| Nothing I hate worse when giving a blow job than smelling my own spit.
That's what was nice before condoms, going down on a guy at the end of
the workday before he took a bath, just a tad ripe with good honest
sweat, and then when he got close to cumming, his whole smell changed
and got stronger. That's when I liked it. The smell of a gusher on the way.
It is always more noticeable with uncut guys. Don't know why. Maybe the
little pocket around the corona has more excretory glands. That can get
disgusting when a guy is a pig. I never developed a taste for smegma.
That is even a dirty, smelly word, don't you think? Some people do love
it,though.I had a friend, a really cute kid from Alabama. He was what they call a
"chub," a type I go for, being a sort of "chub bear" myself. He was 23,
and a
Fulbright scholar. We met on board ship going to France from New York.
I was going to teach a class at the Sorbonne, but he was headed for the
University of Grenoble at the edge of the Alps. He was a really green
kid. I have always thought I was the first to get into his pants. I gave
him the eye on deck one day, and he gave it back. I followed him to a
john near his cabin and found him in a stall sitting on a toilet, his
pants around his ankles, playing with his dick. I locked the door
behind
me and got down on my knees, but he wouldn't let me take it in my
mouth. He let me put my hand on it, but when I tired to jerk it a little, he
held my hand still and asked me to just use my thumb. So I gripped the
shaft enough to hold it steady and rubbed my thumb gently below and
behind the head. He told me to rub harder and not to pull on it at all.
He sort of hunkered down and thrust his pelvis up. His hands held his
shirt and sweater up on his chest. I could see that he was getting
close.
Then he laid his head way back against the wall and muttered between
clenched teeth, "I'm fixin' to cum!" Then WHOOSH there came this mighty
spray that shot three feet in the air like the fountains at Versailles.
It just about took him with it because his bottom lifted up off the
toilet seat, and he let out a groan like somebody had jammed a fist up
his ass. All the life seemed to flow out of him with that magnificent
spurt and with the after-dribbling of a steady stream of cum. I stood up
and straddled him and rubbed my stiff prick in the puddle on his hairy
gut and shot my own load around the area of his navel. God, that was
good!
Later, in Paris, we were sort of a twosome before he left for Grenoble,
except people thought he was my son, I think, because of the difference
in age. I didn't see him again until Christmas, when we took off for
Naples. All during that trip I noticed how different he was. I picked up
a few tricks, and he would leave the room although he would return to
sleep with me at night. I felt a little guilty because he spoke no
Italian. I could at least connect with the tricks. Oversexed as ever, I
was tricking five and six times a day, so for long periods he would have
to stay away from the hotel where we were shacked, but he never
complained,which I expected him to do.
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