Читать книгу Men I Might Have Known - Brad Saunders - Страница 9

Some of the most delicious encounters are the ones you don’t expect. Whether it is because you wander out alone for an evening and end up making new friends. Or perhaps you go to a party and spend the whole night talking to the cute shy guy in the corner. Or sometimes, it is because you are thousands of miles from home feeling like you don’t have a friend in the world, trying to experience new things and yet craving the familiar. I find that it sometimes takes leaving your comfort zone…and traveling a few time zones away…to find something extraordinary like a new food, or a tiny hidden museum, or new friends with perspectives extremely different from your own. Sometimes it takes going far away to appreciate what has been right in front of you as well.

The first time I really felt the confluence of those ideas was the summer after my freshman year of college. After spending a whole year away from home—experimenting with new classes, new friends and new sexual partners—I felt like I was ready to conquer the world. So I decided to try spending the summer in Paris, working at a little publishing house.

I dreamed of my summer life as a bohemian fantasy. I’d get up every morning and have an espresso at a streetside café. Then I’d stroll past produce vendors and bookstores to the little office next to the Luxembourg Gardens. Maybe if I was feeling lazy from staying up too late the night before reading Proust or debating Baudelaire with my new French friends at the corner brasserie, I’d take the humid Metro the five stops from my top-floor garret in the Latin Quarter to the office. It was going to be heavenly.

That summer turned out to be a little different than I expected—to say the least. It’s true, I often strolled to work past idyllic Parisian scenes. But the human interaction I had so craved was lacking those first few weeks. Instead of sparring with my new French friends, most evenings would find me cooking a modest dinner in my tiny studio, or reading poetry as I waited for my clothes to dry at the corner Laundromat. I wasn’t making as many friends as I’d hoped, and so, out of desperation, I visited my college Web site and found out that another student was spending the summer living a few blocks away from me along the Seine. His name was Peter, and he was a year older than me.

With nothing to lose, I sent Peter an e-mail the next morning from work, and spent a busy day at the office writing reviews and making calls. By the time I had a chance to check my school e-mail again, it was the end of the day. I held my breath as my in-box loaded, and I found an e-mail from Peter waiting for me.

After opening it up, I read that he had been in Paris for a few weeks like me, and outside of work, he hadn’t made too many friends yet, either. He didn’t speak French well, and he hoped we could get together so I could help him with it. I smiled and wrote back that that would be great. I asked if he’d like to come over to my apartment for a drink that Friday evening and we could have dinner after. I left the office that evening smiling for the first time in weeks, and stopped at a wine shop on the way home to pick up a nice bottle to share with Peter.

When Friday evening rolled around, a heat wave had hit the city. The only relief I found was in the air-conditioned office, but soon it was time to go home and meet Peter. I lethargically climbed the seven stories to my rooftop garret and turned on the little electric fan in a vain attempt to circulate the broiling air to a more comfortable degree. I changed into shorts and a tank top and gulped down a bottle of cold water from my tiny fridge.

Just as the sun was setting, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find a living, breathing heartthrob standing in the dark hallway. It was Peter. I half-recognized him from some fraternity parties I’d been to. He was a jock on the swim team, and girls were always hanging off him. I couldn’t blame them, either, because he was gorgeous. Tall and lean, he had the perfect swimmer’s physique, with muscles that stood tautly at attention but didn’t overwhelm you. His long, straight, blond hair was the color of hay, and he had soft, baby-blue eyes that mirrored the grin on his lips. He was wearing a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops.

“Hey!” I said, a little too excited. “I’m Brad, nice to meet you.”

He shook my hand and replied, “Hey, I’m Peter. I thought I recognized you. I’ve seen you at some of the parties, right?”

“Yeah, I go out every now and then.”

“You’re a really good dancer. I’ve watched you,” he told me, smiling.

“You…you have?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah, you gotta show me some of your moves!”

“Oh, come in, come in, have a glass of wine,” I said, standing aside so he could come into the room that held my bed, desk, kitchen and shower.

“Wow, this place is tiny!” he said.

“Yeah, I know, but it was the best I could get for the price,” I told him, embarrassed. “Take a look at the view, that’s what makes it worth it.”

We walked over to the windows that ran along the slope of the wall by my bed and looked over the city as the sun set between Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower.

“Wow,” was all he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

I moved first, hopping off the bed to get the wine from the kitchen counter. I offered him a glass and the desk chair while I sat on the bed.

Peter swiveled in the chair, taking in the apartment, and we began to talk about our jobs, and school, and what we’d been doing in Paris. I mentioned that I was gay, and Peter seemed to pause for a moment before continuing the conversation. I might have been imagining it, but I could have sworn he smiled a little into his wineglass when I said it.

We continued to talk about school and our mutual friends, and Peter made himself comfortable. He picked up a guidebook of Paris restaurants and started leafing through it trying to find a place for us to get dinner. As he did so, he spread his legs apart and settled back in the chair so that if I had wanted, I could have seen past the corded muscle of his calves, beyond his powerful thighs with their light dusting of blond hair, right up his shorts to his crotch. I tried to restrain myself though.

After we had finished the wine bottle and were feeling sufficiently content, we decided it was time to discuss dinner. Like my own, Peter’s summer job wasn’t exactly paying wages designed to accommodate a profligate Parisian lifestyle, so after a quick look in my fridge, we decided to cobble together a meager homemade dinner…along with a second bottle of wine I had bought. You know, just in case.

The evening had cooled off a little outside, but my apartment was still roasting, and it got even hotter as we started to cook. Before long, both of us were sweating over the stove as we danced along to the radio. I kept checking out Peter out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t get over how cute he was, like an Ivy League Adonis. And he had noticed me at school! I couldn’t help smiling to myself.

Peter noticed and called me on it. “What are you smirking about?” he asked, laughing.

“Just the fact that it’s about a million degrees in here and we’re cooking and dancing and sweating our balls off,” I said.

“It’s summertime, get used to it!” he said. And then he just whipped his shirt off. “If you’re so hot, just do what I do, and strip.”

He threw his sweaty shirt onto the bed and looked at me expectantly. Taking a gulp of wine and a deep breath, I pulled my shirt up over my head and threw it on the bed next to his. And there we were, standing shirtless in my kitchen, sweating, drinking, dancing and generally having a great time.

We continued rocking out and cooking, and I could tell that Peter was looking at me. I’d been using my free time after work to stay in shape by running laps around the Ile Saint-Louis a few blocks from my apartment. And because I hadn’t had much of a social life, I’d been running nearly every day for a couple hours. Sure, the French people I passed looked at me like I was crazy. Exercise for the sake of cardiovascular health was apparently a foreign concept to them. But it was worth it, because I was in great shape. Drops of sweat ran straight down my washboard abs, while some got stuck in the few coarse, dark chest hairs that were just starting to grow around my nipples and along my little happy trail. The running had really bulked up my muscular legs and given me a perfectly round bubble butt. I was sporting a nice tan, too. One thing I couldn’t help: My little red nipples were standing at attention. I tried not to blush.

I was taking in Peter’s body, too. He was a good four inches taller than me, and he was lean. His shoulders and triceps were big and powerful from swimming countless laps at the college pool, and his back was a broad expanse of firm muscle. He had an eight-pack, if that’s possible—that’s just how fit he was. He didn’t have any body hair on his torso at all—and not because he’d shaved it for swimming. He was completely smooth and all I wanted to do was run my hands along his glistening wet skin. I had to concentrate on the food not to get a hard-on right then and there.

By this time, the apartment was positively sweltering, so I said fuck it, and took off my shorts. After all, I was wearing a cute new pair of boxers that stretched just the tiniest bit around my crotch so you could make out the outline of my big soft cock and balls—hanging out for the world to see in that heat.

“Good idea,” Peter said, still grinning. He took his shorts off, too, only he was wearing a tight, white little pair of cotton Calvin Klein briefs, which were almost see-through from all the sweat they had soaked up. I was breathless. He had a huge, bulging package that stretched the briefs even though he wasn’t hard at all. I could just make out the outline of his cock snaking over the round sack of his balls. All I could think about is how I wanted to rip the briefs off and chow down on his dick.

I realized I was staring at Peter’s crotch, and looked up to his face, where I found his eyes right on mine. I laughed uncomfortably, making an excuse. “It’s just too hot in here.”

Stepping right up to me so that our stomachs were almost touching and I could smell his salty odor, Peter continued to look me in the eye and then put his hand to my face. He used his finger to wipe away a single drop of sweat that was rolling from my forehead down my cheek, and then he brought his finger to his mouth and licked it up.

“I’d say it’s just hot enough,” he said.

I almost laughed at the line, but he was dead serious. In a moment, I turned off the stove burners with one hand and then wrapped my other arm around his waist and pulled him into a kiss.

Our sweaty chests slapped together with the force of my movement, but neither of us flinched. We just kept kissing each other. And kissing and kissing and kissing. First our lips caressed one another’s, then our tongues furtively pressed their way into each other’s mouths. Once that threshold had been overcome, we went at each other full tilt, probing each other’s mouths, groping each other’s lithe, young bodies, and pulling at each other’s thick hair. His mouth tasted like sweat and salt and wine. I couldn’t get enough of it.

Though I had already come out and been with a few boys, this was the most passionate kissing I had ever experienced. I was making every moment, every movement, every minute detail count because it was almost too good to be true. One of the most gorgeous boys I’d ever seen up close—a boy whom I had thought was straight until a few moments before—had chosen me and was about to make love to me. I wanted to pinch myself, except Peter was doing it for me, tweaking my nipples until they were scarlet.

Grabbing my ass with both hands, he pulled me off the ground. It wasn’t hard for him since he was bigger than me and so strong. Using his momentum, I hopped up and wrapped my legs around his hips, clinging to his neck with my arms.

Carrying me with giant strides, Peter took us over to the bed, where he bent over and laid me down gently. I let go of him with my arms and legs, and he straightened up a little.

“Everything okay?” I asked, suddenly unsure of our momentum.

He smiled and ran his fingers through my short, spiky brown hair. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Then he lowered himself down on top of me, and we continued our kissing. At this point, our underwear was merely a formality. My boxers were practically around my ankles by now, and Peter’s fully erect cock was poking out over his waistband.

I quickly pulled off both our drawers and grabbed onto Peter’s ass. I had never felt such a big mass of muscle in my life. There wasn’t a gram of fat on it, and when he flexed it, it was like two big stones grinding his crotch into my pelvis. I squeezed even harder, clawing into his ass cheeks with my fingers and leaving bright red marks where I had kneaded into the muscle.

We took a second to get a breath, and I spat into my hand and latched it onto his cock. Like the rest of Peter, it was big and long and hard and smooth. There was a single vein that ran along the top of his shaft and forked near where it met the completely symmetrical helmet head. The skin was so soft and smooth—there were only a few curling little hairs growing on it, and it wasn’t rough or rubbery like my own thick cock skin. The shaft ended in a small, glossy tuft of blond pubic hair that barely curled because it was so fine.

When my hand was nice and wet with a big wad of my spit, I worked my fingers up and down the head and shaft of Peter’s cock. I got it lubed up and slippery, and started to jack him off—but gently. He was moaning pretty loudly and his eyelids were fluttering, but I didn’t want him to come yet. Not before I’d had a little more fun.

I pretty much had him where I wanted at this point. His muscles were twitching involuntarily, and he had laid his sopping wet head down on my chest as his breathing became more and more uneven.

“Not yet,” I teased.

He lifted his head and looked up at me, grinning. My cock was completely solid and straining to be sucked, so I rolled Peter over and climbed on top of him.

I sat my ass down on his crotch so that our nutsacks were rubbing up against one another. Mine was tight and pulled up close to my body from the stimulation. I had a few coarse dark hairs covering it. But Peter had a beautiful pair of low-hangers—two perfect globes swinging at the bottom of his huge velvety sack. As I swiveled my hips back and forth, our balls tickled one another and we both gasped.

I leaned forward so that my cock was pressed flat against his. Mine was a little shorter, but thicker than his, and the friction that I generated as I swayed back and forth on his hips felt as if I were kindling a fire with our two dicks. We both sighed with pleasure. But I still wasn’t ready.

I sat up on my knees and scooted up Peter’s body so that my cock was level with his face.

“Ever suck cock before, swim boy?” I asked, half joking.

But Peter was completely serious. “No,” he answered. “But will you let me?” He curled his lips back to show me his perfect, straight white teeth and his pink curling tongue.

“Get started,” I said, ramming almost my entire cock into his mouth. I did it to be cruel a little bit and to show him who was in charge. I might have been smaller and not as strong, but he was going to do what I wanted.

Peter spluttered and gagged when my cock punched into the back of his throat, but he didn’t spit it out and he didn’t complain. His eyes started to water as he greedily slurped on my cock, keeping it rammed all the way down his throat as he sucked for all he was worth and used his tongue to lap at the bottom of my shaft.

I nearly lost it, looking down at him working away at my member. But I looked back and saw that Peter’s cock was starting to go limp, so I pulled my dick out of his mouth with a big sucking pop sound, and turned around to work on him. I took tiny teasing swipes at the tip of his cock with my tongue, coaxing it back into life. As soon as it began to stir, I ran my tongue gently up and down the sides and bottom, making it twitch.

Meanwhile, I moved my own hips so that my junk was dangling right over Peter’s mouth. He was a quick study and before I knew it, we were both working on each other at once. As soon as he had gotten comfortable running his mouth up and down my penis, I started to pump my hips gently, fucking his mouth. He got it, and stopped moving his head so that I could thrust at my own rhythm, delving deeper and deeper into his soft throat tissue. He gave me a little surprise when he started playing with my asshole, first with one finger, then with two. He had gotten them all wet with his spit and he was being so gentle that it felt heavenly. I was pretty tight to start with—after all, I’d had sex only a handful of times by then and my asshole wasn’t broken in by any standards. But he was so sweet, giving my ass crack a little finger massage and tentatively delving into my fleshy little pink rosebud that I started to wiggle my ass a little to let him know I liked it.

I could tell he liked it, too, because his cock got positively enormous and was oozing precum like a leaky spigot. I didn’t mind, though, because his jizz was mild and liquid, with just the faintest taste of salt as it slid down my throat.

I knew I didn’t have much longer before I was going to come, and I could tell Peter didn’t, either, so I pulled myself off him and turned to face him, laying my body along his so that our sweat and precum mingled on our stomachs.

In the gloaming I could just barely make out his sweet, open features, but I could tell he was happy. I had to ask.

“You’re a virgin, right?” I asked.

“What?” he said, suddenly alarmed and sitting up.

“It’s okay, I’m a virgin, too. Or, I’ve never been with a girl, and I’ve only had protected sex with guys. I’m HIV negative.”

“Oh. That’s…”

I was getting impatient, though, and I kept going, “I’m only asking because I want you to fuck me. I’m going to come any minute, and I want you to be fucking me when I do it.”

“Wow,” was all Peter could muster.

“Yeah,” I said. “So that’s why I was asking. You’re a virgin, right? You’ve never had sex with anyone?”

“Just my high school girlfriend,” he admitted sheepishly.

“And you’ve been tested since then?”

“Yeah, before I came to college, but I haven’t…”

“Me, neither,” I said, “so it’s okay if we fuck bareback.”

“Bareback?”

I smiled and said knowingly, “Oh, Peter, you have so much to learn. I’ll show you.”

He still looked puzzled as I turned back away from him to see how his cock was doing. It’s a good thing we were young, because even after such a sobering conversation, his soldier was completely at attention. And thanks to my efforts, it was covered in copious amounts of slobbery spit.

I placed a leg on either side of his, straddling him with my ass right over his cock. I held it straight up like a spear as I gently lowered my hindquarters onto it. It was bigger than I’d thought, and the head was round and wide. It took a little effort and deep breathing on my part, but as soon as I got that big mushroom head past my sphincter, I relaxed and it was smooth sailing. In a moment, I had slid almost his entire shaft up into my anal cavity. I tensed my ass muscles around it so that the head of his prick poked at my prostate and sent shivers up my spine. I looked down at Peter’s face again to see that his eyes had rolled back in his head and his eyelids were fluttering again. With each new movement, he was groaning at full voice like I was pulling the orgasm out of him.

Slowly at first, since I was still new at this myself, I started to bounce up and down on his cock. I relaxed my asshole as much as I could so that I could move faster and faster. With each swivel, my ass enveloped more and more of his rod until it was balls deep into me. Peter’s cock was definitely the biggest I’d fucked at that point, and it hurt a little, but it felt so good that I couldn’t stop. The friction of his cock in my anus was almost too much to bear, and it got both better and worse as Peter started to catch on. I started to whimper a little with the mingled ache and ecstasy as he stretched the taut skin of my asshole with his sturdy shaft. I started to tug at my cock, working my hand up and down it as I came closer and closer to coming. We were both working together toward something now.

He thrust his ass up and down in time with my own pulsing, so that his rod plunged into me as deep as it would go, as fast as it would go. We were soon a single, breathless entity thrusting and rocking and clinging to each other at a furious pace as we approached the thrilling rush of orgasm.

All at once, Peter started emitting shallow, feral grunts. Through a clenched jaw, he managed to growl, “Arghhg, I’m going to come, I’m going to come!”

“Yeah, come in me!” I shouted back, pulling my own cock harder. I was going to explode at any moment, and I wanted to feel Peter’s man juice in me as I did.

Suddenly Peter’s body went as stiff as a plank and his hips bucked up with a tremendous force, sending his cock all the way into me.

I couldn’t stifle a little cry of pain as his cockhead rammed all the way up into my ass cavity and punched into my prostate. Then all at once, I felt Peter’s cock start to twitch and I used the muscles of my ass walls to latch onto his cock. After two twitches, I felt something warm shooting into me, and it was as though Peter’s cum was electric current rushing from his body into mine as it jump-started my own climax.

Just as Peter’s breathing was starting to normalize and his cock seized up for the last time, I could feel the rush of my own load of sperm working its way out of my cock. I gave my dick one last, forceful yank and then just held on as my load worked its way down my shaft and out my piss hole.

My jizz shot high up into the air—higher than I’d ever seen it go. One spurt hit me in the chin, and the rest arced over Peter’s torso and drizzled down on his face and neck as I shot wave after wave of creamy juice in his direction. Peter was smiling again and I could see his tongue darting around his mouth and chin, licking at the stray drops of my cum that were drenching his face.

After nine or ten rounds, my muscles stopped contracting and I gingerly slid off of Peter’s softening cock. I could feel the stream of his still-warm jizz dripping out of my fuck hole as I got fully free of him, and I squatted for a moment to get it all out before I collapsed on top of Peter.

There we were, in the middle of a steamy Parisian summer night, covered in each other’s sweat and jizz, reeking of perspiration, sex, bad cooking, wine and city smog—it was heaven.

We spent a few moments just lying there as our heartbeats slowed to normal and our breathing became regular and synchronized. Peter was the first to speak.

“I can’t believe we had to fly across the ocean and live in Paris to meet each other.”

“But would this have been nearly as good if it had happened in any other way, at any other time, in any other place?” I wondered aloud.

He gathered me up in his arms and sweetly turned my chin upward so that I was facing him. “No, probably not,” he conceded, “but I bet it’ll still be pretty good when we get back to school.”

I laughed and kissed him before inviting him to share a cold dousing in my cramped, ancient, little shower.

We cooled off together, but only for a short time, because we were soon at it again. And we kept at it all summer—in his apartment or mine, in train sleeping compartments on overnight journeys through Europe, at the cottage by the beach we borrowed from a coworker of mine, and once even in a secluded restroom at the Louvre. We were young and full of excitement and romance and energy—among other things. We were Americans in Paris.

And Peter was right that night. It was good when we got back to school—but only for a little while. We soon drifted apart and found new romantic partners. But one thing we’ll always have together is that long, hot summer in Paris.