Midlife Carnal Crisis

I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked up to see Roger sitting beside me, one hand held out to the side, all coated with sperm. I liked the look on his face.

Wasn't grossed out. He looked pleased even. I had to reinforce the good.

"Thanks, friend. That was splendid. Is that how you do yourself?"

He nodded. "I like hands on my balls, no matter what else I do to my cock. Gotta have some balls touch."

I agreed.

"Well," he finally said, and we both looked at each other and laughed. He held his spermy hand out to his side.

We were both sweated up again, of course. Nothing like sex-expended energy in the sun to create some heat.

We took another plunge in the pool, rinsed off our sweat and sexual fluids, gathered our things.

On the hike home he didn't say anything about our adventure. I let it go, figuring it best not to interfere with whatever thoughts were going through his head.

As he dropped me off at my place, I was relieved when he shook my hand and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Good hike, Clay. Let's get together again sometime."

He didn't explicitly say "let's do this again," which would have been my fond hope, and there was the "sometime" part in there too, but it didn't sound like he would be avoiding me either.

I walked up the steps to my place, a stupid smile on my face. The rest of the summer suddenly loomed as a far more exciting time than I had expected.

The next couple weeks went by in a bit of expectant uncertainty. Was this like dating in high school? Was I, as the instigator, supposed to be the one to make the first phone call back? I started to worry at Roger's silence.

And of course, my hopeless brain couldn't shed the memory-visual of my bud's cock discharging its fluids out there at the pond. I quivered every time that image flashed into my mind.

So how often in life do pretexts serve a sweet role? I had borrowed his soldering iron for a small home-repair on a project a few weeks earlier, and I finally called Roger up on a Friday to find a time to return it. Might he be around over the weekend?

Roger sounded pleased to hear me. Sure, he'd be happy to have it back. He'd been meaning to ask me a favor himself. Could I stop by the next afternoon, around two, to help with some lifting and storing? Too much for one pair of hands, he said.

We were on.

Roger's place fit in with most of the other houses in the area. Built in the early 1920s, two stories, it had clapboards painted white, with dark green storm-shutters on the side of the windows. Short steps up the front, driveway to the side, and his all important work-studio/toolshed in the back.

No one answered the door when I pulled up the next day, just before two, but I went around to the back and saw the door open to his workplace. Nice sunny day, hot enough that the air inside his shed felt good when I entered.

He was sweeping the already clean floor of his work area. He was clearly glad to see me, thanked me for coming over, took my proffered soldering iron and placed it carefully inside one of the drawers of his immaculately organized workbench. Like most guys I know, no one would ever describe Roger, usually in rumpled flannel shirts and well-worn jeans, as "meticulous" unless you saw this one area of his life—his tools— and the compulsive care he took for their storage and usage.

He took me outside to a stack of lumber in his driveway that I hadn't noticed when I'd pulled in, and said he'd like to get it loaded up into a section of his shed's rafters. For a winter project, he said, he'd gotten a good deal on the lot—oak and ash—and had couple things he planned to build over the long dark months. Keeps me busy, he said with a smile, when I'm not so inclined to do outdoors stuff in January.

We didn't take long hauling and storing the planks, neither of us really breaking into much of a sweat, but when we were done he invited me to his back porch for a beer.

We sat on his porch chairs, overlooking the back expanse. Cleared for a bit, forest at the edges, handsome and typical semi-rural New England.

"Where's Carrie?" I asked.

"She's in Great Barrington, doing some shopping. She's with Romy, they're eating dinner at Zip's. Won't be back til seven or so."

He looked at me. That look I had seen before, but not often. And not in a long time. And never from a guy.

I was learning to read Roger a little better. His face was expectant, the look of an athlete maybe, just before a competition, a bit uncertain, a little on edge, but confident, too. But with more interest than an athlete displays, something else in there. So much you can get out of one expression.

"Clay, I been thinking about Lone Mountain." He paused. "What you did to my pleasure centers. I got some questions for you."

Yep. Here we go. I braced myself.

"Sure, fire away."

He looked at me with an odd slant to his face. "I don't think you're gay."

I nodded. "I don't think so either, Rog. I been married, that part's been good, you've seen me with Barb."

He nodded.

"When I go people watching, it is all females," I continued. "A beach is a tough proposition these days, girls' bikinis have gotten smaller since I was young, there are the thong things they wear. Hard not to stare, to tell the truth, even if Barb's with me."

He laughed. "Yah, me too. I know what you mean."

"So gay? No. Hundred percent hetero? That's harder to answer, there are some complications, Rog."

He raised his eyebrows. "I'd like you to expand on that, if you will. No judgment, we're friends. I'll listen." He took a careful swig of his beer.

I told him a little more about my "proclivities." His eyes got wide but he didn't stop smiling.

"I been pretty vanilla myself," he said. "I don't think what you've done is totally weird Clay, although I confess it does take me a bit by surprise."

"Well, I think everyone's sex-life tends to be sorta a private affair." This was certainly true in our neck of the woods, where guys' sex talk tended to be exaggerated, bantering and all bravado, without much in the way of authenticity, at least in public. Maybe it's different elsewhere, I don't know.

We each spoke cautiously, going over some of the same ground as our talk at the pond, middle-age yearning and all, how we wished our pricks were getting a bit more action than they were. Of course just the talking had gotten each of us a bit excited, the notion of erect cocks and desire and all that.

Again, I was stumped at the next move, not quite sure how to continue. Our crotch bulges had become obvious, however, now that each of us looked. His expression gave off mixed messages.

But I had the feeling that if things were going to move forward, I would have to play the leader.

I stood up, carefully pulled off my shirt, shorts, briefs. Put my hands on my hips. My unit stood out pretty good, not fully hard but prominent. I felt the air on my penis, a breeze under my balls. Out in the open.

He eyed my cock, then me, then my cock again.

The see-saw was right at balance-point. What would he do? I held my breath. Had I pushed things too far, too fast?

It was not the first time in my life that just the sight of my erection meant something good was about to happen.

He stood up and followed suit.

We both were naked except for our footwear now, we'd kept them on, I guess because of the ground surface. Each of us stared at the other—two aroused penises aimed at each other.

I laughed. "Hey, let's jerk off together, see how we each do it. You okay with that?"

His grin was answer enough.

We spread ourselves out on towels in comfortable shade on his backyard lawn and had a great time of it. I started first, pulling on my cock, rummaging my balls, maybe for five minutes, then stopped. Roger's eyes had been glued onto my show the whole time.

"Let's see you Rog. You do it the same way? Or different?"

He was a bit tentative at first but I got a pretty good idea of how he went. He was a "one-fister" while I used the fingers of both hands more, stroking my shaft and playing around my cock-head. Turned out we both did balls though. I got a thrill seeing him working his erection. We took turns, a few minutes at a time, checking each other out.

By the time he'd finished his third turn, however, and I had started stroking again, the tension had broken a bit, each of us talking a little, not quite so self-conscious while we stroked.

"Right here?" I placed a hand on my perineum, "I love that spot. Sometimes I'll find a way to press it into something while I stroke, seems to feel good."

"Your 'taint?'" He made a face.

I never liked that word, and said so, but I held up my balls so he could get a good look at it, all engorged and sensitive. I suppose it really is a piece of anatomy neither here or there, but it sure feels good when touched.

He'd never done anything like this, asked me to demonstrate, his eyes keen. I looked around and found the arm of one of his deck chairs, backed my ass into it while I stroked my penis. My cock had gotten glorious hard, and the pressure on my perineum felt luscious.

Roger's eyes were rapt, riveted on my penis, which stood out nice in the sunshine.

I thought to nudge things a little further.

"Can I take a turn on you, Rog? Let me see if I can imitate the way you do it."

Of course doing someone else offers some advantages. You can reach places that aren't so easy when you're solo. He was pretty worked up, but I took my time and fetched a good load of semen out of him. He had been on his back and I got his penis to shoot a good five or six inches up his belly, coating his stomach hair with lovely glue.

He returned the favor, did me fine. I had been so aroused the whole business didn't last but five minutes. By then we were hooked. Ice broken. Comfortable with each other.

We talked sex for the rest of the afternoon. It was great fun, felt like each of us was okay with it all, like we had just taken a care-free walk in the woods, yanked our clothes off, held hands and jumped into a deep quarry pool together. In the air, thoughts of the past left behind, not quite certain of the nature of our splashdown entry, but we'd cast caution to the winds, couldn't care less.

We jerked each other off again, pulled on clothes, then celebrated with another beer. I left before Carrie got home. Roger looked decidedly pleased.

By our third time, the universe had begun to shift, for both of us.

The first time was a one-off. I wasn't sure it would go anywhere, with a good chance I'd gone and ruined the pudding. The second time wasn't an accident. I knew Roger had enjoyed himself. He had told me that—everything he had done, his body language, his obvious pleasure, the pleasure he took in my own pleasure, all of this made for a good omen.

The third time was at my place. Barb was gone for the day, and I invented a reason to have Roger come over. His voice sounded excited at the other end of the phone. This sort of scene ended up being our preferred MO, where a spouse was occupied elsewhere for a bit on a weekend day. Luckily it could happen fairly regularly.

I've got a nice backyard, totally secluded. Our location in western Massachusetts is rural, not out in the boonies rural, but a good quarter mile between houses, and my place is four acres. I'd cultivated a nice backyard, a lawn, with some comfortable chairs. Barb and I liked to sit out on nice evenings, before the mosquitoes came, to talk or read.

This day was sunny, a bit humid, and I'd set the chairs up in shade. Roger and I armed ourselves with a couple beers. We had hardly even exchanged small talk when Roger made a confession.

"I been thinking about this afternoon all week long." He glanced at my crotch, then looked away.

"Yah, me too," I said. "And we got all day, too. Nothing like anticipation." I looked over at his own shorts. Some penis hydraulics were already visibly at work.

I laughed and pointed this out.

He looked down ruefully. "One of the funny parts of being a guy, I guess. Sometimes you just can't hide."

Within five minutes we had pulled our clothes off and were standing in the shade with a hand on each other's prick. Two hard penises.

I had been hoping for something drawn out, but it was not to be that day, at least initially.

I spread out a towel and lay down on my back. Roger pounced on me, eyes gleaming, his own cock bobbing around. I lasted maybe five minutes under his handiwork. Felt like a quickie from a college date, my sperm urgent, instant, absolutely out of control.

I returned the favor and was pleased at the several strong spurts of sperm I got out of Roger. We had both gotten sweated up from our efforts and sat back down in our chairs.

I raised my beer can in his direction.

"Here's to orgasms."

He laughed and we touched our beer cans together.

"And two hard, friend-cocks." He looked at his soggy crotch, and then mine. "Although not right at the moment." We laughed.

I sat back. His chest was sweaty, his forehead too. His prick was a limp, damp mass sitting happily and relaxed in his groin thicket.

We talked. Freely.

It was then that we more or less made a pact, or at least sketched out some ground rules.

This was just us. We were just "messing around." Spouses didn't need to know. We weren't really cheating, there was no emotional element. We were monogamous so sexual health was fine and safe, no dangers for us, or anyone. No assholes were to be involved. We weren't gay.

Roger laughed at this last one.

"You touch many a prick in your life, Clay?"

I explained my scene a little more, didn't feel so strange anymore, actually a relief to share my urges.

"How many, altogether?"

He raised an eyebrow, took a swig.

"Not sure. Not as many as I might have wanted. Not quite a dozen?"

He shook his head.

"But you must have done something too, Roger? Tell me you haven't touched another cock."

"It's true, but only one. Twice it happened. A long time ago."

We talked for some time. It was amazingly free to speak about what sorts of things excited us, how we got aroused, various experiences. I noticed we didn't say much about wives, almost like our sexual life with them was now somehow separate territory. Maybe that was a good thing.

Well it didn't take too much talking, less than an hour, and we were both hard again. Perhaps the afternoon would play out a little longer after all.

So we explored. Stood face to face, pulled on the other's prick. Didn't do the strict measurement thing, but held our rods out straight in front of us. When Roger's touched my torso first, mine was maybe a quarter inch away, so he was ever so slightly larger. But both of us were standard size.

Both of us with lots of groin hair—the pricks poking out from them looked like spears extending from a phalanx. Roger's balls were bigger than mine by a bunch, really gorgeous ones that hung low when relaxed, and pulled up nicely to each side of his member when he was aroused. Each egg went to the side, different from me, my nuts all pulled up into one bunch.

We compared notes, touched each other all over. Comfortable with each other now, we were a couple hedonists, with an afternoon to indulge.

"You like this?" I said running my hand along his cock-head's ridge.

"This?" With my hands under his balls. I got a better sense of what turned him on.

We went at each other again, much slower this time. We learned an enormous amount. Among other things, it set the stage for our future times. The secret, which we both knew anyway, but established definitively that day, was that to prolong pleasure you need to take lots of breaks. Do more teasing touches than full-on stimulation.

And the visuals. They were tremendous.

We had good light. Outdoors. Seeing Roger's prick pointing skyward when he was standing, its head damp with desire, well that was just splendid. If I had been soft, just the sight alone of his stiffy would have brought mine up.

We waved our pricks at each other. Did the sword fight. Rubbed our shafts together, the heads. Acted like a couple drunken horny guys.

We laid out the towel, played with each other for at least an hour. I lay on top of him and we rubbed dicks together. He laid back and I fondled his balls, enchanted in the way they moved in their sack.

His penis had been lying there, stoked out on his belly. By now I knew it well enough to figure his cock had a second round in the chambers. I had been pulling on his balls, just enjoying the feel of them, running them through my fingers. Roger's eyes were closed, his breathing making just the kind of noises I love to hear from someone getting pleasure.

I wanted him in my mouth.

I wanted him desperately in my mouth.

All these transitions we had surmounted, in a relatively short time. Roger getting stroked, unknowingly. Becoming informed about it, and asking for it again. Our penis playtime. He seemed comfortable. Would this be another threshold? I couldn't help myself.

I hovered over his penis, gave it a long teasing lick with the end of my tongue, from balls to tip. I could tell by the way Roger tensed that he had opened his eyes.

I looked up as he looked down at me. Our eyes met.

"Okay with this?" I gave his balls a squeeze.

A little tremor ran through his body and he closed his eyes and laid his head back down.

"Yes," he said. Soft but clear. I had the green light.

My excitement was extreme. It had been a long time since I had had this sort of opportunity.

I licked again, bottom to top. Then a tongue at the tip, and my lips slid over his cock-head, down to the ridge. Roger shuddered. I was in heaven.

There is great fun in sex-exploring fingers, but tongue and lips exploration is quite different. Fingers can gauge external dimensions, surfaces, weigh things (like nice sperm-filled balls) but a penis in the mouth is a vastly more exciting animal.

I liked running my tongue all along his cock-head. I liked the way I could close my lips over his shaft, and move up and down on it. I liked the noises he made, the ways his hips tensed, the way he wanted to push back into me, urgent, wanting more, more, more.

If he hadn't come already, it would have been fast. And I found ways to extend things longer too, just by disengaging often. To lick his balls, take them in my mouth, press my tongue against his perineum. Smell the peculiar scent of a man, a horny man, a man wanting ever more desperately to release his sperm.

I stopped to watch his prick in the sunlight. It was heavy, I could hold its base and wave it in the air. Left alone it hovered just off his belly. Balls moved in their nest. His shaft was wet from my efforts, shiny in the sunlight.

I curled my tongue under his prick-head, pushed his penis back and forth.

Sooner than later, both of us got too impatient for things to dally. I would bring him off.

The last sucklings were rapid, urgent affairs. My head moved smoothly up and down, my lips lingered at his head at the top while I rummaged his balls. His legs got stiff and he shot.

When the first rush of semen hit my mouth, I don't think there were two happier people in the world. Even when one knows a penis is about to unload, the first spurt often arrives by surprise. I had felt Roger's body get tighter and tenser, and the sounds coming out of him (his mouth? throat?) were sure signs of crisis, but that flood of semen? Oh my, that was sudden and sweet.

Two, three, four, five times he tensed and released, a warm lovely flood of sperm. Never had I experienced a man's explosion that intensely. Roger claimed later that up until then it had been his "best orgasm ever."

After he came down from his climax, me nursing at his penis with my lips as long as I possibly could, until even the slightest, softest touch became unbearable, we laid out next to each other on our towels.