Monday, July 24, 2017

Old Dick and the Sea - Part 3

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For audio version, click here .  Written version is below.


Old Dick and the Sea
Part 3
To say that I was a genuine submissive at that point of my life would be wholly inaccurate.  Feeling a slippery, wide dick stretching my sphincters in a steady, deliberate rhythm felt fantastic when I could get it done right, which was rarely.  And if I figured the bloke’s angle was to use my ass as a substitute for his tired, bored hand, I bowed out or kept it to oral.  Guys whose only goal was to use me as a cum receptacle tended to have no finesse or technique, particularly the ones with pumped up dicks.  Those Felicia’s weren’t going to leave me sore and unsatisfied – bottoms deserve orgasms too.  I wasn’t looking for a relationship but some consideration.   Once a small inheritance arrived years later, I abandoned the bar scene and simply purchased my pleasure, developing a standard script that described exactly what I wanted, along with an iPod playlist to ensure folks kept to the beat – Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation for those times I wanted it deep and bouncy or Zeppelin’s Kashmir when I needed steady and driving.  Although I was fairly sexually sophisticated for a young man, it wouldn’t be until I met Angus that I would realize the prophetic complexity of the old man’s reference.
But at this point, my future marriage to the 12th Earl of Glamorgan was a flicker of fantasy not worthy of a wet dream and on this day, the idea of fully giving myself to another in such a way was preposterous.   So, reckoning I was being insulted, I puffed up and responded defiantly to his inquiry.  “Old man, just because I take it in the ass doesn’t make me some weakling.”
He scratched his bald head, more to signal his disbelief than in response to any itch.  “Kid.  For such a young man, you certainly got a fortress around yourself!”  He took a long drink from the plastic water bottle, seemingly finding just as much satisfaction from it as he did from the fine scotch.  “Listen, I’m not trying to pry.  It’s just, . . . well, . . . there’s something about you . . . some potential I sense.”
“I’ve heard there is lots of voodoo magic stuff in New Orleans.”  I decided to mimic him and took a drink from my water bottle.  “My family’s got some history with the Druids.”
“You don’t say?” he licked his lips, studying me.  “That’s some old wisdom as well.”  He scooted close to me.  “Do you mind?  I would like, to test something.”
It was like the moment while the tarot reader shuffled the cards – you dare not speak for fear of breaking the magic.  I was as still as someone undergoing a MRI when his hands touched my face, starting from my forehead, moving across my eyes, around my nose then outlining the edges of my lips.  I could see his eyes following his touch but they looked far away like he was listening to my heart beat.  He dropped his left hand but with his right, the old man’s middle finger scooped up a bead of nervous sweat that popped out from next to my ear, near the hairline.  He put that finger directly against his tongue, that stuck out as if my sap were a new sauce on the menu at a 5-star restaurant.  He closed his eyes for a moment, “Mmm.”
A little freaked out, I said, “Usually people say that after kissing my neck or sucking me off.”
“My grandmother was what you would likely call a ‘voodoo queen’.  She taught me lots of things – including how to read someone’s soul by tasting his sweat.”  He chuckled to himself, “I figured she knew her stuff.  She did, after all, run one of the most successful brothels in Louisiana.  People came from all over the country, hell likely the world, to be with someone from her stable.  She was never raided, kept the local gangs at bay, and retired with enough investment dollars to move and live out her days in a coastal home in Florida.  You can’t do that without a least a few tricks up your sleeve, pun intended.”
The family story was nice but I wanted to know what he saw.  At that point in my life, I was like most folks my age – the fantasies from childhood seemed silly but the possibilities of adulthood were tangled in uncertainty.  I had always listened to elders in my family, weighing their words against their deeds.  When I found one worthy, I’d give an honest hearing.  And at the moment a little insight, a push in the right direction was not unwelcomed.
“You’re not exactly boring me.”
He put his chin on his hands, his right elbow on the table, with a look of uncertainty, “You got Druid blood, . . . you know, . . . this stuff isn’t always definitive, clear cut at least not now.  It may not make any sense . . . jumbles of potentialities that guarantee nothing.”  He looked at me directly, likely realizing that he’d opened a can of worms and each one of them was escaping. 
I moved closer to him; our thighs touched.  “Yes?”
He swallowed hard.  “Well, let’s start with the now.  We are all definitely going to sleep together tonight and a good time will be had by all.  As for what you are going to do next, you have several choices and decisions to make about . . ..”

The large thud sound from Rory’s direction and the old man’s wife returning to the table, huffing angrily in French brought the rest of the room back into my consciousness.

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