Old Dick and the Sea
Part 6
F**king, I figured out, was only part of the package but often the part folks, particularly gay men, got wrong. They’re caught in the heterosexist bullshit that mimics the game Battleship - once you get the person in bed (or behind the building), the target has been reached and there is nothing left to do but screw. For gay men, it doesn’t matter as for many sex is nothing more than an exchange at a pawn shop. I guess that’s the difference between consuming a burger in your car on the way back from lunch and enjoying a beef Wellington with a glass of Bordeaux at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant. Straight blokes aren’t much better; eventually leaving most straight women in haggard and unhappy lives – they do all that work to catch a guy’s eye and his mind is practically gone or asleep five seconds after he gets it in (if not before).
I got upstairs to the room Angus and I shared at my sister’s place, Redrow Cottage. The term ‘cottage’ made it sound quaint, which it likely was in the 1850s when it was built for the chief farmer for the Morganwg Estate, Angus’s ancestral home. But since Angus’s father, the 11th Earl of Glamorgan, had bequeathed it to my sister Ciara, she added rooms, modernized the kitchen, as well as built an attachment that connected a vet’s office space with a kennel and a barn for the larger animals. Today, it so happened that my sister and her husband Tom, an ex-lover of mine (long story – you need to read the book), were visiting relatives in America, so Angus and I could make as much noise as we needed to. And I planned on bringing down the house.
I opened the door to see Angus lying naked on the bed, smoke from his joint drifted upwards from the fingers of his prosthetic hand. The hand rested lazily on his raised knee as he gazed out the window, likely watching the small waterfall buttressing the north side of the house. Reclining like that, with the setting sun dropping selected shades of orange and red across his tattooed muscles, he looked like a Bedouin chief resting in his tent after a hard day tending goats. When we got married, the tabloids described Angus Reese as “once one of the most desired bachelors in Europe” and as “a creature designed by Louis B. Mayer in the MGM backlot”. Even Angus’s deficits were gorgeous. And as I put the tray of fresh baked pretzels, dipping sauce, and my specialty Martini in a chilled thermos with a classic martini glass on the night stand, he turned and smiled at me and I felt like a 12-year-old girl at some boy band concert. Geeze, married a little over two years and the fireworks were still ablaze.
“So, what happened next?” Angus asked eagerly after grabbing a pretzel. “You hadn’t been to Thailand yet, so I suppose this was your first exposure.”
I poured a drink and handed it to him insouciantly, assuming my role as his valet. I don’t drink anymore, having stopped after my BFF convinced me that bad whiskey and male-only gangbangs weren’t a form of therapy recognized by the local psychological association. Plus, unlike Angus who could eat bags and bags of crisps and not gain a pound, I had to work to maintain this twink-with-a-side-of-muscle physique. “I’d seen some stuff on the Internet but I was never sure how much of it was faked,” I replied.
He sat at the edge of the bed to enjoy his treats. I walked around to the other side. I got on the bed, kneeled just behind him, close enough to brush my slightly hard cock against his upper back. I started to tie his hair with the rubber band I had around my wrist. “You’re just going to take it down later,” he said, mouth full of pretzels and sriracha crème fresh dip.
He was right; I was just teasing myself, running my fingers through his thick, auburn mane like a vampire prepping his next victim. “Yeah,” I confirmed with a slight groan, “but that’s the best part.”
He turned, tapped my hand playfully, then scooted to prop himself up against the headboard. He grabbed his drink and popped another pretzel in his mouth, then said, “First things first – finish the story.”
I let out another groan, now with a hint of disappointment, before I settled next to him in the bed. I had to readjust myself before I was comfortable, for my dick was way ahead of itself and had to be reminded who was in charge - which was Angus, of course. I crossed my arms over my chest to resolve my temptations and searched for the bookmark in the story. The stereo speakers played ‘Slow Hands’, Niall Horan’s treatise to a woman in a dance club asserting just what and how she was going to do him.
∞∞∞∞ Back to the story . . . .
“Oh Darlin’, touch it,” the old man’s wife said, pointing to her penis as her hips wiggled a tad. “I promise, it’s 100% real.”
As I was in my early 20s, my head was full of inappropriate questions - were you born like this? Are you really a girl or in transition or a hermaphrodite? Does it work the same as mine? I thought you said you all have children-did you adopt? Do they know ‘mommy has a dick’? - and other mindless, politically incorrect, ignorant nonsense that I would later learn were irrelevant as well as insensitive. Instead, I hesitantly touched it with the fingers of my left hand, like a child following instructions. When it moved, as any ordinary dick would when in contact with another’s flesh, my eyes bulged like a kid at his first Premier League championship match. She didn’t laugh at me but smiled kindly. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, putting my hand in my pocket as if placing it in a timeout.
She took hold of my right hand and kissed the palm, then turned it over to caress her cheek against my knuckles like a purring cat marking territory. Her skin felt like satin and the light rubbing popped the moisture bubbles from recently applied perfume – the lavender foundational aromatic reminded me of late summers with Angus and me having a kick-about in the Morganwg Gardens. At the time, I thought about the oddness of that particular memory arising when I was so intensely aroused. Then I noted that she had lifted her head then moved it back and forth, trying to see something behind me. As if recognizing something rare, she gently pulled on my arm to turn me around. “L’amour est la poésie des sens (Love is the poetry of the senses)”, she said in French.
Second Part of the Video
“Balzac,” I replied, calm until I realized what was enthralling her – my brand was on fire. I was so riveted by the fact that this incredibly hot woman had a dick on her that most blokes would envy and slappers would slobber all over in an attempt to finesse a blow job, that I forgot to hide my back. Most of my sexual encounters as of late, were limited to anything that could be done with my back against a club wall. Sometimes when I had an invitation home or to some out-of-towner’s hotel room, I’d kept my shirt on and stayed on my back. These actions typically kept the light show down or left the more intoxicated ones thinking they were hallucinating.
The old man turned me around further and lifted my shirt. I gave in and let him take it off. “What an unusually shaped Allwedd Derw (oak key)!”
“You know what this is? Why it does this?”
He pulled me close and ran his hand against the brand, “That’s amazing, how the sparks don’t harm you. How did you get it?”
I sighed out of relief that I could explain this without someone thinking I was crazy or creepy. “My parents did it when I was a young child, something to do with a family superstition around protecting Jewish males by using a druid sign representing strength. I was so young when it happened, I didn’t know it was there until I had a sleepover at a mate’s, and he pointed it out.”
“But once puberty arrived . . .” the old man inquired.
“Yeah, even masturbating gave it a buzz and turn things all roseate green,” I said. “The fireworks started only recently.”
“One of my grandmother’s girls had one,” the old man continued. “My grandmother said these were signs of powerful clairsentient's. But I’ve never seen or heard of one that shoots. She also said as the clairsentient’s powers mature, the colors change like a 70s mood ring and the hues get richer.”
The wife came up and purred on my bicep. “Je n'ai pas dit que vous pourriez arrêter de me toucher. (I didn’t say you could stop touching me).” I stroked it for several minutes this time, noting the odd roughness of the skin and how her moans tracked her heavy breathing. The quivering of my hands prevented me from offering a firm squeeze. But what I missed in firmness, I must have made up for in speed as my rhythm caused the center vein to vibrate against my hand. It’s bulk made me wonder about how it would feel in my mouth.
In my distraction with her, I nearly forgot the old man, who turned me around so he could unhook the belt holding up my trousers. “You’re already partly undressed.” He leaned in and kissed me – juicy, vibrating lips that smacked and tugged. When he extended his tongue to taste mine or sucked on my bottom lip, my balls held hope he would do that to them. Meanwhile, the old man had deftly loosed my pants waist while his wife brought them to just below my hips. Then, she licked her middle finger and dipped it between my ass cheek like I was the salsa and she the tortilla. She circled my hole, testing its elasticity. My hips moved against her finger pleadingly while the old man kissed me deeper, his groaning becoming more personal.
Although I felt dizzy in that hot, spiraling aroused sort of way, my mind hadn’t forgotten about that dick of hers. I tried to grab it again and missed – with my trousers down to my ankles, I wasn’t going anywhere. Clothes, ah bother! I managed, however, to push him back a bit and said, “I’m falling down here, you know.” He smiled eagerly and his eyes lit up, giving his face a warm glow and increasing his attractiveness three-fold. I continued, “I do my best work in bed, actually.” The old man bowed slightly and gave me room to finish undressing. Then the wife took my hand and led me to the bedroom.
The owners of the #Shangri-La Hotel understood that their guests were doing more in their rooms than business for the design plan was clearly suggested by some millionaire’s Madam – elegant risqué with a touch of vagabond. Everything from the soft beige carpeting caressing my toes to lights that receded so much as to make the fixtures invisible to bedding so light that it felt like you were touching yourself. The music followed us and seemed to know what we were doing, switching from classic jazz to techno that would not be out of place with Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus at Zion's the-matrix-is-coming-to-kill-us party. Ice water, a small decanter of what was likely more Scotch, glasses, and small snack bags were on the nightstands on either side of the king size bed, in case guests needed to rest and refuel between rounds.
The wife, sort of wearing a negligée that was so thin and sheer that it hardly counted as cloth, laid on her back, propped up on her elbows, with one knee bent straight up and her other leg swinging lightly against the side of the bed. Her penis, resting nonchalantly across her plump thigh, was semi-erect as if at the ready. Seeing it in full view and without an overlay of astonishment, I noted distinct features. I’m Jewish and back then I was fascinated by uncut cock and her’s was thick more than long. Thinking of it in later years, I’d say it reminded me of #Peter Dinklage’s interpretation of #Tyrion Lannister in #Game of Thrones – tight, randy, and powerful. She nodded at me like a director leading a scene. “Continue,” she instructed.
The old man took his cue and pulled me by my elbow back into his arms. His mouth was more vigorous now, tongue lapping against the back of my ear, lips occasionly tugging at my earlobe. His skin was taut and rugged. His hands roamed deliberately all over my body as if looking for the most sensitive parts. Once found, he stopped just long enough to tease me and never got near my dick, who was quite disappointed each time he passed it by. He was seducing me like I would a woman, which was disconcerting at first but terribly arousing. But he wouldn’t let me do more than react to his advances, pushing my hand away if I got too close to any erogenous zone. At one point, he abruptly stopped and commented, “I see. You’re a genuine sub.”
I looked at him queerly. “What do you mean?”
“Your brand,” he replied. “It’s reacting, you’re enticed but I think things can get hotter.”
“And you think that means I am a sub? Don’t you think you’re reading into things?”
He shook his head. “Do not misinterpret. By ‘sub’ I don’t mean subservient or submissive, but that you are one of those people who receive your greatest pleasure from pleasing another.” He took my hand and brought me to the bed then invited me to sit next to his wife. “When you find your mate, their happiness, in and out of bed, will be your goal.”
“Any idea who this person is?”
“I don’t know them but you do,” the old man answered with a tone that indicated he would tell me nothing more, leaving me to run through a laundry-list of nobodies that made up my relationships up to that time. I drew a complete blank as to who fit into the ‘Ms. or Mr. Perfect’ category. “Turn around and lay down,” he said. I’m going to teach you something. Consider it a wedding present.”
As I followed his instructions, I asked, “Are you a sub too?”
He smiled kindly again and said, “No, I’m a teacher.”
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