I thought I knew myself
Seeing past preconceptions.
I don’t do under-40s. I don’t do horse-hung guys. Yet Alberto is pushing his dick in and out of my hole and making me gurgle, something that at 63 I’d thought I’d forgotten how to do. In case you hadn’t realised, Alberto is, I’d guess, 22, and has a huge knob. It’s fat and flat and enormous, its purple dome is at least the size of a plum and its shaft wide and thick, so he’s not only long, at least 10 inches, but girthy too.
He’s skilled as well, switching from a fast, staccato pounding, where he sinks his entire length into me and withdraws to the tip, to a slow insertion of half his dick that makes my arse feel like it’s being massaged and that it can suck in or push out exactly the amount of engorged flesh it wants.
As he fucks me, his eyes are glued to mine. When he’s fast his lips morph into a tight little moue, clearly enjoying my channel as it tightens round his cock and releases; when he’s slow he grins and licks his lips, savouring my anal opening as it pulls him in and lets him go.
He eases out of my hole and pulls my legs flat to the mattress as he knee-walks up me until he’s sitting over my dick. He wraps his hand round it and eases the foreskin up and down until the shaft is full of blood again, then holds it up and slides his hole down onto it.
His eyes fix on mine as he grinds his arse cheeks against my upper thighs, ensuring that every one of my five inches is inside him. He sets up a rhythm, rising until my cock is held in place just by the tip of my glans, then pushes down, dragging his little circle of muscle over my helmet and then down the extent of my engorged penis.
As he eases up and down a sparkle comes into his eyes, telling me that he’s enjoying being fucked as much as I’m enjoying fucking him.
I reach forward and brush my thumbs over his nipples. His eyes roll back and, before I really know it, he’s emptying his load all over my chest, spurting so it hits my chin and then mingles with my chest hair.
His orgasm triggers me and I shoot my jism deep into his arse. He rides my cock, making sure I can feel my own cum as it coats his channel and my dick.
I vaguely recall my spent length slipping out of him as it softens, post climax. I guess I must have just rolled over and slept.
I awake to an empty space on his side of the bed and I assume he’s just dressed and slipped away. It isn’t unusual, after all, for my conquests to let themselves out and disappear before I rouse. I’m quite a heavy sleeper. I can hear him banging about in the kitchen, though.
Alberto? I mentally fumble around for last night’s name. Yes, Alberto. The echoes of our fuck stiffen my cock again as I take my dump.
As my mind fills with images of us shafting each other I realise Alberto is a real discovery.
I’ve given up (mostly) on the under-40s and the big-dicked because of the way they make me feel. I love sex but I’m tired of the alternative motivations. I just want to enjoy another guy’s physicality and have him enjoy mine.
Alberto, is, on the face of it, different. Our fuck seemed to be the kind of mutual fun I yearn for. Two guys enjoying each others’ bodies.
Alberto didn’t make me feel that he’d been fucked by me and fucked me with half an eye on my bank account.
Alberto didn’t make me feel like he’d rather be with a younger, fitter, less wrinkly, less pot-bellied lover.
Alberto didn’t make me feel like an unpaid psychotherapist, allowing some insecure diva to feel good about himself and the conquest he’d made.
Alberto didn’t make me feel like it was my responsibility to be the universal solution to his problems and that it was my fault he had them.
“Just fuck ‘em,” my mate Theo had advised. “You’re too sensitive.”
Yes, I get that. I acknowledge that there’s a place for empty sex (when the mood strikes). It’s really difficult to find that, though. I’m a man who enjoys sex, not a baggage handler.
As I arrive in the kitchen, Alberto, stark naked and apparently perfectly at home, is just serving up scrambled eggs on toast for us both. We make small talk over coffee, then he showers, dresses and leaves. It’s uncomplicated but pleasant to be involved in such a routine domestic situation.
The invitation is a surprise. Dinner. At Alberto’s. We’d met a few times after our first shag at various events and I’d seen him having sex with many different men… big, small, skinny, fat, older, younger, there appeared to be no limit. Each time I’d met him, though, we’d had a conversation. I’d slid my dick into his hole several times. It was always velvety and welcoming. I’d dumped my load there a couple of times too.
He’d put his knob into me just as many times and I always felt it was where it should be. Except for one thing. I’d become slightly obsessed with his spunk. There was something about it. It was just right. In my palm; on my body; in my mouth. Oh yes! It tasted fab too. Yum! Most men just swallow as soon as cum pumps into their mouth. Alberto’s made me want to play with it. Roll it around among my teeth and over my tongue. Savour it as much as possible.
Alberto opens the front door stark naked. I’d hoped we might be taking our clothes off at some point but he seems perfectly happy in the buff. He gestures to the sofa and says “just put your stuff there”. I assume he means I should undress too. “Just come through when you’re ready,” he says. When I arrive in the kitchen he wraps his arms around me. I can feel his semi and he must be able to feel mine. It’s just a hug, though, even though we’re both responding, there no sexual drive.
I get another surprise. In the kitchen the table is set as if for a date. Candles, flowers… the lot. I’d half expected there to be others present, so, pleasant as the prospect is, there’s a little pressure too… to keep the conversation rolling along.
He’s a good cook, just enough of a starter and a tasty main. As we pause before dessert I say: “I hadn’t expected it to be just the two of us,”.
“It was about time,” he offers, meeting my gaze and holding it.
“Was it?,” I ask.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “About time I showed you that we’re not all money- and attention-grabbing divas. That some of us are continuously cruising because that’s what we want and enjoy but we recognise something meaningful too. My face apparently screws up in response to what appears to be a rebuke. “I’m not judging you,” he hurriedly offers. “I perfectly understand why you feel that way. We live in a world where you’re apparently regarded as valid only if you have a gym routine, that being rich (just about) compensates for not having at least an eight-inch knob, that you are what’s in your wallet, not what’s in here.” He pats his chest over his heart. “I totally understand and empathise with that, it’s a harsh world, the gay world especially. Maybe some of us, however, deserve a bit more credit.”
“Um, OK,” I splutter, surprised by his words.
“You don’t really sound as if it’s OK,” he says. “Just take a pause. It’s like you’re on autopilot. So much so that you can’t see what you claim to want because you’ve become so used to it not being there.”
“Take a look around you,” he continued, gesturing to the comfortable flat. “It’s not about the money.”
“It’s not about knob size either. If I want a big knob, I know where to get one. If I want a black knob, I know where to get one. If I want any kind of knob, I know where to get one.”
“I’m not stupid or empty. Yes, I’ve had some therapy, a lot of people have these days. There’s stuff that I’ll always have with me but I’m not trying to solve my life. I like having sex because I enjoy it. Sex is just part of me, though. I like looking at paintings in galleries too.”
“I like having sex with different people. Yet I keep coming back to you. I’ve had sex with you more times than with anyone (other than folk I’ve been in relationships with… and, before you ask, there haven’t been many of those and they all lasted a matter of weeks).”
He looks at me, expectantly. So I take my time and consider what he’s said.
“You’re right,” I eventually say. “I do do that and I hadn’t realised it. I am a man, however, who is over 60 with what is often considered a small cock. The stereotypes don’t exist for no reason. They exist because of the way people behave and it’s not easy to have them directed at me. Older guys don’t make the stereotypes up. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been ignored, or worse patronised, because of my age… or because I have a belly… or because I’m a bit wrinkly… or because my dick is not 10 inches long. And yet I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m a crap lover. In fact I’d risk being thought immodest by saying I’ve received a lot of positivity because, apparently, I shag in a considerate way.”
“You’ve never made me feel any of those things and I applaud you for that but I also acknowledge what you say. So let’s talk some more and see where we get to. In the meantime, though, my tongue is tired of talking, maybe I can put it to use another way.”
I rise, move round the table and then take his hands, pulling him up to standing. Of course, he’s taller than me… but not so tall that I can’t bring my lips against his, letting them rub and play together as I kiss him. When he begins to kiss me back I bring my tongue into play. For the first time there’s real emotion in my actions and I can feel that Alberto feels it.
I shift my focus to his shoulder, then to his spine, giving each vertebra some attention as I kiss my way down.
As I get low enough I push between his shoulder blades until he bends forwards, his hands resting on his table and his bum cheeks beginning to separate.
I continue on to his tailbone, giving it plenty of lip action until I bring my hands on to his arse cheeks and spread them, exposing his pert little pucker, hiding slightly in his neat little patch of fur.
He shifts his feet apart, so I can see his delicious balls hanging in their sack beneath his perineum and his dick behind them.
I blow on his opening and celebrate first as he jumps a little and then as a sigh escapes his mouth. I let the little stream of air play over his entrance, echoing its muscular circle with my pursed lips until my lungs are empty.
Then, after a brief pause, I reach the tip of my tongue forward and gently start to stroke the star-shaped crenulations. Teasing them with a light touch. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers. By now his dick has disappeared into hardness and his testicles are cradled by a tauter scrotum.
Circles, licks, kisses, mouth rubs, nose rubs, chin rubs. All play their part as he gets more and more excited.
He grunts and groans and sighs and swears until his tight little anus begins to relax. I can see his lips parting, giving me access to a greater area of play. “Please,” he says. “Fuck me.” I don’t want to, though. I’m having far too much fun rimming him, which I continue to do, attending to his opening hole as much as I dab at the areas around it.
When I can hear that he’s ready I flatten my tongue and run a broad sweep over his hole. He fires his juice onto the floor in front of him.
Alberto, it seems, likes to be rimmed. Another discovery.
This story was written as part of a Naked Men Talking Writing Workshop, in response to the prompt "Discovering". Copyright remains with the author - this story cannot be republished or distributed without the consent of the author.
Gareth Johnson