Musical Selection: Beethoven's Für Elise

He was a hunk of a sports writer with broad shoulders who didn't have a thing in common with me. He lived for sports and that was it. If it wasn't a bunch of guys playing with balls on a diamond, court or field, it was nothing to a jock like him. But oh God he was beautiful, and the closest I came to a sport with balls was checking out his basket every morning at the coffee machine.

We took a break after early deadline for the morning edition at about the same time. The paper was on the presses with yesterday's news, and the breaking news and follow-ups for the evening edition were just then rolling in.

There was a lot of motion among the staff before being tethered again in our cubicles to pound out the next batch of stories on our noisy typewriters in those halcyon days before computers cast a pall of relative silence over the newsroom floor.

The secretaries from the Woman's Page flocked out, and the babes from City News, the latter a tough bunch of birds known for knocking back a few beers with the boys at the local joints on their way home.

You really couldn't tell them from the guys except for this one who wore tight sweaters and a bra that set up her tits like a pair of footballs, and she was the one who made my sport of watching the sports writer's basket worth my while.

She strutted out of her office arching those football tits with a simpering little-girl smile and shaking the watermelon that passed for her butt at every guy she passed.

I loved walking behind her and checking them out. I called them the pole-vaulter's brigade. One look at her, and they all qualified for a crack at Olympic gold! All they had to do was unbutton their pants.

My beautiful-but-dumb sports writer was the most susceptible of the bunch. He situated himself behind the waist-high trash can beside the coffee machine and never failed to engage her in conversation.

Maybe he wasn't so dumb after all. The trash can hid the strangler that strained at his trousers, so he could stick around and sip coffee and talk to her. Nobody could see it but me. I chose a spot along the wall to lean against and keep the action in sight out of the corner of my eye.

His bulging dick really made my day. The hand not holding my coffee became a big-time winner at pocket pool. I used to tuck a Kleenex in my shorts just to catch the cum!

  I never had a chat with him myself. I had tried in the early days, but you could hear the slam-dunks bouncing in his brain. It was like a big court in there, sort of a running game with no room for anything else. I gave up and settled for my nice time-outs at the coffee machine.


Then one day this new guy walked into the newsroom. He looked familiar and boy was he hot! I wondered, hopefully, where I'd met him before. As an excuse, I snatched up a page of text for the copy desk and sauntered out just as he neared my cubicle's door.
 
"New here?" I asked. "Can I help you find your way?"
 
He looked a trifle lost. "Yeah," he said, "this sure is a big place! I'm looking for my brother. He's on the Sports Page."
 
Then he named my jock. I froze. That's why he looked familiar, a family resemblance like a brand on his features, but this version had the gleam of intelligence shining from his face. He was darker-haired than his brother, smaller, not built for the game, with long, curling lashes that made his eyes look like huckleberries in cream.
 
Fuck, man, I was gone! I broke out in a sweat. Couldn't help it.
 
I stammered like a boob:
"He...he...he's... in th...th...that off...office over th...th...there with the green pages hanging outside the door."
 
He touched my arm. That nearly burned a hole in it.
 
"Thanks, buddy," he said. "I should have guessed that was Sports!"
 
Recovering myself, I asked if he was on the staff.
 
He laughed, "Hell, no, not me! My brother's the workhorse. I just got back to Boston from Paris. Been studying art over there for a year. How's he doin'? Still the same old jock?"
 
I tendered him a nervous smile, suddenly seeing a glimmer of hope. He was an artist! Aha! "I used to live in Paris," I said, "near the Place Dauphine!"
 
He nearly fell over. "The chestnut trees! I used to set up my easel there to do watercolors in the morning light. There was dog shit everywhere!"
 
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" I leaned for support against a pillar. Now he had really struck my heart. "My dachshunds loved it, too, but not for the morning light...."
 
He lit up like the rising sun. The next sentence we spoke in unison as though from a movie script: "...They loved it for their morning shit!"
 
We broke up in hysterical laughter.
 
He threw an arm around my shoulders. "Jesus! I've found a buddy who understands! I hated coming back to the States. I figured I'd never find a friend. I'm sure you know my brother. I love him, but oh my God he's got a basketball for brains! What are you doing for lunch?"
 
It was too good to be true, or so it seemed, but it was true, and the next few months became a garden spot in my life because our special friendship was growing there.
 
He professed to be straight, but accepted my being gay. I think he was comfortable with me because I was straight-acting and had been married and had been a thousand more places in the world than he and was a successful journalist as well.
 
"It's a notch in my belt being friends with you," he once said. "You've got class, and that's what I like. I grew up watching my brother play ball after school while I stayed home and painted in pastels. I liked the Three Bees - Bach, Beethoven and Brahms - and the Boston Symphony. My brother considered the Boston Pops too high-class. I drank wine, and he drank beer. I mixed butter with my Roquefort to spread on croissants; he ate hotdogs buried in chili out of a can. My mother was a classy lady, but she died. I guess I'm the one to keep her flag waving. Besides, I'd rather be with you than anybody I know. You don't talk crap. You talk about things that matter."
 
"I like being a notch in your belt," I said, "but I'd like you to drop the belt and take off your pants. I want to be more to you."
 
He sighed. "If you were a woman, you'd also be my love. You're perfect, Ben, but for me, it's got to be a babe. Sorry. I wish I could change."
 
I patted his hand. "That's OK. Just let me know if you do."
 
Despite my acquiescent exterior, in my heart, I was ravaged by the desire to get into his pants. I jacked-off in my bed at night, cumming only for him. When I shot my load, I pictured his face, his body, his smell. I was so much in love that a day I couldn't be with him was like a day in hell.
 
It went on that way for three months until one evening there was a heavy snowfall, and he knocked at my door. I wasn't expecting him, but when I saw him on the steps in high boots and a parka with the hood slung over his beautiful head, my heart leapt into my mouth. I got so hard I thought my dick would burst my fly.
 
Something told me this was it. It was, but not what I had in mind.
 
He stepped inside and sat by the fire, after I hung his parka up to dry. I helped him take off his tight rubber boots. His feet popped out in stained white sox crinkled at the toes. I massaged them lightly and warmed them at the hearth. They smelled faintly of sweat and drove me nuts. I lifted one foot and buried my nose in his toes before setting it gently on the floor.
 
He did not object when I repeated with the other foot and then sat down cross-legged near his knees. I was sure there was as much fire in my eyes as there was sparkling on the hearth.
 
I don't know what I expected him to say, but what he said next damn near struck me dead.
 
"I've found the girl, the one woman, my lady for life," he murmured softly, his gentle eyes sparkling in the firelight. "I fought my way through this blizzard on foot to tell you, my friend. There's not a streetcar stirring in Boston, not a vehicle, not even a snow plow yet. The goddam snow is up to my thighs. I never thought I'd make it up Beacon Hill. I grew up in Boston and have never seen the like. But I had to be with you, buddy, for one last time."
 
My heart froze in my breast. All that he told me thereafter echoed through my ears into the chilled cavern of my chest, fluttering like bats in the darkness that suddenly covered my soul. He had forgotten me already. She had become the whole substance of his life.
 
Practically the only thing I remember in his flow of words for the next hour and a half was that he felt it unfair to her to continue his intense relationship with me.
 
"We've been everything to each other - you and me, Ben. It's time for that to end. I know you, Ben. I can't go on letting you think there's hope. I know how you love me, but I can't love you back the same way. I have to get on with my life."
 
Bitterness sprang from my lips: "It seems your new life is the kiss of death for me." I regretted it at once. That was unfair. He had always leveled with me. He didn't deserve a remark like that.
 
It did its damage, too. His eyes lost their glow. His countenance darkened. He got up from his chair and dressed himself in the warm, newly dry parka and pulled on his boots. He went to the door. I followed.
 
My last glimpse of him was when he turned back to me briefly at the bottom of the stairs, the snow now almost to his waist.
 
"Fuck you, Ben," he said grimly. "Get yourself a life."
 
Then he struggled away through the snow. Devastated, I shut the door.
 
The next month was a nightmare for me. I couldn't sleep for thinking of what I had said to him. I rehearsed a thousand times what I ought to have said: "How wonderful! I love you, my friend. If this makes you happy, I'm happy, too. A straight man should have a woman in his life. I'm lucky to have known you. Remember me as you go on your way."
 
But I had been governed by my broken heart.
 
I was totally unprepared when my phone rang late one night six weeks later before I went to bed. It was he. He was almost incoherent, but his words finally came through. "I need you," he said. "Can I come to you now?"
 
That dark cave in my heart since he left me was suddenly flooded with light. My quiescent heart awoke in a rush of love.
 
"Yes, I'll be waiting at the door," I answered.
 
An hour later, by which time my nerves were frazzled beyond belief, he finally came up the steps and rang the bell. I threw the door open.
 
My beautiful man was a ragged mess. Always neat, he stood before me with his tie askew, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his jacket ripped on one side, his trousers and shoes covered with mud.
 
"I'm drunk," he said. "I fell down. I shouldn't have come."
 
I took him by the arm and pulled him inside.
 
"Oh, Ben, she broke my heart,"he wept. "She told me I was too small!"
 
I took him into my arms. He made no resistance. I had never been that close to him before. His head rested on my shoulder; his face was buried in my neck. I could feel the tears on his cheeks and even the bit of snot dribbling out of his runny nose, but both were the nectar of the gods to me.
 
"Well," I said, "you may not be as big as your brother, but there's nothing small about you. You're a feeling and generous man. I can't imagine what she meant!"
 
His snotty nose nuzzled deeper into my neck. His right arm circled around my back. "It's my dick She says it's too small. She says a stud mouse is hung better than me."
 
Stunned, I thought what a bitch she must be, but I couldn't think of a thing to say. He shifted against me, pressing harder at my side, his hand coming to rest on my breast.
 
"Take me to bed, Ben. You've had a lot of guys. You can tell me if it's true."
 
Christ! What mixed emotions I suffered at one of the greatest turns in my life! This was ten years before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, but that request shot me to the stars. I was thrilled to my toes, but I shivered with dread as well. Was I headed for a crash landing on Mars?
 
 
His fragile state called forth every ounce of manhood I had in me. I gathered him up in my arms like a weeping child and carried him up a steep flight of stairs to the bedroom, where I laid him on the bed.
 
He said not a word while I undressed him slowly. His crying stopped. I could tell he was watching me through narrowed eyes as I undid his shirt buttons and pulled off his pants.
 
Suddenly, he jumped up and went to sit in a chair pushed against the wall where I usually sat to put on my socks.
 
He spread his legs wide and clasped his hands behind his head like a college kid in a bull session with his roommate in a dorm. I couldn't figure why reacted that way or why he sat there with this dopey smile.
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Sorry, Ben. Gotta take a break. It's too intense. You're treating me like a girl. Remember I'm a guy."
 
I realized he wanted me to lighten up. I guess I was overplaying my hand.
 
"Gotcha," I said. "But why that shit-eatin' grin?"
 
"I'm nervous, man! To tell you the truth, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here. I'm not queer."
 
"I know that," I said. "I'm just trying to help you out, trying to be your friend. If you don't want to do this......."
 
He got up and crawled back into bed. He looked so cute in his white cotton briefs I could have eaten him alive.
 
"OK," he said. "I've had my break. I'll try not to be afraid."
 
That was it! The poor guy was scared to death! For me, it was a moment of intense pleasure, just like he said, but for him, the experience was wrapped in spiritual upheaval and emotional pain.
 
Did he have a big enough cock to get on with his life?
 
It was Judgment Day, and I was the judge. He was the one on trial. I had to be more careful. I had to hide my joy at his presence at last in my bed.
 
He stretched himself out so I could nuzzle his crotch through the briefs. I started to take them off, but he grabbed my hands.
 
"Nobody's ever seen it, Ben, since I was in diapers, I guess. Let me take 'em off."
 
He sure did take his time. Those fucking skivvies were coming off by the inch.
 
"You've never been with a girl?" I asked. "I thought you mentioned some little mam'selle in Paree."
 
He paused with his underwear still at the pubes. "I lied, Ben. There was this beautiful girl, but all I did to her was smile. That nervous grin again. I must be a wimp."
 
"No way," I said. "You're a brave young man. It took guts to call me tonight. What happened?"
 
"I've wanted to fuck her since the first minute I saw her. She is SO hot! She never let me get close to her till tonight. Up to then, it was all talk, talk, talk. She wants to get married. She said she was saving herself for the right man, and I said, well, here I am. That did the trick. She let me put the moves on her. We turned out the light and got undressed. I was so hot I was ready to cum. Then she put her hand on my dick That was the end. She told me to put on my clothes and go home. She said she could never marry a man with a dick so small. She called me a fucking stud mouse."
 
While he talked, I licked his dick through the cloth. By the time he had told me his tale of woe, his body was responding involuntarily to my tongue's caress. Something in those skivvies was getting hard.
 
His libido was taking over. He finished removing his shorts and sat up, leaning back on his hands with his knees spread apart at my sides.
 
I was still fully clothed. That was no time to stop and undress. I expected no service from him. The whole burden rested on me.
 
It was one of the most intensely pleasurable moments of my life. I loved him, and when I finally got a look at his cock, it seemed like the most beautiful dick in the world to me. I was probably the worst judge he could get.
 
His eyes were closed, his head flung back, waiting to hear the news.
 
I didn't give him any. I went to work. I engulfed his penis in a sea of spit. The little uncut thing floated on my tongue. No one had ever scarfed it before. That turned me on.
 
I took his balls into my mouth at the same time, applying heavy suction that made him moan. I don't think he had expected it to feel so good.
 
His pelvis arched to meet my face. I could see his hands had formed into fists. The muscles in his forearms were stretched and taut. His flat belly heaved in and out with quickness of breath. He was "into" it with body and soul.
 
What size he had between his legs didn't matter now. He was at the top of the world. Lust washed over him like a tidal wave. He couldn't turn back now.
 
This was my favorite sport. This was my basketball. His sports writer brother had nothing on me. I was slam-dunking his sibling into paradise.
 
Then I got my first surprise. His dick was small, no doubt about that. I swear it was two inches at the most, but the head was growing the more I sucked. It grew and grew, expanding like a mushroom to fill my mouth.
 
He became so excited he wiggled his butt and punched in hard. The mushroom head slipped around on my palate and scraped against my teeth. He didn't seem to mind.
 
Like he said, I'd had a lot of guys, and he was coming across as a type who would go for sex with a little rough edge.
 
My spittle was running in streams below his balls. I used it to lube one of my thumbs and then inserted the thumb ever so slowly into his ass.
 
"Ohhhhhhh, Jesus!" he cried out in a voice taut with strain.
 
As my thumb dug in, he fell back from his sitting position and lifted his knees to his chest, reaching down to spread his buns with his hands. He may not have thought himself gay, but his instincts were in the right place.
 
Next, I gave it the tongue. That really drove him wild. He was nearly bent in two trying to stretch himself wider to let me inside. I had a dildo in the bedside drawer. I might have reached for it then if I wasn't sure it would freak him out.
 
What I was doing was turning the lock in his door, the lock that kept him from exploring himself. I had no idea what would come of this.
 
His moans were growing louder. I looked up to his face. His eyes were closed. His features were contorted in an ecstatic grimace that made him even more beautiful to me. I really had it bad!
 
I took his dick again in mouth. The magic mushroom had enlarged even more. I had to open wide to get it all in.
 
That was when I got my second surprise. He unloaded his wad with the force of a rocket launch. It pumped into my mouth like cannon balls, each spurt individual and not part of a stream. I took as many as I could and pulled my mouth away. Still, they popped out, bursting on contact like buckshot and running down my face.
 
My God, the guy was a fucking machine!
 
He fell apart when he was done, his arms and legs flopping on the bed, his breath erupting in gasps. I licked and kissed his heaving belly even though I was gasping, too.
 
The respite from sucking his cock gave me a chance to concentrate on mine. Still dressed, I manipulated myself instantly to a quick orgasm and filled my underpants with cum.
 
If this had been a different world, I would have asked the guy at that moment to be either my husband or my wife - anything, as long he promised to live his life with me.
 
He snatched up his skivvies and draped them over his cock. I lifted my eyes, but he looked away. His cheeks flushed red as a beet. His embarrassment had returned.
 
"I didn't know you were gonna eat my cum," he said. I detected a hint of reproach in his voice.
 
"You don't like the idea of your semen digesting in my guts?" I answered, resolving not to let him take any retrograde steps. We had come too far for that.
 
He blushed even more and spread his briefs so I couldn't even see his balls.
 
It dawned on me then that he was dodging around the real issue, creating a distraction to delay my judgment on his cock. I decided to cut through the bullshit and get to the point.
 
"Well," I said, "that bitch was halfway right. When it comes to size, your dick is no great shakes. It's damn small, and there is not a fucking thing you can do about it."
 
His face dropped a mile, turning pale with dismay. That was something he didn't want to hear.
 
"That's the bad news," I continued. "Would you like to hear the good?"
 
He gulped, replying in a dismal voice, "After that, what good news can there be?"
 
"Plenty," I said, "but first you gotta let me look at your stuff. It's important to me."
 
Reluctantly, he set aside his skivvies.
 
"OK, here it comes, baby," I announced. "You've got a tool in your crotch that can thrill the hell out of any woman who loves you...or any man."
 
I bent my head to kiss his dick. Bless his heart, he stroked my head. He was happier now.
 
"You've got magic in your pants. That mushroom head is the biggest I ever saw. God, it's a fucking basketball! Rubbing a clit with it would make a woman cum, big-time. The instant she did, you could slam-dunk it and stretch like cunt like a rubber band. That would be thrill enough, but you've got this cannon, see, that fires rockets which might damn well shoot out of her ass. They nearly made a hole in the back of my head. Shit, if I packaged that thing, I could auction it off for a million bucks!
 
"Thanks, Ben," he said with surprising calm. "I guess that's what I had to hear. My life can go on."
 
He got out of bed and put on his clothes. I was appalled by the chill he expressed with his eyes. He averted his eyes from me and went downstairs. I heard the door open. I hated him at that moment. The guy was as changeable as the moon.
 
I heard the door close, but then up came his steps on the stairway again.
 
"Forget something?" I ventured when he hove into view.
 
He stood there looking uncertain.
"I think I did. I forgot to tell you I liked it. I have always been afraid that I would, which is why I never let you touch me before. Forgive me, Ben. I'm a little confused. Can I spend the rest of the night with you? I don't want to be alone."
 
His eyes had changed again, like phases of the moon. They were softer now, not cold at all. The real man was shining through.
 
We continued our strange affair for a few weeks, but it was always me who made the love. He was totally passive while I explored his body with my tongue. I gave him pleasure. I know that, but I was unable ever to touch him to his soul. We never even kissed.
 
I made a terrible mistake with him one morning, when I got up early on Saturday to take care of an emergency at work and left him fast asleep. He spent all his weekends with me. I had almost developed an addiction to drinking his cum.
 
My mistake was to leave a little note saying when I would be home and signing it: "Love...Me."
 
He wasn't there when I got back, but he telephoned me that night.
"I've had enough of it, Ben. I'm not gay. It really has to be a woman for me. I know that now for sure. The way you signed your note...it made me feel like a girl."
 
He never came back to me after that. He decided to become an actor instead of an artist and went off to Maine to do summer stock.
 
He wrote a couple of postcards telling me that he met a lot of gays, but he turned them down as was strictly on the make for women. After while, the cards stopped coming, but by then I didn't care.
 
Shortly after he left, I had met a gay man at the Napoleon Club, a Bostonian silverfox haven. We fell madly in love with each other. Our sexual activity expressed mutual desire. There was no playing of roles. We committed to each other and became lovers.
 
A few months later, I took a job in Paris. My lover went with me to teach at the Sorbonne. We were happy together for years.
 
As for the sports writer's brother, we lost touch for nearly four decades until I found his e-address in a search on the Web in 1998. I e-mailed him. He was stunned to hear from me. He replied with a catch-up on his life. He sounded self-assured and spoke of three marriages and three grown kids.
 
I guess I was right about his mushroom. It did work magic after all. I wrote back, but I never heard from him again.
 
The past is dead. I should have let it be.

THE END

 

P.S. Me, more or less as I looked when the above adventure occurred.