupted by my phone, but that night was an exception. The message said, "I just took this one." And there was a video attached. A goddamn video.

I played it. He was in a bathroom stall. I couldn't see his face in the pic. He was holding the phone up near his face and pointing it down along his body, so I saw the front of his shirt and his pants and I saw the toilet in front of him.

He unbuttoned his pants awkwardly with one hand and unzipped. Underneath, no underwear. Freeballing. He dropped his pants to the floor and grabbed his dick with his left hand.

He was uncut. I really had no preference at all on the cut versus uncut issue, aesthetically. But I do wish my parents hadn't made the fucking choice for me. Anyway, he was Puerto Rican, and he was uncut. I never saw one of those until my first year in college.

He jerked it a few times and it started to grow. This all happened in seconds. Then the video stopped. Jesus Christ, what a tease. I didn't even get to see his dick hard.

He wrote a message. "It won't let me send long one." Videos inside a text message were a relatively new technology, and it worked different ways with different phones and services.

A minute after that, I received another video from him. This time, the video started on his beautiful smiling face. He was sticking his long tongue out and his head was thrown back in ecstasy. I smiled and imagined what he might do with that tongue. Then he turned the camera down toward his dick. He was shirtless now, and he was sitting on the toilet with his pants down around his ankles. This could get weirder than I'd like.

He was fully hard and he was jerking it like he meant business. He was leaning back with his dick pointed toward his chest.

I wished I was there with him and he was fucking my face in that bathroom stall.

He started bucking, and then I saw the cum fly. The first spurt shot up over his shoulder I guess. The second landed on his belly. Then the next. And he kept spasming and shooting cum on himself. I don't know how much cum he had squirted on himself, but it was more than the usual amount of cum. Then some dribbled out of the tip of his dick.

The goddamn video ended right then, but at least I got to see the cumshot.

I thrust my dick into my fist now, hard and fast, just thinking how much I'd love to lick that cum off his belly.

A third video arrived almost immediately. It began where the last one ended. With two fingers, Mau dipped into the cum on his belly. He turned the camera around toward his face, and he smiled his big, stage smile with those dick sucker lips and his arched, excited eyebrows. His showed his fingers to the camera, two fingers covered in his hot, white cum. Then he licked them clean.

He turned the camera back to his belly and then rubbed the cum into his skin, just spreading it across his abs like lotion.

I was trying not to blow my load right there. I didn't want it to be over. I wanted to keep imagining licking that cum off his fingers myself.

He deserved a message and some recognition for all that. I wrote, "Did you record that just for me?"

He wrote, "I was horny. I wanted to share with you. You make me horny."

This guy was fun.

I wrote, "I really liked your videos. Thanks for sending them."

I waited about three minutes for him to respond. I was antsy. And I was barely keeping myself from cumming.

He responded. "I'm going back outside with the cum on me. I don't have nobody to lick myself clean. Maybe next time you lick my cum off so I'm clean."

After I read that, I threw my legs over my head so my dick pointed straight down at my face, and my cum rained down on me. I opened my mouth and caught some. It was was like every man's cum--salty and hot, and it seemed to stay on my lips even after I licked it off.

I sent Mau one last message before I turned my phone off. "I want to lick your cum off." I attached a picture of my ass. I added, "Let's play this weekend."

Then I was overcome with sleepiness. I lay back in bed, my face sprinkled with cum, and I fell asleep.


I will continue this story right here on Nifty. If you like my writing, please also consider my e-book Teachers Suck, Volume I, which is part of my Homoerotic Adventures series. It's $.99 for the Kindle, and you can read Kindle books on your computer with a free app.

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