Dont Get Me Wrong

Don't get me wrong – I love women. I've been fucking them for most of my life, and I haven't gotten any complaints. I mean, I have no reason

not

to like them. What guy wouldn't like a girl's lips wrapped around his cock, slurping like some rabid, toothless animal? Or what about when they straddle you with their curvy hips and ride you like they just got back from a dirty rodeo show down in Texas? It feels so

good

. So there's no rational reason on Earth that I should not enjoy banging pure female pussy.

Except that I can't stand them.

It's nothing personal, ladies. It's just a few ticks of mine.

Like the screaming. Believe me, I have no problem being vocal during sex. I can dirty-mouth any tight girl enough to make her as horny as a guy wanking along to Jessica Simpson's latest commercial. But halfway through the good part...they start making these noises. Each woman sounds different in the beginning – some have a more melodic hum while some just bleat like goats – but eventually, they all start squirming and groaning like a drunken cat in heat. That I can tolerate up to a point. But soon comes the oh-fuck-oh-god-yes-yes-I'm-gonna-come-climax, and suddenly those forty dollar manicures are drawing

my

blood, and my apartment fills with screams like I'm murdering her instead of pleasing her. My eardrums beg me to reach up and strangle her before I go limp

and

deaf.

And then there's the jiggling. There's no straight guy out there who wouldn't dream of suckling a double D cup hottie and watching her tits roll with every thrust of his cock inside of her. But after long enough with any woman, I feel like I'm fucking a piece of jello. Wiggle, bounce, bounce, bounce...after a while, you start noticing that some parts that shouldn't be jiggling

are

jiggling, and she's suddenly a hell of a lot flabbier than she looked in the dim light of the subway.

There are other things – like the fact that no man could

possibly

master the art of pleasuring a woman, even if he read every advice book and took every kama sutra class in the world – but up until a little while ago, I thought I didn't have a choice. I took every fuck as a necessity, sweating and groaning and thrusting until I came, and then politely zipping up my pants and moving on. I could satisfy my occasional cravings with a blowjob here and a fuck there, and that was that. But there was something missing. Something I couldn't quite place.

I should introduce myself before I go on. My name is Lance Callahan, and I live in New York City in an apartment I (grudgingly) share with my crack-snorting older brother, Seth. I'm eighteen years old and I work two shitty jobs to pay the bills that my dumbass brother always somehow rakes up. My mother's dead, and I never knew my father – and I'm damn well glad I didn't because I'd have to slit the son-of-a-bitch's throat if I did. Seth and I live under the same roof for convenience's sake alone, and as long as each pays his own share and stays out of the other's way, it works. That means I basically live on my own and do whatever the hell I want with myself.

Appearance-wise, I don't think I'm too daunting. I have dirty-blonde hair, but a few months ago I took a liking to bleaching it and dying it dark blue. It always falls in jagged streaks along my forehead, and I like the effect. I got my left eyebrow pierced a while ago, and I sometimes wear a ring on by bottom lip, but both are only a barely noticeable glint of silver. Half the reason I got them was to piss Seth off – he practically flinches every time he sees a pierced face – and it worked, so there's no way I'm getting rid of either of them. I have light brown eyes and relatively pale skin. I'm not perfect, and I do have a few little white scars, but you have to look for them to see them. I dress in whatever the local shoplifter is selling that week, but I've always been attracted to darker colors – they look better on me, anyway.

As I was saying, though, there was something distinctly missing in my life. It haunted me at night, especially after sex. The raw afterglow seeped away at something inside of me more and more each time I fucked someone, and I ended up walked away feeling emptier than before. It was like I was constantly trying to fill a bottomless cup, physically and emotionally. I tried to brush it off as my imagination – after all, there was no rationality behind this odd twinge of hunger – but something in me wouldn't let go.

Ultimately, it took one of my brother's friends to give me the missing piece.

His name was Lucas, but we always called him Luke. He was one of Seth's pot-buddies, meaning that he was one of over a dozen kids who showed up every Thursday night to chain-smoke in Seth's bedroom. He had deep black hair that fell down in straight cascades down the sides of his face, and a calculated smile that made you think he was about to say something taunting and sarcastic. His eyes were a shocking shade of electric green, and they always seemed to be deep and shifting, like he was looking right into every person in the room and reading their most intimate thoughts. He had pierced tongue and a rolling laugh, and a slender body and fingers that reminded you of a musician. He always wore black and only black, and tight clothing that looked like it might rip if he stretched his arms or legs any further. A peculiar scent of spicy smoke seemed to follow him wherever he went, and he always moved as smoothly as a dancer, whether it was on the nightclub floor or just tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. His easygoing attitude molded perfectly with his "player" aura; he seemed like the kind of guy that could float from one relationship to another without ever stumbling or thinking twice.

He also happened to be the most flamingly open homosexual you could ever come across.

I had absolutely no problem with him before I started going to the strips and dance clubs with my brother's buddies. He was just another kid in the pack, and I really didn't give a damn about him or what he did. But then he started eyeing

me,

and that's when I got uncomfortable. I still had that one-track pussy-bound mind, so when he threw his gaze down my body amid the flashes of the synthetic lights, I frowned and ignored every fiber of his being. Any time he tried to talk to me, I bluntly excused myself and walked off to the nearest retreat, be it a bathroom or a back alley.

Then, he started trying to touch me. It first started when he was walking out the apartment door one Thursday night, and he gave my ass a little pinch when he stepped by. He turned and laughed at my startled expression, and I was so flustered that I told him to go fuck himself and literally shoved him out by the wood of the door. Later on, whenever he showed up at a club with the others, he'd always find some opportunity to casually brush his hand against me. It could be anything from accidentally brushing by thigh while lifting his hand for his drink or pressing his arm against my back as he tried to squeeze behind me in the crowd.

It got to a point where once, amid the throbbing of the base and the sweat of the people crowded around me, I suddenly felt his breath hot in my ear and his hips roughly grinding my ass. I had whipped around, flushed and speechless, just about ready to punch him in the face. But before I could spit any of my welling venom at him, he laughed and walked away without saying a word.

The thing was, I wasn't scared of him because I was repulsed by his advances.

I was scared of him because it was turning me on.

Needless to say, after that night, I avoided all possible contact with him. I stayed out on Thursday nights and stopped going to those clubs. If I accidentally went to the same convenience store at the same time he did, I left immediately. If I saw him standing on the sidewalk near our apartment, I ducked my head and took a roundabout route. I did anything and everything to stay out of his sight.

Meanwhile, my sexual need seemed to take a sharp upturn for no reason, and I found myself becoming less and less picky with the girls I fucked. I didn't care if they screamed bloody murder and tore my skin apart with their French manicures. I just needed a release, and I needed it badly, because I was thinking too much about him and it horrified me. He's just a creep, I told myself. Just a creep, and I'm going through an odd phase that'll correct itself as soon as I shoot him in his dirty little face.

I was very successful in avoiding him – so successful, in fact, that I didn't catch a glimpse of him for an entire five weeks.

And then, it all happened.

I remember it was a Sunday night, because the fuzzy, cheap television screen kept showing reruns of an earlier football game. I collapsed on the couch after a day of shoving sloppy hamburgers under people's noses at my restaurant job, and next at my pharmacy job selling old ladies their monthly urinary tract infection meds and a copy of People's magazine. I was tired and I wanted to fall asleep, but more than that, I felt strangely horny.

I flipped through the channels vaguely, watching the colors change but not taking interest in anything. Not even Telemundo could amuse me in my oppressive need. I was about to reach down into my pants when I heard the sound of grunting in the room next door, and I realized with sharp frustration that my brother was getting off with some chick. That meant masturbation was out of the question, because I was

not

going to get caught jacking off by Seth and whatever slut he had tonight. I groaned aloud, contemplating getting up and going to my room for some privacy, though I didn't have the energy to do it.

That was when I heard the door click and creak open and shut. I figured it was one of Seth's closer friends, because they had a key so they could get their share of crack whenever they wanted. I didn't even bother to lift my head off of the lumpy couch to see who it was. "You can't get in right now," I called motionlessly, watching some Spanish girl giving her boyfriend a bitch slap on the screen. "He's fucking. Come back later."

"Damn," the voice replied, "And I'm craving like fuckin' hell."

I froze. My whole body tensed all at once. I jerked up to a sitting position and whipped my head back in time to see him tucking his keys into his pocket, regarding me with that calculating smile of his. Luke was wearing his usual black jeans and tight shirt, but something about the slender outfit that made him seem taller and more inviting than usual. His dark hair hung about his face and wisped along his cheeks, and it only served to brighten his eyes and soften the skin around them.

My throat instantly went dry and I narrowed my eyes dangerously at him, as though daring him to take a step closer. He only seemed amused at that, grinning catishly and glancing toward the kitchen. "You think he'll be done soon?" he asked aloud, though already walking into the kitchen to help himself to a can of beer. His voice was soon muffled by the wall. "I'll wait it out. Fuckin' cravings."

I glared venomously at the whitewashed wall that separated us, my mind buzzing. Bastard. Bastard shouldn't be here. I seriously considered getting up and leaving at that very moment. But this time, my pride got the best of me, and I mentally dug my heels in. I refused to leave

my

home just because some son of a bitch thought he could walk in and own the place. I turned and resumed watching the soap opera, only this time my eyes were narrowed and hard, and I

really

wasn't paying attention to the plotline. I was fuming and plotting what I would say to him and how I would mess up his face when he emerged from the kitchen.

Then, I felt his crossed arms leaning on the cushion behind my head, and his leaning face was level with mine. His breath was warm and already tainted with Budweiser. "Anything good on, kid?"

He loved calling me "kid," even though I was only two years younger than him. I stared harder at the television screen, my jaw beginning to lock.

"Fuck off."

"That's interesting."

I could practically feel him smiling, and to my relief, he shifted away. That relief was short-lived, however, when I felt him plop himself next to myself, the beer can sloshing gently in his grasp as he took another long draught. I was tenser than ever, knowing that he was much less than arm's length away from me. I wanted to turn and give him a good punch like I could to my brother during one of our more heated fights. But I didn't. And I was silently horrified because I didn't. Instead, I kept watching the screen, the silence absorbing the air around us. Soon, it was just the din of the television, the slut's grunting next door, the sound of his breathing, and the pounding of the blood in my ears.

Slowly, to my absolute dismay, the incessant horniness that had consumed my thoughts before his arrival took hold again. The fact that I could hear my brother fucking in the room next door wasn't helping. I didn't dare even look down to see if I was showing. I was too paralyzed by Luke's presence to reach down and touch my hardening cock, even if I wanted to – which I desperately did, at this point. Instead, about a full minute after the throbbing begged for my touch, I shifted a little in my seat to alleviate some of the ache.

It was the wrong move. Lucas had been watching me the whole time, and he let out a laugh muffled by his closed lips. "You're such a horny bastard," he chided.

I turned my head sharply and opened my mouth to snap at him when my words were swallowed by something tender and hot. That same moment, my jean-clad cock was enveloped by his warm and pressing fingers. I let out a sound of surprise that only drowned in his mouth as he started kissing and rubbing me.

My nerves were roused and I let in a sharp breath through my nose, jerking my head away and grabbing his wrist. "Get the fuck off me, faggot," I hissed between my teeth.

But that was when I looked at his face, a threat died on my lips. On his lips and in his green eyes, he was smiling. Smiling like he knew. "Shut up, kid," he told me simply. Before I knew it, his mouth was digging into mine again, and his hand resumed its work on my aching crotch.

This time, I didn't try to stop him. His lips were thinner than any woman I'd ever kissed, but they were raw with talent, suckling and digging at my mouth until I could barely breathe. His pierced tongue was hot and teasing, rolling along my hesitantly parted mouth. When he flicked my bottom lip, I felt the click of the cold metal of our piercings, and it made me shudder. That in itself was sexier than anything I'd ever done with any girl in my entire life. His palm rubbed mercilessly against my now throbbing cock, and I squirmed under his hand. His tongue finally got past my lips and delved into my mouth, playfully seeking my own tongue. I could taste the beer on his breath, and it turned me on even more. I finally did offer my tongue to him, and he rewarded me with wet and slow licks. His fingers rubbed first up and down, and then in slow circles on the stiff fabric of my jeans. I could feel my skin heating all over at his touch.

His mouth broke off with an inward gasp, and he murmured something about wanting me. His tongue trailed down my jaw and neck, leaving me to try to catch my breath again. His free hand circled my wrist, and he eased me backward to lie down on the couch. My legs were still splayed apart, one dangling off of the couch. He straddled my hip and pressed his own leg against the apex of my thighs, but when he lowered himself down and pressed his heated and firm weight against me, I forgot myself and let out a moan. His chest was warm and firm against mine, and my hands reached up and felt the masculine flesh through the skin-tight shirt. Nothing could've been hotter than when I felt two stiff nubs through the fabric.

Encouraged by my response, Luke had taken to suckling my neck and rubbing by own chest. I don't know why, but I'm very sensitive around my neck. So when he flicked his warm tongue against the nape of my neck and drew wet patterns with the tip, I groaned aloud. The sensation of his soft thigh against my jeans was driving me crazy, and in thoughtless lust, my hips jerked up to hump that firm flesh. He grinned suddenly and nipped at my skin with his firm teeth, nearly making me jump. "Fuck, yeah. You want it bad, don't you, Lance?"

This had never happened to me before. I'd

never

lost control during sex. I was never the one to moan and squirm helplessly, nor was I the one to

receive

the dirty talk instead of dish it out. But when his talented hands wove down my front, I couldn't find a single fiber in my body that wanted to object. His fingers massaged my chest and abs before finally dipping beneath my shirt, sliding up my heated body. Even his touch was mind-blowing. His fingertips could trace every bump and line as though from memorization, and his thumbs rolled in slow circles over my now hardened nipples. My shirt felt tighter and more uncomfortable by the moment. As though reading my mind, he relieved me of my choked discomfort by quickly pulling the fabric over my head. In one swift motion of his arm, his own shirt seemed to simply fall off his skin and land beside the couch near mine.

I barely had a moment to look down at his bared torso before his lips smashed against mine and forced my head into the cushions. Our chests brushed and heaved in sensual rhythm, but what really turned me on was the way he reached down, grabbed my wrists, and pinned them firmly above my head. I felt exposed and naked already, and I loved the rough treatment. By this point, my inhibitions were eroding away quickly. I was kissing him back and moaning against his tongue, my back arching to make our skin connect, my hips squirming to rub my achingly hard cock against him. I could feel his own hard-on through his denim, and I could tell by the sounds he was making that he was enjoying this, too. He started moving his hips in time with mine, and by the time we found a rhythm, we were grunting into each other's mouths and thrusting hard. It felt so fucking good.

I suddenly broke off our heated kiss out of oxygen deprivation, but he took it as a sign to take it a step further. Long forgotten was the distant Spanish babbling of the television screen or the muffled sounds of sex in the other room. All I could sense was his mouth weaving kisses down my arm and across my shoulder. His fingers still clasped firmly around my wrists. He licked each nipple with the flat of his tongue, but when the cold piercing rippled against my sensitized nub, I could not suppress a shudder. He moved my wrists down so he could move further southward, suckling slowly at each inch of flesh. I watched him until he got to my navel, when I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned my head back against the couch. I felt his tongue swirling around my belly button, pressing light and wet kisses as he moved slowly downward. So painfully slow, and yet so deliciously slow...

He finally let go of my wrists so that he could undo my jeans. With astonishing deftness, he popped open the button and dragged down the zipper, and taking hold of the fabric of each leg and tugging downward. It felt so good to have my skin exposed to the cool air, but before I could savor the sensation for long, he made sure to harness my attention again. His palms smoothed up my thighs and to my boxer-clad crotch. One hand slid underneath my balls and began to explore and grope me. I was overcome by the pleasure of being touched by someone whose fingers always seemed to hit just the right spot. He licked further up and up along my thighs, his hand still rubbing my balls. He looked up at me with a teasing, sexy grin, before lowering his face and nuzzling my cock, kissing warmly through the fabric. My breath became uneven and one of my hands grabbed his thick hair, squirming my hips in his face in anticipation. He took the hint.