Lust, Like Thirst: 1 La Guitarra
These 3 stories are about sexuality and our desires for it. They explore bisexuality, homosexuality, and heterosexuality. They are not about judgments of sexual preference, but about our seeming insatiable desires regarding sex. If you have certain hangups, fine. These stories are not for masturbation. I would greatly appreciate your comments and votes. ]
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I am sitting in a Starbuck's, trying to drink coffee from the cup shaking in my hands. I don't remember being this nervous about anything.
[author, why am i such a dolt at the beginning of every story you put me in? can't i for once, just once, be a strong character from the get-go?
development, michael. it's called character development. you're a main character and main characters always must change in a story. sometimes they get better. sometimes not. maybe you are starting strong and you'll became more of a dolt! we'll see.]
I had met Roberto online in a "bi-4-bi" chatroom. He was easy to talk to, had a great sense of humor. We enjoyed many of the same interests. We're both in our early 50s. He's married; I'm divorced, maybe looking. But mostly, we weren't online to discuss cooking or Spanish music or life in the suburbs. We both really wanted to suck cock. We each had dreamed off and on about it much of our lives, fantasized about it, swapped pictures of men sucking men nine ways to Sunday
We exchanged photos of each other. He wasn't the "hot shit" looker of my dreams, but he wasn't bad. 5'11", 180 pounds. In decent shape for our age. I'm sure I wasn't the spicy chorizo he had imagined in his fantasies either! I'm an inch shorter and 15 pounds lighter. I am "muy blanco," not a Latin lover he might prefer! I lift weights but am not a bodybuilder. Just enough for some tone. Most people who don't know me think I'm in my mid-40s. Neither of us had wanted a "pick-up and suck" experience.
That must be him, I think. He said he'd wear a black leather jacket and jeans. Yeah, he looks like his picture, better looking in person. I look at his ass. A lot better looking in person. That'll be a nice ass to hold onto, I think. I told him to look for a guy in black jeans and black western boots with chains. Long brownish-blond hair. Still got a little hippie in me! Got gassed by Daley's pigs in Grant Park in 1968.
As he waits for his order, he looks around the cafe. I don't know whether to wave or let him find me. I look at him, willing him to see me. He does, and nods his head in recognition. Shit! I can hardly breathe! Was I ever this nervous with a woman? Maybe. I watch as he approaches my table. He is not wearing underwear, his cock tucked down the left side of his levis.
"Hello, Michael," he says quietly with a smile, sitting down.
"Buenos Dios, Roberto!" I clumsily say, trying to rolls my R's. Nothing in our chats indicated he spoke Spanish regularly, though he has mentioned visiting relatives in Puerta Vallarta and eating pollo de mole at Las Cazuelas. He looked of mixed blood in his photo.
"Nice boots, Michael!" he says. "Muy caliente!" I'm sure I blush. He laughs. I lift my cup and my hand shakes so much half the coffee spills on my lap. He laughs again.
"If we were at my house, I'd lick you clean!" I feel a tingle in my crotch.
[he's a nice guy. he's trying to make you relax, michael. let the story unfold.
jesus, author, i'm 54 years old, never been sexual with a man, and you tell me to relax! you fucking try it!
i did. relax.]
We make small talk. No, the Cubs will not win a fucking thing, again. Yes, it's been a sweltering summer-and my lawn crunches beneath my feet. His brown eyes sparkle. He tries to be light and I am sodden. If this is an interview, I am not going to get the job. I answer his questions in monosyllables. I look away from him. I am lukewarm and flat, a bottle of cerveza in the sun.
"Can we walk, Roberto? I need to walk these nerves off." He understands. We take our coffee outside.
"Roberto, I'm sorry. I'm a much nicer person than I am showing you now," I say as we walk.
"I know you are, Michael. From our chats. I am quaking too, inside. Look, I think we know what we want to about each other. We're already friends, sort of. We both like to cook. We like blues and flamenco guitar. I still like soccer much more than you. I will change your mind! Now, we've met. Why don't we just suck each other like we say we want to?"
I stop and look at him. So nice and simple. No courting. No notes or flowers or conversations filled with innuendo. No parry and thrust. I smile.
"I cannot wait! Really!" I say. I mean it. "Nice ass, Roberto. Very nice ass!" I think he also blushes, but he is darkened from the summer sun.
"Wear those boots, Gringo. You're really sexy in them!" I never thought a man saying that would get me excited, but we part and I am half hard. A good sign.
His wife knows he thinks he is bi. She understands, he said, knows something about lust herself. So far it is all just talk, hypothetical; he does not know how she will react when his desires become reality. Fuck, he says, neither does he. They have been married only a year. Her ex-husband, Bret, taught business at the University of Wisconsin. He was bisexual as well. She has told Roberto she would rather have him use their house than go to some motel or the back of a van. She is a wonderful woman, he has told me, a spiritual, sensual, beautiful woman. His bi desires do not relfect on his feelings toward her. They have a good sex life. He and I just crave cock.
I arrive at his house around 10 o'clock that night. His wife usually goes to bed around 9:30. As I walk up the front stairs, the door opens. He is waiting for me. We exchange quiet hellos and he asks me to follow him to the basement. There is the faint smell of poblanos and cumin from dinner. The basement is a very nice room with a fireplace, burgundy-leather sofa, pool table. A beautiful print of Bosch's "The Ship of Fools" hangs on one wall. I see a weight machine in a corner and family photos on another wall. He has three daughters from his previous marriage, all grown. Two are married. He wants grandkids. I avoid looking at the pictures. That is his real life. I will never be part of it. I walk up to a Conde Hermanos flamenco guitar propped against a chair. I have heard that it reveals the voices of angels.
"Yours?" I ask.
"Si, though I am not too good. Not enough time to practice. I play for the family on holidays."
Since this morning, I have settled down and simply just want him. I move to him and pull up on his t-shirt and he helps me pull it off. He is hairier than my fantasy, but as I rub his chest, he feels pleasantly furry. I bend to suck his nipples. His chest is firm, though not hard-there is just enough give for me to enjoy his breast. His nipples are hard and he moans as I suck and lick them. I have begun to have sex with a man. No turning back, now. Don't want to.
In our chats, we agreed we didn't really want any of that "faggy stuff"-kissing, hugging, necking. I drop to my knees and undo his pants, pull them down, and help him out of them. I stare at the outline of his cock in his red satin thong. I kiss it and lightly bite it. Fuck, this isn't what I came here for! I pull his thong down hard and I am finally fucking face-to-face with what I have craved. I grab Roberto by the hips and I slurp him into my mouth. Oh, God, yes! He moans. I moan. Within seconds, I begin to feel the blood flow into him. I move my hands to that sweet ass and push him toward me, push his cock farther in, push his groin against my head. His hands are behind me, just holding me, forcing nothing. I suck his cock eagerly, perhaps a bit too fast.
We had both joked about how women neglect balls, so I move to his. They are giant cojones! I raise his cock and lift his balls with my tongue. They are incredibly heavy and hang low. I had told him I thought about wanting to suck on low-hanging balls. His email said I would not be disappointed. I suck each into my mouth and lick them, roll them around, feeling their gravity. I hope they are filled to the brim with cum. Roberto arches back and moans. He caresses my head. Then he lifts up under my shoulders, raising me. I do not want to. I want to suck him right here, now, and mouth-fuck his brains out!
"Bueno, Miguel! Great!" he chuckles a little. "Now, let me suck you."
Roberto unbuttons my shirt and I become nervous again. My fantasies never involved a man doing me. They were always of me sucking. He lets my shirt drop to the floor and he draws me to him. Bare chest to chest. He is hot, his hard nipples heat mine. I reach behind him and press him to me. Both of us start breathing fast. I relax to him.
He sucks my nipples and I moan. I love watching him lick them and kiss them, suck them into his mouth. He moves up my chest, continuing to kiss and suck my skin. He reaches my neck and kisses me there, all over. I grind my hips into his and Roberto presses back. I feel his rock-cock twitch against me.
"Sit on the sofa, Miguel, por favor," he says leading me there. When I am sitting, he kneels in front of me, lifts each leg, and removes my boots. He then reaches for my pants, unbuckles the silver concho, unzips me, and pulls them down. I arch back and wiggle my ass. I did not bother wearing underwear. He then helps me put my boots back on.
"You are so hot and sexy naked in these boots, Miguel! Grind them into my back as I suck you hard!" He puts his arms under my thighs and pulls me to the sofa's edge. He blows on my cock and balls and licks at them.
""You are a sexy suck-boy! I am going to make you feel like a sexy suck-boy!"
He sucks my semi-hard cock and bobs on it, licking its underside. Licking it dozens of times, coaxing blood to fill it. I dig my boots into his shoulders, pulling him to me, and Roberto growls, sucks harder. He grasps my sack and pulls my balls into a tight mound, and sucks them, kisses them, blows on them. I dig deeper and harder into his back. I arch up, thrusting into him. He takes me easy and growls again. He tongues underneath my balls, follows my erection to its source. We had laughed online when we talked about our sizes. When I asked how big his erection is, he asked "Which one? The one a man measures or the one a man feels?"
