The Orange (A Fetish Fable)

"Too cute, too," I reached out and playfully poked his, causing him to wriggle with delight. "So how'd you get the gumption up to put a crop-top on?"

"I wear what I like," he said, flatly. "I don't care who stares." A slight pause. "And I've gotten side eye from some folks."

"You know what I'm amazed by?" I burst out. "How controversial crop-tops are, even now."

"What do you mean?" Nathan asked.

"Well, crop-tops were out of style for many, many years," I explained. "I remember when they were, like, new -- the late 70's and early 80's. They were so hot, and there were a lot of guys wearing them, but they weren't, well, universal."

"I think I was a wee lad then," Nathan added playfully. I smiled.

"And it was, for a good while, mostly guys who wore them. Bikinis, halter tops, all that stuff -- that was female wear. But half-shirts -- that's what they used to be called -- were pretty popular. Some manufacturers like Nike even made them pre-cut, pre-hemmed, that's how hot they were.

"But then the 90s hit, and something changed. Crop-tops went out of fashion for all guys except the flaimingest gay ones. If you were sporting a crop-top during the 90s you were an outlier for sure. And a lot of guys figured that bellybuttons were, well, too gay. Nevermind that guys and chicks both have navels; guys flatly stated that only females can expose their middles. I hated it."

"Toxic masculinity," Nathan pronounced.

"Exactly. That's what I think it really had to do with. You had this whole school of thought where guys didn't just want to be guys, they wanted to be tough, to be anti-feminine. The most misogynistic of males in this country hate both women and gays -- there's things in common with the two cultures, the emotion, the flamboyance, all that.

"And then, perhaps, a few years ago, Calvin Klein decided to try to bring them back, but for fashion, not for sex or political identity. I remember some of his designs -- they didn't look like the original half shirts at all -- they had long sleeves and were intended to be kind of out-there."

"I liked the plainer ones of those, the longer-sleeved ones," Nathan shared. "But not the fancier ones. They were probably overpriced anyway."

I half-frowned my agreement. "Something interesting happened on social media sites, though. They made a comeback starting around, like 2012. I couldn't believe it. Not everyone did it right, but I liked seeing some of these hotties try. I have my own rules for crop-tops, ya know. Wanna hear 'em?" I asked mischievously.

"Ooooh, go ahead, but I bet I've broken a few of the rules," Nathan laughed again.

"Okay," I smiled, rubbing my hands in anticipation. "First of all, not everyone should sport a half-shirt. Guys with big bellies or shag rug stomachs -- forget it. It's a privilege, not a right."

Nathan shrieked with laughter and nodded.

"I mean, it looks ridiculous, you know what I'm saying, right?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay, it's also off limits for guys who are super muscular. If you have shredded or washboard abs, no half shirts for you. You don't need them. Half shirts are for those guys who are more average. It gives those guys a chance to compete on getting looks. Muscles? Those turn heads all the time. But a sweet, pretty hottie teasing with a strip of flesh? They can get looks, too, I assure you.

"Also -- a half shirt is NOT a fashion garment. They started out on athletic fields in hot-weather states in the 60s, for heaven's sake. The only design such shirts should have, if they have one at all, is either a college logo, a college name, or a number. If not, they should be plain."

Nathan looked down at his black top. "I pass so far," in a giggly voice.

"If you're gonna wear a crop top," I continued, "No visual distractions to the bellybutton. No piercings -- they get caught in my teeth if I kiss you there. No tattoos. Certainly no bushy body hair. And for me -- and this is heresy -- no trail underneath."

Nathan mock gasped in indignation. "I know a lot of guys who'd hate you for that," he teased.

"They can bite me. Look, I know what turns me on and trails don't. And let's get back to that sports theme thing -- half shirts are NOT about being flamboyant and loud. No glitter. No sparkles. No hot pink T-shirt iron-on patterns that say, 'Daddy Do Me'. What athlete would ever wear those??"

Nathan smiled in agreement, smirking. "It's a fashion crime," he said in mock seriousness. I laughed.

"They shouldn't be cut too high or too low. Too high...and it's a bikini top! Too low...and it doesn't show enough. If it's cut so low the bellybutton doesn't show, that's not a half shirt, it's...a mistake."

Nathan snickered.

"Generally speaking," I went on, "they should be short-sleeve garments. Calvin Klein might have brought them back with long sleeves, but he was going for gawks. Half shirts have always been short-sleeve garments. If I wanna see someone in a long shirt with his bellybutton showing I'll ogle some hottie with a sweater, stretching on a couch or something, like this Irish dude I had a crush on back in college, ooooh-wee!"

"Well," Nathan concluded, "you certainly have strong feelings about crops. Passion. Enthusiasm. I like that."

"We're talking about a garment that frames the bellybutton, Nathan, of course I'm going to be particular. Isn't that what fetishes are about?"

"Oh, sure. I just think I've not given much thought to some of the stuff you've mentioned. I'm impressed you know so much."

"You need to remember -- I grew up with these things. Even though I never wore one -- in some cases I wouldn't have been allowed to -- I always had a strong affinity for them."

"Why wouldn't you wear one?" he asked.

"Remember what I said?"

"It's a privilege, not a right?"

"Exactly. I'm not cute enough. I've been carrying a few extra pounds for years."

"Awww, I think you're cute," Nathan batted his eyes at me.

"You're too kind. But I mean for wearing these," I tugged the edge of his black crop. "And something else I've noticed..."

"What's that?"

"I swear, fetishists -- as a lot, as a class of people -- we are not usually a pretty bunch. I mean, you're freakin' gorgeous. But I've seen various navel fetishists and most of us are kinda weird and frumpy and pervy-looking. Haven't you ever looked?"

"Can't say I've really noticed. I guess I'm not as looks-obsessed," Nathan said.

"And that dovetails with another point," I waved my arm out. "Beauty. Think about all the beautiful male models out there running around with their pretty, perfect navels showing. Do you think any of them think about how hot their bellybuttons are? That someone like me is wanting, pining, needing to be close their midsections to torture them endlessly and erotically?" Now I was being a bit melodramatic.

"Probably not," Nathan replied. "I bet many of them are pretty vain, at least if their social media profiles are any indication -- oh, yes, I spend a decent amount of my time cyberstalking those nameless perfect specimens, too, Jack."

This time I giggled. Then I thought philosophically.

"Think about it: the bellybutton is a sort of midpoint, it's kind of a symmetry device, isn't it? Symmetry has been associated with beauty for centuries."

"Yeah, but the right kind of imperfection is sexy, too."

I considered this. "True, that."

"And then think about this, at least for me. I love bellybuttons that are oval shaped -- like yours -- or round and large. When it comes to navel shapes, the 'dots', the smaller ones, the flattened ones -- all of those do nothing for me. A bellybutton has to be visually interesting somehow. But I'm amazed when I run across someone who thinks those other kinds are hot. I'm kinda glad for the variety, but I'm baffled."

"Well, you need not worry," Nathan said, "We're in the same camp on shape." I wriggled with glee.

"And I've got one for you," he continued, "the navel is associated with four of the five senses."

I thought for a moment. "I think I can guess at two of them, but I wanna hear you hold forth."

"Okay, well, obviously, bellybuttons are visual -- we look at them to get excited."

I nodded.

"And, of course, there's touch -- you can feel mine, tickle it, pressing down in the middle of it can make me horny."

"True, that. Those are the two. What about the others? Bellybuttons aren't capable of making a sound, I know you're not going to say that one."

"Au contraire, mon frere, I am -- just not in the way you think. When you hear a hot guy say 'bellybutton', don't you get turned on?"

He was right. I totally do.

"And stick with me on the next one -- taste. I've nibbled on an outie and I can tell you, it's to die for."

"Haven't had the pleasure yet."

"It's like playing with a nipple -- a really big nipple." He sighed reverently. I envisioned it. It sounded fanstastic.

We both sat for about a minute, thinking about all we'd covered.

"I guess we're both really into this," I broke the silence.

"I guess we are," Nathan said.

A barista called out to us. "Hey, guys -- we're closing up. Five minutes."

I looked at my watch. Nearly 11. "Wow! We've been here a while."

"I know! Wanna come by my place?" He rolled his eyes playfully with mock mischief.

I smiled. "Absolutely."

The two of us got up from the table, cleared our trash, and headed to my car, chatting about nothing in particular as we went. But I had a vague sense, a pleasant sense, that there was something special about tonight, this meeting, everything. And all because of that damned orange.

FIVE

Nathan's place was a cute little one-bedroom apartment. Being the flamboyant gay man that he was, he had good décor taste. I usually struggle with establishing a mood. But his was soft and welcoming. An amply stocked bookshelf suggested he was an avid reader. His walls were decorated with classic modern artists like M. C. Escher.

"Very nice," I commented softly, as we entered the dimly-lit (on purpose) place.

"It's home," Nathan replied. "I believe in traveling light so I don't have more than I need." He paused. "Well, okay, I have a few creature comforts." He nodded to the far side of the room where a 60-inch flat-screen TV sat.

"Well, I don't think we'll be needing that."

"Indeed," he said, sitting on a very plush loveseat. He rolled his eyes in my direction and beckoned with his head briefly as if to say, Come sit by me.

I exhaled with a touch of discomfort. I'd not been in this situation, well, ever. Could this be someone I really see eye-to-eye with on my fetish, sexuality, everything?

I walked over and gently sat down, then turned my head to look at him.

Before I knew it, we were embracing, hugging, kissing. Not smooching to beat the band. Mostly just...hugging. I found it incredibly comforting. And he was so warm, so inviting. He had to have had an Aquarius placement in his natal horoscope, because I felt so....so free.

I let my hands get more into the action, reaching back around his bared midsection. My fingers felt his smooth, warm back just above his hips.

Both of us were noiseless, simply holding each other, squeezing gently at points. Moments later we pulled our chests apart a few inches.

"Hi," he said to me, playfully.

"Hi," I said almost dreamily, back.

"This really, really feels...nice," I said.

"Hugging is a miracle medicine."

We looked into each others' eyes. Normally, a direct gaze is a bit of an uncomfortable thing for me. But his big, beautiful hazel eyes didn't seem to have a hidden agenda. He was just...there. Besides, he was quite a beautiful guy, with his dirty blond hair almost to his shoulders, and his friendly face.

Softly, he spoke: "Do you have to be anywhere in the morning?"

I shook my head briefly, with a smile. "There's no place I want to be right now other than right here with you."

He leaned forward and hugged me again, pressing his supple pecs into my chest. I shut my eyes. It felt amazing. I tried to imagine how hot this looked in my mind's eye. I couldn't. It was off-the-scale intimate.

Again, he leaned back, and then rose, his perfect bellybutton at my eye level. He extended his right hand to me, for me to take it, with a playful wagging of his fingers. I did. He gently pulled me up to my feet, and led me to his bedroom, switching off the lone floor lamp in the living room as we walked.

The bedroom was also inviting, also calmly lit. Inexplicably, the bed was made. What kind of weirdo was this?, I thought jokingly to myself. Only a short nightstand lamp lit the room.

He led me to the bed, then had me sit down. He reached with his hands behind my head and slowly drew my head towards his bellybutton. Instinctually -- or so it seemed -- I knew what to do.

I began to shower his navel area with kisses, with blows of air, with strokes of my cheek. It was like what I did with Zack, but way better and more purposeful -- Zack was a bit inhibited by comparison. As I did, he ran his fingers through my hair, caressing my scalp. It felt so good.

I am very sensitive about bad smells and odors. Some people's reticence about the bellybutton is that it can have an odor. Nathan's didn't -- it was a scent of skin, perhaps of pheromones. It was intoxicating. I pressed my lips on it, feeling my cock harden even more than it had at the coffeehouse.

We continued in this way for what seemed like about ten minutes.

Again, he gently stopped me mid-kiss and moved me back. With as compassionate a vibe -- if there is such a concept in the bedroom -- he began to undress me, studying me lovingly as he did. It was like he was trying to understand me on a different level. He drew my shirt up over my head, and in a fluid motion, slipped it over my head, then tossed it on the floor. I felt the air of the room on my nipples, which I'm sure were hardening, perhaps embarrassingly. I'm not accustomed to getting naked in front of another.

He had me stand from the bed and began to undo my belt, then unsnapped the fastener on my khakis, letting them slip to the floor effortlessly. I stepped out of them and a bit clumsily kicked them aside.

He then slipped a hand on either side inside my boxer briefs, deftly and purposefully sliding them down, exposing my erect penis. This would often be a moment in which another partner would pause to examine it, maybe even comment on it. Nathan didn't. He was completely in the moment.

I was completely naked now, standing in front of him. He began to undress himself. He had done such a smashing job on me, I didn't want to interfere. Besides, I wanted to watch and mentally record every moment of this.

He unbuckled his belt. Unsnapped the fastener. Unzipped the zipper. Pulled down his pants and pulled them off his legs with his hands. He tossed them aside. He had on full boxers. I have never worn boxers myself. I have heard other guys say it allows them more freedom "down there", that it's an airier feeling. But there's often another reason some guys wear boxer shorts.

He paused for a brief moment and looked at me. I sensed something was coming, but I wasn't sure what. It was as if I was being prepared for something else. He still had his black half shirt on.

Nathan slipped his boxers off and let them drop to the floor. And there, dangling before me, between us, was an ample, long, fairly thick penis. Had to be ten inches, maybe eleven. It just...hung there.

Nathan was looking closely at me now. It was if he was wanting something. Finally I spoke.

"That is...just beautiful," I started. And I really meant it. If bellybuttons weren't my top sexual thing, long, thick cocks would be.

"Really?" Nathan perked up a bit. I couldn't read the reaction. Didn't everyone love his huge schlong?

"Oh, yeah," I continued, reaching for it. "Oh...yeah."

I held it in my right hand. It was so...so heavy, so ample, and of course, it was warm. I gave it a little squeeze and felt myself stir in my own crotch.

I had to feel it with my other hand. I began to hold it, to caress it, to consider just how large and unusual this situation was. I mean, my dick was probably less than half the size of Nathan's. He didn't seem disappointed about mine, either, more's the good.

I began to stroke it very slowly, but not with the intention of drawing an orgasm. I just wanted to play with something I might, frankly, never see again. I heard Nathan breathing, exhaling, obviously enjoying it.

I broke the silence.

"How come you seemed like you were concerned I might not dig your cock?" I said in almost a whisper.

"Well, let's just say my size ... intimidates ... other guys," he replied quietly. "Because I have what I have, some guys think I'm a freak or something."

I felt a pang of sorrow. The gay community can be cruel. It is men, after all.

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's really odd. You look at our publications, our media, our smut, and you think this is what they're all after. And when they finally get it, they can't handle it. It becomes all about them because they think I can't please them."

I thought about this as he spoke. This was not an issue I was ever going to have, thanks to nature's denying length to me.

I took a beat. Looked at his penis, then looked him in the eyes.

"I love what you have, Nathan. I love your penis. I love your bellybutton. I love ... all of you. You are absolutely the best thing that's ever happened to me, honestly."

A smile crept across Nathan's lips. He looked down bashfully, then met my gaze again. I continued.

"You are beautiful." I stood up from the mattress and hugged him as warmly as he had, me, at first. We stood like that for a good five minutes, his large member bumping against the underside of my stomach -- which I just loved.

He turned to the bed, pulled back the covers -- very nice bedding, high-threadcount sheets, I could tell! - and slipped into it, he holding my hand again, and drawing me close to him. Now we were both horizontal, feeling each others' body heat. If he was nervous, he didn't let on. I probably should have been, but I wasn't. I've seen pretty guys like this before but who's to say that my eating a mysterious orange would have brought all this on?

With the two of us facing each other on our sides, his penis was almost like a third arm between us. He seemed to like having someone else to play with it. Playfulness was a big thing with Nathan. He was teaching me about another dimension of sexuality.

As we writhed with pleasure, hugging on our sides, we began to kiss each other. On the nape of the neck. On his cheeks. I kissed his lovely hair. He blew in my ears -- a first. He flicked and grabbed my nipples. And, of course, more bellybutton play -- my tracing his with my fingers with one hand, pressing down on it, almost like I was conducting a series of experiments.

I got more creative minutes later, stroking his penis again -- now at full girth and length -- and feeling his thighs and leg muscles flex as he enjoyed the sensation of a stranger's hand on his member. I fingered the crown in my right hand -- it was a very large mushroom head shape -- and saw a bit of precum well up in the slit.

For my part, he reached over and fingered and pinched my nipples again. Mine are sensitive, so a casual touch gets me hornier than I usually do.

I had slightly sped up my strokes and heard his breathing get faster, steadily. His long, thick penis felt amazing. I got to gaze at his perfect bellybutton as I did, wondering which of the two of us might climax first.

Quietly from him, I heard my three favorite words. No, not those, but "I'm gonna come."

I increased my strokes a bit. He breathed a little faster.

"I'm gonna come." Heavier breaths. I was breathing heavier, too.