Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (20 page)

“You still there?”

A breathy sigh answered. “Am I still here,
what
?”

“You there, Sir?”

“I like that,” Jason growled. “Even better…”

By the time we got off the line, Jason was “Daddy,” and I’d begged him to let me worship his body, from the feet up.

It didn’t matter that I was older, rounder and less attractive, not in this power position. As for the second part of the equation, few men I’d met until that day—or after—could claim to be more attractive than Jason. He was, sacrilegious as this sounds even to me, a god among men.
Demigod
is the proper description, if I correctly remember my Greek mythology.

He asked to meet me in public. I agreed. If the hot voice on the phone line belonged to some troll, I still would have gone through with it. When a few of his photographs showed up in my email minutes after hanging up, the meeting was guaranteed. One showed the demigod-baseball jock seated at an outdoor restaurant at the ballpark in Baltimore, a longneck on the table before him. Dark blond hair under an old baseball cap shimmered in the sun. Eyes hid behind expensive silver shades. His T-shirt bore the logo of his favorite baseball team, his guns impressive without being showy, a hint of ink poking out beneath one sleeve.

Jason flashed a Joe Cool grin in the photograph that showed a hint of teeth, the gesture more snarl than smile. He hadn’t shaved and rocked the scruffster look. I imagined the rest of him was equally magnificent.

In the second, Jason lay sprawled across a single bed, the one in his college dorm room, I assumed, shown from the knees up, dressed in jeans, a different T, same baseball cap. His arms were behind his head. Jason’s body language suggested that the subject of the photograph was ready to be serviced, worshipped.

I jerked off to the images, guessed Jason had to mine, too, though for different reasons, a different kind of religion. He
was my Golden Calf, whereas I was his sacrificial lamb, his congregation of one.

Then I hopped into my car and drove to meet him. With my heart attempting to throw itself up my throat, I sat, waited. Humid August air ripe with the smells of a world cooking under the dog-day sun drifted through the open windows. I had taken this chance, a fairly fucking big one, but I told myself that the rewards were worth the risk.

So the story I was given went that Jason and six of his pals were traveling from Florida to Toronto, taking in major league baseball games at seven stadiums along the way as part of their summer adventure. They had just arrived in Boston for a weekend of hooting, scratching, and beating their chests at Fenway Park during the team’s home stand versus Detroit. He was straight. I didn’t challenge that concept throughout our initial phone chat on the party line, or the ones on my cell that soon followed. He was horny, curious. Wanted to dominate, to kick back and do zero work; wanted only to be worshipped. He’d heard that other dudes into dick would do things females refused to. I was happy to adore him as my king, my god. I wanted Jason’s feet.

My pulse hammered in anticipation. I took a swallow and found my mouth had dried to desert. Maybe it was really a trap—he and his buddies would descend on me en masse, drag me out of my car, strike up a little game of human piñata using their bats from the game of baseball they so loved and played like their lives depended upon it back at college in their native So Cal.

My cell rang. I recognized the number and answered.

“
Dawg
,” said Jason.

In vain, I attempted to conjure spit. “Hey, Sir…
Dad
.”

“That’s better,” Jason said.

His voice ramped up the heat, made my next sip of breath
more difficult than the last. I closed my eyes. “So where are you, Daddy?”

“Daddy’s right here,” Jason growled, the voice at my ear from the cell phone subservient to the one in real time, cast from the body now approaching the driver’s window. A scuffle of footsteps opened my eyes.

And there, radiant in the sunlight, stood proof of the divine: a demigod.

“Jason,” I said, smiled.

He got into the car. I drove. What followed changed my life forever. I like to think the fun we shared made a difference to him, too.

Daddy transcended even his emailed photographs: fresh-faced and All-American, this handsome, horny demigod jumped off a rookie baseball card and onto the big recliner in my apartment. He wore old blue jeans, expensive brand-name sneakers, white ankle-length socks, a T-shirt and ball cap, the bill aimed forward. Beneath that latter detail, some register not tasked with the struggle to breathe again noted the neat dirty-blond cut of his hair, the slight prickle sprouted on his cheeks, throat and chin, the dimple he flashed as a result of his lusty grin.

“Fucking
feet
,” he said, shook his head and laughed.

Flopped in the chair, Jason fixed me with a look. He then burped, snapped his fingers, and motioned me forward. Like a dog, I obeyed. Happily.

“Go to town, dude,” he said, his voice a raspy growl. “They should be nice and sweaty for you.”

I could tell by his tone—more so by the obvious tent at the front of his jeans—that the straight dude who wanted his needs serviced was done with the small talk. Feet are power; the man having his big boats sniffed, rubbed and licked holds all the
cards. At least he thinks so. The true victor is the passive, eager sock-sniffer desperate for his master’s foot odor, a reward that most of the world views as an embarrassment.

A real man’s smell. A true gift. I reached for Jason’s right sneaker and tugged.

His foot had marinated inside the leather long enough to produce the hot, buttery stink of jock feet I so craved. I massaged Jason’s instep, pressed my nostrils to the damp cotton underside of his toes and whiffed deeply.

“Fuck, that feels funny,” he sighed, and squeezed the meaty fullness at the front of his jeans.

“Good funny?”

Jason flashed a lusty smirk. “You know what Daddy likes.”

I did—as much as possible, given our new phone sex relationship. In the flesh, our mutual understanding grew even more intense, a sort of all-male yin and yang; the Master and the Mastered; owner of the foot and foot worshipper working in perfect unison.

I sniffed, got stoned on his scent and then moved over to Jason’s left foot. The double dose stoked my hunger. I reached higher, recording the scrape of coarse leg hair beneath my fingertips, before lowering again, removing his socks.

Casting a glance up, I saw the full gamut of emotions rising red on Jason’s throat and cheeks—equal parts amusement and shame, curiosity and cock-surety. He flexed his sweaty toes in anticipation.

“Do it,” he commanded. “Lick Daddy’s feet.”

And so I did.

I swirled my tongue around his big toe and the next in line, performing slow, salivating figure eights all the way down to the littlest. Throughout those seconds in which the temperature in the room skyrocketed and time slowed, I noted the sexiness of
his feet—a lifetime of playing sports hadn’t destroyed them—and the way Jason warmed to this new and unexpected twist in his summer-long adventure. He shook, groaned a litany of half-formed swears and sentences beneath his breath, and got it. Oh yeah.

“Fuck, Dawg…lick my fucking feet!”

I showed similar affection to his left, moved back to his right and lost all concept of time apart from the agonizing pulses of my dick, which complained for release from my jeans. But this was all about Jason and his needs, and so I worshipped his feet.

Right when I wondered if he’d let me do more and my lust for the rest of his body threatened to drive me insane with want, he aimed his forefinger and thumb at his package, gave a cool shake to indicate permission, and said, “Now suck on my bone.”

I honored his demand and, twice that afternoon, showed the same respect to Jason’s dick as I had to his feet. The first blast of salty-sour wad came quickly after having his toes slobbered on by another male who’d made it clear that few things were off the table. By the second, he even let me eat his ass, which he’d previously ruled out—“
No fucking way!
”—dating back to our first meeting on the phone line. But puzzle pieces had linked together, and the demigod allowed my mouth access to his most private flesh.

That first day, however, was all about Jason’s feet. Long minutes later, while he sat spent and sweaty, his hairy legs spread, his big nuts drained, he granted me permission to relieve myself.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I said and, licking his toes one final time, I jerked my dick to climax, happier at that moment than I could ever remember being.

* * *

A few nights later, my phone rang.

“’Sup, Dawg—it’s Daddy.”

“Sir,” I addressed him, as I always did in those wonderful weeks before Jason returned to his life in California, to college and to women.

He’s married now, a decade later, I discovered through one of your more popular social networking websites. There are recent photos of him that make my heart race—he still looks like he stepped out of mythology, a demigod among men. I wonder if he occasionally beats off over me and what I did for him that summer he and a few of his college baseball buddies set out to take in games in every major league park and stadium. After Fenway and Boston, his buddies moseyed north of the border.

“Coming back down through Mass on our way to New York,” he said. “I’m gonna sneak off from the guys…got a couple of extra days free. Thought I’d have you suck my dick and lick my stinky jock feet some more.”

Married now, and moved on. But during his return trip through Massachusetts, for a handful of memorable days that haunt me these many years later, Jason and his feet were mine, all mine.

PANTY BOY

Devondre Johnson

F
rom the arcade of a super-center sex store, from the secluded trails of Lost Lake where I watched you behind pine trees getting your dick sucked while dressed to the nine in garter belts and panties, is where I know you from. You dressed in all those girlish things. Your dick was bigger than I remembered it being when you showed it to me in a booth that was no bigger than a porta-potty crapper defaced with offers of sexual favors and cell numbers. I can’t do shit with a little dick, but I wasn’t always a size queen, not until I met Chris. But don’t concern yourself with him; he has nothing to do with you. He’s mine and if I catch you with him, I’ll kick your ass; I’ll cut off a limb. But I ain’t worried. He would never give someone like you the time of day: a boy that prances around in panties, pulling stockings over hairy legs, low-hanging balls tight under all that nylon. I’m so horny, but that doesn’t make it different from any other day. It’s no secret that I don’t get enough ass, enough steady dick in my life. Jack off so much these days, my dick has started to
chafe. Chris doesn’t want me as much as he used to. He says I give good head but there’s nothing sweeter than pussy. Funny because when I think of pussy,
sweet
doesn’t come to mind. He promised his girl he wouldn’t cheat. He doesn’t give a shit about me, but I love him anyway.

There’s no one in the bathroom. The stalls are cold and silent. The messages left in search of blow jobs are old and fading. I cannot tell you how many men have worshipped at my altar of dick. If the walls could talk they would testify.

Check my email and it’s filled with horny housewives and how I can lower my mortgage rate on a home I don’t own. I send them all to the trash can. I type
silverdaddies.com
into the search engine. Photos of naked men appear. Geezers from Key West to Kansas in their birthday suits with blushing stiff dicks held firmly in steel and leather. A crop of chest hair, all that furrowed skin. I got a thing for older men. They don’t play games like the twinks I have grown so sick of. I click on the hottest pic of the day: Luc of Paris dressed in black hose and stilettos. Says he and his partner like threesomes, but I’m a spoiled brat who doesn’t like to share his goodies with anyone. He says his dick is nine and a half inches and he’s looking to bottom for a dominant top. That is what you all want isn’t it, to be dominated, to be told what to do like naughty little schoolboys?

You’re no different. I’ve seen what you can do. I know what you’re into. Normally I wouldn’t give you the time of day, but it’s summer and all the college-age trade are on vacation. Eating collegiate ass is usually where you’ll find me. I click on that hot daddy pic, the Parisian with approximately nine and a half inches of dick. I turn to you and smile. I got your attention. You’re so easy. Other than the two of us, there’s a cute Asian dude sitting at the table behind you, but I ain’t worried about
him. He hasn’t taken his nose out of that chemistry book since I’ve been here. I roll out of the way to give you a better view. You see that? Do you like it? Jesus, in a college library of all places. We are shameless sluts, you and I. I see that you approve as I watch you fondle your dick under the table lined with flat-screen computers. I click on other pics of Silver Daddy dick, and it’s enough to make us both randy. I click out of the website, grab my bag and saunter over to a vacant computer next to you. I revisit those dirty studs to show you more. I watch as you caress your tent, groping it under a tunnel of white ceiling lights.

“Follow me,” I whisper.

There’s a bathroom around the corner, down the hall from a room of Xerox machines. This floor can’t get any quieter. My thoughts might be too hot for this tearoom. We take the biggest stall, the one with the rose-colored walls. I leave the door slightly ajar for you. This toilet is cleaner than those Bellamy Building shitters. I’ve been in this one before. The stall with the sink and mirror whose reflection I have come in more times than I can remember. I sit on the toilet to let you know that I want to blow you. Got a feeling you wouldn’t have it any other way. You pull down your jeans, exposing the same panties you wore the night I ravished you in an arcade booth. Dick had been twitching in my jeans all day. Couldn’t wait to get to where the boys were. There weren’t too many cars in the lot: a Cadillac, a beat-up old minivan, a vintage Mercedes. Trolls and du rag wearing b-boys lined the walls with their razor-sharp attitudes, thinking they were God’s gift to gay boys. The arcade reeked of poppers and ass; tufts of paper towels littered the floor of the booths. Silver porno glow seeped from beneath doors to booths that held men beating off to fake screams and unreal orgasms. You had been after me all night, grabbing my dick in the dark, eying me in the
corridor’s light as you caressed the tent of your dick. After hours of cat and mouse, after men left to rush home to their clueless wives, there was only you and me. We ducked into a booth with bite-sized glory holes. You wasted no time shoving your bucks in the mouth of the machine, undoing jeans, exposing hose with runs, skintight panties under 501s, but I didn’t give a damn, ’cause all I cared about was what swung between your legs. The way it hung over your unmentionables. Your skin was so smooth and taut for a man’s.