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 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, blue eyes instead of brown, with long, curling lashes that made them 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 and nearly burned a hole. "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 in from Paris. Been studying art over there for a year. How's he doin'? Still the same old jock?"
I gave back 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 water-color the morning light. 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 the 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 a head! What are you doing for lunch?"
It was too good to be true, or so it seemed at the time, 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 said once. "You've got class, and that's what I like. I grew up with my brother and my dad guzzling beer and going off to the games together. I didn't give a shit about that. I liked classical music and opera. They liked pop. I prefer being with you."
"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, but for me, Ben, it's got to be a babe. Sorry. I do love you, though. I wish I could change."
I patted his hand. "That's OK. Just let me know if you do."
In my heart, I was ravaged by desire for him. 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 a parka with a hood over his beautiful head, my heart leapt into my mouth and I got so hard I thought it would burst my pants. Something told me this was it. It was, but not what I had in mind.
He came inside and sat by the fire, his parka hung near the hearth 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 the toes before setting it gently on the floor.
He did not object when I repeated with the other foot and sat cross-legged near his knees. I was sure there was as much fire in my eyes as 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 past my knees. I never thought I'd make it up Beacon Hill. I grew up here and never saw the like. But I had to be with you, buddy, for one last time."
My heart turned to stone. 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 you would love me for life, but that will never be. I have to start a new 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, now-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 almost to his waist.
"Fuck you, Ben," he said grimly. "Get yourself a life."
Devastated, I closed the door.
The next month was a horror for me. I couldn't sleep for thinking of what I had said to him. I rehearsed a thousand times what I should 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 realized then that perhaps I hadn't really loved him at all. Perhaps my ego required simply that he love me. Once I got him, would he have turned out to be merely another notch in my belt, as he had said of me?
I was totally unprepared when my phone rang at three in the morning six weeks later. It was he.
His voice sounded foggy, as if fraught with grief. 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 was suddenly flooded with light. My heart awakened to a rush of love. "Yes, I'll be waiting at the door."
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 come in."
I took him by the arm and pulled him inside. He reeked of booze, but his bloodshot eyes were brimming with tears.
"Oh, Ben, she broke my heart! 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 the tallest guy in the world or as burly as your sports-writing 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. His left hand stroked my left cheek and ear.
"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 stroking my cheek with a trace of passion.
"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 leading to the bedroom above, 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 got up and went to sit in a chair along the wall, his legs spread out, his hands behind his head.
"Excuse my grin," he said. "This is not a joke. When I'm nervous, I always smile. I've never been with anybody, Ben, not a woman or a man. I always avoided sports and locker rooms because of my goddamned brother and dad. I didn't want to be like them."
"But you told me about a girl in Paris....." I began.
He interrupted. "I lied. There was a girl I liked, but I was scared so I grinned at her a lot, but never made a pass. My dick doesn't know anybody but my hand."
I nodded. "I understand. Are you sure you want to do this, then?"
"More than anything in my life. I'll never look at another woman unless I can get past this. I think I am embarrassed to my ass. Even with you, but I know you'll tell me the truth."
I started to undress. He closed his eyes briefly,
"No, please," he said, "I can't have that picture in my head. I'll never get hard."
He got up and picked his pants up from where I had tossed them on the floor. "I need this," he said.
I'll never forget the picture he pulled out of his wallet. It was a photograph of a seated woman shrouded in shadows everywhere except for her elongated breasts and her pussy, which had large coxcomb lips almost like wings. One leg was spread out and the other was bent at the knee with her foot on the seat of the chair. The effect was strictly for cunt lovers. It almost looked like a living thing. I found it disgusting.
"It's what I use to jack-off," he said, giving me that now familiar nervous grin.
He sat on the bed and pulled himself up more or less to a sitting position with his back propped against the headboard. His white cotton briefs were still on.
My emotions were running in high gear, I thought he was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I even thought of myself as the luckiest guy in the world. I considered myself deeply in love.
The reality of the situation seemed to have sobered him up. I got on the bed with him, kneeling between his legs. His crotch was within inches of my nose. His hand cupped the bulge. He was definitely embarrassed, perhaps ashamed. I could sense he felt out of place. He resisted a little when I tried to pull off his briefs, but finally gave in and lifted his butt as I worked them down to his pubes. There, his hand stopped me. He hesitated, then said, "I'll do this myself." He did, and gradually it came into view.
He had one of the smallest peckers I ever saw, but it was beautiful seen through the eyes of love. I said nothing, but leaned down farther to kiss it.
"Oh!" he said.
I kissed it again. It stirred.
"Oh!" he said again, but I noticed he was looking at the picture, holding it with one hand with the other arm behind his head. His legs spread noticeably wider. His dick began to rise.
I nibbled at it, at a loss for what to say. Yes, it was small, but in my experience I had discovered that a smallish dick often compensated in some special way for not being the stuff of legend. I decided to wait and see what his compensation might be.
Under my ministration, it finally lengthened to what seemed like maximum size. He offered no passion, but the feel-good aspect of most blowjobs was taking effect. His sighs were growing louder. I could not see his face for the picture he held up to see, but I noticed the picture was shaking, and his toes beginning to curl.
At that point I felt the first compensation taking shape in my wet mouth. The head was swelling into a giant mushroom that seemed to filled my oral cavity from side to side. His cock was short enough that my nose hardly left his thick patch of pubes, but I gagged a bit on the mushroom and my own passion began to drive me harder.
I forgot about his problem and concentrated on the joy. I lifted his legs to my shoulders and roamed the whole territory from his navel to his asshole. When my tongue touched the anal opening, he gasped. His hips began to churn. He dropped the picture and grabbed his legs behind the knees, lifting, spreading wider, transported into ecstasy with me.
"Oh, Ben! Oh, Ben! Oh, God, Ben! Oh, God!"
His voice was strained. Then his hands fell away and his feet landed on my shoulders. He pushed his pelvis upward, driving deeper into me. His clenched fists pounded at his sides, then unwound and grabbed my head. The mushroom head of his deck expanded to the limits of my mouth. I had never sucked a dick like that. It was marvelous!
"Oh, baby! Oh, Ben! Oh, Ben baby, I'm going to cum. OH, BEN!"
Then I discovered the second compensation. He shot his load like a cannon, firing successive spurts hitting the back of my throat like exploding hand grenades. I thought it would never end. His body writhed. His feet nearly pushed my shoulders out of joint. He lifted his backside and rode the air like a rodeo star on a Brahma bull.
He called my name again and again and kept firing those fabulous shots till I swear he produced more semen than anyone I ever knew. Boy, was he loaded for bear!
When his magnificent orgasm subsided, his body relaxed and he reached over to grab his briefs and held them over his cock. I lifted my eyes to his face and he looked away, his face red as a beet. His straight, masculine embarrassment had returned.
"You don't want me to see it?" I asked. "Hell, baby, I just swallowed your cum."
He almost cringed. "Don't call me baby. It's not right. I...I...I'm not gay."
I did not remind him of his wild caresses and passionate words of only seconds before. His whole culturization had locked him in again. I could understand. I didn't want to, but I did.
He got up and jumped into his clothes. I sensed that he wanted to bolt down the stairs and out the door. I had played with many a gay trick, usually rough trade, inclined to do the same. Straights I had managed to get often behaved that way, too.
To his credit, he fought the impulse down. He turned to me. "Can you make us some coffee, Ben? Maybe we can talk."
There was no passion now, just matter of fact, the old buddy routine again. I felt a surprising sense of loss. The medicine I gave him, the use of my mouth, had apparently not turned the tide.
Over coffee, he finally asked the question. "Well?"
Tact is usually my middle name, but not always. I'm human, you know. Tact did prevail that night, however, I am happy to say. I spoke to him semi-truthfully about his size, using the old cliché about it's not the size, it's what you do with it that counts. I told him in full truthfulness that I thought he could give glorious pleasure to a woman by using that mushroom head on her clit to bring her to orgasm, and then giving her a helluva thrill when she was finished by firing off those rockets inside.
My final point was this: "It's love that makes the difference. If you love each other, the other person wants you as you are. The lady who has just rejected you is like a lot of gays. She's a size queen, which doesn't count for shit. She probably can't handle a relationship and needed an excuse to back out. You said you had no sex with anybody. How did she find out?"
He looked sheepish and studied his coffee cup with some care. "She got me so excited with a kiss that I developed an erection. It was pressed against her snatch. She actually grabbed it. The bitch laughed with a sneer and said nobody needed a man that small."
I grinned. "Give me her address, and I'll go over there and kick her butt."
He laughed out loud. "I believe you would! Hey, if my brother finds out what we did tonight, he'll kick MY butt, for sure! Him and Dad already think I must be queer. The Paris artist, you know!"
He was totally relaxed by now, and rose as if to go, but he went upstairs instead. "Come on, baby," he called down. "I think we could use a bath. Maybe you can teach me something in the shower."
I did. It was called "Drop-the-Soap." How I loved his magic mushroom up my ass!
We continued our strange affair till summer, when he decided to become an actor and ran off to Maine to do summer stock. There had been passion between us every time we had sex together, which was whenever he got horny a couple of times a week, but I knew by then that I didn't love him. He was temporarily mine from the waist down, but his deepest emotions were activated by his impetus toward women when he wasn't spraying cum down my throat or inside my buns. He was not the man for me.
However, a few days after he left town, I did meet someone who started out as a manificent face reflected in a smoked-glass mirror over the mahogany bar at the Napoleon Club, a Bostonian silverfox haven now gone with the wind. He became my man for several years.
As for the sports writer's brother, we lost touch for nearly four decades until I found his e-address in a hopeful search on the Web. 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. Leave it be.
THE END
