Michael Christopher (a.k.a Saint)'s testicles had swelled to half the size of his body. If the average man ejaculates approximately 40 million little swimmers every time he shoots his wad, I was guessing Saint had approximately 6 billion. If you showed a photo of his testicles to an elephant, it would have said "Holy shit, those things are fucking huge. He should really see a doctor."
But Michael hadn't gone to a doctor. He had come to me.
"I'll let you do whatever you want to me if you give me a blow job."
I did my impression of a velociraptor trying to distract a human while the other raptor sneaks up and eats him. Michael was what I called quasi-gay. He preferred pussy to cock and was absolutely petrified of the very existence of anal sex. He had no problem with two guys getting off together but the very idea of any part of a person's body coming into any sort of contact with another person's ass repelled him. It didn't matter if the ass belonged to a male human, a female human, a transgendered platypus, ass was not an appropriate place for any kind of penetration.
"Let me get this str...correct. If I give you a blow job, you'll let me fuck you?"
He gagged. "Yes."
"Ummmmm." I really wanted to fuck him. Had in fact spent several hours of my life masturbating to the idea. Knowing his aversion to anything anal, I had long since given up the idea of it ever happening. We hadn't even fooled around before. He was mostly straight, and, as far as I had noticed, not the least bit interested in having me as anything more than a friend. Sure we'd made out a couple of times but he had been reeeeeeealy drunk. "Have you switched teams or are you testing your stamina for a Fear Factor audition?"
"I don't want to talk about it." He moved next to me on my bed, rested his head on my shoulder and began rubbing my back. "I just --- I really need --- it wouldn't change our friendship, would it?"
"Would giving my friend and occasional roommate a blowjob before I fucked him change our relationship? Hmmmm. I would imagine so, yes. I'll be happy to do it but it will change things."
"For better or for worse?"
"Are we getting married or are you talking about the comic strip?" No laugh. "I don't know. Maybe if you explained why the sudden change of heart or change of preference or change of cock or whatever this is I could give a better assessment."
He leaned toward my ear and whispered, "I really need to cum."
I matched his phone sex operator tone "So jerk off."
"I can't."
I gave him the raptor look again. "You can't jerk off?"
"I haven't jerked off in over two years."
"What? You used to be a fiend." After being barely more than giid acquaintances in elementary and high school, Michael and I had reconnected after we'd both dropped out of college. He was managing a Blockbuster, while I was managing Raspberry Records. After having a few beers, and catching up, we'd headed back to his place, where his delightful roomate, Scott, had filled me in on Sain't college years. Apparently, Saint was well known throughout the dorm as the hardest jerking man in the business. Scott, who'd been his roommate in college, too, would often complain about waking up to squeaking springs, coming home from class and interrupting saint's handball, waiting forty minutes to take a shower because Saint was gluing the tile together with his special brand of adhesive.
Some might try and say that Saint wasn't/isn't hot. He's no Collin Farrel or Matt Damon or whoever is currently young enough to be leading the box office with his capped tooth smile. True. Ok, and also, the only six pack he carried said "Heineken" on the side, but he was soooo cute. Short, spikey blonde hair, blue eyes, an almost wiry frame with a hint of belly, and his hands -- He had Marfan Syndrome, which gave him long spindly fingers, and stork legs. The disorder doesn't affect the cock, but that didn't bother me.
Back when he was in college, Saint had the kind of look that made co-eds trust him and want him to fuck them. At the time, he was saving himself for marriage. When he dropped out (the same semester I transferred), he gave up on the whole "saving himself" idea and became one of the most successful whores (not prostitutes mind you, whores don't necessarily charge money) I knew. He had clearly studied his Wilt Chamberlain, and made good use of it. He certainly didn't need to masturbate anymore, but he still did. When he crashed at my place, I often heard him in the other room. Something I was completely ok with.
When the two of us took a six month road trip through the forty-eight continental United States, visiting various friends and relatives, we kept a running tab of how many different homes we jerked off in. He kicked my ass.
"Well? Why can't you jerk off."
"If I tell you, do you promise to blow me?"
"It depends. Is an alien going to shoot out of your meatal and try and kill me? Is there some rash I can't see from this angle?" I lifted up his balls. This was the first time I'd ever touched him in his bikini zone. He shivered, not unpleasantly.
"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"
"Okay."
"A couple of years ago, I bought a porn DVD for the first time. One of those fancy deals with multiple angles, chapter selection, and no unnecessary plotline, just really classy, really beautiful women getting fucked."
"And this was detrimental because --- "
He pushed me away with his head, and then pulled me back with his arms. "I watched it for at least six hours, I must have come like twelve times."
"If this story involves chafing I'm not only not giving you head, I'm making you put your clothes back on."
He stuck his tongue out at me. I put it to good use.
"Chafing? Please. I used to be a professional wanker. I never start without lotion."
"Go on, then, what happened?" The kiss had already sealed the fact that he was going to get his blowjob, even if he was going to come an alien life form.
"I turned off the DVD player, and the news was on..." He stared at me.
"Oh God, nothing kills an erection like Ted Koppel. Well, maybe Dan Rather or" I shuddered. "Connie Chung."
"Actually it was Katie Couric."
"Ewwwwww."
"The first thing I saw when I turned off the TV was the plane flying into the tower."
"Oh. My. God." I was starting to grasp the issue, as well as his cock. "You poor thing."
"I just feel like --- ahhhhhhhh, yea --- I feel like if I hadn't been jerking off, maybe the towers wouldn't have fallen."
I gagged a bit. Pulled my head out of his lap. "What?" Raptor look #3, a personal record for most times used during single conversation.
"I just -- I mean, what if next time I jerk off Mt. St. Helen erupts or a meteor strikes Washington D.C."
"A volcano eruption would be tragic, but I think the nation would owe you a huge debt if you single handedly..."
"I like to to use both hands."
"Okay, if you double fistedly wiped out Washington D.C."
He laughed. I returned to the business at mouth.
"Do you think that makes --- ohhhh God --- does that make meeeeee -- I'm going to" He did. Everywhere. Mt. Saint Christopher erupted all over my face, chest, headboard, wall, window, blanket, pillow. It looked like an explosion at the Liquid Paper factory. He smiled at me, and wiped the come off my face. "Does that make me fucked."
"It does now. Bend over."
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/34164.html
But Michael hadn't gone to a doctor. He had come to me.
"I'll let you do whatever you want to me if you give me a blow job."
I did my impression of a velociraptor trying to distract a human while the other raptor sneaks up and eats him. Michael was what I called quasi-gay. He preferred pussy to cock and was absolutely petrified of the very existence of anal sex. He had no problem with two guys getting off together but the very idea of any part of a person's body coming into any sort of contact with another person's ass repelled him. It didn't matter if the ass belonged to a male human, a female human, a transgendered platypus, ass was not an appropriate place for any kind of penetration.
"Let me get this str...correct. If I give you a blow job, you'll let me fuck you?"
He gagged. "Yes."
"Ummmmm." I really wanted to fuck him. Had in fact spent several hours of my life masturbating to the idea. Knowing his aversion to anything anal, I had long since given up the idea of it ever happening. We hadn't even fooled around before. He was mostly straight, and, as far as I had noticed, not the least bit interested in having me as anything more than a friend. Sure we'd made out a couple of times but he had been reeeeeeealy drunk. "Have you switched teams or are you testing your stamina for a Fear Factor audition?"
"I don't want to talk about it." He moved next to me on my bed, rested his head on my shoulder and began rubbing my back. "I just --- I really need --- it wouldn't change our friendship, would it?"
"Would giving my friend and occasional roommate a blowjob before I fucked him change our relationship? Hmmmm. I would imagine so, yes. I'll be happy to do it but it will change things."
"For better or for worse?"
"Are we getting married or are you talking about the comic strip?" No laugh. "I don't know. Maybe if you explained why the sudden change of heart or change of preference or change of cock or whatever this is I could give a better assessment."
He leaned toward my ear and whispered, "I really need to cum."
I matched his phone sex operator tone "So jerk off."
"I can't."
I gave him the raptor look again. "You can't jerk off?"
"I haven't jerked off in over two years."
"What? You used to be a fiend." After being barely more than giid acquaintances in elementary and high school, Michael and I had reconnected after we'd both dropped out of college. He was managing a Blockbuster, while I was managing Raspberry Records. After having a few beers, and catching up, we'd headed back to his place, where his delightful roomate, Scott, had filled me in on Sain't college years. Apparently, Saint was well known throughout the dorm as the hardest jerking man in the business. Scott, who'd been his roommate in college, too, would often complain about waking up to squeaking springs, coming home from class and interrupting saint's handball, waiting forty minutes to take a shower because Saint was gluing the tile together with his special brand of adhesive.
Some might try and say that Saint wasn't/isn't hot. He's no Collin Farrel or Matt Damon or whoever is currently young enough to be leading the box office with his capped tooth smile. True. Ok, and also, the only six pack he carried said "Heineken" on the side, but he was soooo cute. Short, spikey blonde hair, blue eyes, an almost wiry frame with a hint of belly, and his hands -- He had Marfan Syndrome, which gave him long spindly fingers, and stork legs. The disorder doesn't affect the cock, but that didn't bother me.
Back when he was in college, Saint had the kind of look that made co-eds trust him and want him to fuck them. At the time, he was saving himself for marriage. When he dropped out (the same semester I transferred), he gave up on the whole "saving himself" idea and became one of the most successful whores (not prostitutes mind you, whores don't necessarily charge money) I knew. He had clearly studied his Wilt Chamberlain, and made good use of it. He certainly didn't need to masturbate anymore, but he still did. When he crashed at my place, I often heard him in the other room. Something I was completely ok with.
When the two of us took a six month road trip through the forty-eight continental United States, visiting various friends and relatives, we kept a running tab of how many different homes we jerked off in. He kicked my ass.
"Well? Why can't you jerk off."
"If I tell you, do you promise to blow me?"
"It depends. Is an alien going to shoot out of your meatal and try and kill me? Is there some rash I can't see from this angle?" I lifted up his balls. This was the first time I'd ever touched him in his bikini zone. He shivered, not unpleasantly.
"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"
"Okay."
"A couple of years ago, I bought a porn DVD for the first time. One of those fancy deals with multiple angles, chapter selection, and no unnecessary plotline, just really classy, really beautiful women getting fucked."
"And this was detrimental because --- "
He pushed me away with his head, and then pulled me back with his arms. "I watched it for at least six hours, I must have come like twelve times."
"If this story involves chafing I'm not only not giving you head, I'm making you put your clothes back on."
He stuck his tongue out at me. I put it to good use.
"Chafing? Please. I used to be a professional wanker. I never start without lotion."
"Go on, then, what happened?" The kiss had already sealed the fact that he was going to get his blowjob, even if he was going to come an alien life form.
"I turned off the DVD player, and the news was on..." He stared at me.
"Oh God, nothing kills an erection like Ted Koppel. Well, maybe Dan Rather or" I shuddered. "Connie Chung."
"Actually it was Katie Couric."
"Ewwwwww."
"The first thing I saw when I turned off the TV was the plane flying into the tower."
"Oh. My. God." I was starting to grasp the issue, as well as his cock. "You poor thing."
"I just feel like --- ahhhhhhhh, yea --- I feel like if I hadn't been jerking off, maybe the towers wouldn't have fallen."
I gagged a bit. Pulled my head out of his lap. "What?" Raptor look #3, a personal record for most times used during single conversation.
"I just -- I mean, what if next time I jerk off Mt. St. Helen erupts or a meteor strikes Washington D.C."
"A volcano eruption would be tragic, but I think the nation would owe you a huge debt if you single handedly..."
"I like to to use both hands."
"Okay, if you double fistedly wiped out Washington D.C."
He laughed. I returned to the business at mouth.
"Do you think that makes --- ohhhh God --- does that make meeeeee -- I'm going to" He did. Everywhere. Mt. Saint Christopher erupted all over my face, chest, headboard, wall, window, blanket, pillow. It looked like an explosion at the Liquid Paper factory. He smiled at me, and wiped the come off my face. "Does that make me fucked."
"It does now. Bend over."
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/34164.html
