Chapter 8 Clowning Around #2
He sipped more wine. “I was six or seven years old. My dad took me to watch a high school basketball game. Wellston, Oklahoma. The ‘Tigers.’” It was the first such game he remembered.
Wooden bleachers sticky from decades of spilled soda.
Whistles and shouting and buzzers echoing off the walls.
Players scrambling from one end of the court to the other, seemingly at random.
Jake leaned back in his chair as if settling in for a good conversation. It was not lost on Matt, though, that Jake’s ass edged forward, spreading his legs a tad more, allowing light into the hidden crevasse Matt longed to explore.
“We were seated right behind the home bench. Towards the end of the game, one of the players got substituted out. He’d been running hard.
There was less than a minute on the clock.
Their team was winning. This player absently stripped off his jersey and started mopping the sweat from his face and neck. ”
“Go on,” Jake said. In his semi-reclined position, his pink ball sack was beautifully framed by his dark pube and taint hair, a friar’s bald pate rising above his fringe.
Jake’s scrotum was exactly the kind of plump coin purse a prowling cat would have, with just enough room for its two kidney shaped testicles and no more.
Matt’s throat went dry with desire.
He sipped more wine. “The only shirtless guys I’d seen until then were either kids my age or older guys like my dad. You know, paunches, spindly arms, saggy chests.”
“Scary stuff,” Jake agreed.
Matt continued. “I was too young to know about sex. I just remember thinking that kid was beautiful. It confused me because I’d never heard anyone describe a guy as beautiful.
Girls were the ones who were supposed to be beautiful or pretty.
I’d never thought of a girl the way I did that guy.
I just wanted to hug him, to connect with that beauty in the only way my little mind could imagine. ”
“Aww, that’s a wonderful story,” Jake said. “Thank you.”
Matt asked Jake the same question, about the first time he knew he was gay.
Jake met Matt’s gaze and held it. “I’ll be glad to answer that if you really want to know. But eventually you’re going to have to make the first move here.”
Matt gulped.
“You have to venture out of the shallow end of the pool, baby,” Jake said. “Eventually we all do. Not everyone gets a friendly swim coach like me.”
Matt took one more sip of wine, then set the glass on the floor. He gave up on the idea of scripting this scene, remembering William’s advice when they had hooked up in the cargo area of Matt’s Jeep. “Throw the script away,” William had said. “This is Improv.”
Matt crossed to Jake, crouched beside the chair. He leaned in and kissed this beautiful boy. He planned to do more than hug him.
He explored Jake’s chest with one hand, teasing his nipples. Quickly, though, Matt’s hand migrated south, inexorably drawn there by a force greater than gravity. Their tongues were locked in an ancient dance, exchanging saliva as prelude to other exchanges.
Jake slid down in the chair, eased his leg higher on the armrest, offering accessibility.
Matt’s fingers read their way to the hole as if the soft hairs beneath them encoded the map in a sort of braille.
He paused at the sphincter.
Instinct had led him this far but left him stranded with uncertainty. All he knew was that he wanted to plunge into the deep end of that pool, to make intimate connection with Jake. He hesitated, on the edge of the cliff.
Swim coach to the rescue! Jake broke off the kiss.
“It takes lube, baby. Assholes aren’t self-lubricating like vaginas.
Store-bought lube is the gold standard, especially for fucking.
There’s some in the dresser in the bedroom.
Pre-cum is second best. Saliva will do for fingering and maybe fucking—for guys smaller than you. ”
“Thanks, coach,” Matt grinned.
He reached over and milked Jake’s cockhead until his fingers were slick with pre-cum. Soon enough Matt’s middle finger was deep inside Jake, tapping his prostate, eliciting low, guttural moans.
It was time to fuck.
Matt scooped Jake out of the chair, carried him to the bedroom, and set him on the bed.
Jake watched as Matt retrieved the lube and slathered it on his dick.
“Roll over,” Matt ordered. There was urgency in his voice. “I’m going to fuck you face down.”
If Jake was surprised by Matt’s new authority, he didn’t show it. He rolled over and spread his legs. His blue-shod feet dangled off the edge of the bed. He arched his ass in readiness. “Remember to go slow,” was all he said.
Matt straddled Jake’s hips.
He separated the ass cheeks reverently, gazing down at the hole—the first one he had ever beheld—as if it were the Holy Grail and he a Knight Templar.
This had been his fantasy for five long years—fucking a guy facedown.
He knew, on a certain level, that this was rooted in his own experience, his thirteen-year-old self pinned down, penetrated, sobbing with pain.
It didn’t take a psychologist to understand that some portion of this fantasy involved Matt’s rescuing his younger self.
He would be the penetrator. He would be on top.
But this time things would unspool differently.
There would not be blood. There would be no sudden rage at Jake, calling him a filthy faggot, ordering him to clean up his mess and go home.
Matt would be gentle and caring. He would not take more than he gave. He would ensure that Jake was sated. Or, to borrow William’s imagery, he would earn a five-star review.
Matt teased the hole’s edges apart, stared into the tiny slot that looked barely able to accommodate a finger. Matt had often pondered whether these wonders were round and puckered like a cat’s, cratered like calderas, or yawned open like Venus fly traps.
This one was a perfect little buttonhole. It was outlined by a tiny, pale, pencil line ridge.
Matt’s throat went dry—again. There was no wine to wet it this time.
He swallowed. “Your hole is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
Matt positioned his cockhead against the event horizon of Jake’s Pink Hole.
He applied pressure, trying to squeeze in.
“You’re too high,” Jake advised.
Matt corrected the angle, pushed again.
“Still too high.”
On Matt’s third at bat, the buttonhole surrendered its secrets, much as the cave of treasures had opened for Ali Baba when he’d uttered the magic phrase “Open Sesame.”
Matt watched his cockhead squeeze inside, was fascinated as Jake’s ass sealed over it.
Matt gauged the depth of penetration by the atmospheric pressure moving down his shaft. Eventually he reached the limit. His ball sack grazed Jake’s ass.
Instinctively, Matt waited, giving Jake’s body time to adjust.
Matt lowered his upper body until his chest was against Jake’s back.
He found Jake’s hands, clasped them with his own, fingers interlocked. He eased Jake’s arms to an outstretched crucifixion position. Matt’s mouth was near Jake’s left ear.
“Ready, beautiful?” Matt asked softly.
“Yes.”
Matt’s legs were inside Jake’s own. Matt spread his legs, stretching Jake further, gaining, in the process, more real estate to penetrate.
Matt bred Jake, rolling his own hips until his pubis bone ground against Jake’s sacrum, feeling the gorge building, adjusting his stroke to elicit the same Pentecostal mewlings from Jake as Matt had sputtered while impaled by William.
He pumped through his orgasm, his final thrusts delivered like the sharp taps of Morse Code.
He rolled the two of them onto their sides. With his left arm around Jake’s chest, Matt held him close, his cock still buried in Jake’s ass.
Matt hawked up a wad of spit into his right palm. Then he reached around and grasped Jake’s cock.
Jake moaned.
Matt whispered in Jake’s ear. His voice was low, commanding.
“There’s no time to get more lube. No time to milk you for more pre-cum. You’ve got this little wad of spit. That’s it. Now cum for me. Cream my hand. And when you do, I’m going to lick my fingers and swallow every drop. We’ll each have the other’s cum inside us.”
It took only a few strokes before Jake’s entire body stiffened. Rigor mortis of the orgasmic kind.
No wonder, Matt thought, the French called this the “little death.”
Matt cupped his hand to capture the jets of warm cream.