2 comments/ 7376 views/ 8 favorites Wonder: Andy Ch. 01 By: CallMeRed In the late '90s I was teaching art classes at a couple of different colleges in a mid-sized Midwestern city, piecing together a minimal living from adjunct teaching gigs and trying without much success to get my own artwork into some galleries. I was in my mid-twenties, feeling good about being independent, but living at a distance from most of my friends and family, I was often lonely, too. One of my jobs was an evening life drawing class, and getting a roomful of kids in their late teens and early twenties to settle down and draw from a nude model was not always a picnic. On the night this story begins, I was really hoping for a hassle-free evening. I had just gotten yet another rejection from a gallery, and also hadn't had time to eat anything before class. It would be nice, I thought, to have my favorite model, a plump, pretty young woman named Julia who was completely nonchalant about being naked, stared at, and scrutinized. She had both a sense of humor and a take-no-shit demeanor that made my life easier. One class, from across the room, I got the sense that a male student had made some inappropriate comment to her. As I started to rush over, slightly freaking out about how to handle the situation, I heard her scoff and announce loudly in a witheringly contemptuous voice, "You couldn't handle it." Crisis handled. But—no Julia that evening. Tonight, someone I'd never worked with before, and on top of it, a man. I always faced the prospect of male nude models with mixed feelings. The positive part of my reaction needs no elaboration. But it was always an off class when we had a male model. Seeing a real live naked man still seemed to be a major taboo for many of the students, and even those students who I thought were a little more worldly than their peers tended to leave their sketches with blank Ken doll crotches rather than attempt to draw male genitalia. Male models also heightened the likeliness that at least one kid would ask to leave class because of religious objections, as if looking at a naked man was inherently more sinful than looking at a naked woman (although I guess for some of us, it is). Plus, there was always at least one asshole dude who had to make a big macho-bullshit production about how he didn't want to have to look at a naked guy (methinks the lady doth protest too much). Compounding the general unease in the room was the fact that the newbie model was palpably nervous and infectiously uncomfortable. He never spoke, and throughout the session held his body rigid, staring straight ahead blankly. He followed my instructions when I asked him to shift poses, but otherwise gave no indication that I was speaking to him. A couple of times when I neared him to instruct a student in some point of anatomy she or he was having trouble with, he leaned away as if I might touch him. I was uncomfortable, too; I found myself in the awkward situation of being incredibly sexually aroused by the model. He was beautiful. He looked to be in his early twenties and was boyishly handsome. His close-cropped hair and the scattering of strands across his chest, forearms, and legs were bright orange. A flaming ridge of hair blazed from his bellybutton down to a glorious burning bush, and I tried to purge my mind of thoughts of how much I'd like to follow that trail with my fingers or tongue. He had a redhead's snowy skin, and looked like he was chiseled out of a giant bar of Ivory soap. Now, my hair's a little bit reddish, and I'm pretty pale myself, so maybe my intoxication had a touch of narcissism to it, but on top of everything this magnificent specimen was fucking ripped. His slim body had such sharp muscle definition, he would've been perfect for an anatomy-for-artists demo. I could imagine myself standing next to him with a pointer: "All right, class, here are the digitations of the serratus," pointing to the side of the upper rib cage. "And here," I would say, tracing down the trembling model with the rubber tip of my pointer the line that runs along the center of the torso, "is the linea alba. And here, at number three on the top-ten list of sexiest parts of the male anatomy, is the iliac furrow, or 'Apollo's belt,'" that exquisitely, excruciatingly touchable line that curves from the jut of the hip bone to the crotch. I was doing my best to downplay my jitteriness and distraction by keeping things light, bantering with the students. But I started to feel shaky. The drawing studios were kept at a higher temperature in consideration of the naked people at the center of the action, and I was starting to sweat. It felt like the effort of suppressing my attraction to the model was making me all the hotter—heat that radiated out from me in shimmering waves threatening to give away my unseemly and unprofessional horniness. I poured what little energy I had into going from student to student, assisting and critiquing, which for better or worse meant that I had to gaze upon this beautiful man from every angle. As I was working with one student I noticed the model had a few scrapes and bruises on his knees and shins, which somehow made him even more desirable. "It's a losing battle," I complained to myself. A student piped up. "Mr. Lukasik, should we draw his tattoo?" I looked at the blurred, obviously amateur wad of greenish-black lines on his left deltoid. What exactly was it? "No," I replied, "just focus on the parts that are three-dimensional," almost adding, "Why would you want to look at anything else?" At ten till nine, I announced, "OK, everyone, that's it for tonight. Don't forget your portfolios are due next week, and don't forget to clean up around you before you go." As I was speaking, the model hustled into the white terrycloth robe the school provided, jumped down from the platform on which he had been posing, strode across the room to scoop up a big, bulky backpack and skateboard over in the corner, and bolted from the room before some of the students had lifted the charcoal from their drawing pads. "Buh-bye, you sexy motherfucker," I thought as I packed up my stuff, figuring the only time I'd ever see my exquisite redheaded Barberini faun again was in some good masturbation fantasies—wherein he did indeed pay me many a lovely visit. As it turned out, though, not only would I eventually see him again, but I'd get to make some of those fantasies into reality. Read on. It was a chilly mid-February twilight and I had just finished up with an afternoon class. I'd unlocked my bike and was heading across an almost empty parking lot out towards the road when the streetlights came on and I could see in the cold bluish light that there was someone sitting on a parking curb by the sidewalk. As I got nearer I could see it was a guy, wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and voluminous cargo shorts, hands jammed into pockets and leaning forward. As I got nearer, I saw the red hair and wondered, dreaded, hoped. As I passed I nearly hyperventilated. It was him. I froze in my tracks. What do I do? What do I do? I tried to dredge up some courage from the pit of my lurching stomach. "Hey," was my suave opening line; I tried to make my voice deep and steady to conceal my nerves. "Hey." He glanced up briefly, squinting at me, then back down to the ground. "You modeled once in my life drawing class, didn't you?" "Yeah..." There was an awkward pause in which it seemed like he was going to say something else, but then didn't. He hunched his shoulders like he was cold, and looked over to the side, as if scanning for someone he'd been waiting on. An internal voice coached me, "OK, well, at least I was sort of brave. Clearly he doesn't give a fuck, so just walk away now..." "Well, good to see you again," I said as I began wheeling my bike away. Damn—so fucking inconsequential. But what was I expecting? "Hey, man, could you spare a couple of bucks?" I froze. That wasn't exactly what I'd been hoping for, but it was something, one more moment. "Uh, well, I don't make much money, but..." Did I dare? "I'm on my way home to fix myself some dinner. You could come with, if you want." A moment passed in silence, a silence I was certain would be broken by him spiting back, "fuck you, faggot." Without speaking, though, my redheaded object of desire stood up. He was about three or four inches shorter than me, which took me by surprise: up on the platform in the studio, he had looked monumental. Now, he just seemed very young, lost, sad. I longed to kiss him. "I'm Andy, by the way." I stuck out my hand, a sort of "nice to meet you" reflex, and immediately reprimanded myself, "Oh, you dumbass! Try not to act so dweeby." He looked down at my extended hand for a second, then pulled one out of his pocket and reluctantly gave my hand an unenthusiastic shake. "C.J." So now my little creamsicle dreamboy had a name. "It won't be anything fancy," I told him. "That's OK." "It's a little bit of a hike, about half a mile in that direction." What the fuck was I doing? This guy could be some maniac, some rough trade scumbag waiting until we were behind closed doors to beat me up and take my money, some Jeffrey Dahmer, Jr. But no—he was sullen, but I didn't feel there was anything threatening there. "It's worth the risk," I told myself, "even if all I get out of it is helping someone who needs it." Saint Andy. C.J. hoisted his pack onto his back and followed me. I walked my bike; he carried his skateboard under his arm. As we headed towards my apartment, I awkwardly tried to make conversation, which got one-word responses from C.J., and not always that. My stomach was doing flip-flops, my knees were shaky, and I was terrified of saying something that would make me sound dopey, or lecherous, or both, so I just followed his lead into silence. "It's this one, right over here." I gestured towards the nondescript building across the street. Heading in, I hefted the top tube of my bike's frame up onto my shoulder for the two-flight haul up to my apartment. I unlocked the door. He was standing unexpectedly near, watching as I turned the knob. "Come on in." My little apartment was nothing special, but I still have fond memories of that place. Where some might have seen it as cramped, I saw it as snug. Where some might have considered it run-down, I saw it as full of character. More than anything, it was my own space, just the way I wanted it to be, my little retreat. Nothing more welcome to come into from the cold. The light from the old floor lamp I turned on burnished everything a warm gold. Now that I was in my own place, my nerves were starting to settle. C.J. looked around. "You got a lot of books." "Yeah, I guess I do..." "You read all of 'em?" "Some—not as many as I should." Hands in pockets, C.J. scanned the shelves. He pulled out a book and held it up: The Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader. "How 'bout this one?" I stuck my hands in my back pockets and raised myself up on the balls of my feet, an anxious reaction. "Parts of it." C.J. slid it back into its place on the shelf without comment. "So, I'm starving," I announced, trying to distract from further perusal of telltale titles. "Do you still want something to eat?" "Yeah," he answered. While I got stuff ready in the kitchen, C.J. wandered around, eventually squatting down by the stack of CDs I'd left by the cinderblock-and-plank contraption on which perched my stereo. "What kind of weird music is this? I never heard of any of this stuff." "Put something on, if you want." From the kitchen I could hear him fumbling around, then the start of Coil's "Love's Secret Domain" album—a loop of heavily distorted voices accompanied by horror movie organ and a sound like a thin whip flicking through the air. I also heard C.J. say to himself, "What the fuck?" "Uh, here," I came over and quickly rummaged through the discs. Einsturzende Neubauten—no. Swans—no. Diamanda Galas—definitely no. I found an Astrud Gilberto compilation someone had given me as a gift and switched it out. "Here, this is probably better dinner music." To the background of bossa nova, I made a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, heated up a can of soup, sliced up some carrot sticks, a couple of oranges for dessert. Plain but reasonably healthy. I set the food out on the little table in my kitchen. Dinner was, unsurprisingly, a quiet affair, over quickly. As C.J. was peeling his orange, I mentioned that I hadn't seen him around the art department for a while. "Are you still modeling for classes?" He concentrated excessively on stripping the pith from his orange. He shrugged. "When I have to." "Yeah, I kind of figured you didn't like it," I said. "You sure didn't look like you were enjoying it much that time in my class." He made a scoffing sound. "Does anyone?" "Well... good point," I admitted. "Some exhibitionists, maybe? There are a couple of models who seem to get into it." And then, before I could stop myself, I added, "If I had a body like yours, I'd probably be running around naked all the time." C.J., still focused intently on the orange, shrugged again. "You don't look like you'd be so bad." I snorted. "Yeah, if you like 'em tall and skinny." I've never been able to take a compliment. "Anyway..." I went on, "It sucks when you have to do a job you don't like to get by." "It's not the worst I done," he said quietly. I was struck again by how abandoned he seemed, how forsaken—and of course, how incredibly fucking hot I found him. If I couldn't touch or kiss or do a whole host of other things I wanted to do to him, maybe I could express something like affection—which, it seemed to me, he could use—or just an appreciation of him being here, in some other way. "Um, back in the parking lot earlier," I said, awkwardly, "you asked if I had a couple of bucks to spare." C.J. seemed to go rigid, looking down at his lap and giving the impression of someone bracing for bad news. "I've got a little bit of money in my wallet, and you're welcome to it." It was a sacrifice, but I figured I could go another month without getting any new music. I pulled a twenty-dollar bill and three singles from my wallet—all I had—and slid them across the table. C.J.'s reaction was not what I had expected: a look almost of panic spread across his face. It was the first sign of emotion I'd seen from him, though not quite what I had been hoping for. He shook his head. "Come on, it's OK, man," I tried to reassure him. "You can have it, and I don't want anything in return. OK?" His eyes were fixed on the cash, but he left it lying where it was. He looked up at me, and after an evening of nervously averted eyes, I was startled by the way he looked at me directly. "Everybody wants something in return." I stammered, trying to figure out how to make him understand I genuinely did want to help him out, but to say it so he wouldn't feel like I was treating him like the Little Match Girl or something. I'd obviously already offended him. Way to go, Mr. Smooth. "Look, I mean... you can just have the money. Or, if you model in my class some time again and can pay me back then, it's cool. Don't worry about it. For real." C.J. slouched down in his chair, eyes back on the money—or so I thought at first. He was staring at the tabletop beyond, at nothing, rapt and still, far, far away. An uncomfortable moment passed before he spoke. "Is it OK if I take a shower?" "Uh, OK." Well, that was something else I hadn't expected. I pointed out where the bathroom was, and told him where the clean towels were (Fuck! I do have clean towels, don't I?). Was this weird? I couldn't tell, but being very careful not to betray any trace of excitement or anxiety or imminent arousal, I acted as if his request to suddenly go bathe was perfectly normal. Once he was in the bathroom, I went over to the kitchen counter and started cleaning up. As I heard the shower running, I found it impossible to concentrate on doing the stupid dishes. Drying my hands off, I walked to the bathroom. I leaned against the door and wondered what he looked like with water streaming down his magnificent body. I pictured his hands soaping himself up, and wished they could be my hands, sliding, touching, feeling him all over. I imagined myself in there with him, wet and steamy, pressing my naked body against his. Kissing him. Fondling his hard cock. My own cock had gotten hard as I stood there, and I could feel a wet spot in my underwear where I'd oozed precum. I put my hand on the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. It was unlocked. Was that intentional? Jesus, if only I were bolder, I thought. Maybe, though, this is my chance to change that—be a man of action. I geared myself up to fling open the door and stride in, but then I stopped. No, that's not the kind of guy I want to be, some creepy sex predator taking advantage of a poor, vulnerable urchin... I went back to the kitchen and the dishes. I could tell when he was done because the water pressure at the sink suddenly surged. The soft, scuffling sound of C.J. drying off caught my ears. I wondered now what that would look like and sighed. I put the last of the dishes in the rack, went into the other room, and sat on the couch. The bathroom door opened and C.J. came out slowly, hesitantly, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He stood there in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking down at the ground, then up at me, and when he saw I was looking at him, shifted his gaze back to the floor. Truly perplexed, I asked, "What's up?" "Nothin'" He continued to hover there, silently, irritatingly, temptingly. "For Christ's sake, man, go put on some fuckin' clothes. You're driving me up the wall, standing there!" I frisbee tossed a pillow off the couch at him to make it seem like I was kidding around, but he really was making me crazy. Could he tell how attracted to him I was? Was he deliberately tormenting me? Or was he, unbelievably, coming on to me? The thrown pillow hit him on the leg. "I thought maybe you could draw me, to pay you back for the twenty bucks." He sounded dejected. "What, now?" I asked, and sighed. Just the prospect of seeing him naked, right here in my own place, threatened to cloud my judgment, but I also knew it would be like a form of torture, to be alone, to look, to be so near, but not to be able to do anything else. "That's a nice offer, pal, but I've had a long day and I just want to relax for now, maybe watch some TV or read a little before bed." Wordlessly he slipped back into the bathroom. He came back out momentarily, now in his cargo shorts, but nothing else. Was I reading too much into this to conclude that something was going on here? Was it just wishful thinking, or was I just clueless? "Is it cool if I hang out awhile?" "Yeah, of course," I said, and I think I actually patted the empty spot next to me on the couch. "Dork!" I scolded myself. He came and sat down beside me—not near enough for the situation to be unambiguous, but not far enough that I lost hope. Out the window behind the TV, I could see snow flurries in the streetlight. One of those sensationalistic cop shows that make it seem like there's a child-murdering pedophile behind every other tree was on, but I had lost any ability to concentrate. This was a dream and a nightmare. He was so close, his naked skin so near to me I could see the blue veins in his shoulders and upper chest, could feel his body heat, could smell the soap he'd just used. I couldn't, though, make myself stop staring at him. My head felt so hot, and even though I had just eaten, my stomach felt empty and cold. My eye fell on his tattoo. I could now tell that it was woman's face, copied from a photograph by someone who didn't know how to draw. There was no clear separation between the image and the lettering, but I managed to discern the word "Granma." C.J. caught me peering at his tattoo and quickly slapped his hand over it. Wonder: Andy Ch. 01 "Don't look at it." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, but one hand still clasped to his shoulder. "I know it sucks." "I think it's kind of sweet," I said. "I'm a grandma's boy, too" The ridges of his backbone protruded like little white hills in a snowy plain. My hand moved to touch his back, but I stopped myself. Not quickly enough, though. He looked over his shoulder at me, stony-faced. "I... I'm sorry," I stammered, panicky. "I thought that's what you brought me up here for," he said coolly. Was he angry? Sad? Creeped out? I couldn't decipher him. "What the money was for." "No... I already said—I don't expect anything from you," I was getting frustrated with this. I was just trying to be nice! "Look, I'm not the kind of guy who's going to try to pressure you into doing something you don't want to. I'm not that brave and I'm not that much of an asshole." His hands were clasped together, and he rubbed the knuckle of one thumb with the flat of the other. "I thought you were into me," he said quietly. Wow. What would happen if I admitted it? By this point I highly doubted he was going to bash me, and besides—I could probably hold my own against him. OK, just play it cool, don't come on too strong... "Would that bother you, if I was?" "No." He avoided looking at me. "I might be into it." Was this actually happening? Fumbling, hesitant step by step, was this really going to lead to what my whole body was now thrumming with anticipation for? "You ever done anything with another guy before?" I asked. "Nah," he said, but then after a pause, "A couple of times. I got drunk with a buddy once and we whacked off together, and one time I let some guy suck my dick. He gave me fifteen bucks." "Did you like it?" He shrugged. "I liked the fifteen bucks." "Oh, come on, you're telling me someone's nice enough to suck your dick and you didn't even like it?" "Yeah, it was OK." Although he was now looking over towards me a bit, his eyes were still primarily on his fidgety fingers. "I guess the dude was good at it. It was over too fast, though." "That's not the other guy's fault," I wanted to say, but I wasn't taking any chances of alienating him. "Well, at least he didn't expect anything in return," I said. His head hung low, shoulders hunched up towards his ears. "I done that too, once—for money." He looked at me momentarily, then back down. "I could again, I guess." "Whoa, wait—are you saying that you'd suck my dick because I gave you money?" He shrugged, and in a hollow voice said, "If you want." "Oh, jeez, C.J., come on!" Of course I had fantasized ecstatically about that very event happening in some dream world, but now it just seemed sordid, depressing. "You know..." I sputtered, at a loss for words. I had intended to say something reassuring, kind, supportive, but what came out instead was, "I don't have to pay for it, you know." In theory this was true, but it had been months since I'd touched or been touched by another person. I wanted to be with C.J. for so many reasons, wanted to do everything with him, but not like this—not just because I'd feel like I was exploiting him, but because I needed to know he felt at least a trace of desire for me, that I would be something more than just a miserable, degrading transaction. I was hard up, but I still had my pride! "I would feel gross knowing you only were having sex with me because I paid you. I would only want to do something if you wanted to." Now he looked at me, with those unreadable blue eyes, that unfathomable blank expression. "I'm still here, ain't I?" I took off my glasses and rubbed my closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I just want to be sure," I said. "Like I told you, I don't want to make you do something you don't want..." "Well..." he asked nervously. "What do you want?" "Is it OK if I kiss you?" "Nah," then after a pause, "not yet." "OK if I touch you?" "Yeah." It was going to take a lot of will power to hold back from ramming my tongue down his throat while I had my hands on him. Sensing my uncertainty, C.J. sat upright, then slid down on the couch until his butt was barely still seated, hanging over the edge of the cushion, his lower body splayed out. He was offering up that beautiful torso, his chest, nipples, ribs, abdomen, belly, for my touch. My hand trembled as I made contact. His skin was smooth, hotter than I expected, almost as if he had a fever. I ran my palm from his chest down along his side to the waistband of his shorts, my hand lingering on that place I had so ardently fantasized about touching: his exquisitely defined Apollo's belt. He was watching intently the progress of my hand, then both hands, as they traversed his expanse. I couldn't tell if he liked it or not, but he made no move to stop me. I crouched down beside him, unbuttoned and unzipped his shorts, and slipped them off. He cooperated wordlessly, like a child being undressed by a parent. My hands glided back up his muscled thighs to his white cotton briefs. He wriggled a bit. "I don't want to be the only one with no clothes on." Oh, believe me, my beautiful boy-o, me neither! "Maybe it would be better if we stretched out on my bed." I tilted my head towards the bedroom. He followed me, and we lay down together on my bed, a second-hand full-size mattress on the floor (box springs and a headboard were still too bourgeois for me). C.J. lay on his back, head propped up on a pillow, and watched me as I hurriedly undressed. I positioned myself on my side next to him and took up where I'd left off in the outer room. "Is this OK?" I asked as my hand wandered its way down to his briefs and began explorations. "Ungh," he grunted, which I chose to interpret as, "Yes." He grew hard as I groped and squeezed outside his underwear, then harder still when I slid my hand down inside, to that hot, humid zone below the equator. "I'm gonna take these off," I told him. He obediently lifted his butt and thighs up off the mattress, and slid his feet out when the briefs had reached has ankles. His cock, now fully erect, had sprung up like a Jack-in-the-box as I pulled off his underpants—confirmation that at least part of him was into being here with me. The contrast between his pale skin and the orange fizz of pubic hair from which it rose and throbbed made C.J.'s erect cock look almost shockingly purpley-red. It looked like a raspberry popsicle. I reached out and gripped it, feeling its hardness and heat and pulse, carefully, slowly tugging upwards, then back down. C.J. gasped. A trickle of precum made it look like the popsicle was starting to melt. And what do you do with a melting popsicle? It was irresistible. I moved down and laid my tongue on the engorged head of his cock, gently licking the slit, tasting his saltiness. My tongue traveled slowly down the length of his shaft, then just as leisurely, back up, acquainting itself with the size and shape, the taste and temperature, all the way to the top, where I closed my lips softly around the glans. "It's OK, man," C.J. said uncomfortably. "You don't have to." I stopped, his dick in my hand, and looked up at him to reassure him that I wasn't doing anything I didn't really, really want to. "It's OK, I want to," I told him. "I like sucking cock, and I want to suck your cock—unless you don't want me to." "It's not that, it's just," he paused, sounding embarrassed. "It's just...you're gonna make me shoot too soon and I don't want to yet." "I'll take it slower," I said, bringing myself up into a kneeling position, then straddling him. "I'll try to be aware, but tell me if you're getting too close." My cock was like an iron rod by this point, and aching to be touched. C.J. made no move to do so, even though my raging erection was practically right there in his face, probably drooling precum down onto him by this point. Oh well—if he wasn't going to, I guess I'd have to make do myself. I took his cock in my open hand, and centering myself over his prone body, pressed mine against his and closed my fist around both, gripping tightly and jacking us together. It felt fantastic, but was hardly my most fervent fantasy come true. "Is this good?" I asked. "Yeah." C.J. was looking up at me, making actual eye contact, his mouth slightly open, as I worked us together. I continued like that for a few moments more as he lay there passively, the proverbial dead fish. I took his hand and drew it up to our smooshed together boners. "Come on, man, don't make me do all the work." He gripped us, and the feel of another's hand on me, where no touch other than my own had been since summer, sent an almost violent shudder of pleasure up through me, like an electric wire deep inside my being crackling and sparking back to life. I began withdrawing my cock from his grasp, and then sliding it back in. My body wanted to thrust, and I put my hips into the inward movement. His released his own cock from his hand and gripped me tighter. A long, low moan escaped from deep within me. I was getting off on how C.J. was watching me work, studying my cock pumping into his fist, then up at me. I put one knee between his thighs and pushed his left leg to the side, then I did the same to his right, and got myself between his legs, so I could thrust more forcefully. He didn't object. It was pleasurable, but fucking his tight dry fist was also slightly painful and I felt no danger of cumming anytime soon. I lowered myself down towards him, my upper body braced up on my arms. I thrust and moaned my gratification. "Do you want to do that to me?" "What, you mean change places?" I figured he meant getting on top of me and doing the old in-and-out with my clenched fist. Well, at least he'd be doing something more than just lying there like a stiff. "No, I mean, do THAT to ME. Like for real." I stopped thrusting. "What, you mean fuck you?" "Yeah, I guess." "For real?" I asked. "Wow, man, if you don't have much experience with other guys, that's kind of jumping into the deep end of the pool. You have to get used to it. It can hurt." "I done it before," he said, defensively. "OK, well... if you're sure you want to," I said apprehensively. "You don't?" He asked, betraying a hint of petulance. "What, are you kidding? Of course I want to!" Fortunately I still had a few condoms stuck somewhere in my bedside table drawer, along with a bottle of lube I'd been making good use of solo. I got them out and squeezed lube into my hand. C.J. was still on his back, legs parted, as I knelt next to him. I slicked up his hard-on and gave him a few tugs, to keep him excited. I left a slippery trail as my fingers traveled lower, until my forefinger came to rest on his asshole. I played with the outside pucker, gently touching, to get him used to the sensation and ready for insertion. He lay perfectly still, arms by his side, his blank gaze up at the ceiling. It was sort of...creepy. "Uh, it might be better if you rolled onto your stomach." I instructed. Without a word, he obeyed. "Lift up," I told him, and slipped a couple of pillows under him to get his ass higher up. I resumed the slippery work. "I'm gonna try to push in a little now. Tell me if it starts to hurt." I squeezed more lube into my hand, and began wriggling my forefinger inside him. It went in surprisingly easily. I guess he HAD done this before. "OK with this?" He tensed up as I spoke, his sphincter constricting tightly around my finger. Apparently talking to him was off limits, too. "You need to relax, pal, or this is never gonna happen." The tension inside lessened, and I went on with finger fucking him, squeezing more lube onto his hole and working it in, to get him well greased for action. Now for two fingers-still seemed OK. After a few more in-and-outs, C.J. broke the silence. "Come on already, man, just do it." Oh, brother—this was not the stuff of fantasy. I used my slick hand to get myself hard, and then with much effort, opened the condom wrapper and rolled it on. "You need to spread your legs farther apart," I told him. More silent obedience. I got between his thighs and spread apart his ass cheeks. Even the hair hidden inside his ass crack was orange. In spite of the definite lack of passion, this was still beyond words. The wrapped, slicked-up head of my cock pressed against his little pink pucker. His hole was so tight I was reticent to push as hard as I would need to get inside, because I knew it would hurt. My entire being was on fire to fuck him, but the always-tricky act of penetration was even more frustrating with him. The resistance of his body to open up to mine was making my dick hurt as I tried to push in. "Just relax," I told him. I could tell he was clenching up, which was going to make it impossible to get inside him—at least not without considerable pain, for him and me both. Slowly, with some patience and a lot more lube, I managed to get the head of my cock, and then going very carefully, about a third of my shaft into him. He took a sharp hissing intake of air, sucked between gritted teeth, and made a strangled cry. "You OK?" "Yeah," he said in a quavering voice. I knew he wasn't. "Do you want me to pull out?" "Yeah." I did, and worn out from so much work for so little, flopped onto my back beside him. My erection had almost completely deflated, and my horniness was dwindling. I pulled the loose condom off my now soft dick and tossed it onto the floor beside my bed. For a long time C.J. continued to lay on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow. Rolling towards him and putting my hand on his shoulder, I asked again, "You OK?" C.J. turned over onto his back. He didn't respond or look at me, just stared up at the ceiling in more miserable silence. Totally unnerving. "You know," I said, "you really have to build up to this, go slow. Maybe tonight we can get off some other way that'll be just as hot, and then if you still want to, maybe we could try it some other time." "No, no other time. Tonight." What the fuck was this guy's deal? "Jeez, what's the rush, bub?" He didn't respond. This was all too difficult, he was too weird, too conflicted about what he wanted but couldn't handle—or something. His physical beauty catapulted me to the highest intensity of lustfulness, but his dour attitude and his mopey passivity were a serious boner killer. "Christ, you are so fucking serious. Why don't you smile?" Fed up, I pounced on him and started to tickle him. C.J.'s body went completely rigid, but his face was still void of expression. He smacked my hands away. "Quit it." Alright, enough was enough. "Look, pal," I snapped, shifting over to sit on the side of the bed. "I think it's time for you to go home. You don't seem to be enjoying this too much, and it's starting to be a drag for me, too." "Sorry," he muttered. There was something like an expression on his face, in his eyes, now, but exactly what it conveyed, I couldn't quite tell. "I'll try to do better, if I can stay," he whispered, and then said, his voice even quieter, "Just don't tickle me again." Did I want to kick him out, or did I want to let him stay? Both of us were on our backs now, both of us looking up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster, neither speaking. I knew I would have to be the one to break the oppressive silence, so I said, "You know, it's way easier to get fucked if you really want it." C.J. squirmed slightly. "You have to really want that other guy's cock up your ass, and for most people it takes some time to get there." All he said in response was, "I wanna try again." "OK, but if we do, this time we're gonna do it like I want. OK?" He looked over at me. He swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple traveling down his sinewy white neck, then back up. Sexy. My cock started to stiffen back up. "I want to make out, to kiss you, touch you, and it'd be nice if you touched me, too. OK?" "Yeah." His voice was raspy. "If I start doing something you really don't like, I'll stop, but give it a chance. OK?" "Yeah." "OK, good boy," I told him. "Lie back and relax." I placed the tip of my forefinger in the center of his chest, barely making contact, and began tracing outwards, where his taught pectoral muscles began to radiate out from the bony flatness of the sternum. I ran my fingers very lightly down his torso, just grazing the skin, with the soft tickle-touch that just borders between exquisite pleasure and feeling like a spider is crawling on your skin. He shivered. "Alright?" "Yeah, good." The red hair on his body catching the light from my bedside lamp was an almost electric orange against the whiteness of his skin. My touch traveled the hills and valleys where his ribs and his abdominal muscles protruded. I lightly circled his bellybutton before my finger began that much long-for descent down the narrow trail of hair leading to his stiffening cock. I paused my descent halfway down, and looking to my touch's imminent destination, told him, "Your red hair is very sexy." "I've had other people tell me that," he said, sounding self-conscious. "Well, they had good taste." Scrutinizing me, he observed, "Your hair's kinda red, too." "A little," I acknowledged, then nodding down to his hard cock, added, "I guess you've got good taste, too." He'd denied me long enough. Right before my fingers would have reached his cock, I let my hand travel upwards again, a featherweight touch along his torso to his chest. I leaned in close and brushed my lips very softly against his. C.J. froze up. "Let me," I said quietly, my hand resting on his chest, and tried again. He held his mouth tight and still, indicating his resistance, although I had some intuition that it wouldn't take much for the iceberg to melt. Undaunted but willing to bide my time, I shifted course, moving my mouth to kiss his neck, softly, slowly down to his collarbone. I pressed my lips and tongue to his small, hard nipples. His breathing became rapid, once or twice coming out in audible gasps. His pale skin began to flush pink, both with arousal and the slight abrasion of my five o'clock shadow. Gently, I lifted his arms over his head and licked the wiry orange fur of his pits, detecting a slight trace of muskiness in spite of his recent shower. I stopped to pick a stray hair from my tongue. Time to try again? Letting his arms drop, I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Whether out of surprise or desire, his mouth relaxed, his lips parting slightly. I softly held his lower lip between mine, before tilting my head and using my mouth to open his further. The intense focus of my touch shifted now from my fingertips to my tongue as it probed and coaxed. C.J.'s body relaxed, and he made a slight whimpering sound as I kept on kissing him. "See, not so bad, huh?" I whispered. His lower lip glistened with my spit. I held his face in my hand, and his eyes met mine. His answer was to kiss me back. "Here, lean in to me," I instructed as I drew him closer and wrapped my arm around him, letting his head rest on my shoulder. I held my palm against his back as his kisses began to match the force and intensity of mine. "You're good at this once you get going," I told him. Already flushed, C.J.'s skin further reddened in a blush. My other hand resumed its exploration, now gliding rapidly down to C.J.'s lower body. I gripped his erection at its base, making it stand straight and tall out from his body. "God, look at what a beautiful cock you have," I whispered, and we both fixed our gazes on it while I stroked him, lubing him up with the freely flowing precum. He moaned and pushed my hand away. "You're getting me too close." My hand shifted to his hip, and I pushed him flat on his back, our mouths still together. With gentle but firm pressure on the inner part of his upper thigh, I signaled that I wanted him to spread his legs wider. C.J. drew his knees up, his feet flat on the mattress, and opened himself to my touch. My fingers roved over his thighs, moving inward. I cupped his balls and stroked them very lightly with my thumb, not really even touching the skin, just the wisps of hair sprouting there. He shivered again. Wonder: Andy Ch. 01 Checking in, I asked, "Still good?" "Uh huh," he whispered, and after a pause, "Keep going." I continued with the same light touch down his taint, tickling the soft hair growing along that short corridor to the place where he wanted me to keep going. C.J. moaned very softly and spread his legs open a bit further, pushing his hips upwards slightly. I knew what he wanted. Barely making contact, I circled with my fingertip for several revolutions, then pressed very slightly, feeling the springy resistance of his asshole. C.J. whimpered. I found the lube and squirted some onto my fingers. "It's cold," I warned. This was confirmed by his sharp intake of breath as I smeared a bit of the silky goo onto his waiting orifice. "I'm gonna get you nice and slick, work up to things like before, but slower," I informed him. "If anything I do starts to hurt, tell me and I'll stop, OK?" "Yeah. Just keep going." I did. Gradually my touch became more insistent, the pressure against his hole more forceful. Over minutes, I worked him open, fingering lube into him, going in and out, varying the pace and pressure. My concentration had been so focused on getting him ready down there that I hadn't looked up for a few minutes, not until he moaned, "Oh, god, yes." He was clutching my sheets, white-knuckled, head back, eyes closed, and mouth open in an ongoing low groan of pleasure. In that pool of light in my dark room, C.J. seemed practically luminescent as I stoked his desire. I withdrew my fingers. He whimpered in protest and bucked his hips upwards. Oh, you can wait, you eager little boy, I thought, and brought my mouth to his. He lunged to initiate the kiss, still gripping the sheets. We kept on kissing each other as my work down below resumed, fucking him with my fingers until I knew his body was hungering for me. I caught his whimpers and moans of pleasure with my open mouth. "Are you ready to try this again?" I asked. "Uh huh." "Well, this time it might work better if you're on top." "I never done it that way before," he said with a tone of suspicion. "Well, let's give it a try and you can see if you like it better. It'll give you more control of everything. You can lower yourself down onto me and decide how fast or slow it goes in, and how deep you want me up inside you." It still wasn't easy, with lots of stopping and starting, and gasps of pain from both of us a couple times, but as C.J. started to figure out how to make his body work with mine, it got easier and hotter. Straddling me in a crouching position, he reached around behind him to guide me in. He eased himself down, inch by slippery pulsating inch, until I was all the way inside. He held himself there—eyes closed, mouth open, a marble angel in ecstasy. I felt the inside of his body surround me with such warmth and strength and life. I could feel his pulse, and my cock throbbed and seemed to grow even bigger and harder inside him. A moan of almost primal urgency emanated from his gaping mouth. I took C.J.'s hands in mine, entwining our fingers, so he could support himself using my arms as braces while he found his way. He slowly began raising himself up, and then looking at me, tentatively lowered himself back down. He closed his eyes, and a soft, clipped gasp broke from his mouth. "That's it, just like that," I coached him. "Let it feel good." He went up and then back down, this time a little faster and with a little more force sliding my length back into himself. "You like that, huh?" I asked. Softly he exhaled his reply, "Oh, fuck, yeah." As he continued raising and lowering himself, I resisted my growing urge to thrust upwards until it seemed like he had gotten fully used to the feel of my cock inside him, and the sensation of it going in and then back out. His body glowed in the light, like a white, orange, and pink flame emanating from my penis, from my body, from the roaring heat of my desire. Burn me, baby. He slid down my pole, skewering himself deeply. My cock throbbed inside him. I was exerting all my will to keep from shooting my load, clenching my balls and my butt, wanting this to go on and on. C.J. suddenly lurched forward, grasped my face and kissed me hard. As he did so, my cock slipped out of him. "Aw, fuck," I groaned, but C.J. simply reached back and inserted me into himself, this time with no difficulty whatsoever. He wanted me in as much as I wanted to be in. I bent my legs and thrust upwards to get myself fully back inside. Pulling out slightly, I thrust back up a little more forcefully. "OK?" I asked. C.J. was bracing himself up with his hands on my chest, leaning over me with eyes closed, and moaned "Uhhhhhhh"—which I again interpreted as "yes." Underneath him, I began to fuck with the unrestrained force of my desire, and with as much strength, he brought the weight of his body down onto me, riding the bucking bronco. Our bodies made moist slapping sounds as the came into contact, faster and faster, harder and harder. I had been grasping him by his hips as I thrust up into him, but now I moved one to get a hold of his cock, full-mast and bouncing wildly. I began jacking him with my still lube-slick grip, matching the rhythm of my strokes to his up-and-down motion, so when he slid up my pole, he fucked my fist, and when he sat down, he pulled out most of the way. This made him speed up his pace, ramming me in and out of himself still faster and harder. His luminous body glistened with the exertion of his ardor, and drops of his sweat fell on me like scalding rain. He was on the precipice, and bringing me along for the ride. Not surprisingly, he was a quiet cummer, a few strained "uh, uh, uhs" and then as he shot, a pained-sounding groan through clenched teeth. He splattered me good, though, covering my chest and abdomen in rivulets of pearlescent semen. "Oh, man, I'm gonna cum, too." My hands clasped his waist, and I bounced him hard, like daddy playing horsie with his little boy on his knee, at full gallop. My pent-up desire erupted inside him. Shooting with a condom on always makes me hyperaware of the physiology of the male reproductive system; when my balls are pumping all that baby juice up my rod, and there's nowhere for it all to go to, it feels like it makes my nads pump all the harder to compensate. And I'd had a big load in reserve. He pushed himself up with his hands on my knees as he slid me out of him. He collapsed onto the bed, slicked with sweat. I put my hand on his heaving chest and felt the hammering of his heart. "Whoa, you must be worn out!" "Yeah, huh, a little." We lay there quietly together, our bodies and souls coming back to earth. His breathing slowed to normal. "You know what?" I asked, and he looked startled, like I was putting him on the spot. I rolled onto my side to face him. "You're a cutie pie." I rubbed the top of his head. A smile bloomed on his face. "Ah, now you smile!" "Takes one to know one," he said softly. "Your eyes look sleepy, buddy. You wanna rest for a little bit?" "Yeah." C.J. closed his eyes, and in a minute rolled over onto his side, scooting closer to me as he did so that his butt touched my thigh. I reached down to the tangled bedding near the foot of the mattress and covered us up. Within a couple of minutes, I heard the slow, heavy breathing of sleep. I wasn't tired myself, so I picked up a book I had by my bedside and started reading. C.J. murmured softly in his sleep a couple of times, but other than that he seemed completely zonked out. I must have dozed off at some point, too, because I remember being startled awake by the sound of a siren going by. I woke C.J. up when I started. He rolled over slightly and in a groggy voice asked over his shoulder, "What time is it?" "It's gotten kind of late—almost midnight." "Oh," he said quietly, and then, "Would it be OK if I just slept here tonight?" "Yeah, of course, I was hoping you would." He rolled back onto his side. I reached over and caressed his beautiful bare back. "Oooohhhh," he moaned, "don't stop." I shifted over next to him and rubbed his back and shoulders. I scooted closer, spooning him, and putting my arm around him whispered, "Good?" Almost asleep, C.J. sighed back, "Mmmmm, good." We slept for a few hours, me fitfully, he soundly. Around three we both woke up. The night was still now, except for a low, whining wind that rattled the windows. C.J. was stroking my arm that still encircled him. We were both still half asleep when we started kissing and touching again, almost as if in a dream state. Before long, though, our building heat for one another roused us. The kissing became more insistent; the touching became more demanding of wanting more. Our hands found each other under the sheets, stirring and stiffening. This time he was on his back when I entered him. He held me within his open legs and clutched my shoulders as I drove in and pulled out. I fucked him slowly, sweetly, gently. We both wanted it to last. Drawing back from a kiss, our eyes locked, and the way he was looking at me made me feel a thousand things at once. I stroked the side of his face and said his name. C.J. took my other hand, twined his fingers in mine, and said in a barely audible whisper, "You fuck me so good. I don't want this to end." I was inside of him for twenty minutes, speeding up and slowing down, again and again, holding myself motionless up inside him for moments of deep kissing, before I couldn't hold back anymore. I told C.J. that I was getting close. "I wanna watch you shoot," he said. Aiming to please, I eased out of him, peeled off the rubber, and kneeling between his open legs, began jacking myself. "I'm not right on the edge anymore," I told him, "so let's see if we can shoot at the same time." "Yeah!" he responded, with surprising but arousing enthusiasm. He began jacking himself, too. "Tell me when you're getting there, so I can speed up," I said as I stroked myself slowly. Fucking him, being so deep inside his beautiful body, had felt so intensely good, and now, with my cock in my hand, after the build up and delay of release, over and over, my whole body was yearning to cum. "Oh, man, I'm so close," C.J. panted. "I can't hold off..." He began to ejaculate before he could finish the sentence, drenching his chest and belly with a spurting fountain of semen. I reached down and scooped up a palmful of cum from his belly and slathered it onto my raging hard-on. The motion of my thrusting hips more then the slide of my hand was now speeding me to orgasm, a careening, run-away train hurtling towards the cliff. "Oh, fuck," C.J. moaned, anticipating my explosion, his hands on my thighs roving back to grasp my clenched ass. My neighbors probably heard me as I flew over the edge, liquid fire spurting from my body and onto the white flame of C.J.'s body. Streams of his and my intermingled sperm began spilling down C.J.'s sides. I cleaned him off with a towel. We slept. I had to get up early for work, but knew the excess adrenaline and lingering ecstasy of the night before would compensate for the lack of sleep and keep me going strong through the day. I let C.J. sleep while I showered, shaved, and dressed, and then fixed us something to eat while he hit the shower. Although luckily I'd never experienced it in my limited number of sexual encounters, a couple of my friends had told me about how some guys got moody or even hostile the morning after, ashamed of what they'd done the night before and looking for someone to blame other than themselves. I was momentarily worried that C.J. might be that type, but somehow I also knew he wasn't. What happened between us felt like more than just a fuck (albeit a magnificent fuck), or it did to me. And, at least in the night, it felt like it had meant something more to him, too—or was I reading too much into how he seemed to open up to me? At the table, he was still pretty taciturn, but now seemed relaxed, no longer wary or morose. I tried to make some jokes, and a couple of times I did get to see his rare smile. He even asked me a question or two, actually initiating conversation—would wonders never cease? I finished my mug of tea. "I wish I didn't have to rush, but I've got to get to work pretty soon." "Yeah, OK." I wasn't sure how we were supposed to part. I put my hand on his shoulder and stooped slightly to give him a quick kiss on the lips. C.J. had been standing with his hands in his pockets while I kissed him, but as I withdrew he suddenly pulled me to him and hugged me tightly. I put my arms around him, and he rested his cheek on my shoulder. He held onto me for what seemed like minutes. I stroked his back and kissed him on the ear. I wanted to call him "baby" or "sweetheart" or something, wanted to ask if he would be OK, if there was something I could do to help him, wanted to ask him out on a date for pizza and a movie, wanted to sweep him off his feet into my arms and carry him back to my bed for days and days of sweet, hot, joyful, tender, rough, frenzied, playful, affectionate, incredible sex. Instead I said, "We can do this again sometime, if you want." "Yeah, maybe," he said softly, pulling away and looking down at the floor. I wrote down my phone number and e-mail address on a piece of paper and gave it to him. "And you obviously know where I live..." As C.J. rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a stocking cap and gloves, I noticed the cash from last night still on the table. "Here, don't forget this." I held the bills out to him. He backed away. "Nah, it's cool." "Look, C.J., I want you to have it—and not because of anything last night, you know. I've had people help me out when I needed it, and I want to do that for somebody else when I can." I held out the money. Hesitantly, he took it, along with the paper with my contact info, folding them up and jamming them into his pocket. He hefted his pack onto one shoulder. "Thanks, man." He stepped on the back of his skateboard, flipping it upright, and slung it under his arm. "See ya." "Take care." It was an every day pleasantry, devoid of meaning, but I wished he could know how much I really did mean it. "See you later." I watched him go, and a few minutes later, on that cold sunny morning, headed off for work. But I never did see him again. Winter slipped into spring, and the creative block I felt like had been freezing me forever thawed, too. I spent all my time either in the classroom or in the studio, finally productive and happy with my work. Around this time, I also found myself stupidly head-over-heels for this guy I met at a gallery opening, Huck, a typically self-indulgent performance artist—what was I thinking? But, oh my god, was he... well, that's a whole other story. In spite of everything, I didn't—couldn't—forget C.J., and started wondering where he'd gone. After not seeing him for about a month, I asked the secretary in charge of booking the models for drawing classes if she knew anything about him. "C.J.? I don't remember ever hiring a model named C.J." "You know," I said, for some reason wiggling my fingers up by my head. "The redheaded guy?" "You mean Clayton? Oh, he hasn't been around for a while now. I tried calling him in for a job a few weeks ago, and the number was out of service." She started shuffling through the sheets with the models' contact information. "He was a little bit of an odd duck, anyway, not very friendly," she said. "We've got plenty of others to call on." I asked her for C.J.'s—Clayton's—last name, and she said they couldn't give out that information, and besides, when she got the out-of-service number, she shredded his contact form. So that was that, end of story. Sort of. My partner Roger and I have been together for almost ten years. We love each other and have made a pretty good life together. I have nothing to complain about. You know how it is, though, when you've been with someone for a while. The passion fades, the intensity of desire dissipates. That's just how it is. You don't love him any less—in fact, in many ways, maybe you love him more—but the thought of having sex with him doesn't make your heart race and your cock hard like it did back when you were first together. Sometimes when I'm with Roger now, my mind pictures someone else. Again, it's not bad, it's just how desire works sometimes. For some reason, recently that single night with C.J. has been flooding my memory. I imagine I'm in my twenties, with him, and sex with Roger becomes more intense, rekindling something of that heat from years ago. It's good for us both, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Over the years, I have wondered from time to time what happened to C.J., or Clayton, or whatever his name was. I don't kid myself into thinking he was The One Who Got Away. I was hot for him. Who knows if there could've been anything beyond that, anything past that one burning night? I came to realize years ago that some part of me feels the need to rescue people—even if they don't want or need it. I saw C.J. as someone lost and lonely, who I could've saved with my love. But maybe I'm guilty of painting him as a victim when he wasn't one at all. Maybe I just misread all of the things I was sure were signs of a broken life. Maybe he was just some suburban kid taking his walk on the wild side. Or maybe he was living his life exactly as he wanted, and was more content and free than overworked, anxiety-addled me. Maybe those twenty-three bucks I gave him got him someplace he needed to go, someplace where somebody cared about him. Maybe it only got him something that made him feel good for a few hours and then was gone. Maybe he congratulated himself on scamming some dick-for-brains loser. I'll never know. It's a waste of time to wonder, and yet I wonder even so.