Chance Encounters

There was no sucking involved. Just sliding.

He confirmed what I thought. "It's not really sucking. It's sliding. Use only your lips."

"Okay," I said. "I'll try."

"I'll help," he said. "Start by making a lot of spit."

I did. I took him back in my mouth. Before I could start to imitate what he had shown me, he placed his hands on the sides of my head and held me still. He used his hips to gently slide in and out of my mouth. I had no say in what was going on. I didn't know it then, but he was fucking my face. He kept at me until my glutes started to burn.

"Hey," he said, finally. "Take over. I can't come like this."

He pulled out and leaned back against the tree, I fell forward to my knees, and I took him back in my mouth. I put my hands on his thighs and moved back and forth on him. He straightened his legs and locked his knees. His thighs went taut.

I was at him a long time. I suspect I could have speeded him up if I had added my hand, but I didn't know to do that, and he didn't show me. I also suspect he could have speeded up if he had added his hand, but he didn't.

I could feel wetness against my knees through my jeans. I wondered how I was going to explain that when I returned to the party. Wet knees seemed like it would be a pretty clear "I was on my knees" tell.

I got lost in what I was doing. I could not hear the sounds of the night or the party. All I could hear was the slurping of my mouth and the low moans that periodically escaped from Billy.

"Jesus," he said, "you're really good at that. Way better than Debbie." I smiled inside and kept at him. I was euphoric. I wish I knew then what I know now. I'd have been much better.

"Danny Boy," I heard. "I'm getting close. Can I come in your mouth . . . please?"

I answered by keeping at him. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I was not going to deny him. I couldn't if I had wanted to. Like I said, I was l was lost in the euphoria of it all.

"Oh, God, here it comes," he announced, twitching. "Here it comes!"

And it did. Right in my mouth. I gagged, but I didn't pull off. I kept going until it was too much. I spit it onto the grass and went right back on him, focusing on the silky head as he softened. His hands stilled my head. He bent over at the waist.

"You have to stop," he finally said. When he let go of my head, I fell backward onto the ground. My jaws and knees both ached.

Billy stared down at me, like he didn't know what had just happened or what to do. He ran his hands through his hair. After a fraught moment, he smiled at me, said "motherfucker," and collapsed back against the tree.

After he collected himself, he put himself back in his briefs, buttoned his jeans, and reached his hand out to help me up. I had been afraid he would walk away, leaving me on the ground.

"Did you like it?" he asked, as we walked back toward the party.

"I'm not sure," I answered, trying to protect myself as much as I could. I wasn't sure how he'd greet an enthusiastic "No, I loved it."

"You?"

"Sure," he answered. "I'd rather get sucked than laid."

"I've never been sucked or laid," I answered, wondering if he'd offer to solve the first problem. He didn't.

"And," he added, "Debbie never lets me come in her mouth. She says it's gross."

"It weren't no thang," I said, echoing how we talked as boys.

"You spit it out."

"It was pretty strong."

"I wish you'd have swallowed it."

"Why?"

"No one ever has."

I had an instant desire to be the first. I stopped walking and grabbed Billy's sleeve.

"I'll do it right now, if you want me to."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Well alright," he said, drawling out the last five letters. "But, we should re-circulate first. We've already been gone a long time. I'll walk through, grab a beer, do some bro shit, make out with Debbie a little, and then exit through the front. You go around, go in through the front, wander around a little, and exit through the back. We'll meet up where we were."

"Sounds like a plan, Stan."

I executed the plan and was at the tree before Billy. I waited long enough that I assumed he had changed his mind. I sat down, enjoyed the night sky, and finished my beer. I was disappointed, but not much. I had already traveled further down the road than I ever expected.

I don't know if I dozed off or just got lost in the peace of the quiet. I was jarred to hear "Danny Boy?" hissed into the night.

"Over here," I answered.

"Jesus, dude, I'm like a lost dog. I couldn't find the tree. I've been calling your name."

"I didn't hear you . . . . I thought you weren't coming," I said.

"I'm not . . . . yet," he teased.

"Well, let's see what I can do about that," I teased back, lowering my hand to his crotch and grabbing his erection through his jeans.

"I can't believe I'm going to let you do this again."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. I'm about to nut in my pants. I've wanted someone to swallow my load since, like, forever. I can't wait. I'm all boned up."

"Obviously," I said, my hand still holding him through his jeans.

Our eyes locked as I worked his jeans open. My tongue touched my lips. Billy moved his head, and I thought he might kiss me. If I had been taller, I'd have kissed him.

I had him free and in my hand. I moved my hand back and forth, hoping the stroking would draw his mouth to mine. It almost did. He moved his head toward mine. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I had long wanted to blow Billy. I wanted to kiss him - or, more accurately, him to kiss me - longer.

He turned away at the last second. I kissed his neck instead. To my surprise, he let me. I felt him pull his t-shirt up and tucked it under his chin, exposing his abdomen and chest. I took the hint. I kissed and licked along his bare chest, through both nipples, and down his path to paradise until I was once again kneeling in front of him, his leaking erection staring me in the face.

He pushed forward toward my mouth. I turned away at the last second, just as he had with the kiss. His precum streaked my cheek.

"Come on, Danny Boy, don't tease me."

I had wanted to. But, I couldn't.

"Tell me what you want me to do," I answered, looking up and into his face.

"I want you to suck my dick," he said, looking down at his erection and my face.

"And, I want you to eat my cum. Every last drop of it."

"Warn me when you're close."

"I'm close right now."

"I mean, in my mouth. I don't want to get surprised and pull off."

"Okay," he promised, pushing his erection forward so it poked me in the chin.

I licked my lips and took him back in my mouth. I was just as thrilled as I had been the first time. As I moved on him, Billy matched my rhythm with his hips.

He was much faster than the first time. Fewer than twenty strokes in, I heard a husky "I'm about to blow" and felt his body tense. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed his balls in my left hand and squeezed.

"Oh, fuck, here it comes," he panted.

It did. Again, there was a lot. It was too much. I pulled off and turned my head. Billy grabbed himself and finished the job. Cum hit my cheek and then my hair.

I looked up. My mouth was full of cum. Billy looked down at me. Again without even thinking about it, I opened my mouth, showed him his load, and then swallowed it.

It was bitter, and I gagged a little. I tried to hide the gag from Billy by looking down. When I looked back up, he wiped the cum from my face with his finger and held it out to me. Instinctively, I sucked his finger. When I was done, he moved his flagging erection forward, clearly wanting me to take him back in his mouth. I did, swirling my tongue around him to make sure I licked his glans clean, too.

He backed away, put himself away, and again helped me up.

"Are you sure you've never done that before?" he asked.

"Fairly," I answered. "I think I'd remember having a guy's dick in my mouth."

"Isn't that redundant, brain?"

"What?"

"Guy's dick."

"Not necessarily. I've seen tapes called 'Chicks with Dicks'."

"Can you imagine? Picking up a chick, thinking you're going to get some pussy, and instead being confronted with a dick?"

"I think it'd be better than picking up a dude, thinking you're going to get a dick, and instead being confronted with a pussy."

"That's because you're gay and I'm not."

I was surprised by how casually he had used the word. I couldn't respond. I didn't know how he knew. I also had never used the word myself.

We walked back toward the house, both of us with our hands in our pockets. After a few steps, Billy started humming "Danny Boy." I smiled.

When we reached the stoop, Billy started up the stairs, and I hung back. At the top, he turned and asked, "You coming?"

"Naw," I answered. "I think I'm gonna head out. It's late, and I think I have cum in my hair."

He scrutinized me and then smiled.

"You do," he said. "Right here. And right there."

"Kinda hard to explain to my fellow graduates, don't ya' think? I mean, my knees are wet and I have cum in my hair. There's no innocent explanation for that."

"I guess you're right. I mean, you can't say 'I just gave Billy two blowjobs. I spit his first load on the ground. I gobbled the second one down, at least what didn't get in my hair'."

"It'd be funny if I did, though."

"Not very . . . . At least not for me."

"Don't worry, Billy. I'll never tell anyone."

"Me, either."

"I should head out."

"I'll walk you to your car," he said, surprising me.

As we walked, I decided to slay the elephant.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"All of it. Don't be obtuse."

"I knew," he answered. "About you, I mean. I've known for a long time. Like, a really long time. Like, since we were little kids. For a long time, I liked it. I liked that you liked me. I like that I was the center of you. Then, I let it become a thing between us, and I wish I hadn't. I thought maybe it'd be, you know, a nice gesture. Plus, I wanted to know what it was like to, you know, get it from a guy."

"You had me blow you as a nice gesture, like you were doing me a favor?"

"A little."

"Full of yourself much?"

"A little . . . . But, you're kind of full of me now, too."

I was shocked by the joke. I stopped and looked at him. He was beaming at himself.

"Why did you?" I asked. "Let it become a thing, I mean?"

"My dad's like really anti-gay. When I visited him that summer, he was anti-gay all the time. I told him I thought you were gay. He told me I shouldn't be friends with you. I guess I kinda bought into it a little."

"And now?"

"I don't know. It's weird to think about. I don't really feel weird about what just happened. But it's weird to think about you doing that to, I don't, Jimmy or someone."

"I never have. Like I said, that was my first time."

"I'm glad I was your first."

"That's kind of a weird thing to say."

"I know."

"I coulda happened a long time ago, if you hadn't let it become a thing."

"I know. But, I don't think I coulda handled it then. I think it would have freaked me out too much."

"I'm glad you were my first."

"Well, you're a natural. Can I give Debbie your number so you can give her some pointers?"

"Fuck you," I answered.

"You wish. . . . Besides, ain't nobody fucking me. If anybody's getting fucked, it's you."

"I'm not getting fucked."

"If I wanted to fuck you, you'd let me."

He was right. I would have. I didn't say it, but I would have. In a New York minute.

"You wouldn't like it," I answered. "I'd just lie there."

"No, you wouldn't," he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me into him. "You'd beg me to fuck you harder, and I would. You'd pant, 'fuck me, Billy, oh yeah, fuck me, just like that, give me that beautiful dick, you savage rascal'."

"Savage rascal?" I asked, a look of bemusement on my face.

"Savage rascal," he answered.

Part of me wanted to invite him to spend the night and put his money where his mouth was. The rest of me wouldn't let me. I liked the idea of living with the hint of possibility.

At the car, he took me into another bro hug. When I tried to pull out, he extended it, pulling me in so close that we were in full contact head to toe.

"It was good seeing you, man."

I couldn't answer. My emotions muted me.

I turned away, opened the car door, and slid into the seat. Billy's hand stopped my door as I tried to pull it shut. He leaned into the car.

"And Danny Boy?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry for everything."

"Me, too."

"I was stupid."

"Me, too."

"You weren't, but it's nice of you to say so."

"I was. I could have forged the river."

"Whatever that means."

"It means . . . ."

"I know what it means," he interrupted. "Like you said, I'm smarter than I think. Anyway, thanks for the noggin'," he said, rubbing my head, as if I was a little brother who'd just done him a solid. "It was awesome, Honest Injun."

"It was," I answered, as meaningfully as I could. "Honest Injun."

"Alright, Danny Boy," he said. "I'll see you around."

"Not if I see you first," I answered, just as I always had for all the years we were friends the way little boys are.

He did not see me around, and not because I saw him first. When I called his house a few days later, his mother told me he had gone on the spur of a moment to visit his father in Seattle. When it was time to return for college, he declined. I heard through the grapevine that he took a gap year and then enrolled at SPU in Seattle.

I have not seen him since. Recently, I found him on Facebook. According to his page, he lives in Bellingham. He's a dentist, is married, and has four daughters. According to his photos, the years have been kind to him, his wife is beautiful, and his daughters are even more beautiful.

On a lark, I messengered him.

Hey Billy (or should I now call you Dr. Billy?),

It's been a long time. In fact, the last time I saw you . . . . well, you know.

I'd love to hear from you and catch up.

Until then,

Danny Boy

My message was probably too provocative. Billy hasn't answered it. I doubt he ever will.

Chance Encounter 2: Adam Sattler

To use my grandfather's words, Adam was the "spittin' image" of John Rocker, the Atlanta Braves reliever whose career derailed after he made some boneheaded or offensive - depending on your perspective - comments about riding the subway in New York City. Adam's brown hair was short, his brown eyes were lively, his cheeks were round, and his teeth - a little too big for his mouth - gave him a bit of a chipmunk quality. His body was lean and muscular. His hands were strong, their form and shape confirming they were useful. They built and worked on things. Although he worked in an office, they were not the soft hands of an office worker. They were - to quote the old commercial - working hands.

I met Adam on September 08, 1992, the day my Ninth Circuit clerkship started. I was clerking for Judge Witken, a landed Californian who had moved his chambers from San Francisco to Reno to avoid California's state income taxes. Adam was clerking for Judge Brundege, who - like Adam - was a native Renonian.

I had graduated the previous Spring from the University of Chicago School of Law, and I had spent the in between summer interning on Capitol Hill and debauching my way around Washington D.C., drinking as much as I could and having as much drunken sex as I could. I arrived in Reno thicker than usual and a little strung out.

I was twenty-four years old. I was supremely confident on the outside. I was cripplingly diffident on the inside.

As I pulled into Reno, I was certain I had made a mistake in choosing to clerk in - and move to - Nevada. Growing up, my mother had contended the surest way to get me to do something was to tell me I couldn't or wouldn't. The choice of Reno confirmed her contention.

Eighteen months before, I had been sitting in the Hyde Park apartment I shared with three of my classmates. We were all trying to clerk, and we were talking about the offers we had. At the time, clerkship candidates were allowed to hold only two offers simultaneously. When they received a third, they had to give one up.

That afternoon, I had received my third offer, from Judge Witken. My other two were on the Seventh Circuit, in Chicago.

We were drinking beer and smoking pot and talking about which offer I should surrender. Scott insisted I yield Judge Witken's offer, as there was "no way" I was moving to Reno for a year.

"I don't know," I answered. "I might."

"You won't. You're too hidebound. You're not going where you know nobody."

"I'm not hidebound."

"You are. You don't even pretend not to be."

Terry returned to the kitchen from the bathroom. "What're you debating?"

"Nicky's offers," Scott clarified. "He's pretending he may go to Reno."

My name is Daniel Nichols. In law school, everyone called me Nichols, which truncated to Nick and then expanded to Nicky. To all of my roomates, I was now only Nicky.

Terry looked at me and asked "Reno?" without uttering a word.

"I don't know," I answered, responding to the question he had not asked. "It may be my only chance to live out west."

"You're not adventurous enough."

I hated the theme that was developing. I decided to fight back.

"I'm adventurous."

"Yes, in the way an old dog is adventurous. You'll venture out on the porch, but you woni't leave it. Not even to wiz in the yard."

I knew they were both right. I was hidebound, and I was not adventurous. I liked my routines, and I was skeptical of new experiences. I wanted what I knew, and I eschewed the unknown.

"Nicky, it's fun to talk about, but you know - and we know - that, when push comes to shove, you're staying here in Chicago with us, not heading to the land of 'Unforgiven'. Look at you. I can't imagine anyone who'd look less comfortable in boots and a belt buckle than you, You'd be giant turd in a tiny punch bowl."

"I'm going," I announced, impulsively and for no other reason than to prove them wrong. I hopped off the counter, grabbed the telephone receiver from the wall, and dialed Judge Witken's chamber before I lost my nerve.

His secretary, Jo, answered. Jo was a smoker. Her face was shriveled like a raisin. Her voice was deeper than the aunts on the Simpsons.

"Hello, Jo. This is Daniel Nichols. Is Judge Witken available?"

"Depends," she grumbled. "Is this bad news or good news?"

"I guess that depends, too," I parried. "If he hopes I turn him down, it's bad. If he hopes I accept his offer, it's good."

"I'll put you through."

The line clicked and Judge Witken authoritatively announced "I am Judge Witken." I thought is was a haughty way to answer the telephone, especially for a very down to earth multi-millionaire (his mother had owned Orange County before it was subdivided).

"Hello, Your Honor. This is Daniel Nichols. I am calling to tell you it would be my high honor to clerk for you, starting in the Fall of 1992."

"Thank you," he answered. "I look forward to it. Understand, you must keep your grades up. In the meantime, I'll tell Beth."

Beth was one of his current clerks. She was managing recruitment for the year after next.

When I interviewed with Judge Witken, he announced that, although he was a Reagan appointee, it did not matter to him if I was a Democrat or a Republican, it mattered only that I was smart. I answered "Fret not, Sir. I was bred a Democrat but became a Republican when I learned to think."

He responded by slamming his hand down on his desk and saying, "Goddamn, that'll help you."

I answered "I thought you said it didn't matter."

He laughingly responded "I said that in case you were a Democrat. I'm not hiring any goddamned Democrats in this office."

I hung up the telephone, turned around, and tried to hide the panic that was flooding my body. Scott and Terry were stunned into silence.