In the Flesh
A story for stroke writers. A story for the readers who enjoy Nifty.
Descriptions of intimate liaisons between males of disparate ages are included. (Adult content.)
Rus Writer
Donnie Reader
In the Flesh
Strange coincidence or fate? Had I tickled the fancies of the Fates with my clever prose? Thread of my life unwound in an incredible direction after I began this venture.
Started several years ago, after reading erotica, I found a treasure trove--the mother lode of gay, male stories. Incredible variety. Yet errant commas, peculiar capitalizations, alien grammar averted my pleasure--derailed my imagination when peppered through the action I sought.
Figured I could write better and hit the keyboard. Organized, wrote, edited, and submitted.
Posted! Stayed at the keyboard, and the list of my posted titles tacked over my computer lengthened through the months. Going good, right? Well, sorta.
Got positive comments that boosted my motivation to continue. Thanks, readers. Got emails from pervs on the prowl for photos. Got some real goofball emails from stoners, lonely drunks, and horny daddies who sent incomplete questions and suggesting scenes almost beyond belief.
At my age I was still so naive? I hadn’t considered writing the authors of my favorite fantasies asking for an illustrated copy of their work. I had no photos of anything other than adolescent underwear ads, middle-school wrestlers. Kept myself in the textual arena and in the fiction department--getting chancier online with anything more.
Met a few other writers. As varied as the guys in the bar; as varied as characters in other stories. Nice folks.
...
Writing’s no solitary task for me. My characters talk to me, to each other, some pick a fight, other characters take them to the woodshed. A few are hair-triggered and storm out of the den--have to go bring them back. Keep ‘em on a short leash and within the guidelines.
One character came to haunt me; stalk me:
Emailed was entitled “Hard and Hot.” It included an impassioned message from a reader named only “D.” He commented on a story I posted about a young man’s sexual indoctrination. The characters he wrote of were memorable; the older man, a wise and generous instructor, the boy awkward, inexperienced.
A few emails were exchanged; I sent my usual brief replies.
D kept writing me, obviously reading through my posted works. Then, he began writing his fantasies about me.
Whoa! Fantasies about me? He confused the author with the characters.
Described myself in blurry terms. “Look, I’m a dud. A skinny, old bear, cranky, seldom shower or shave. My shoes don’t match.” Thought that would turn the faucet off.
How could my description elicit the opposite result? He wanted to meet me.
Alarm bells went off. Entrapment. He used a lot of youthful jargon--could be part of a self-appointed vigilante group. A man with my thoughts, posting his fantasies online, I could be a target.
“What say I write a story and use your name?” I thought that might stem the tide of his emails.
“You already did. I love it, read it every morning. How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“You described me perfectly.”
“C’mon, I write characters I’d like to enjoy. All fiction; all fantasy. Thanks for writing, glad you enjoy it.”
Cut the conversation off, this was too enticing, too easy. I was not being complimented but baited.
...
Write what you know: my locations are about the beach; I live near the ocean and a tourist town. Unnerving when D said he’d be at a nearby beach with his brother for Independence Day. “Meet up?”
Way too risky, and the way I’d written the character in his favorite story, he was lucious. Was this kid as hot? Was this kid a virgin? What did he really want from me--instruction? “How old are you?”
Sent a photo of his school ID, ritzy academy. His thumb was half over his information--couldn’t tell. Erring on the safe side I assumed he hadn’t hit the age of majority.
My imagination wouldn’t let it go. This was a screwy turn of events, yet a horny man has been known to play long odds. Horny old men play impossible odds when the opportunity is pounding on the door. “Meet you at the bandstand on the forth, in the morning. I’ll even shave.” Figured I could dodge, get lost in the crowd if I had to.
Blood boiled, balls were heavy when he replied: “Do I have to shave? I only have fifteen hairs.”
....
Morning of the fourth, I left early. Strolled down the pavilion with a coffee. Wallet, sunglasses, phone charged with the name and number of an attorney I’d heard was good with criminal cases.
Boardwalk was crowded already. Cafes full, families loaded with beach gear; scent of sunblock wafted. Sat by the gazebo as the city workers hustled setting up speakers, lights.
Around nine, I started scanning the sidewalks for a slender, auburn-haired boy. Stomach didn’t take the stress well; felt like a first date with someone way out of my league.
...
Looked around--maybe he backed out. Almost headed back to my truck…. In the distance, a boy in brown shorts and a white tee shirt--my nom de plume appeared in large black letters handwritten on the back of a flyer announcing the fireworks display. He held it under his chin. Heart stopped. Underneath was a line of text too small to read.
Trying to act nonchalant, I stepped closer to the foot traffic as he approached. Before I could think, it jumped out, “Hey, I know that author.” Glanced at the small letters and grinned when the most beautiful hazel eyes looked into mine and smiled back.
“I’m your theme today,” Under the larger letters, “write me.” I grinned and a burst of sweat oozed; dick twitched, boned.
“Rus?” He canted his head to the side, scanning my body with a smile.
“...nothing round about him. Body was flat, ribbon-like with square shoulders, narrow, straight. Colors were white and reddish-brown.”
"What's going on?" He was careful, glanced around for any accompaniment I might have.
“Auburn haired, pale skin covered in dots; face, neck, ears covered in freckles. Made his hazel eyes appear greener and his red lips brighter. Had a configuration of freckles resembling the Southern Cross on his chin. Attractive boy, by his combination of colors, certainly unique.”
Incredible coincidence and it felt like I knew him in a past-life. The rush of writing that story, the scenes, the hesitancy, the expectancy and the lust all welled inside me. My stories leave moods, they swirled like currents through my guts.
In the flesh, my character Donnie. “His stomach growled.”
“Hungry?” I asked.
“There’s a restaurant at the hotel.” He showed a key card. Found he was staying in a hotel on the beach with his brother for the weekend, parents were in the casinos. “I got the room all day. My brother’s at a party in Bethany Beach.”
Not that I didn’t want to be seen with him, and if anyone in the crowd knew me, they’d get nosy. I pulled him near the smell of hotdogs, onions, chili.
“Lots of good writers.... Why did you choose me?”
He turned to me, smiled as his eyes scanned me closely, “Seemed like you would-- you’d appreciate my....” He sputtered, blushed. “offer--my asking you.”
“Figured me for an easy mark, didja?” Ego barely slighted; cock twitched.
He grinned, glanced from the corner of his eyes, “Not easy.” He began, leaned close, “Easier. Gimme a break, you don’t have to....”
We walked through the crowds. What self-pride I had left diminished in direct proportion to the volume of liquid dampening my briefs. “Would you…” I started, “Would you be afraid to go to my place?”
“Where?” He was looking at the hotdogs sputtering on the grill.
“About a mile away.”
“Live alone?” He ordered two hotdogs with kraut and loaded them with mustard..
“Entirely.” I paid and we walked toward my truck. He ate both dogs, drank his coke on the way.
Pulled under the carport, smiled at him, “Nervous?”
He blushed, “Sorta. More excited.”
Damn, that response put the pressure on me to perform--dick, don’t fail me.
…
Inside, he looked around while I got two sodas, went to the back deck. He came out eventually, “Is my place what you expected?”
I thought you might have a hammock somewhere.” He winked. Jesus, he remembered that sensual hammock scene.
The boy made small talk about school, he was bright; going to major in Communications. Stopped himself abruptly, “C’mon, I’ll interview you.” He took me into the house by my hand, sat me on the couch, slid right beside me and took my hand, turning to me. “When did you know you were queer?”
No one had ever asked me. “Always felt a little different, thought everyone did… ” Had to think harder, “When the other boys started talking about sex and girls and screwing them, that was my first signal. They started dating. I couldn’t--you see, I wanted another boy, well, preferably a man.”
“You like older men too?” He was delighted.
“Teachers, coaches, and I hate to say it, but my dad. He was incredibly masculine; deep voice, full lips, huge biceps….”
“Did you--?”
“Dad chased skirts, got in a lot of trouble with the women. No place for me in that mess. And the queer part of me I figured I was an aberration--unnatural, I was ashamed. Didn't know there were other boys like me.”
“So tell me about your first time.” Designer shorts strained behind his zipper. Smiling eyes under the rust-colored waves falling over his smooth, wide forehead dotted with freckles.
Put my arm around Donnie’s shoulder, leaned to him, whispering: “A friend of my parents came by the house, offered me and my brothers cash for clearing his back lot. My brothers bailed, I went with him… We were in the shed, getting the tools. I leaned over for something, felt his hand on my butt, between my legs.” My dick was reliving that excitement, glanced down, rearranged myself.
“Then what?” Donnie’s hand came to my groin, slipped under mine..
“Well, he unzipped and I was awed. His smell, dripping rod, dark balls. Huge package, dark hair all over his body. Told me to kiss his cock. Probably wasn’t any good at blowing him, but he shot a huge load before I was ready. Hit me in the eye.” Had to chuckle, “Taste of cum, his musk, and everything, I was hooked. He stood me on the side of his mower, and sucked me and we were close for years afterward. Found a place where I didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“Did he fuck you?”
“Eventually. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but he hurt me. Felt bruised for several days.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.” Leaned in to kiss his neck. Donnie swung his leg over my lap and put my hand on his dick. Little more than a handful, not fully grown. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” He blushed and kissed me leaving the piquancy of mustard.
…
I turned the tables, “Tell me about your first time.”
“Nothing to say. That’s why I’m here.” Nervous twitter.
“Tell me what you’d like to happen--tell me your fantasy.”
He snuggled beside me as he pulled out his phone, went straight for the porn. Showed me several photos. Came to the one he liked; side by side, lots of skin-to-skin.
“I see. No warm-up?” Hoped for some kisses, some hand work.
“Why? I’m always hot.” He stood, pulled my hand.
…
Speed, Donnie had; and finesse, he lacked. At his age, with his looks, who cared? In the bedroom, “Why did you choose me? You could have any man you wanted.”
“Men who seem interested, think I’m part of a sting.” He tossed his clothes in a heap on the chair and turned to me; freckled from head to toe. Smooth skin with a thin layer of fat smoothing his musculature, his bones. At full mast, untrimmed, fitted foreskin, testicles sat in an in-between length, but pale, smallish, bite-sized. A few hairs near the base, a few dark, curved lines of emerging bush.
He blushed with my gaze and tilted his head, “We’re on security camera, seven-twenty-four at school.” He paused, “But it was the way you describe… men and boys.” He was blushing more deeply. “Like you knew me, what I wanted.”
Threw the covers back and embraced the boy, rolled us onto the bed, “Forget the porn, we’re going to make this memorable.” Grabbed another mustardy kiss.
The moment my chest hair brushed his skin, I tingled, I sensed the courage and shakiness behind his emails, the drive to be held and loved; young body curious to be filled, to know a completion he’d only imagined.
Skin, his smell intoxicating, head was light with him. Wrapped my legs through his, pulled his body as close to me. Touched as much of him as possible. Squeezed him hard to feel his breath, to breathe his exhale.
Silent conversation ensued as his relief rolled through him and he reveled in my skin, my smells. Biting my ears and hair, he pulled me to his smooth chest lightly sticky with his sweat. Chests together, I slipped my hand between us; between two slippery shafts. Thumb went to the sensitive triangle under his cock. Grabbed and rubbed it. He shoved his hips several times, heating fluids jumped from his slit.
He was still moaning when I licked my thumb, kissed his neck, “Thanks, sweetheart.”
With closed eyes and relaxed body, “I didn’t sleep last night.”
…
Quietly, I went to the kitchen, grilled Italian sausage, made salad--hadn’t expected company. Went about making a small dinner listening to the neighborhood kids pop off some black cats and cherry bombs, strings of the penny-poppers through the neighborhood. Smelled the smoke of grills up and down the block, chicken, ribs...
Late afternoon when Donnie smelled dinner. He got up, showered, came to the kitchen, “Halve that cantaloupe, we’ll put some ice cream in it for dessert. I’ll get you back as soon as we eat.”
“Don’t hurry.” He sliced into the melon scenting the kitchen, “Told my family I was at the mall, I’d see them after the fireworks tonight.”
Took our plates to the deck, night was falling, firecrackers broke the crickets’ songs. Donnie grabbed his half-cantaloupe filled with ice cream and stood near the railing. Distant music faded as several loud booms from the cannons heralded the fireworks display in town. “Look, they’re starting.”
Facing toward town, he intently watched, waiting for the next explosion. Started with a screaming sound, then bursts of light glowed on his face. Childlike, he stood without moving. I knew what he wanted more than fireworks.
I stood behind him, grateful I hadn’t used barbeque sauce, tugged his briefs down, grabbed a sausage from my plate, rubbed it deep into his cleft leaving a greasy trail.
He didn’t move, eyes toward the sky in the distance, holding his breath.
Unzipped as a fountain of sparkling lights lit the night. Leaned slightly forward, straining rod coursing the oily path. Tip of my glans added more lube, “You’re so beautiful.” Whispered.
Leaning further over, the cool skin of his rear touched my groin in the humid air, “Push against me.” Few slippery movements between us. In place, “Push out against me.”
Tried to keep myself from shoving… Couldn’t control it, the head of my rod popped in. Stop. My hands went to his ribs, grabbing to feel his quick breaths from a sudden intrusion. Hands rubbed along his sides, as giant chrysanthemums boomed into bloom above us.
Fractions of an inch I moved into him, feeling his deep breaths, feeling soft vibrations of moans. He leaned forward over the railing. Cantaloupe fell from his hands. I held his narrow hips.
Still, I stood still as he grabbed the rail and pushed back against me. Tight muscle of his ass pinched, gripped me hard, pulled my cum; tugged at my guts. Head thrummed, I was as high as the brilliant, jagged streams of light, bursting like the fuzzy orange and purple sphere-shaped flashes overhead.
Pushed back, moved his hips and moaned. He’d found what he came for. Let him work my steeled cock; more, more. Moving my left foot to the side, I lowered my entry and began pushing back; up the wall inside him, pushing hard where he wanted to feel me.
Frantic bursts from the far cannons, the big finale of the celebration. Donnie’s breaths sped, small yelps came. Pushed against me hard; his cheeks flatted against my groin, a signal for me. Low moan with each exhale. Several shoves, and I gushed, heated rushes deep inside him as the booms continued behind our primal sounds. Halt. Halt, only breaths and the eerie colors of the fireworks lit our skin, blinking and fading. Tremendous, repeated booms shook through our bodies those moments. We stayed still until silence enveloped us.
He turned, held me. “Feels awful without you.”
“I know.” Between tender kisses, “Come back any time. Always more for you.”
We cleaned up quickly, I took him back to town. Let him off at the edge of the crowd near the boardwalk. Under the dome light, he kissed me, thanked me and he was gone into the swarm of people.
…
Came back on Labor Day, and next July.
I kept writing, always of a skinny auburn-haired boy, always of that insistent yearning of youth and an old writer leaving his keyboard.
End.
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In the Flesh