Date: Sun, 20 May 2007 11:17:12 -0400
From: BS
Subject: The Foothills

The conversations had died out as wild fires do, gone from intense
discussion of politics to talk about the best way to cook salmon. Words
limped out in tired sentences as if language had left us in the sweltering
heat.

Having gone south for a conference on teaching the arts in school, I was
sitting with four people I did not know. That was fine with me.  When I go
to conferences, I often sit alone, not being inclined to spark a
conversation.  As an introvert, I like observing people.  Despite my
reserve, one man broke though the veil and started a conversation. He was
at a workshop on spirituality and education, a topic I found appealing
since it seemed to me that the standards and drive to drum ideas into
students had leached out the imagination, the quest for meaning and, in
that sense, spirituality.  This extroverted fellow, Dana, had been an
ordained priest and decided that his sexuality was as central to his life
as his spiritual. He spoke openly about his ideas.

"In fact, my sexuality seemed to me," he told me quite openly, "as close to
anything spiritual as I had been taught: it was a union, a joining of one
and the other.  The mystics always used sexual metaphors to describe their
union with God.Spirtuality is as much Eros as it Agape, as much love of the
body of God as the idea of God."

I felt the same way.  We had lunch together.  His dark hair and dark
complexion-he was Latino--and flamboyant manner drew me out. It turns out
he knew a friend of mine in Vermont, another former priest who lived about
twenty miles from my house.  He liked the arts and invited to his place
because he was already having a little dinner party. I accepted.  Not
having to spend the evening wandering the streets, going to book stores,
finding some place to eat was a relief.

He scrawled directions on a sheet of paper.  Getting to his house was quite
an epic.  After driving north of Asheville on the interstate, those veins
of traffic that moved in unswerving lines as if they were all part of one
body, I turned off the superhighway, turned left, followed the road for
five miles as it snakes through low hills, then up steeper ones, and
spilled into another, even more narrow and more winding road, to the house,
set half a mile back from the road, under a ridge of mountains that rose
steadily toward the west.

Dana stood at the door and greeted me with a handshake and ushered me into
his house.  He introduced me to Fred and Bob, a couple from out of town.
They came from Chicago as I remember, one of the suburb-the northern
suburbs.  They had come to Asheville to sing in a local choral event which
included showcasing groups from larger cities.  Another fellow,
effervescent, wonderfully gay, embraced me and told me that he adored men
from the north.

"I am Michael, but call me whatever you like," he gushed and kissed me on
the lips.

 I liked him too: he was young, very attractive-a young version of Sidney
Portier-and enjoyed touch.  His hands were all over me. It was a delight to
have someone honor my body, which, after days of sitting in tired room with
tired people talk about art, which, by the fourth day, had become tiresome,
was hungry for any touch, even a handshake.

There was another fellow, Larry, who was gracious yet reserved. He stood
and said, "Hello," then sat back and seemed as introverted as I was, his
eyes darting from one person to the next as they talked.

The guests from Illinois complained of the heat.  But Dana pressed on,
telling them, "Oh honey, let go of it: the south is hot," and invited us to
the dining room table to a fine meal-a veal with some mixed salad and home
grown squash in a light sauce.  He served a white wine that I drank
sparingly.  The other quests-except for one quiet fellow-clearly drank as a
way to welcome oblivion.

After dinner, we sat in a living room.  The conversation bounced back and
forth like a tennis match.  Dana was center court and kept it moving it
like a referee, keeping his attention to whomever should speak next. I was
not the best at conversation but could do it if needed.  It was needed;
silence kept asserting itself, so I talked of my work as a teacher, some of
my students whose vocabulary was terrible.

I had ignored the fellow whose looked quite intense as I listened to the
discourse.  Occasionally I would glance over at his angular face reminded
me someone I knew, but I could not place the person.

Whenever the conversation sagged, I looked at him; he sat across from me.
He had been quiet for most of the evening, but when he did speak, he knew
what he was saying.  In white pants and orange t-shirt, he appeared in his
late thirties, slim yet broad shouldered.  His sandy blond hair fell
quixotically over his face, the long strands limping over his forehead.

The host, Dana, had invited me out to his home in the foothills outside of
Asheville to "get me away from the hotel where I was turning into a prune"
and to meet some of his gay friends, and he had succeeded.  But I was
dreading the drive home, the stay in the room with furniture that looked as
if it had been put in a movie set. Dana wanted to breath live in the party
and asked if anyone wanted anything else to drink, standing up abruptly.
The couple and the dancer immediately stood, the two from the chorus
leading the way, and the exuberant one, following behind them as if they
had been told the ship was sinking, shouting out , "Yes, wonderful idea."

They were drinking wine, which, after two glasses, I had given up.  The
imbibing of the wine had cracked open the conversation. I noticed that
everyone began disclosing more about themselves as one bottle emptied and
another opened. The three other men-with all quite distinct stories,
recounted their first attempts to come out.  The young African American
with the fine posture of a dancer was the most animated, recounting stories
of his childhood and two recent affairs that had gone nowhere. The other
two, the ideal couple, here on for the big concert, had lives that would
make novelist drool.  They had been abused and rebelled, gotten into
trouble with the law and finally found one another.  They were my age-maybe
forty five-distinctive, dressed elegantly in conservative slacks. But they
did not really like telling stories, no matter how hard the dancer tried to
probe. They enjoyed the topics of food and finance, neither of which
appealed to me as matters of urgent concern, which to them, they seemed to
be.  I was relieved when they went off for drinks and stayed much longer
than I expected, their voice melodiously drifting in the other end of the
house. That left the quiet man and I alone.

"What is your name again?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"Larry," he said, leaning forward to take my hand, "and yours?"

His hand was long and gentle.  He kept the holding onto me and look me in
the eyes.  I smiled and he did too, a half smile, one side of his face
going up.  I felt an odd shiver and told him my name.  I left go of his
hand because it felt almost too comfortable just leaving it there and that
seemed indiscrete on my part.

"Where do you live?" he asked politely, shifting in his seat, turning his
legs sideways from me.

I told him that I was visiting from up north, Vermont, taking part of a
week long workshop on educational theory and chemical dependency.

He shook his head, "I know that one.  Deep in my family and even deeper in
our gay culture."  His eyes glanced to the door and the voices that seemed
to be getting louder by the moment.

We talked about his history and mine, his father and mine, two patriarchs
who enjoyed the perks of male power, discussing intimate details of our
lives, including how we came out without any inhibition. It was as if the
engine of language had been reignited and we found words dripping off our
tongues.  He had been fired from his first job when a friend told the
principal that he was gay.  The next week, the principal told him, "We
cannot take the risk of your being with young men, if you know what I
mean."  He was told to resign and there would be no trouble. It was an era
when that could happen.

After we talked for twenty minutes, I realized that sentences could court
and make love as much as people.  They reach for the other, touch them,
caress them with verbs.

When I talked about myself, I could never entirely take my life
seriously-by which I mean I took what I did seriously but my self was not
an entity I invested much stock-so I made a joke of how out of touch I was
with my own desires, how late it was before I accepted my innate attraction
to me, poked fun at myself, he laughed.  His eyes would crinkle and squint.
He would make a slight humming sound in his throat as if resonating with
the pitch of my humor.

When the others came back, he fell silent again. The others came back with
glasses brimming with a new mix.  They offered me some and some to Larry.
It was iced and cold. It felt like an elixir. It was hot, so Dana suggested
we move to the porch in case "there was a breeze back there."

I could see perspiration on the shirts of the two other visitors.  Their
shirts stuck to their chests.  They kept pulling at their slacks to keep
the air circulating.  My shirt clung to my body, my shorts stuck to the
inside of my legs.

When we were on the back porch, the distant mountains were rimmed with the
last of the sun light, a sheen of orange over the tips of pines.  We sat in
green plastic chairs, sipping ice tea.  But now breeze made even a guest
appearance.  The conversation toiled toward ending.  The vast expanse of
yard, extending for miles up a mountainside and the silent air weighted on
us.  Indolent, quiet, we stared at one another, the perspiration seeping
into our clothing, beading off our foreheads.

Dana pronounced, "It is one of the hottest nights yet this summer."

Larry stood up, "Too hot of clothes. I am going to take mine off."

He proceeded to slip off his shirt, blue shorts and tight red underwear and
announced, "This is better."  I was stunned, never having seen anyone do
that in a public setting.  He had a long elegant body with fine muscle
tone, narrow hips and glabrous body with some delicate hair on either side
of his chest and a fine, narrow crop of hair from his navel to his pubic
hair.  Once I realized that, indeed, nudity was an option, I waited to see
if anyone would take up his challenge.

His initiative lead to the Dana imitating him who had a thin body too but
toned from weights. I sipped on my new drink and looked out into the valley
where I could see the faint outline of a creek. The two singers sat like
tourist looking at a local attraction, a scenic sight.  My saturated
clothes were clinging to by body.  Taking them off made practical sense and
I followed.

Dana and Larry moved around the deck, leaning against the railing. I was
impressed with their lean, sleek bodies and their seeming natural affinity
for nudity.

Self conscious of my own body and aroused by the sight of them, I
immediately got an erection.  At first I leaned over and tried to cover it
up.

But Larry saw it and walked over, rested his hand on my shoulder and
whispered, "You look great. Just let it be."

He looked directly into my eyes. I felt as if some magician had waved his
wand and I was under his spell. No one else said anything.  I stood
alongside him, breathing.

Michael, the dancer, gazed at me and slipped fluidly out of his clothes,
disclaimed, "I am the satyr in the forest," and leap around the porch, his
erection bobbing up and down, causing us to break out laughing.  He stood
by Dana who put his arm around him.  Michael cupped Dana's cock in his hand
and soon, he too was erect.  He moaned and slid his hand on Michael who was
uncircumcised and gently slid his foreskin back and forth, exposing a
rubescent tip.

The two visitors kept their clothing on.  I could see, however, that they
were enticed by the nudity as they kept pushing at their pants and keeping
the hands on their crotch.

I sat back down, picked up my drink and tried to act natural.  Larry came
over to my chair, stood in back of me and said, "You look like you could
use a back rub."  His hands melted over my muscle, soothing me.  The
conversation picked up, leading to our talking about our first coming out,
our first date, first sex, the whole time, he massaged my back, keeping his
body back from me, using his hands, mincing his fingers together,
occasionally resting them on the back of my neck. My erection kept at full
attention, but I accepted it and kept talking as if it were a punctuation
mark in the conversation. The host came over once and put his hand on my
cock, jiggling it, as he headed to the living room, refilling our drinks.

Michael came by too, got on his knees and took me into his mouth, just held
me there, then leaned back.

"Honey," he said, "You are delicious."

Taking his head with my hand, I reached over--acting more daring than I
ever had-- and kissed him, "You are sweet too, honey."

He and Dana went into the living room and stayed there for a half and hour,
then came back, both looking refreshed and flushed.

By midnight we had said much more than we wanted to say and the words were
punctuated my longer silences and stares.  The two men from Chicago kept
looking at me and swinging their legs back and forth.  I could see that
they had erections.  But they said nothing.  They sipped their drinks and
chatted as if they were contestants for a game show called, "Act Like
Nothing is Happening."

Larry gave my back a deep rub and announced that he had to go to work the
next morning, slipped into his clothes as nimbly as he had taken them off,
came back over to me, leaning forward, kissed me tenderly on the lips, "I
hope to see you again."

Stunned with his discrete, almost shy exit, I watched him walk back into
the living room, heading for the front door.  Caught with a pang of fright,
"Wait, " I called, "How would I reach you?"

He turned around.  We were three feet from one another.

"Good question," he raised his eyebrows, looking carefully at me. "I was
just thinking that myself!"

 He went over to a desk and wrote down his number and his full name, "I am
home usually about 6."  He handed me the paper. "You should put this in
your pocket, when you get one."

I laughed. "Short of one now."  I looked down and we both saw my erection.

"Well," he said drolly, "It will do for some other things."

He stepped forward, took me by the shoulders, "You are a lovely man," then
pulled me next to him, his body pressed against mine.  His head was resting
on my shoulder and I held him tightly.  It was then, as we stood together,
listening to each others breathing, that I felt his member rising along the
face of his shorts, distinct, inching upward.  "Nice," he whispered. Soon
we were both pressing our arousal against each other.  "What have we going
on here," Dana chirped, "Two love birds."  We slid back.  Larry said, "Oh,
we will see," look down at me.

I tried to reach him several times, but only heard his lovely, soft voice
on the answering machine.  Then, a day before I was to leave, he called
back, asking me if I wanted to come over for dinner.  He also lived in the
country, some twenty miles from Dana, on a river.  I arrived in the late
afternoon.  He was on the porch and came down to greet me.  I put out my
hand to shake his hand, but he held out his arms and embraced me.  We held
each other for some time, the contours of our bodies aligning.  We drank a
glass of wine and talked.  He had put a candle on the table for dinner,
letting its gentle flame waver in the muggy air, as he kept the lights off,
letting the evening come on us without interruption of artificial light.
We ate slowly.  The mix of summer squash, onion, garlic, herbs and rice
soft on the palate.  He was a vegetarian.  I found he practiced yoga as I
did.  He moved like a dancer, his back and head held high, with almost a
backward lean and his legs were lithe, supple, as if he were about to leap
at any moment.  We drank another glass of wine. Words flowed as if they had
been poured into us by an unseen host.

He suggested we sit on porch.  I laughed, "So we can strip," and he nodded
his head, " A very good idea."  He took me by the hand and lead me to the
porch.

His hands took hold of my waist and pressed me to him.  We kissed shyly.
His lips on mine.  I felt his tongue assert itself and opened my mouth.  He
slide into my mouth and held his tongue in my mouth rigidly.  His hips
pressed to mine.  I could feel his cock rising as it did the other night.
I pressed against his lips and pressed my cock against his, realizing that
I could feel mirroring mine.  Five minutes. Ten.  He stood back and
unbuckled my belt, slipped off my pants, underwear, then pulled off my
shirt.  I put my hand on his belt and loosened it, pulled down his zipper,
and knelled, taking off his tights, and seeing for the first time his cock,
randy and happy and licked it.  He reached down and pulled me up.  I took
off his yellow shirt.  Our clothes were carefully draped over a chair.  We
sat down next to one another in separate chairs, carefully kissing and
sipping the red wine.  He would occasionally put his hand around my cock
and groan deep in his throat.  I would do the same. We were letting lust
build up.  The heat of his cock in my hand quivered, pulsed as if it had
its own vocabulary. When he put his lips on my nipples, sucking them, I
would reach over and hold onto his cock, look at its red glans, moist with
pre-cum, and rub the tip, feeling it twitch under my touch.

We sat together, conversing, sipping wine until he shuddered as I caressed
his belly, his body tightened and stretched out as he moaned, " Oh God, I
want you so."

He reached over and took hold of my penis.  "It is quite remarkable, isn't
it?"

I looked down, feeling his hand encircle my penis.

He went on talking quite clinically, "You know the penis is comprised
primarily of two cylinders of sponge-like vascular tissue called corpus
cavernosa that fills with blood to create an erection."  "Yes, I learned
that in high school," I said. "But so what?"

"Think about it: the blood is pumped into the penis under great pressure
and a series of valves keep it in the penis to maintain the erection. And
in this cylinder of flesh," he tightened his grip, "The blood stops.  It
wants to get out, wants to move on yet it stays here, filled with your
heart's blood, your heart's desire."  "I never thought of it that way," I
looked down as he licked the pre-cum which had teared up on my glans.  "Are
you a doctor-how do you know all this?" I asked.

"Not a doctor, just a reader of sacred texts, searching for why, as gay
man, my feelings are as they are and finding, as such a long tradition of
love, going back centuries, back to Rumi and to the mystics," he looked off
at the mountains in back of us.  "The traditions are buried, but each time
we make love, and make love well, from the core"-he thumped his chest, "we
unearth them."

He put his finger to his mouth after he had moistened it with the viscose
liquid on my glans.  "Tastes good," he grinned. His pointer finger pressed
against the front of my penis. "The only way to release the pressure of
these two chambers is for a third cylinder, the urethra, a tube to fill
with ejaculate, your seed, and release you from desire.  Until then you are
under the spell of desire, engorged, producing sweet lubricant."  He put a
sticky finger in my mouth.

He swirled the pre-cum over my glans. "Then there is the he knobby head of
my penis, the glans, swollen, almost purple, and the blood flows to the
penis by two very small arteries that come directly from the aorta,
arteries are the same size as the arteries to your finger, all
interconnected and pumping blood from the organ that keeps you alive, that
cleanses your system, provides you with oxygen, your body's center."

I must have looked perplexed for he kissed me, long and passionately. Then
he said, "In theory, our cocks are just vehicles for making love, for
reproducing.  But when you think of them, they are our passion's core, an
expression of our vitality, our heart's intensity.  When we make love, in
theory, there is nothing stopping us from loving all night, for days, as
long as our hearts beat, as long as our desire wants."

His hand was moving very lightly over the erectile tissue, corpora
cavernosa and corpus spongiosum, as he called them and, as he caressed me,
my penis expanded, reaching out the him.

He explained, as he kissed my neck and shoulders, "We can increase the
holding capacity of this tissue of yours, allowing higher amounts of blood
to be held by the penis tissues during our love making, causing an increase
in size, making you feel as a god, allowing you to go on forever."

My hand was now on his member, noticing the uthera, bold and distended and
the two swelled chamber, which, as he said, were like the two chambers of
the heart.  His idea was that you could make love as long as your heart
could stand it.  When I had made love to other men-men certainly got
aroused and became impassioned-I was struck, as I imagine women often feel,
that after they had cum and cleaned up with hand towels, it felt as if they
had just changed oil in their car-a release and chance to go another five
thousand miles without a lube change.  It felt mechanical.  They loved not
so much out of passion but out of necessity, the urge to release.  The
heart never entirely engaged in the act; the release was more a formula for
feeling better than being together. He was proposing an entirely different
engagement: both spiritual and sensual, both erotic and sacred.

My body tingled as if someone had turned on a switch-but not quite that,
nothing mechanical: more as if someone had reached into my chest and held
my heart and then reach down and took my phallus and blessed them as one.
I had no idea what to do with my feelings except to sit with them, to let
them guide me and to trust him with this rapture.  For it was rapture: my
body was transcending not out of its skin but into its skin, not out of
lust but into it, not away from being but more fully into it.

We sipped some wine and held onto our cocks, kept our hands still, feeling
our hearts systolic and diastolic beats, the normal rhythm of our heart,
the rapture of the senses as they vibrated with our bodies as if at once I
could feel my natural rhythm of expanding and contracting, of reaching and
arriving, of wanting and having. If this was all we would have-and if he
were some mystic initiating me into some tantra---I was content. Words
stopped. Silence came between us.  We listened to distant hoots and chatter
of birds.  When he spoke again, I was more attuned to his ideas.

"If we just follow the normal rhythm of our heart, let our lust beat with
it, speed up with it, slow down with it, follow our heart's will, we could
make love forever," he said, tightening his grip on the base on my
penis. We lightly and gently rubbed each other, our free hand circling the
heart of the other.  His testicles pulled up as did mine.  We took the
scrotum and massaged it, the loose folds glistening.

My legs widened, as the tension grew in my loins.  I leaned back in the
chair.  His legs had pulled together and straightened out.

"I want us to cum together," he said, his voice wavering with the vibration
of desire.

"I am getting close," I told him, trying to control my breathing.

"Go slowly, just build it up gradually," he instructed me, Listen to your
heart inside your cock."  I could feel the semen in the shaft, the
testicles were taut, but I could hear my heart too, his chambers thumping
in my chest.  He licked his lips several times.


"Now," he said, "just hold me."  We sat still and I felt a little eddy of
cum slide from the tip of my cock, a bead of white semen.  I felt his cock
twitch as mine had and a small glob of glorious white semen slipped out and
perched on his glans.  "Feed me," he said.  I nipped the glob on my glans
and put it in his mouth.  He did the same.  We sat for another minutes and
another contraction and another glob.  He took it between his thumb and
forefinger and I tasted the salt of his cum. It was a communion as I have
never experienced it before, a oneness.

We sat there exchanging dollops of our love, savoring them as we would a
delicacy. I never noticed the salty flavor, the thick moist pudding like
quality of it.

Then he said, "We need to get more comfortable."

He stood up and I followed him into the bed room with a large king size bed
and on three walls, mirrors.  Over the bed were photographs of men, nude,
some partially erect.  He knelt on the bed and pulled me onto it with him.
We fondled one another, rolled back and forth, each being on top,
thrusting, and then switching, getting used to our bodies, his long and
lean, mine long too, yet more muscular.

He began to caress my anus, licking his finger and sticking it in me.  I
leaned back and pulled up my legs.  He put his tongue in me, shoving it
back and forth, delicately entering me, then take one and then two fingers,
rubbing me.  As he sat up, his erection magnificent, nearly touching his
belly button, he hopped on top of me, stretching out, his cock on mine,
frenzied, manically writhing against me, our bodies sweaty, hot form the
air, glistening, becoming as one body.  I told him to take care and kissed
him, holding the back of his head.

It was as if I were going on a long journey and knew that he would be my
guide.  He stared at me and I saw for the first time his blue eyes were
like blue fire.  It was dark by now.  The flicker of the candle painted its
pastels on the wall outside the door.  My body tensed and released, his two
fingers pumping into me in a steady rhythm.  He sat back, stoking his
erection which was slick and taut.  I held it and felt its wantonness. He
came forward, his hips against mine, and I tilted upward.

When he entered me, he was gentle, the length of his member sliding
centimeters at a time, slick, full.  I could feel head of his cock pulsing.
He was leaning over me, his abdomen on mine, and I kissed him.  His tongue
went into my mouth.  I could feel it lick and join my tongue.  His eyes
looked intently as he pressed very slightly against me and I groaned, "You
are beautiful."  I took his back, his strong shoulders, and pulled him onto
me.  Our bodies were smoldering.  His cock pulsed yet stayed only inches in
me.  We hugged from several minutes.

When he began to stoke back and forth, I cried out, "Larry," and he kissed
my cheek.  His movements increased and kept a steady pace, his mouth
nibbled on my neck and my shoulder, and I could feel his cock enlarge, fill
me, the whole of it distended, then his pace quickened and he opened his
mouth, gasping.

I pushed against his shoulders as he arched his back, thrusting now with
amazing force, the cock seeming to be sliding in and out with such vigor
that I waited as he said, "I am coming," and his neck arched back and his
screaming, "Ahh, ahh, ahh," I could feel his cock lengthened, that last
final trust and the semen poured into me, eddy on eddy of it, first one
thrust, then another and then another, and he moaned and paused, "This is
so good," and I affirmed it, "Oh god you are wonderful," and his face look
startled, and his neck arched again," Ahh, ahh, there, there," and I felt
the engorged cock tighten and reach as if trying to find a home and semen
pulse out, one after another.

The sweat poured off us, drenching the sheets.

I held onto him.

He was breathing hard and stared at me, leaning over kissing me, his tongue
reaching into my mouth, down my throat, and at the same time, I felt his
cock extend, the head swelling, tumescent, and more semen shooting out,
cascading into me; I held him up, leaning into him, sticking my tongue as
deeply as I could in his mouth as he reciprocated, kissing me back, his
tongue in his mouth, the sweat covering out bodies, my body filled with is
semen, and he gasped, "I do not believe it," and his hips jerked,
violently, spasms that shook his body and I felt his getting larger and the
semen throbbing into me, one burst after another, my body filling with his
seed, and he keep trusting and after a few minutes, would orgasm again, the
smack of his hips against my anus making a loud sloshing sound as the semen
poured out of me, back over his cock, and he kept coming and coming,
pausing for a moment, kissing me, rubbing my belly with the semen now oozed
between us, saying, "DO you feel me?" and I would nod and say, "You feel so
good."  Then he would start to harden and push gently upward and his
smooth, careful thrusts would quicken once more until I could feel his toes
taut against mine and his legs stiffen and then the cry and the semen.

It was as near to religious as I could imagine.  If there was such a thing
as a second coming in actual experience, this was it.  Words were
flesh. Love was incarnate. I was thinking that the spiritual was as much
physical as it was some ethereal element that theologians discussed.

I was transported, unable to think, just wanting more of him and his
wanting and giving it, and I cried, "This is wonderful," and he held onto
my cock and it spurted as his had, come sticking onto his chest and he took
it and licked it off his hand, and gave me a taste, the smell of cum
enrapturing us, as he thrust and said again, "I am coming," and I felt him,
as if his cock were inside mine and my cock ejaculated and he took the
semen from me and fed himself and then me, the semen becoming our
nourishment as he stayed hard and rested, wiping the sweat from my face,
kissing me gently as he got erect and said, "I felt the semen in my cock
and it is rising, do you feel it there, it is ready, it is in my cock, it
is getting longer," and I would feel it and sensed it moving up the shaft
and then he would trust and I could not tell if he was moving or I was
moving and then his whole hold would straighten out and the veins of his
neck would distend and out it would pour.

I could see two of the veins like blue cords curve up his neck.

I said, "Is there not end to it?" wanting more, feeling it pour out of me,
the fullness of the seed.  He said, "No, there is no end," and would
embrace me and kiss me and we would wait, hour on hour, moment by moment,
filling each other with semen, coming into each others lives, until, late
in the evening as a siren screamed and a bell tolled from a distant church,
I felt him soften and he rolled over, still in my arms and slept.  When the
light came in the window, sliding along the wall, tipping over us, we were
still embracing, and the juice from our love making held us together.  It
was then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, I felt my own member slide up
his belly and his member arouse too.

We rolled back and forth, ungluing ourselves and as we moved, the delicious
smell of cum, its musty languorous odor, overwhelmed us, making delirious
with lust.  We kissed, slide our tongues inside our mouths, licked each
other bodies, the salty taste of our perspiration, neck, shoulders, back
and legs, particularity the inside of the thighs and then, the cock, first
his cleansing me and taking me in his mouth and then I did the same, until
we were both holding delicately the tips of our erections and letting them
feel the warmth of our mouths.  I felt his hips twitch as did mine, then
ever so slowing we pumped and could feel the testicles rise with our hands,
and inserting our fingers in each other, lubricating ourselves and waiting
as we stiffened and then involuntarily the cum erupted first in my mouth,
filling me and then I came in his mouth, a communion of lust as the first
light sipped over our bodies, drenching us in the gentle caress of morning.

Our cocks soft and pliable, we licked them clean and turned to kiss and
hold onto one another.  "I don't know what this is," you said, as you
nestled in my arm, "But whatever it is, however it came to be, we are one."
I agreed.  If bliss had a name, this was it. The word "our" finally made
sense.

I had never felt as I had for anyone.  He craved me as much as I craved
him.  When he was near me, I wanted to hold onto him as much as he wanted
to hold onto me.

We showered and I sat naked as he made us breakfast, melon and yogart and
freshly baked bread.

At breakfast, he asked if I would stay the day. I was not sure. "Perhaps, I
should," I looked up into his eyes, "I should get back to the conference.

I could see that he was hard again.  He stood up and came over to me and I
took his cock in my mouth.  He held the back of my head and leaned into me.
He was very gentle, sliding back and forth as if in a trace, staring at me.
He never quickened his pace.  He kept his breathing balanced.  He put my
hands on his buttocks.  His hand, moistened with spittle, rubbed my
nipple. Slow and steady, he pressed his cock in and out of my mouth.  I
kept very still, not putting too much pressure on it, letting it slide with
as little friction as possible.  He caught his breath once, stared at me,
his eyes widened and I felt the full taut ejaculation pour into my throat,
then another, it filling my mouth, running down my cheek with his cock
never wavering, just holding fast, completely still except for the
pulsating orgasms.  I let him cum. It was a forceful yet gentle orgasm. I
swallowed what I could.  Then he pulled back, cum dribbling over his glans.
He pulled me up and we kissed, his sucking his own semen.  His hand sipped
over my cock which was saturated with pre-cum.

He sat down in the chair.  I put my cock in his mouth.  He held it as I had
done.  Very slow movements and stillness and then wave on wave in perfect
calm leaving me precisely as each ejaculation were timed to meet his
slightest pressure on the root, each of the engorged vessels embedded in
it, synchronized with the beat of my heart so it came as the blood pumped
in and out.  I saw my semen seeping down his cheeks. It was a communion. A
union.  This cylinder of my yearning in his mouth and his taking it all in
as the room invests in the increase of light.  I rubbed his long sandy hair
and traced the curve of his eyebrows.

The day light was beginning to come fully into the room.  He stood up and
we were one body. I could feel distinctly the thumb of his heart in his
chest.  I could see the foothills in the distance, a mile hike up four
slopes to the peak, a hike we would make later that afternoon and one we
return to each year when I visit him, one that allows you to see a long way
in each direction as if you can take in the whole world and see how it too
throbs with the break of each day.