This story is intended to be read by persons over 18 years old.
It contains descriptions of consensual adult gay sex.
If this offends you, please don't read it.
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All rights reserved.
My Last Belvedere
By Dean Owen
Back in the late 70s when I was living in Montreal, I used to smoke Belevedere cigarettes. One afternoon while having a drink in a bar on Mountain Street, I was approached by a man who explained to me in a vaguely European accent, that he had just arrived in the country and was intrigued by my cigarette pack, as his name was Mr. Belvedere. He was of average looks and medium build, had dark hair and wore a slightly rumpled summerweight beige suit
To make a long story short, he told me he had been visiting a country in the Far East, had been in transit for the past three days and hadn't had the chance to relieve himself of an excessive buildup of semen.
When I offered to "take care of the problem" for him, he readily agreed and we adjourned to my pad in a rooming house a couple of blocks away. It was a hot day and the climb to the third floor seemed endless. When we entered the room, he wasted no time in dropping his trousers, which I noticed had a stain at the front, no doubt from the ever-present drool of precum generated by his perpetual arousal over several days. His thick, uncut organ quickly rose to full erection, about seven inches, as I recall, and I dropped to my knees and peeled back the foreskin. As I sucked him, he complained about the heat and commented negatively on my room decor. I wanted to defend my choices in decorating but I had my mouth full, and I realized with a start that the furnishings, which I would have feely admitted were somewhat kitschy, were also beginning to give the room an outdated feel.
Mr. Belvedere's orgasm quickly approached, and he began lowing like a cow at milking time. When he ejaculated, the hot, salty explosion overwhelmed me and I swallowed the wrong way, quickly backing off. Taking matters into his own hands, he groaned piteously and let fly with a series of thick, runny streamers of hot, white glurch -- all over my room.
The first shot landed a broad white stripe on my 14" black and white TV set. The next spurt landed on my bookshelf, claiming my prized origami collection. Horrified, I coughed and cried out in protest. Mr. Belvedere whirled, mouth agape, and, holding his veiny tool, spewed a three-foot blast of semen onto my stereo system, ruining a Sex Pistols British import picture disk that sat on the turntable. Throwing his head back, he bellowed his release and let fly with a thick loin loogie that snaked across my dining table and onto the classified section of the newspaper I had unfolded by my cereal bowl -- I was looking for work and had circled a couple of promising-looking ads -- and I finally decided I had had enough. I gripped his shoulders and guided him out to the hallway, where he stood, pants around his ankles, dribbling the last of his seed on the worn hallway carpet.
I closed the door and surveyed the devastation caused by Mr. Belevere's orgasm. It looked like an explosion at a yogurt factory. Thick white stripes of man-chowder had been slung haphazardly around the room. A zigzag blast had nailed a limited-edition La Place du Soul poster I had been hoping to have mounted. A gloppy mess soaked the cover of my new, unread High Times magazine. A blob of now-congealing semen dangled crazily from my rubber plant, twisting in the breeze from the desktop fan, which itself had not escaped a direct hit and was now blowing the bleachy smell around the room.
As I had pushed him out the door, hobbled with his pants down, he had splattered a hamper sitting on the floor containing my fresh laundry, soiled the cover of a library book sitting by the door -- it was Jonathan Livingston Seagull -- and gotten jism from his approximately tenth and last eruption onto my housekeys.
As I shuddered in disgust, I looked for my cigarettes and realized I had forgotten them at the bar. I opened the door, only to see one of the other rooming house inhabitants, having been drawn by the commotion, kneeling before Mr. Belvedere, sucking noisily on his semi-erect trouser weasel under the bare lightbulb in the hallway.
As I edged around the duo, Mr. Belevedere, without looking away from the pale, skinny, white-coated Frenchman mouthing his pecker -- I believe he was a bakery assistant -- asked me if he could get one of those cigarettes I was smoking. I replied under my breath that I might be a few minutes, and exited the house via the stairs, making a mental note to pick up some paper towels on the way back. When I returned, I was relieved to see Mr. Belvedere had moved on. But his legacy remained. It took me quite awhile to clean up, giving me ample opportunity to regret the whole experience. Though I have now quit smoking, I made up my mind to change my brand. I had smoked my last Belvedere.