[2] the story of joe | david k

Like the mind is prone to do I was running ahead of the moment and I could see my pants down, replacing my mouth with my hole against the hole. He'd be flummoxed and stare down at my slice of ass pressing through the wall. Again I would need to convey invitation. I would need to lean way down, with my hands splaying my chunky butt wide. How obvious would I need to be?

Jump cut. He enters me the same sloppy and stupid way he jabbed into my mouth. My sphincter snagging reluctantly. Then giving way like a torn open plastic bag.

Present tense then, my lips were vice-grip numb while the miraculous muscles of my throat were rutting all of him deeper past my tonsils. His dick was one of those short-to-medium length but really fat muscles. And uncircumcised. I remember now about then, that pinched curtain of flesh that was momentarily snug before the head peeled out with a small shinny patch already in place. At that instant, surprising us both, I scooped his balls into my hand and, forgetting that there was a body attached, used my thumb and index finger to clasp the root and lurched the whole piece of art high, towards my mouth.

I'd meant to savor but there was a momentary lull while his knees dropped, and my face followed, and then--sly boy--before I could blink, up he came, pushed forward and buried himself straight away. I gagged, who wouldn't? And my eyes must have sparkled as they watered. Lots of frantic agitation followed. Heavy mastication and serious churning. Time elongated into frozen space. Seconds stretched into stillness by the hearts deepest desire being met.

When I lowered my hand to the cold cement to shore myself, I could feel a small pool of our commingled juices. Drool and all of that ooze from his prick. Joe also let out some provocative sounds. Muffled into the wall. Sighs that toggled between grunts and stifled ululations. That other guy, the one hovering next to me, was naked. My right hand twitched clumsily, discerning empty space until it collided with his pokey prick. My mouth continued to blow Joe.

Stultifying is the honor that prevents biting a glory-holed dick off at the root. You settle on swirling, gnawing (gently) and feigned feral contractions. Meanwhile my hand was jacking the other one until there was a chaotic blathering that startled me.

"I'm gonna shoot, I'm gonna cum!"

I tried to acknowledge the stranger's goofy announcement, but just grunted lamely. I administered some awkward twists and gropes until his randy rod throbbed like a reptile when a globby eruption flared into my paw and webbed there between my fingers. (I spin analytical for a moment and consider that orgasm is a tiny, temporary bit of respite from the dread of living without narrative.) And then shake and flick his brew from my hand. (The cells of the body unfurl a tragic magic during orgasm--a trick that tricks us every time. We keep coming back for more. So don't mistake orgasm for punctuation. Be honest with yourself and quell all the guilt: You'll be back here, on your knees again, in what? a day or two?)

One afternoon I gave Joe a blow job beneath a yellow kitchen table while he read some of Robert Glück's prose aloud. And minutes later, with a dew drop of his spooge glistening atop my upper lip--quelled and druggy we, surprisingly, started to argue about our different orientations. "You're smug, and too intellectual" he said. "You're reticent and still thinking you're bi-curious. What a lie." I'd replied. "You don't get it, do you?" He'd say. "That's just the point, there's nothing to get. So when do I get to fuck you?" I'd answered. On another afternoon, arguing the same disclosures, he called me a Svengali and popped me right in the mouth, splitting the corner of my lip. The blood tasted like rust. We kissed and made up. (Joe would kiss).

Joe: "Remember that first time at the baths when..."

"I inhaled but I was breathing in your semen. A blob of the stuff having found its way, from the rear of my throat, directly into my sinus passage. I exhaled violently and it blatted from my nostrils, coating my upper lip and the root of your dick in a glutinous streak."

And who could forget hearing Joe's whipped-puppy whimpers as his cockshaft pumped several salvos of jism into my gulping gullet.

Joe was one of those copious cummers. Later on, after he acquiesced and moved into my house, I would back away from his penis before he blew. I'd grip it snug and feel like I was five years old, in our backyard, lighting Red Devil fireworks. Waiting for the show. One morning a long, lone rope sailed four feet to land on the oak headboard. It was spectacular.

"Well, yes. But I wasn't thinking of that moment specifically "

Joe would force himself to remember that meeting in the purple curtained room. It shored him somehow, like a mental talisman or something--to evoke the memory meant he was innoculated from the fact. Crazy logic, I know. Forgetting the important details about himself. He told me later, that when the deed was over he knew everything about me as if we had been old, childhood friends.

"Why" I'd asked. "How?"

"Oh, all that you were missing were a pair of pince-nez." He laughed.

An earth shudder had broken a gas pipe line that allowed gigantic fireballs to cascade through a forest in Washington somewhere. This announcement came over NPR. "Joe, come on. I couldn't have been that snotty."

"But you were. Your attitude leaked out of every pore." Smiling, Joe's face resembled him ten years younger, or so I imagined.

"And that's what made your predicament all the sweeter." I added. "Admit it, you were drawn to an older guy who could finally draw the real Joe forward."

"Yeah, if you say so." He'd meant to grin again but his eyes lost some sheen and went sad. This conversation was coming maybe two days after Christmas. We'd been living together for three months.

"Bi-curious," Joe explained to me outside of the baths on that first afternoon. My palette still ached from the mouth-fuck he'd delivered. I was standing there with my hands in my pocket looking him straight in the eye. And he looked right back.

"I've got a girlfriend. Her name's Ellen," he continued. I just ignored it all and found myself fidgeting, wanting to angle myself to the side to suss out his ass. We shook hands and then I dogged him for months afterwards. Obsessed with fucking him.

"Look here. Hey Joe. Over here, through this portal. Do you see it? The real you?" I wanted to be the one shoving my prick through that lovingly drilled opening and find Joe on the other side taking it all in. In the tribunal of the heart we can talk and hope for justice, and sometimes, as it did for me with Joe, it does arrive. I helped him pack his bags, box his books, load his truck. And once in place, that opening, that moment did arrive.