0 comments/ 23723 views/ 5 favorites A Sense of Urgency By: Cal Y. Pygia Charlie's fist was closed around my cock. He held the firm shaft firmly, squeezing its spongy tissues within the column's tight-stretched flesh. I'm not especially big down there. His fist pretty much covered the whole length of my erection, and, on the down stroke, the side of his hand collided with my balls, inside the tightly bunched pouch of my scrotum, jiggling them. I watched as he masturbated me. Although we'd done this a couple of hundred times before, his masturbating me still had a patina of the forbidden and an air of novelty, which I found as exciting as the actual physical sensations his pumping hand stirred in my loins--maybe more so. I studied his hand. It was big and powerful, like Charlie himself. He knuckles were nearly the size of quarters, and the tendons were like cords. Despite his tanned flesh, blue veins stood out, clear and distinct, in the back of his thrusting fist. His curled fingers were of similar circumference to that of my prick, but they were longer. His were hands that could do mighty deeds, hands that could protect, hands that could punish and hurt. They were manly hands, powerful and sexy. They were hands that could hold a guy, draw him close and keep him safe--or, when the need arose--discipline him. Is it possible to have a hand fetish? If person can worship feet, why not hands? I love the tight embrace of Charlie's fist. I love the roughness of his calloused hand against the velvet-softness of my cock and balls. I love the grip of strength and power about my most intimate and vulnerable parts. I love putting myself, figuratively and literally, into his hands--or hand. I suppose that the sight of my diminutive cock, swallowed up, as it were, inside Charlie's big, powerful hand, makes me feel--I don't know--feminine, somehow. I first realized I'm gay when I was fourteen, after watching an episode of the old TV Western called Bonanza. Although I don't remember consciously thinking that Little Joe, the character portrayed by Michael Landon when he was in his twenties, was particularly sexy, I must have believed that he was, because, that night, I dreamed that I was marrying him. Although, in my dream, I remained male, I wore a bridal gown, and Little Joe--or Michael--wore a tuxedo, looking ravishingly handsome. In retrospect, I guess my schoolmates knew--or suspected, at least--that I was gay, even before I did, because, snickering, they called me "fuck face" and "sissy" and "faggot," both behind my back and to my face. Their suspicions were probably confirmed for them when, instead of resorting to fisticuffs, I resorted to tears. I can still hear their vicious catcalls and insults. Then, and since, I've been called every name in the book: "bitch," "cock sucker," "dick licker," "fag," "faggot," "fuck face," "gay," "homo," "homosexual," "Nancy boy," "pantywaist," "pansy," "punk," "queer," you name it. You'd think that, by now, the homophobes would have come up with some new names for their vocabulary of hate speech. In particular, I vividly recall Sammy Johnson's singsong voice as he chanted, over and over, in front of my whole gym class, during my sophomore year of high school: "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Their cruel taunts and jibes did have one beneficial, albeit unintended, consequence. Their early recognition of my sexual orientation helped me to internalize my preference for my own sex. Unfortunately, they also caused me to internalize their hostility toward, and hatred of, me; for a long time, I was conflicted about my attraction to other men, my adoration of their cocks and balls, and my desire to suck cock and to have a thick, hard prick embedded in my ass. For a time, I was even suicidal. "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Even now, Sammy's hateful voice shouts its hurtful refrain, even when I'm with Charlie. But not much. In the war, my Charlie was a Navy corpsman. He used his knowledge and skill to save wounded Marines. He enjoyed the duty. He said it created "a sense of urgency" about life and about what he did as a corpsman. He received a purple heart and a commendation for bravery under fire when he risked his life to assist a fallen comrade. Later, when the brass discovered that he's gay, they discharged his ass. Charlie's a bit bitter about it. "Contrary to Stephen Crane's contention," he told me, "there is no red badge of courage--at least, not for gay guys." "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Maybe I'm not the only homo to have been mocked and abused. Maybe all of us have been, or are, in one way or another. "A sense of urgency," Charlie had told me, in telling me about helping fallen warriors with gaping wounds, blown-away limbs, and missing faces, "gets the adrenaline flowing, there's no doubt about that, but it also makes a guy feel really and truly alive, in the here and now. It's intense. There's nothing like it." We were naked, as usual, at the time he'd told me about his brief military career and the rush he'd felt in helping a fallen hero as machinegun fire, incoming barrages, and aerial bombardments were underway nearby, and he'd looked at my cock in his hand, as he was nurturing it to fullness. "Well, almost nothing," he'd corrected himself. "Sex--or, more specifically, orgasm, whether it's yours or mine--creates a sense of urgency for me, too." He'd tried to explain what he meant further, using words like "feeling needed," "appreciating yourself," and "enjoying the moment," but I hadn't understood him fully. He'd tried to kiss me, too, but I'd prevented him, looking away. I hated to deny him, but, although I'd sucked his beautiful, manly cock a hundred times and more and had been honored to take his prick up my ass, somehow, crazy though it may sound, I didn't like the thought of kissing another guy. Instead of striking me as being sexy, kissing another man--even my Charlie--seemed repulsive to me. It's odd how we're wired, by experiences and innate inclinations. Sucking cock and being impaled upon one delighted me, but the thought of kissing another man made me sick to my stomach. I think maybe I have Sammy to blame for these feelings, too. His cruel, mindless taunts conflicted me in more ways than one, I believe. "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Watching Charlie masturbate me, I wished I could shut Sammy's accursed voice up forever. But I couldn't, not even with mighty, manly Charlie seated next to me, in all his naked glory, muscles bulging and powerful hand gripping my risen, upright cock. My rejection of Charlie, implicit in my refusal to kiss him, bothered him, I could tell. How could it not? However, he never forced himself upon me, never berated me, never snubbed me. "You will, someday," he'd say, as confident of tone as he was beautiful of body. "When the time's right for you." Maybe he was right, I thought. Initially, I'd found it almost impossible to take off my clothes in front of him, impossible to let him touch me, impossible to suck his thick hard cock, impossible to suffer him to fuck me in the ass. Nevertheless, over time, supported by Charlie's strength and patience and love, I was able to do all these things and, moreover, to enjoy them. Now, I wouldn't be able to live without his cock and balls in my face and his manhood up my ass. I liked the passivity of being an object for Charlie's enjoyment. My cock and balls were his toys, to play with when and as he pleased, just as my mouth and my ass were his cunts, to fuck whenever he wanted, however he liked. I took comfort in my reification. I delighted in being his plaything. I loved his big, warm, firm, rough, calloused, manly fist around my prick, jerking and pumping, squeezing and wiggling, rubbing and stroking. Amid these thoughts and the sensations of delight, stirring in my belly and balls, that caused them, Sammy's hated mantra shouted in my mind: "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" A clear drop of Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum, appeared at the tip of my purple glans, like dew upon a lavender rosebud, and Charlie grinned, his meaty hand pumping more forcefully, more insistently, and I felt the overpowering, telltale sensation of a tidal wave of passion rising, tsunami like, within my loins. In a moment, semen, white and thick, and warm, was streaking, like a bevy of missiles, fired for effect, from my lurching, straining penis, and Charlie and I, watching the salvos streak across the flat terrain of my firm, taut belly, exchanged glances, our heads coming together, as we laughed. Some of my goo splattered Charlie's pumping fist, and I watched the syrupy fluid trickle slowly down his sausage-size fingers, glistening like melted pearls in the light of the full moon that shone through the parted curtains at our open bedroom window. Outside, in the night, an owl queried the stars deep in the heavens above. We were cheek to cheek, my cum on my belly and Charlie's hand, and we turned our heads toward one another. Our noses touched, and then our lips. His brushed mine, and, this time, I did not turn away when he pressed his open mouth against my lips. I did not flinch, nor wince, when the tip of his moist tongue parted the softness of my lips. Instead, I opened my mouth, accepting him, and I felt the wetness of his mouth wet the wetness of my mouth. Our tongues waltzed. Charlie held me close, his big, strong hands resting upon my bare back, and I could feel the pressure of his fingers, fanned out over my spine, supporting my backbone, cradling my haunches. We kissed, and I felt more semen ooze from my dwindling cock as Charlie's ham-size hands slid down my flanks and buttocks to clutch the sides of my hips. He drew me even more tightly to himself, turning, and laid me on the bed, beneath him, our lips still locked together, as tightly as our embrace, and I felt his manhood, rigid and thick, pierce my anus and slide deep into my bowels, filling me with his maleness, his masculinity, his love. As he began to fuck me, our kiss deepened, and I knew, at last, what Charlie had been trying to tell me about a sense of urgency. And he was right. There was nothing else like it in the world. "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Sammy's homophobic voice cried in my mind. This time, though, the cruel words didn't hurt, not at all. "Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag! Gary's a fag!" Sammy insisted. Yes, I am, I replied to myself, proud and content.