Apart Together

Sometimes it's just fun to stick your dick in someone and pound away till your nuts burst open with slippery nectar. Especially if the other dude kisses like a dream and is visibly overwhelmed in the moment with his pleasure at being mounted, groped, pushed and prodded, and seeks out your dick with a shameless, undisguised pleasure. The guy I fucked tonight had an amazingly firm, meaty, shapely upper body-- wide, square, muscular shoulders that took the brunt of my weight without yielding a millimeter, and a hard tight torso covered with short, stubbly hair that awakened the nerves in my own body as I moved against his. When I was eating his ass he accepted my tongue into him with suppleness, but a finger or two suggested he would be very tight. His looks and build made me unusually intimidated-- he is older than me but has extremely handsome, all-american looks, if a little boyish-- and I felt like I wasn't going to perform well when we first touched and kissed; I panicked a little, feeling inadequate. But he seemed very into me and I finally let my guard down and slowly felt that connected feeling I have when the sex gets good, when I lose myself and become one with the act of pleasuring another body by pleasuring my own body with his. His tongue slithered into my mouth over and over, not the rigid probing of the clueless but the languid contact with mine that amplifies the feeling of not knowing where one body stops and the other starts. I mounted him and thrust against his hard musculature. He was wearing a hard metal cockring which suddenly slammed against my right nut and made me have to stop the proceedings for a minute to recover. And while I was eating his ass at the side of the bed, his dog came over and nosed me gently, thankfully not sticking his snout in my own ass, which probably would have made me faint with cognitive dissonance. But other than those amusing little mishaps, I lay upon him and my body melted into him and I knew I had to get my hard rod in him despite his tightness, had to cum in him and have that ultimate union. I aimed and pushed and despite the initial resistance I slid in all the way up to the balls and he took me like a champ. He looked so good beneath me. His body was lightly scented with some cologne, which almost never happens any more and reminds me of fucking guys in the 90s. The scent somehow seemed like another part of him I was sensually uniting with. That ultimate union.

And yet.

Afterward I felt completely lifted up, almost baptized with pleasure. His face had been so handsome, so open to me and full of desire when I told him I couldn't hold back any more and I slammed my ejaculate into him, over and over, pounding the bed into the wall noisily as I unloaded. He was verbal throughout but only knew two words to express how he was feeling: "Oh shit." I held the sides of his hard body tight as I ejaculated everything I had into him, and he repeated "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.". And I pulled hard on his nipples and forced myself into him as deeply as I could while he pushed himself over the precipice of orgasm as well-- he'd stayed rock-hard the whole time I fucked him, which I love, and which I don't think was due merely to the cockring. It was due to us sharing fantastic, physical, athletic, mutually pleasurable sex. I love it when this happens-- this kind of orgasm, following this kind of connection, makes me feel as if my brain has been reset, garbage has been collected, defaults restored. We chatted amiably after as I got dressed, and I felt the kind of fellowship you have with a receptive guy you just pounded into oblivion with a minimum of fuss-- we arranged this hookup in mere minutes, and I only had to walk about 5 blocks to his place. I thanked him and kissed him as I left, and the only negative coda was that the dog had wet in the hallway by the door, apparently jealous of me, or whatever. Boyishly Handsome looked at it with dismay and called the dog a son of a bitch, and I apologized as if it was my fault, and he said don't worry about it, and I left.

I felt very fine indeed. I found a cozy restaurant nearby that served very nice Italian food, served by a waiter who I felt looked absurdly like the movie star who would play Little Beard Big Nose-- much more handsome and regular-featured, darker beard and more sultry eyes, very diffidently but also exuberantly Italian, but slight like LBBN, with the same accent. I read my novel and enjoyed my food and decided I felt too good; I needed to dissipate a bit more of it, and texted Boyishly Handsome to tell him the fuck had put me in an excellent mood, was just what I needed, and thanks again. I think I imagined a like-minded reply; certainly hoped for one because of course he felt the same, and what's the harm in saying so? But he never replied at all.

I've been around the block far too many times to feel truly disappointed by this, but it jolts one back to a level of reality that you leave for a bit when you fuck-- while the entire universe seems to contract to a little sensual cocoon around two intermingled male bodies, one pouring his inner secretions into the other, both locked at the lips in what feels like an inside-out embrace, there are still two universes there, barely separated in space as you press your faces together, but separated on another plane by an infinity of unknowing. What did I project onto him, what did he project onto me, what did he feel that is not completely explained by a rock-hard oozing dick? What does any of this mean?

I walked through Times Square to take a train more distant than I needed to, and it was largely deserted at that time on a Tuesday night, but the huge screens kept mutely flashing for the blank walls of the tall hotel buildings anyway. Everything felt surreal; the novel I'm reading is about unreality and inept searches for authentic experience. It was like I was looping.

I got to the train, read some more, and at the transfer started to walk into a subway car which was carrying, even more absurdly, the *real* Little Beard Big Nose, plugged into an iPod and looking down at something he was reading. I reflexively turned back and got on the next car, thinking it would be awkward to talk to him on the slow ride home. Then I thought he might ask me about the book I was reading and I could ask about his and we could have a nice conversation maybe, since he always scampers away after we fuck, yet always comes back for more. Then I realized this wish to show off and use a talisman like a book to conjure up my identity and a connection was also like something that might happen in my novel, and very silly and adolescent. For the rest of the ride home I felt like the dumbest guy in the world.

Sex is such powerful juju. Like a hallucination, it's intensely felt physically, but is not in and of itself real or lasting. Soon I'll go in to curl up against my partner, who I haven't had sex with in years, and feel a real warmth radiating from his body that, tomorrow in the daylight, will be mirrored in the warmth of his words and our experiences together. It will miss that intensity that fucking a stranger has, but we will have that togetherness I talk myself into believing has happened on that other plane in moments of intense physical pleasure. I'm very lucky to have both, and hope I never forget it.