Sucking Dick on the Blue Line
by Johnny Murdoc

"Here," he says.

"Here?" I ask.

"Here," he says. He starts rubbing his cock through his jeans. We're on the blue line, coming back from a friend's book release party. Our friend Isaac managed to write a book, a boring book about nothing that appealed, somehow, to self-absorbed hipsters everywhere. Then he managed to get it published, and he had a party, and we were there. He read from his book and it was every bit as boring as the first time he told us the stories. Stories about doing nothing and then going to brunch.

Now we're on our way home and Christopher is rubbing his cock through his jeans. He's pulling loose the top button. I lean in and whisper into his ear: "I was hoping you'd fuck me when we get back to your place."

"I'll fuck you," he says. "But right now I want you to suck my dick." The car is empty.

This story is about sucking my boyfriend's dick on the blue line, but it's about something else, too.

"Okay," I say.

I think about Isaac's book with its Helvetica-set logo: ANGEL HEADED HIPSTERS and I feel a pang of self-awareness as I fish Christopher's half-hard dick through the fly of his Galaxy-and-White Organic Baby Rib Briefs. Christopher groans. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once for a text message. I wrap my hand around Christopher's dick. It feels weird doing this with gloves on, like his dick is thicker than usual. The pads of my fingers are exposed. His dick is warm. The car around us is cold.

Christopher kisses me. He tastes like beer. The train pulls to a stop. The doors open and I let go of his dick. It falls sideways and lays against his leg. He doesn't move to hide it. No one boards the car. The doors close. The train rattles.

"Suck my dick," Christopher says. I pull my gloves off and shove them into my pocket.

Isaac read from his book tonight, a scene about getting his dick sucked by a girl he didn't really like. She was sitting in the audience tonight. She didn't know how he felt. Isaac writes matter-of-factly. Minimalist. He wrote about the blow job like it was something that happened to someone else. Isaac doesn't care about a lot, except for writing and American Apparel.

Giving a blow job is very different from getting one.

I have to slide sideways in my seat in order to slide Christopher's dick into my mouth. I slide my lips around the head of his dick and it flares in my mouth, briefly swelling as Christopher groans. He slides back in his seat. My foot is crossing the aisle. I wrap my hand around the base of his cock. Christopher threads his fingers through my hair. He pushes down until my mouth is full of cock and my lips are pressed against the zipper of his jeans.

Christopher likes feeling the wet warmth of my mouth. I like feeling full, my mouth filled with Christopher. Connected. We are on a train and we are doing something dirty and it is beautiful. I feel for the people who would misunderstand my actions here. I am filled with love.

The train rattles to a stop again. If someone boards I will tell them that I'm looking for something. Christopher keeps his hand on my head. He'd let go if I resisted, but it's hotter to think that he wouldn't.

My dick is wedged between my thigh and the denim of my jeans.

The train starts to move again. I don't think anyone boarded, but it's hard to hear over the sound of the train and the sound of my breath pushing through my nostrils. Would Christopher tell me?

I try to think about how many stops there are until we're home. I haven't been counting them. Christopher is pumping his hips up and down, sliding his dick through my fist. In and out of my mouth.

Christopher mutters. "Yeah." Over and over. "Oh, yeah." Sweet little encouragements. His ass shifts on his seat as his feet slide along the smooth, dirty metal floor of the train. He's bracing himself, putting his entire body into the blow job. For some, a blow job is something you get. A passive act. Not for Christopher.

My nose is filled with the smell of Christopher's dick, the smell of his balls. That warm damp smell of flesh tucked in jeans and briefs for too long. Every man's smell, but also Christopher's in that intense way that each man's smell is his own. It's not a filthy smell. This blow job is not filthy.

I think about Isaac, reading from his book, talking about his unsatisfying blow job. I think blow jobs are something that happens to Isaac. Isaac has groupies now, because he's that perfect mixture of handsome, talented, and published.

One night, Isaac said that I could suck his dick if I wanted to. Isaac doesn't have friends, just stories waiting to happen.

Christopher's breathe quickens. His hold on my head tightens and the head of his dick flares again, like it did when I first put it into my mouth. This time he shoots, though, his cum squirting against the back of my mouth. Christopher always comes forcefully, his orgasm a declaration. I have watched his ejaculate spray several feet away and it's this force with which it hits the back of my mouth.

Christopher collapses, his body deflates. He hunches over me, hugging me with his chest and his arms, his hard cock still filling my mouth as I breathe in and out in rhythm with Christopher's heaving chest, the dogwood smell of his cum coursing through my sinuses. Christopher kisses the back of my neck. The grip he has on my hair turns to petting as he strokes my head.

Christopher knows: I have a lot of love to give.


©2011 Johnny Murdoc

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