(part one.)

it’s hard to say what i was thinking at the time. maybe i’d been savouring the irony of the situation, that i’d found myself on my knees in front of a friend who, a day prior, i’d never had a wanton thought of. now, he held sexual power over me that he couldn’t understand. maybe i wondered what he thought of me now, reduced in status and in stature to some cock-slobbering fag from craigslist. perhaps i wondered if he’d suspected it all along. 

knowing me, i wasn’t thinking anything at all.

hands cold with a sudden perfusion of adrenaline (no thanks to the chill of my apartment in december) i stroked his thighs through his sweatpants until, somewhere beyond the rubicon, they met with the shape of his dick. semi-hard, and fully loaded. safe to say he hadn’t lied.

i should have paced myself—made it last. but in my perennial kid-on-christmas-morning eagerness, i couldn’t wait a second longer to see what awaited me. with my fingers hooked under the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers too, he lifted up from the couch, offering his silent assent as i started to tug off both layers in one fell swoop.

i wasn’t disappointed. lolling slothfully towards ten o’clock, his half-hard manhood awaited me, drooping under its weight. the fat, pink head was barely visible to me in its current state, nestled inside furrows of foreskin that glistened with precum, alluding to a wet spot in the boxers i’d hastily cast aside. among all of this, the most mouthwatering pair of low-hanging nuts, heavily hanging nearly at a level with his asshole as he sat, knees spread, on my couch and watched expectantly. 

“it’s not polite to stare.”

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