Performance

Last night I spent an hour and a half with legs splayed, arms outstretched and slack, head tipped back, eyes closed, cock turgid, while a hairy cumfreak slobbered all over my groin, eagerly getting me close to orgasm, then obeying when I said to back off, waiting to sense the feeling had subsided, then working my dick again to the precum-ozzing brink, over and over. I came so hard when I finally gave in to the pleasure that my balls were sore for almost an hour afterward. Dude cleaned me out completely.

About half an hour in, the guy told me, between slurps, "The last guy I sucked off for 35 minutes, and he said that was a long time." I looked him in his pale green eyes. "That's not a long time," I scoffed. "I'll show you a long time. You suck that dick all you want. That dick is all yours" And he ate it up. He gave me more and then said, "Your dick is mine? All mine?" I grinned a little, and taunted, "Yes.... for today." This actually made him laugh, and grab my tool, and just gaze at it with delight from different angles. He told me he loved my dick, but even more, he said, he liked my "attitude."

There is something of a performance aspect to being an oral top... and something terribly needy about being an oral bottom-- deeply, psychologically needy, I think, almost Freudian. Not just a homely "Oh I NEED dick, I NEED cum," but "I need praise, I need to be filled, I need something I don't get from everyone." One of the things that cocksucking dudes seem to respond to most, no matter who they are, is being called a "good boy." And the ironist in me loves getting that reaction from, say, a huge muscular dude who's pushing 40 and could get a much hotter guy than me. But many tops don't inhabit the role right, they don't give the performance required, they're mean, they're cocky, they're stupid. So these particular cocksuckers, whose entire soul can seem to reside in their mouths and bellies, gravitate towards guys like me.

Today I can't quite remember any highlights of the constant stream of sexy nonsense that issued from my mouth during this epic service session. I made a big show of pulling my tool out of his mouth when I felt myself producing precum, and slowly squeezing it up through the tube along the length of my dick till it beaded up, a clear and sparkling little globe nestled in the involuted curves of my fleshy fat dickhead. And he made a big show of stopping short, dazed, hypnotized by my sex, worshipful of my dick and everything it produces, slowly leaning in and extending his tongue to dip into the sweet nectar, like a butterfly on a honeysuckle of meat, pulling away slowly so that the bead extended into a long glistening string of goo connecting him to me. He liked when I used my dick muscles to pulse my meat in his mouth, and would do the same rapt, stopping routine to demonstrate his pleasure and reverence of my sex. "God, I love feeling that," he'd say after a respectful interval, and I would pulse it hard, at the rhythm and speed of my ejaculation, and say, "This is how it's going to feel when I cum in you." He asked me to do it two more times. "Show me how it's going to be when you cum," he would sigh, and I would demonstrate for him again, and his face would go slack and helpless.

This big hairy, meaty, helpless man crouched between my thighs, taking and giving, never letting up.

"I knew you were going to be good," I said at one point, after he discovered a way to amuse himself with obscene, animalistic slurping motions involving his lips, tongue, and entire head. It felt pretty good actually but was a bit much. I wasn't lying or pretending-- he was really good and had the perfect attitude-- but I had calculated this utterance to make him even hotter for my dick. He pulled off and looked me in the face. "How did you know?" Something at the bottom of his spine had been tickled by what I said and was flushing it's way through his blood stream, I could tell. "You can tell," I said authoritatively. "It can just be a word or two that you say online. But you can always tell." And that is also pretty true. But it just made his face almost crumple with pleasure and helplessness and more need to be stuffed full of tubesteak and drink cum. Counterintuitively, praising his skill makes a good cocksucker more helpless than ever. At this point he was nothing without my praise and without my meat inside him and he knew it and I let him know I knew it. He worked at me with renewed vigor... exactly what I'd intended. You can't let these things get stale, or you can't make it last.

There is something a little sad about these sessions, despite how hard they make my erection, how dizzying being held over the cliff of orgasm by a skilled cocksucker, dangling only by your dick. I'm a pretty intelligent guy, I have a master's degree, almost finished a PhD! I have a husband, friends, a life. But for untold hours of my life, I'm reduced to this purely sexual being, coaxing another guy to spend as much time as possible on this sexual rite by thinking up new ways to say the few things you can say in this situation, given the few parts involved, the small universe of pleasure and pleasing and cocks and cum and nipples and tongues. It is both a terribly narrow world and a vast, wide, dazzling one. It can be conflicting.

He wanted me to warn him when I was going to cum; he told me an entire liturgy I was to say in that event. I don't follow direction well, though; when he had edged me for the fourth time and I knew I couldn't take any more of that, after a long period of silence when I was slack and open and mindless, I lifted my head up, looked at my fat fuckstick between his lips, felt the tension rising, and said simply, "I'm close... but I think I'm going to have to let my dick do the talking." And it did... grew more and more rigid with each stroke of his tongue, and poured out one long smooth stream of precum on his tongue, and then began furiously pulsing out over a week's worth of ejaculate. "Don't stop, just keep hitting that spot," I said rather urgently, and he obeyed perfectly, and a torrent of sperm flooded into him; he was having trouble keeping it in his mouth and some spilled down the side of my dick, ran along an engorged vein, stopped by the thicket of my pubes. He pulled off and coughed, and stared at my dick intently, caught his breath, and sucked me more. I was just coming down, but the renewed sucking did something to me, I wanted to cum again instantly, I really felt it, so I pushed him off and jerked my dick up and down until it began pulsing again; not much came out but this instant second orgasm was so much more intense than the second that I had to cry out.

"How'd you DO that," he asked, gazing at my dick, watching me squeeze out more white goo. "I don't know," I said, "it just happened."

He wanted me to play with his nipples while he beat off his own fat, meaty cock. I swiped a bunch of the wasted cum out of my pubes and coated his nips with it, and flicked the newly gooey nubbins gently while his body stiffened and his dick shot out a few ribbons of grey liquid.

It was good. He was pretty damn good.

I went to go clean out my pubes and get dressed, and we chatted amiably about Adam4Adam, where we met; he'd recently signed up and thought everyone there was a useless flake. He started to go on about it, caught himself, visibly felt foolish, but I told him I understood, there was a lot of wasted time there. Sometimes even when you score, even when it's good, you wonder if you've wasted your time! He gave me an incredible orgasm, but I will need another one before too long. I'm not the type who can just get off and be satisfied. I need that performance myself, I need that epic investment of time, I need the long slow buildup. It's not the most important thing to me. I don't need it every day. But I need it every time I need it. And I'm glad I'm gay, and there are men out there with the complementary need. Sometimes we find each other and it is the purest satisfaction there is. He's stuffed with my cum and my head and nuts are cleared. Balance is restored...

...until it's showtime again.