The Junior Senator

I want you, too. Only you.

Unlike you, I have always noticed other men. Actually, it started when I was a boy and noticed that I noticed boys and men. I was born in 1985, so I was seven or eight when Calvin Klein noticed Marky Mark. I loved that campaign. I couldn't take my eyes off that campaign. I knew I shouldn't, but I wanted the walls of my room covered with his bare torso, his crisp white boxer briefs, his bulge. I actually asked for the posters for my birthday. I didn't get them. I did get, however, a talk from my father, who explained to me that boys don't put up posters of other boys.

Of course, life proved my father false. Throughout middle and high school, I and my friends routinely bedecked our walls with images of athletes and rockers. You may not be able to post Marky Mark in his underwear, but you could post Michael Jordan dunking over some poor sap or Kurt Cobain staring vacantly at you or Keanu Reeves and a bus.

I thought Kurt Cobain was sexy, so I pretended to like Nirvana and covered my walls with him. When I first started doing what all boys do, I was on my back and imagining Kurt between my legs, sliding in and out of me. When that image was exhausted, I switched to Keanu Reeves, the protagonist different, the position and the movement the same.

I didn't know boys didn't imagine such things until I asked my best friend what he imagined when he starting doing what all boys do. He described a woman on her back, him doing to her what Kurt and Keanu were doing to me. When he asked me back, I knew to lie and to keep lying.

PS It's my favorite position, me on my back. And, I know you're imagining it right now.

Him to me:

Thank you for sharing more of your backstory with me. I'd share more of mine, but I think I've shared it all.

It's an unexceptional backstory. I am and always have been a piece of Wonder Bread. Or Colonial. I don't know which. I just know that, once upon a time, the world was divided between Colonial and Wonder, Colgate and Crest, Coke and Pepsi, the former more traditional, that latter more progressive. The former were the Celtics. The latter were the Lakers.

I digress.

I still can't believe I allowed you to mack on me, way back when. I'm glad I did, but I can't believe I did. I don't go on adventures. But, I had never seen on anyone's face what I saw on yours. It was wanton.

That may be the first time I ever typed that word. I don't know its origin, but I wonder if it was "want on" and "want on" and "want on" until it became "wanton." I doubt it, but that's how I will hence think of it. Because, that is what I saw.... pure... unadulterated want.

That want is like a drug, inchoate and then overwhelming.

Once you've wanted, you can't not want.

I want on and want on and want on.

I was imagining it. I still am, although I'm not sure I understand the logistics. It seems like it would be awkward, to say the least.

Do me a favor: Tell me how you wound up there. On your back.

Me to him:

If I could make you believe that which is not true, I'd tell you....

You are wearing a tie, like you were the first time I kissed you. I run it through my fore and middle fingers, pulling your mouth to mine, like I did the first time I kissed you.

Our mouths and then our tongues touch.

As we kiss, I loosen the knot in your tie, pulling it free as I pull your tongue into my mouth.

As we kiss, I unbutton your shirt, starting at the top. As I work my way down, I get frustrated and, our mouths still together, pull at the shirt, the last few buttons popping off.

I pull back so I can take you in. You're a wonder.

I return to you, pushing you back so that you are on your haunches.

I kiss your forehead and then your eyelids. I kiss your nose and then I lick it, up one side and down the other. Your mouth seeks mine out, but I avoid it. I lick across your lips.

I tell you I want to tie you up. You ask why, and I tell you so that you have to do what you want to do, your mind incapable of standing athwart your will.

You allow me to do what I want. I tie your hands above your head, close so I can turn you this way and that. I kiss you as I tie a single column knot around your wrists.

"I'm not going to tie your ankles," I whisper. "But only if you promise not to try to kick me."

"I promise," you whisper back.

You're lying, but you don't know it. You have no idea what's coming.

I kiss and lick your neck. I suck at your jugular, work my way up to your ear, nibble and suck it, and then flip to the other side.

"Do you want me to blindfold you?" I ask.

"No," you whimper. "I want to be able to watch."

I bury my face in your left armpit. You smell like a man. I love how you smell. I look up and down your side and through your armpit and then repeat and repeat and repeat. You squirm like a child in church.

I flip to the other side. I repeat and you squirm.

I kneel between your legs. I massage your thighs, getting closer and closer with each circle until I feel you under my palm.

Oh my God, for the first time ever, I feel you. I almost black out.

I don't. Instead, I unbuckle your belt and unbutton, unzip, and violently remove your pants.

I put my mouth on you through your boxers. You cry out.

I slowly pull your boxers down. I'm mesmerized by what I reveal, the curve of you down because of the way you wear it, the weight of you significant enough that you hang when you're hard.

Kneeling between your legs, I pull your left foot to my face. I lick between and suck each toe. I gnaw on the ball and then the arch.

You try to kick my face. Not on purpose, but because you can't not try.

I turn to the other foot. I repeat what I had done to other foot. You try to kick me again. Not on purpose, but because you can't not try.

I lick up your leg. You hold your breath as my breath caresses your scrotum.

You expect me to take you erection into my mouth. I don't. Instead, I use my hands behind your knees to reveal what I'm really after.

You gasp when you realize where I'm heading. Involuntarily, you try to conceal the target. You can't.

My tongue traces down your perineum and around your opening. You tense and try to turn and twist away from me. You can't.

My tongue finds you. My hands hold you. I lick and lick and lick as my hands hold you.

You cry out.

You tense and tense and tense and I lick and lick and lick and... then... you... relax.

You slowly give yourself over to me. I take what you give, licking and licking and licking until you cry out because you can't take one more swipe of my tongue.

I lower you.

I again lick your scrotum, taking one ball and then the other into my mouth, lolling each around, sucking each.

I lick up your shaft.

I lick the precum from your meatus.

I take your glans into my mouth.

You cry out again.

I take you down my throat as far as I can. You are the most delicious thing I have ever had in my mouth.

I fellate you until I feel you rushing toward me.

I stop you and flip you. I'm under you.

I take you in my hand and guide you to where I need you to be. You hesitate, but I insist, "Take me, JJ." I see hesitation in your eyes, so I beg you, "Please."

I take all of you into me. For the second time during our encounter, I almost black out.

You're too new to this, so you start sliding in and out of me too quickly.

"Whoa whoa whoa," I urge, as if you are a young mare and I'm breaking you in.

You slow down. Our eyes lock. You slide in and out of me. I throw my head back, and you suck on my neck. I take your head in my hands and force your mouth to mine. I love being kissed while I'm being fucked, and -- as you move toward the edge of the fucking -- you kiss me harder and harder.

My hands find their way to your ass. They try to force you in deeper and faster.

"Jesus," you hiss into my mouth, doing what you said you wouldn't do, in vain.

You're close to the edge. I can feel it in every pore of my body.

Your closeness pulls me close. We're going to crest together. I know it.

You speed up. You're going as fast as you can. It's not fast enough.

I lock my legs around you and my arms around you and I try to become one with you.

I release first, my semen spraying all over my stomach and chest.

You release halfway through my release, our carelessness meaning I can feel it all.

But, I can't make you believe that which is not true.

You know I could never be that disciplined.

So, that which is true is that I'd strip you down, take you in my mouth but only briefly, and then flip you over and take you inside of me. It would be needy and urgent.

It would not be satisfying. It would be eventually, but not the first time. The first time would be like teenagers taking their first trip, fast and furious.

You wouldn't believe how hard I am for you right now.

Him to me:

The evidence suggests I know precisely how hard.

Me to him:

I'm glad you liked the description.

Him to me:

You suggested things about which I had never thought, much less heard.

Eyelids?

Armpits?

Feet?

Have you no shame?

Me to him:

I am shameless.

I wish you were.

You'd find out so much about yourself, what you like and what don't like, what feels good and what doesn't.

You should be ashamed of your shame. :-0

Him to me:

I don't think it's shame. If I was as ashamed as you suggest, then I don't think I'd have let you kiss me, I'm certain I wouldn't have kissed you back, and I'm even more certain I wouldn't have looked when you pulled back the curtain. That being said....

I'm certain that I don't know what I don't know.

I'm also certain that I'm not going to find out. My wife is neither Lewis nor Clark; she will not lead an expedition through the undisturbed land that is my body.

Like I said, I don't go on adventures. Neither does she.

Me to him:

I'm happy to forge the Purchase. I'll try to follow the map I laid out word for word.

Him to me:

Caution: Serious thoughts to follow.

I think I'd like that. I really do.

Correction: I think I'd love that. I really do.

But, I'm afraid -- very afraid -- of the aftershocks.

I can't lose my life. I am happy in it. It fits me.

I can't lose you. I am happy with you. You fit me.

I feel incredibly selfish right now.

I've never been a selfish person.

Me to him:

I'm not certain it has to be one or the other.

I, too, feel selfish. The night before the morning your note started these exchanges, I had resolved that I needed to absent myself from your life, that I needed to remove the temptation of me and allow you to return to the safety of your normalcy, like we had tried before.

I don't know that I could have done it, but I wanted to. For you.

It's the most selfless thing I ever thought of doing.

His response did not come quickly. In fact, it took days, two of which resulted in cancelled trainings. I feared I knew why.

My fear was realized. When it came, his response was only:

I need to stop being selfish.

I did not respond.

I didn't think he was toying with me, but I felt like he was. He'd bring the water to a boil, remove it from the heat, replace it, then bring it back to a boil.

I didn't want to get scalded.

Before I reached back out to him, he reached out to me, surprising me:

I have a logistical question. If my hands were tied over my head, how did I do the things you said I did?

I also have a correction. I would not have said "Jesus."

Me to him:

As to your logistical question: Fair point. I must have at some point untied your hands.

As to your correction: What do you say, when you are so overwhelmed that you must cry out?

Him to me:

As to my logistical question: I assumed. I've only ever done it the way you wrote it, and I've always used my arms and hands for leverage.

As to my correction: I don't think I've ever been so overwhelmed that I thought of crying out. I know I've never cried out.

Me to him:

I'd make you cry out.

It took him longer than usual to respond. When he did, it was a repeat:

I need to stop being selfish.

Me to him:

So you said.

Him to me:

Easier said than done.

Me to him:

Do you want my help?

Him to me:

I don't want your help. But, I think I need it.

Me to him:

Then you'll get it.

I'm not generally dramatic or wrought, but as I typed those words, I flashed to Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You"....

If I should stay

I would only be in your way

So I'll go but I know

I'll think of you every step of the way.....

*****

We stopped writing. Every time I thought of giving in, I reminded myself that I had pledged my help.

We took precautions in planning for Boulder. While we were on the same flight, we were not sharing the same hotel, much less the same hotel room. We knew better.

Still, I was vexed by the notion of taking a trip with him. I didn't trust either of us, especially in light of the planned "breakup" that was to follow the trip.

The day before our flight, I decided I was not going to go.

I also decided not to tell him, as I didn't want him to try to convince me to change my mind. Because, if he tried, then he would succeed.

I careened throughout the night and the next morning. One moment, I'd back away from my decision not to go, thinking "this may be my chance." The next, I'd be committed to it, remembering my pledge.

At some point, indecision becomes a decision. Mine did. I dithered long enough that I couldn't make the flight even if I retreated from my so-called decision not to make the flight.

Resignedly, I laid on the sofa, covered my eyes with a warm, wet cloth, and tried to relax. I had worked myself into such a lather, relaxation did not come easily.

But, come it did, and I drifted off to sleep.

I was startled from my nap by a pounding on my door. And, by pounding, I mean pounding; it sounded as if the police were battering it with a ram.

"Calm down!" I barked through the door before looking through the peephole.

I didn't expect to see what I saw: JJ, red-eyed and red-faced.

I also didn't expect to react as I reacted. I froze.

"H," I finally heard. "I know you're there. I heard you and then I saw the shadow cover the peephole. Please open the door."

"You're supposed to be on an airplane," I answered, ignoring his request.

"When you weren't there to board, I didn't board, either. Please open the door."

"I don't want to open the door. I'm sorry, I just don't."

"You do. Trust me, you do."

I didn't answer.

I heard a thump against the door and, when I looked through the peephole, no longer saw him.

"JJ, are you still out there?"

"Yes. I'm sitting against the door. I'm going to sit against the door until you open it."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"What if I never open it?"

"Then I'll die waiting for you to open it."

Hyperbolic, but effective. I unlocked the door, but I didn't open it. Instead, I rested my head against it, my hand still on the knob.

"It's open," I said.

I felt the pressure on the door yield. Then, I felt the pressure on the knob as he took hold of it and turned it.

I stepped away from the door as it opened. His eyes locked on mine as he stepped into my apartment for the first time, closing the door gently behind him.

I was pensive.

He was, too, his weight shifting foot to foot.

The room seemed charged, like it was overfilled with static electricity, like the slightest flicker would cause an inferno.

Neither of us said a word. We just stood there, his eyes locked on mine and my eyes locked on his.

He moved first. In two steps, he was directly in front of me, his hands on my face, his lips on mine. He kissed me hungrily. I kissed him back just as hungrily.

As we kissed, I felt his fingers on the buttons of my shirt, opening it. "Uh oh," I thought, as he had never before been so bold.

"Oh Harold," I heard, his voice a growl, low and rumbling in his chest. He didn't say it, but his "Oh Harold," his reversion back to my full name, was dripping with "I want you."

My back was against the door.

My shirt was fully opened.

His mouth left mine, his lips trailing over my chin and attacking my neck as he braced himself against the door on either side of me.

I realized I was holding my breath, the anticipation of what was happening overwhelming me. I was afraid to move; I couldn't risk breaking the momentum that was building.

His mouth was on my clavicle and then my chest. He sucked my left nipple and then my right.

His hands were on my belt, opening it. "Oh my God," I thought to myself, his obvious want rending me.

His lips were on my stomach, my belt now open, the button on my shorts now open, the zipper on my shorts now down.

"Help me," I heard, his hands at my waist and trying to force my shorts down.

I pushed my shorts and briefs down, exposing myself to him.

He sat on his heels, my erection directly in front of his face.

"You don't have to do this," I said, gently and softly.

"Yes I do," he answered, his eyes again on mine, both desire and fear evident. "I don't know that I should, but I know that I have to."

He tentatively opened his mouth, but then stopped. I knew what he was thinking. During our talks, I had explained to him how lucky I was to have grown up in a body positive home, one in which I was taught that nothing about my body was dirty. When he demurred, I had pointed out that, as a general rule, people easily allowed their own finger or another's tongue into their mouth, both of which held far more germs than a penis or a toe.

"It's not dirty, JJ, literally or figuratively. I've been out of the shower only about an hour. I'm fully clean, Zestfully clean. And, it's just flesh and blood. My flesh and blood. The same flesh and blood you've had in your mouth over and over again."

He took me into his mouth. My entire body twitched.

I remembered the first time I had taken a boy into my mouth, the salted silkiness of the pink glans, the smell and taste of sweat. I wondered if he was as surprised in this moment as I had been in that one.

I was looking down. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, me inside his mouth.

He looked up and stopped. His eyes said "tell me what to do."

"Make spit. Cover your teeth. Slide back and forth. Follow my hand."

I put my hand around my shaft. He did as he was told, his mouth sliding.

"Use your tongue. Under it." He did as he was told, his mouth sliding.

"I'm going to remove my hand. When I do, just keep going." He did as he was told, his mouth sliding.

If you have never had someone in your mouth, you don't know how easy it is to get lost in it, to forget about what you are doing and just do what you are doing.

I could feel and see that JJ was getting lost in it, the rush of control, the dizzying effect of giving pleasure, of owning the giving.

"More spit," I said.

"Use your hand, like I was using mine," I urged.

When receiving, I normally close my eyes and drift away. With him, I couldn't. I had to watch. I needed to see what he was doing to me.

"This can't be real," I thought to myself. "I must be dreaming."

He was taking me deeper, the down slow, the pull back quick, his tongue pressed to the underside of me.

His eyes were closed. His lips were raw and red. From this angle, I noticed that his nose was slightly crooked. "What an odd thing to notice," I thought to myself, his mouth sliding.

My testes started to churn. I was torn. I wanted to come in his mouth, to claim it as mine. But, I also didn't want to come so soon. There can be a finality to coming, and I didn't want a finale.

Before I passed the point of no return, before I gave way to my base desire to give him what he was working for, I stilled his head with my hands and hissed, "get up here."