A Not at All Naughty Diary

"Spared the Rod"

I did it, after two nights of chickening out. I snuck into the kitchen right after Mr. Man finished his supper, and sat on the chair he'd warmed. I only had my gray briefs on. I still do. The chair wasn't too warm since Mr. Man wears old jeans at home, but I won't have you disrespect him for that. Jeans are always good. In my private universe, there's something forbiddingly straight about any kind of soft, smooth pants. Jeans are a safe distance from anything sports-related. They were worn by broody rock stars of yore. They're said to have been frowned upon in our country's communist years, which is a cool contradiction with their working-class origins. If I'm to sit bare-legged in a man's lap it's rough denim, his own bare hairy legs, or no thank you.

Not that a man has ever invited me to sit in his lap but let's face it, many would. Any would, or so I'd like to hope. If you knew about a completely up-for-grabs piece of 22-year-old virgin ass, would your first thought be "is he my type"? Be a man, damn it. Only I get to have a type. Dark hair, thirty-ish, a bit of stubble, doesn't talk a lot, and his eyes can really stare, or what's the word, peer into you. His body matters, but it doesn't take too much to be taller, stronger, and better-hung than me; I wouldn't want to harp on these things lest gym rats and two-legged centaurs get the wrong idea.

"Two-legged centaurs" might take a while to unpack but it's good, isn't it?

To hell with types, though. My type has been living right there in the next room for two weeks now, for all the good that's done me. Perhaps I'm a Snow White that just needs to be ass-fucked awake, and the only princely credentials required are a bad-boy penis that enjoys sneaking up from behind on a good-boy penis. Yet I keep chickening out of letting the world know.

How do I stop flying under every gaydar? Why don't I have a gay homing beacon on my tailbone? Why do I have to do anything at all? Why do I have to go out and pretend I'm not afraid of a dick on the prowl as much as, and usually more than, I want to be its prey?

Hell, the beacon just needs to work across the wall between Mr. Man's room and mine. I choose to be in denial about the possibility that he may be completely straight. He wears jeans at home. He's exactly my type. It was meant to be (tee em). Yes, there's nothing in gay lore about wearing jeans at home. Indeed, it doesn't sound remotely gay. And I didn't know I had a type before the landlady first walked Mr. Man in. But that's how denial works, okay?

I'm in such mighty denial, in my inner eye I can clearly see myself sitting in Mr. Man's lap instead of just warming my virginity on his chair. The image almost has the mental texture of a memory rather than a fantasy. (Memories aren't usually in third-person view, but I'll deny that too if I have to.) Don't quote me on this, but I think tracking dogs can smell the seat of a chair you sat on and pick up your scent. If he hadn't been wearing jeans there might've been more of his scent on the fabric of my briefs now, but whatever. It's not enough of his scent either way, and I still want him in his jeans.

And in my ass.

And not looking towards his room's door (which doesn't close properly, offering him a view into the hallway) while I'm going back to my room, sneaking a self-inflicted boner past him. Ain't I a naughty boy.

Okay, I ain't. I really ain't. I'm so the opposite of a naughty boy, if you saw me you might officially revoke my right to say "ain't", it being the naughty form of "to be". Yeah, "it being", that's more like it, that's more me. Or "were it that". I have just the kind of gray-eyed, sharp-nosed, thin-lipped face you'd expect to start a sentence with "were it that". And I'm one of maybe ten people in this country who wouldn't pronounce it "vare ʔit det". No, that's not some weird deformed question mark. What, you've never seen the IPA character for the glottal stop? Well I've never seen another man's erect dick, so don't complain.

A note on my vocabulary. Writing in another language feels like playing the piano in rubber gloves; my English ones are thin and transparent by now, but still. (Here you might make too much of my saying I'm a virgin, and smugly suggest a "better" analogy to me. Nope. I know the difference between condom and no condom, and it's a different difference, you uncultured slobs.) Anyway. I used the word "dick" just now and had a distant feeling that "cock" would've been a better fit. You have dick jokes and calling people dicks, while from what I can tell "cock" is this very flesh-and-blood, up-close word that telegraphs a serious interest in the penis. Mine is so serious, I've walked away from the very active kind of female attention you get when you're physically unthreatening, myste

eee

rious and occasionally very funny. I'm sorry, though. I'm going to keep saying "dick". I absolutely hate, loathe, detest,

ōdī

the word "cock" for no rational reason. If you object, if you keep pushing a cock into my typing fingers, I'll snap and go full Bram Stoker on you. What our particular place lacks in vampire lore, we make up in saying "if you vill ʔOB-ject", so you've been warned. You don't deserve my English.

Pushing a

dick

into my fingers is, of course, more than welcome, but that ain't happening, is it?

There, I just used the naughty verb again.

Hey, I like the idea of ceremonially revoking my "ain't"-saying rights. A part of me likes it, anyway. I'd prefer the... revocal? revokement? the

revocātiō

, you noun-hiding barbarians! -- to be officiated by a tall, dark-haired, sharp-voiced Grand Linguisitor in a black mantle, while I'm only in my mouse-gray briefs. It's in our mutual interest that you put me before a judge who's so viscerally intimidating, I might as well be standing waist-deep in cold water in terms of how my body reacts. I'd hate to ruin the perfect solemnity of the scene. Any erections in the room must point towards, not away from me. And the mantled man, having had many young offenders brought before him before (damn it English, don't do this to me), will no doubt have an eye for details like a fearfully tightened scrotum, briefs or no briefs. I hope that earns a quick satisfied squint from him, and maybe just the slightest stir of his long, very virile, but professionally disinterested penis. He who metes out discipline is himself disciplined.

And he'll conclude the ceremony by saying something like, "In view of the young man's nondefiance, as well as his promising aptitude in all matters linguistic, I deem further action to be unnecessary for now. He will be spared the rod."

And you, the old, deformed, erect monks standing in a semicircle around the mantled man, will echo, "He will be spared the rod," reluctantly but in perfect unison.

Damn, look what grew out of a silly quip about the word "ain't". I must keep both hands on the keyboard, or I'll lose my inspiration before due time. I want to continue this.

You lead me away, your crooked arthritic fingers grasping my arms and nudging my back. One of you pinches my nipple and smiles a gap-toothed smile, ostensibly to say "now, it wasn't that bad, was it, boy?". His erection is very prominent through the thick rough fabric of whatever monks wear down there. I check out the rest of your crotches, and feel my own balls relax. (Watch it! What kind of stylistic hodgepodge is this? Do you want to go back to the Grand Linguisitor?) I realize you're not as old as you look, mostly in your fifties, just really worn down by the kind of life you lead.

All of this is certainly unpleasant, and not sexual at all (unlike observing myself in third person from here; I must stop and decline a Latin noun to last longer), but I feel I have something to say to you, along the lines of: "I can see past your outward decrepitude. I know each of you can, with a single prod, a single stab, wield formidable and humbling power over my body. But your faith is stronger yet, and in it I put my faith that you will observe the instruction that I be spared the rod.

"Speaking of which, you're never revoking my right to use the subjunctive 'be'. 'That I be' is syntactic sodomy. Never is an English subordinate clause more subordinate than with that stiff verb form inserted into it to signify a demand or a desired state of things. Which, if you pardon the tasteless innuendo, is right up my street."

Then I jack off each monk in turn through the rough fabric, and live happily ever after. This is getting a little cringey, isn't it?

Wait till you hear why he's "Mr. Man". His name is -- well, it could be Andrew, or André, or Anders. It's none of those, but you get the idea. You really should be able to figure out the rest on your own.

When I imagine sitting in Mr. Man's lap, his jeans are unzipped and his dick is out. That's why the briefs are important. A symbolic last defense, a thin membrane keeping me still technically never touched by another man's penis. Although of course his -- there

must

be a better word than "pre-cum", which on top of its inelegance makes everyone sound like a premature ejaculator -- anyway, his pre-pre-cum is leaving a little stain on my briefs, and my buttock will probably feel that small wetness seep through. Good. But I'm still saving penis-to-skin contact for a different fantasy.

I'm not at all sure the arrangement is comfortable for Mr. Man, or even that it works out in basic spatial terms, but I'm assuming he's thought of a way to accommodate me that gives me the most of his hardness and him the most of my softness. I don't want to tease him, I want him to tease himself with me. I'll squirm if he aligns his dick between my buttocks, even without pressing me closer. Not yet. Please, Mr. Man, it's important that we have this moment together where you fucking me is already a certainty but still a complete abstraction. (I better not talk like that to him.) Please don't just throw away my dick anxiety but try, for my sake, to get some enjoyment out of it. I really am trembling inside. I'd almost prefer it if there was a way for you to (this will be tough to express in our language)

have

fucked me before actually fucking me.

Yes, I mean some kind of Christopher Nolan movie magic where

first

I snuggle up to you, your resting dick still not quite out of conquering mode, my tender insides feeling the aftershocks, and

then

I'm ass up, the rogue manhood connects with the naive naughtyhood, and we go through the act without any editing tricks, in the proper order from my terror to your triumph. I don't know where the part where we take off each other's clothes fits in. Maybe before the post-orgasmic snuggle part. That makes sense.

I'm shying away from imagining your penis in my mouth for now. I'm still processing the oral side of things. My straight experience with it was, above all, confusing. First I stood there like a malfunctioning cow being insistently milked, then during the short enjoyable part the girl made little sounds as if she was very discreetly choking to death down there. She was fine as soon as I was done being a fixed milking cow, but I don't like how unbothered my orgasming self was by those sounds, despite not knowing if they were normal or not. I'd be afraid to swallow your cum, Mr. Man, for very practical reasons, with none of the

sensus numinis

of my anal angst. ("The whatus whatinis?" "Never mind. Sorry. It's from Harry Potter.")

I'm getting distracted. My inspiration, sustained by a couple more Latin nouns along the way, is turning into a blunt ache. Mr. Man's gone into the bathroom, reminding me at a bad moment that he's not a figment of my imagination. There goes that "you" which settled so nicely on him after hovering between some generalized man I resented for not being guided psychically to my door to bend me over, and a bunch of horny monks I materialized out of thin air. Wait, no, there were other and vaguer "yous" as well. Let me re-read what I've written.

Well, what can I say. This is just the kind of semi-coherent sexually charged rambling that, in the twentieth century, could've become the seminal text of a new literary movement. Note the four different and unrelated words beginning phonetically with "se" in the previous sentence (yay, a fifth). "Se" is a reflexive (and thus masturbatory) pronoun that Latin shares with many languages including mine. As for the movement, I propose to call it "ass". Just "ass". As in, "I really like the modernist greats, the French existentialists, ass, oh and of course the beatniks."

But at least there's a motif running through this. It all circles back to the primal scene (tee em). Mr. Man, jeans on, dick out. Me in his lap, wearing only briefs. His hard penis pressed against my soft buttock. Me fretting about my impending anal deflowering. Him aware of my fretting. Me letting him know, preferably without any Latinisms, that he should enjoy it. Him probably enjoying it. It's very clear in my mind. It's very meaningful. If I have the cosmic luck to convince the real Mr. Man that his not at all naughty roommate should be ejaculated some discipline into, or thrown under the freight train of a stronger male's libido just for the heck of it, or cured of his fears and initiated into the gay game, or used for purely physical pleasure, or, hell, granted a mercy fuck -- I want that scene to happen for real before the main event.

What would we actually talk about? I might tell him my fantasy of being spared the rod. He might like it. The Grand Linguisitor was, after all, Mr. Man run through a couple of mental AI filters. There are other unanswered questions. Where would his hands be on me? Would I like him to also be shirtless, or would I prefer a Grand L. kind of symbolism where the undressed youth's fate is in the clothed man's hands? Does it matter that I'm imagining Mr. Man's pressure and pre-pre-cum on my right buttock, but it might be the left?

And then, of course, there'll be the erection in my own briefs, adorably pointless just like the way a dog--

Holy fuck.

"Just like the way a dog held over water makes swimming movements with its paws in the air" was what I was going to say. Unlike the earlier bit of tracking-dog trivia, I saw this one with my own eyes on YouTube.

Why?

Why did that analogy of all things make me cum?

I swear I was picturing myself erect in Mr. Man's lap and the air-swimming dog was just an idea in my mind.

Mid-ejaculation, though, I admit I thought of the gap-toothed monk who had pinched my nipple and whose cock, the biggest of them, I'd had my hand around first.

When you think about it, any erection that doesn't result in copulation is like the air-swimming dog. What was so special?

Weird.

I might come back to this later.

(This is later. Why did I say "cock"? Sure, once I've established my dislike of the word, as a conscious stylistic choice it meshes well with the monk's general unpleasantness. But it wasn't conscious.)

(This is laterer when I'm a very lateral thinker. Someone held that dog over the water. And put it on YouTube. The system-overloading thought that sent me into orgasm was that I could also be held like that. Held to be shown to people, boner and all. Definitely just "could be" in theory though. It wasn't how I saw the intent of Mr. Monk's hands on me. Relax, you [tangle? no, but a similar word] of newroses.)

(Next day. Okay I was really sleepy but "Mr. Monk's" hands?? Are you kidding me?)