Man for Man
 

Closing the Circle

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I lay on my back in bed, in my cool, dark room, looking only at the gray ceiling, waiting for something to happen. The wind outside blew into my room through the purple bloom of jacaranda trees, their sweet scent almost serving as an intoxicant. A muted, purple sunlight filtered weakly through the drawn blinds on the overcast afternoon.

 

There was another sort of scent, one that came from the odor of sweat on bare skin, the kind of sweat that comes, not from physical labor, but from fear, or from certain, unrepressed memories.

Sounds of the traffic drifted in now and then. Voices of passersby strolling along the sidewalk slipped through the window, too. Women's voices, mostly, some speaking English, some Yiddish, fewer still conversing in Hebrew; in my neighborhood, the Jewish district of Los Angeles, such women are on their way to shop or to do the family laundry. And there were the voices of small children, the innocents, who held their mothers' hands.

Anyway, it was good to wait for something to happen, something hidden from the unsuspecting world just outside my window, and it was good to wait too, because it heightened the delicious, anticipatory excitement that comes prior to the sharing of something forbidden.

At last there came a slight movement to my right, where my lover had been sitting so quietly on the bed next to me, and I realized that Steven was waiting, too, building up the sense of his own excitement.

He leaned over, putting his hands on my bare feet, and pulled them slowly up toward my buttocks, so that the backs of my ankles touched the very cheeks of my rump. Then his hands moved to play in sensuous synchronization over my naked thighs, and the sounds of traffic were no more, and the lovely, indistinct voices went silent, and it was only later that I remembered about the jacarandas and the purple light in my room. I even forgot about the circle, the circle of love that, like a ring of dancers, had broken apart, a circle that I had come to close.

Steven pushed my knees out and downward, splaying my legs flat against the bed, the soles of my feet now pressed together and still up against my rump, and I had never felt so exposed before the watching eyes of another human being. I turned finally to look at my lover, saw the sheen of nervous perspiration on his own forehead and, perhaps because I felt embarrassed at my vulnerability, I felt my hands float involuntarily over my sex.

It was far late too hide the evidence of my excitement, however, and Steven pulled my hands apart. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sight of my full-on erection, and firmly returned my arms to my sides, where they docilely remained. His own hands returned to my thighs with a delicacy of movement I did not think a man could control.

No, there was no hiding from Steven, or from myself; there would be no more waiting, and I remembered the circle, and I prayed it was beginning to close.

When I was five my mother remarried a man quite different, in some ways, than she, a man who was much different from my real father. Many years older than my mother, my new father was short, and an intensely shy man. Axel Low, a Jew, traced his heritage to 16th century Prague, where one of his progenitors had served with some repute as a rabbi. Axel had survived the concentration camps of World War Two, and emigrated to the United States a few years later. He eventually settled in Los Angeles, living for a time in a comfortable duplex just off Fairfax Boulevard in the city's large, almost hermetically sealed Jewish district, and not far from his sister, who had escaped Germany before war broke out in Europe.

Until he met my mother, Axel had not allowed himself to forge an intimate contact with another human being since his liberation from the death camps more than 25 years earlier. Such feelings -- or lack of them -- were understandable, given the circumstances of his own history and the principle of uncertainty that guides the future of us all. But my new father had lost more than a feeling of intimacy: he had lost almost all connection to the rest of the world, and existed, in his own words, as an automaton.

In an odd sort of way, Axel's involuntary aloofness perfectly suited my mother, Nancy, who, shortly before my birth, had come to the realization that her first husband, my biological father, was something of a drunken, abusive monster. My mother, beautiful and just 21 when she married Axel, had taken flight from her own past, abandoning all contacts with her family in the Midwest, and almost managing (except in her nightmares, from which she occasionally woke to find herself screaming) to suppress the memory of her ex-husband, a sexual predator whom she feared still prowled for her and for other, fresher victims in the City of Angels.

 

Thus my mother, a lapsed Catholic, had been as adrift in Los Angeles as was Axel. She met the poor man at a coffee shop where she worked as a waitress, where Axel took his lunch breaks, and they knew soon enough, or so they told me often enough when I was older, that they were well suited for each other. They married after a few months, and bought a small house on the city's west side, escaping from the almost village-like life of the Fairfax district, with its sense of tradition, its long coated rabbis, its connection to eastern Europe, and the cloying sense of family and extended families that must have been an anathema for my parents.

Of course, with time my parents might have embraced a sense of community, and might have more permanently rejoined, but never rejoiced in, the land of the living. And I might have thrived, there, too. Instead, I began to become like them.

My mother continued working, a rarity in those days, particularly as my father earned a more than satisfactory salary; I stayed after school for many years with my father's sister. And eventually my father and my mother began to make an emotional commitment to each other, and formed a truly emotional attachment to me.

My parents were able to construct, and then transfer, even lavish on me a passionate love they could not show each other. Axel introduced me to the Torah and Hanukkah, prayer shawls and yarmulkes, latkas and fasting and Yom Kippur; and he taught me how to think about atonement for one's sins.

More of Axel's relatives moved to Los Angeles, other tattooed survivors of the concentration camps, and my mother and I introduced my new aunts and uncles to our own strange customs, to Christmas Eve, and Easter egg hunts, even Halloween (my mother once costumed me -- a goy - as a dibik, a sort of Jewish ghost, but there was a sense by the relatives of "We are not amused' and no one, not even me at the time, enjoyed the irony), and we, my mother and I, told our new family, with a sense of revulsion and disbelief all around, about the blood of Christ, and the Holy Trinity, of confession that was said to cleanse the soul. And somehow we all managed to tolerate each other. If any of Axel's relatives complained about a non-Jewish wife and child -- and Axel complained that they did -- it was behind our backs.

After a few years, Alan, Axel's nephew, came to live with us, arriving on a dank, overcast day. I remember him as a thin boy, and tall, so unlike his uncle, but nearly as shy as Axel. His own parents, having settled in St. Louis after the war, conceived Alan when they were in their late 40's, and had, after several drab years together, finally divorced. When neither parent laid claim to their own son, my parents somewhat reluctantly took him in.

A few years older than me, Alan was different than the rest of us, a bit gawky at first, but he soon grew into a muscular, handsome boy, and he more swiftly became my big brother, who tossed baseballs with me and helped me with my homework, who took me on long walks and would talk easily about anything and everything, and even tried unsuccessfully to teach me how to play the piano. He was someone to look up to, someone to emulate, a bit of the father, and even the mother that I, in certain ways, could never have.

And as they came to know Alan, the love my parents gave to me they bestowed in equal measure to their new son, and I did not begrudge him or them that love.

Although Alan was only a little older than me, he was in many respects less naive than I was about certain worldly matters. One night, for example, as we lay in our beds in our room, I heard muffled sounds come from my parents' bedroom, down the long, dark hall, and expressed some alarm.

"Don't worry, David," Alan had said. "They're doing what comes naturally."

I was not sure of his meaning, and said so. At age twelve, I had heard rumors, ugly rumors of what men and women did to one another, but surely it was not something my parents indulged in, or even contemplated.

 

"Think about it," Alan said.

After that, whenever I could force myself to stay awake long enough, I would almost always hear those muffled sounds emanating from my parents' room. Their sexual appetite, I came to realize, was ravenous, an all consuming addiction to the sexual pleasures of the flesh.

At first, the thought of my shy father ramming his cock into my mother had seemed crazy, despite what my brother said, despite the evidence of my ears. When I was small I had sometimes seen my father's fat, red penis, usually as he came out of the shower. To my child-like eyes his cock was enormous, its similarity to snakes in a reptile house something I instantly recognized, even at so young an age. I was frightened by my father's huge cock, and intrigued, as well. As I grew older, I wondered if my own tiny member would ever grow so large, so obviously potent. I learned soon enough, of course, from the rough language of the streets that my peers spoke, that any penis would one day indeed be possessed with miraculous powers, able to exist with an independent life of its own.

A very few times, over the course of the next few years, and only after Alan had fallen asleep, I would creep out of my bed and make my frightened way through that long, dark, tunnel-like hallway, to listen just outside my parents' bedroom door, just as so many other children have done. I was never discovered.

I cannot say I ever heard my parents make love to one another. Instead, they communicated with a frenetic coupling of their genitals, which is not necessarily an act of love. A few times I heard my father's moans and cries, and listened to my mother -- though her words were indistinct -- urge Axel on. Their sex was not, apparently, a one way street, limited to a few brutal thrusts by Axel, the way it must have been with my real father. My mother was my father's equal in bed, perhaps even his better. Then again, perhaps she was a bit of a sexual predator, herself.

As I grew older, and learned more about my parents, I saw that it was only natural they would unite so physically, so frequently. By the end of their evening's sexual trysts there was, I am sure, as much a sundering as there was a joining of personalities. The transitory nature of their union no doubt impelled them to repeat their performance night after night, to seek atonement for sins spoken and unspoken.

I could eventually bring myself to imagine my father's powerful tool slipping easily in and out of my mother, a cock that would become quite slimy with my mother's wetness, from her cunt or her mouth. Axel's cock would be the lightning rod, linking the two of them gently at first and then more violently.

Before too long I even found myself tentatively masturbating to the thought of my parents' sex. I would wait until I was alone in the house (by now we no longer stayed at my aunt's after school), or even wait for Alan to fall asleep. I'd heard about jerking off from friends, had long known how good it felt to practice the sins of Onan, and I had no fear of losing my sight or growing hair on my palms, nor was I worried that God would exact retribution for my hedonistic behavior. Even as my parents had their own orgasms almost every night, I came in some strange way to mimic them, and had to have a strong cum myself at least once each spin of the globe.

Soon enough I lost interest in fantasizing about my parents, and turned to images of the girls in my classes. Such images provided more powerful, more satisfying orgasms, and gave me a window to use to escape a rather dull existence, made bearable in part by my relationship with Alan.

Then, while riding my bike home from school one day, I found a well thumbed paperback book lying in the street. It was an anthology of sexually explicit stories. There was something liberating to me in the stories I read, something that helped confirm the feeling that my parents were committing no real sin with their sexual form of love. The fucking in the pages of the book involved mostly pleasure, or sometimes pleasurable pain, and often a rougher sort of sex between two -- or more -- people than I had ever imagined. There was almost never a mention of using sex for procreation, and indeed I thrilled to hear the confession my parents made to us that they were unable to conceive of another child, which meant to me that they could enjoy their fornication without guilt.

 

Several of the stories dealt with homoerotic themes. The first time I read one of them I thought I would be consumed with erotic fire. Here, at last, was a kind of sex completely devoid of anything other than pleasure; there was no need to fear pregnancy, to fear the entanglements of relationships, particularly those of marriage; there was only the enjoyment of another person's body. This wonderful, male sex seemed physically impossible to me, though I considered it desirable psychologically, and I developed a entirely new set of fantasies.

My brother Alan, at first more knowledgeable than I about sex, seemed to have little interest in it himself, and, though his body had developed by his last year in high school with an athletic grace that many young women admired, he rarely dated.

Erotic fantasies about either sex could keep me entertained whenever I was alone, but in my sixteenth year I concentrated on dating the real girls I began to meet so easily in my first year at high school. And so it was one day that I returned home from school earlier than usual, having gotten a ride with a pretty, new girl whom I had begun dating. We sat outside my house for a minute, our mouths glued together, her breasts soft, yielding against the pressure of my chest, and one of the girl's hands, I remember, was laid casually in my lap, the other holding me close around the back of my neck, so that I left her car in a happy state of arousal, with the sweet scent of her perfume lingering in my nostrils, mixed with the more subtle scent of her female body.

It was raining, and I ran into the house, with the sound of the storm pounding down on the roof. As I entered the hall on the way to my room I stopped in frightened consternation, hearing, despite the loud rain, muffled voices, moans and sighs that were bouncing softly off the walls. But my parents were not due home for at least a few hours, and the sounds I listened to now weren't coming from their bedroom.

Drawn by an incubus of curiosity, I crept down the hallway to stand just outside my own room, the door slightly ajar. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkened room, I saw my brother lying naked in his bed. So was one of his friends, one of his male friends, similar in athletic build to Alan, but pale blond where my brother's hair was dark. They were in a state of arousal, arms and legs entwined, and mouths pressed together, even as the girl's mouth and mine had pressed close a minute before. Yet our concupiscence was nothing compared to that which I was witness to in my room.

I saw my brother push his tongue down the other boy's mouth, and the nonchalant, sensuous ease with which they treated each other was a sudden revelation. It brought forth a series of taboo images that a moment before had resided only in my head, but now took instant flight, caught in that erotic fire like a swarm Icaruses in reverse, out into the blinding light of the sun. Until that moment, I truly had believed those male fantasies I had indulged in were nothing more than that, mere fictions, surely nothing that could ever have existed outside the invention of the human mind.

The two youths broke their awful, awesome clinch. Alan reached languidly enough for the other boy's turgid penis, but suddenly began to stroke it with a fervor that soon left both of them gasping. To an accompaniment of the other boy's moans, Alan began to play his friend's penis as if it were a piano piece at one of his recitals, now forte, now pianissimo, now fortissimo.

For a time neither saw me. Dumbfounded, I watched my brother's friend begin to lift his masculine rump off the bed in time to Alan's escalating strokes. Across the room there came a scent, pungent, yet sweet enough to me, of male bodies bonding in their own sweat.

Then Alan spotted me, and his hand froze in mid-stroke. His friend stared at me, a grim, tight little expression on his face, not from my discovery of some private act, but from the cessation of the pleasure he had been receiving from my brother. He wriggled his hips a bit to jump start the action, but Alan let go of him.

 

"David, don't tell anybody about this," Alan stammered. "It would destroy Axel and Nancy."

I stood when I probably should have left. Neither bed mate made an effort to cover themselves, and after a moment of silence, Alan's boyfriend - what else was he? - reached down to take my brother's penis in his own hand.

"Maybe little brother would like to join in the fun," the boy said with a slight smile, nodding in my direction. He began a slow stroke of Alan's semi erect cock.

"Shut up, Michael!" my brother called back hotly, but he made no effort to push his lover's hand away from his stiffening member.

"Whats it matter, he's not your real brother," the other said, still smiling at me, even as he continued to jerk Alan off. "Come on, David, join in the fun," he urged, "we'll both help you cum. Your brother," he added, "won't really mind if you do."

My brother said nothing. Perhaps he did want me to join them, or perhaps he was just lost in the sensation of the moment. Michael continued to smile in silence at me as he picked up the pace, and Alan's breathing began to accelerate. Now my brother's ass begin to pound up and down on the narrow bed in time to the movement of Michael's hand, and Michael kept smiling at me as if he knew something about me I did not, or would not admit. Then the cum flew out of Alan's penis, the milky semen spilling out in strong spurts, and it shot up onto my brother's chest and over his stomach and onto the other boy, against whom my brother jerked wildly.

Alan finally shuddered into quiescence, with Michael possessively and triumphantly holding onto my brother's shrunken cock. Then Alan, with a short glance over at me and a tiny shrug of his shoulders, pulled his boyfriend's mouth over to meet his own, and he reached for Michael's thick cock once again. It was a cock that was unlike Alan's, or our father's. It was an enormous penis that grew out of a thick, curly patch of blond pubic hair, and I saw that Michael was, like me, not circumcised, and thus no Jew. Later I would shiver with guilty pleasure as I realized he was far more attractive to me than the pretty girl who had driven me home, that the two lovers together were more beautiful than anyone or anything I had ever seen.

Both boys were now looking at me, but I turned away as Michael turned my brother onto his back, and I shut the door. As Michael had a turn at his own brand of fun, the muffled sounds reverberated in the hall again, my brother's frenzied cries serving as a counterpoint to the rhythmic creaking of bed springs. I went out into the quiet of a late afternoon, where I sat, shaking and drenched with rain, rain that could hardly begin to put out the fires of my erotic confusion. I sat there, trying to cool down, until my mother came home, trying to cool down while imagining what it was like to fuck another person, another male, and to be fucked.

Shortly thereafter someone leaked the truth about my brother to Michael's parents, and the scandal that erupted poisoned relationships between everyone around us, my parents' few friends, my father's relatives, and the four of us. My parents, so shamed, could no longer share their love with either of their children, and I soon discovered that they stopped their sex play at night, breaking the nexus that had bound them together.

A month later, Alan killed himself. How, or where is not germane. My parents, as I thought might happen, began their fucking again soon enough. So Alan had been wrong. My parents were not destroyed. What was destroyed, along with Alan's life, was my parents' love for me, which I mistakenly thought would flow again from whatever was left of it in their hearts.

At school I was treated to new terms of endearment, cock sucker and queer just a few among the many, and I had no way to refute the lies about me that I think may have been spread by Michael, or perhaps I was just tainted because I was the brother of a homosexual; of course I no longer had any currency with girls. The ostracism forced upon me was thus complete, though it reflected, I liked to think, my tormentors' secret longings as much as their rabid fears. As delicately as possible I raised the subject of my outcast status with my parents, who agreed that I should spend my last two years before college in a private high school in Ojai, at that time a sleepy mountain town about sixty miles to the north of Los Angeles.

 

The school was co-educational, though we slept, of course, in boys' and girls' dorms. The chance to partake in "deviant" sexual activities was immediately obvious to all but the most obtuse of newcomers, but I was not interested. For those two years I refrained from entering into liaisons that might have compromised the self image I tried diligently to create and maintain for myself. If I did make love to boys, it was only in the occasional masturbatory fantasies I indulged in when my roommates were not present, and even then rather reluctantly. I otherwise spent a fair amount of time with girls, exploring what I thought were the more normal ranges of my sexual self, learning how to properly fuck any number of my dates to please them, and, of course, myself, though satisfaction in so doing always seemed to elude me.

At the end of two years I entered college, financially supported by my parents, returning to Los Angeles to attend UCLA. I chose, with their obviously happy approval, not to live at home with my parents. At first I lived on campus in one of the boxlike dorms, up on the hill along Circle Drive, and then I rented a small, inexpensive apartment not far from where my parents and I had first lived, the Fairfax district, returning, in a way, to my adoptive roots.

When I visited them, my parents were still formal, still aloof, as they had been since Alan's death. I wondered if they continued their nightly fucking, but I knew I would never find out. Axel by now was graying rapidly, but seemed to have an iron constitution. My mother was still quite beautiful, even youthful in appearance. But for me their love, at least the kind of love they had given me before, was still dormant, and probably dead.

As I had in Ojai, I made friends easily at college, and even with people in the neighborhood. By my senior year I was very close with a small circle of companions, both young men and women, who exhibited, I realized only later, at least slight traits of rebelliousness. I slept with several of the women, but I had one true friend in Steven Takuda, a sophomore from the state of Washington. We shared something in common that drew us closely together. His parents had, like mine, been prisoners, their incarceration taking form as inmates during the war, in a Japanese-American concentration camp at Manzanar, along the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Between us we were a physical study in contrasts. My skin was pale, my hair a pale red, where Steven's skin was almost bronze in color, his hair jet black. We did stand at the same height, which for Steven was rather tall for an Asian, but his body, though lithe enough, was relatively stocky where mine was thin. He was, I think, far more handsome than me, with an exotic face framed with high cheekbones.

I liked him, among other reasons, because he seemed to carry a certain amount of his own excess baggage from his Oriental past, cultural accouterments so different from my own dual heritages. To me he seemed neither male nor female, nor even androgynous, but was almost like a third sex.

Steven, nor any of the others, knew much about my past, or anything about my brother. I knew, with my parent's tortured history, that my family was not typical of other families, but I often wondered about those of my fellow students, how they and their parents carried on behind closed doors, wondered if demons stalked any of them at times, too. But broaching these subjects with my companions, even with Steven, while possible,was rarely practical.

Gradually, without knowing at first, or maybe not wanting to know, I began to monopolize Steven's time, becoming in a way his mentor, working on term papers with him, tossing a baseball, taking long walks around the campus to talk about anything and everything, drinking beer in his dorm room or occasionally in my apartment. He knew, before I did, what I had begun to feel for him, what I needed from him, and he knew what he was beginning to want from me. I found that for the first time in a long time I began to feel alive again when I was with my friend, and I began to comprehend that he might be the one to help me close the circle.

 

One day Steven brought his text books home with me. Ostensibly, we had agreed to study and have dinner. We took the bus up Pico Boulevard, past the bagel shops and delis and the small, fragrant, open air fruit and produce markets that, in part, gave my neighborhood its peculiarly old world charm, and we walked the last few blocks north along Sherbourne Drive, a quiet street lined with jacaranda trees. The sunlight this late afternoon in winter was pallid as we climbed up to my little second floor apartment. We shared a beer -- I didn't keep much else in my refrigerator in those days -- and we left the text books closed on the little dining room table, choosing to talk.

At some point it was Steven who brought the subject around to sex, and we joked about our experiences with girls. Then he managed easily enough -- quickly enough -- to ask me if I had ever experimented sexually with a man. I shook my head from side to side, and asked him the same question.

"Once in a while," he answered. Then, looking directly at me, he said, "Would you like to sleep with me, David?"

We finished our beers and Steven went to the bathroom to urinate, and moved to my bedroom while I took my turn at the can. When I entered the room Steven was already stripped to his white briefs, sitting casually on my bed. He stood and walked to meet me halfway across the room, and held me by the shoulders for a moment. We learned forward for a first kiss, and it was surprisingly easy to put my lips to another male's lips. And then he helped me unbutton and take off my shirt. His own skin, I noted, was reasonably smooth, with only a little hair on his legs and arms.

I dropped my own pants and briefs, kicked them out of the way, and took the firm, warm hand Steven offered me. He led me to the bed and I stretched out. In a quick movement Steven's underpants came off, and he lifted himself onto the bed to sit next to me. I looked up at the gray ceiling, and listened to the sounds of traffic and people outside, and smelled the blooming jacarandas and saw the purple sunlight that filtered into my room this late, overcast afternoon, and waited.

My legs were tingling from the touch his gentle caresses, and Steven said "I knew this would be a turn-on for you." His hands moved up to my inner thighs, a little wet with my nervous sweat, and his fingers brushed against and teased the shaft of my cock. His cock, which was hard and enormous, stood up against his belly. Then he stretched out next to me and our arms and legs became entwined. We broke our clinch, and taking his sex in my hand, I began to stroke Steven with a fervor that soon left us both gasping.

"We've got time," Steven said, holding my hand at bay. "We've got all afternoon and all night," he promised, "there's no need to hurry it."

Despite his words, or perhaps because of them, it didn't take very long to have my first ejaculation with a man. Steven had bent over to kiss me on my lips and started lightly stroking my cock.

"This is crazy," I said, laughing nervously against his lips.

"But you like it?" he asked, drawing back from me, his hand still working at my cock.

"Yes."

"It's good?"

"Perfect."

"Tell me when you're ready."

"Not yet," I answered.

"Your almost there."

"Almost," I agreed quietly

"Tell me when," he urged.

"Now!" I cried, as Steven brought me to as explosive a cum as I have ever had. He helped me finish with his practiced hands. Although I had been masturbated girls, I realized it had never been so exciting as it was with Steven.

I reached for him again, and this time, as darkness settled comfortably over us, he did not resist my touch.

When we calmed down I wiped the last of the cum that oozed out of him into the palm of my hand, and he squirmed, too sensitive to the touch after his hard orgasm. A little later he turned me over and ran his fingers from my neck down to the crack in my ass, this time making me squirm .

We took a short nap in my bed, and woke feeling erotically inclined, but hungry, too. Padding naked around the kitchen -- "Let's not get dressed," Steven suggested -- we scrounged something for dinner. It was difficult not to stare continually at Steven's face, at his body, at his cock, which like mine fluctuated in an erect or half erect state throughout our hurried meal. We skipped dessert, and the text books were left unopened; we had other homework assignments to complete.

 

Back in bed, with the covers pushed to the floor, my mentor turned me on my stomach again, and I felt his mouth on my neck, felt his tongue begin to make its way down my back, ending at the crack in my ass. This time I didn't squirm, but I was still nervous about his intentions. "I guess we can save some things for later," he said, and I relaxed.

I twisted onto my back and pulled his face down to mine, latching my lips onto his and sucking his tongue into my mouth. Steven eased his body next to mine on the bed, and the smell of him was strong, but not unpleasant. We lay comfortably on our sides, and rubbed our cocks intermittently together. Our heat brought a different odor of sweat to the air now, not of fear, but the odor of sweat that came from the close bonding of two male bodies.

Steven sat astride me and I placed my hands on his hips. I marveled at his muscular chest, and his small, dark nipples. He saw me looking at them and arched his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Yes," I answered, with a nod of my head.

Smiling dreamily, he leaned over and, with easy alternation, offered one and then the other of his nipples for me to kiss. As I sucked him I put my hands behind his back and caressed his soft skin. He began to softly moan and his hips moved back and forth over my thighs, and I felt his penis move at right angles over my own.

Later, we got into a 69, and as we lay head to foot, Steven brought his mouth to my penis. He took me inside his mouth, and I felt my rod quiver with pleasure from the warm pressure exerted by his tongue and lips. He tenderly put his fingers around the bottom of my shaft and masturbated me, too, slowly pulling me deeper into him, and I began to pump my ass a little to hurry the arrival of what had begun to feel like a giant wave, a wave that had begun forming far off shore in the stormy sea of my mind a long time before.

After a while I could only fling my arms around Steven's waist, and hold him tight, feeling his own, hot cock, hard up against my cheek. I fought wildly to hold back while he moved with me, sucked on me, and reached around to ease a finger into me, ease it gently into my anus, while he continued with his other hand to masturbate me. He was making me give more of myself than I had given anyone before, more than I thought I wanted to give.

Yet I was also afraid I wouldn't be able to give anything at all, afraid that the wave might remain forever stalled off shore. I think I may have even tried to pull out of his mouth, and pushed on his hand a little, and then I heard myself call out my lover's name, and I pumped as hard and as fast as I could as I felt my cum shoot up through the top of my cock and down Steven's throat, as an erotic fire swept over me, as the circle started to close.

In a little while, after I had recovered, the process was reversed, and I began to give Steven the same pleasure he had given me. I pushed him on his back and sitting next to him, I licked his neck and cheeks and ears, and ran my tongue over his nipples, circling them first, before using my lips to softly suckle them. He squirmed a little, even as my index finger moved lightly down over his stomach, to trace the outline of his hard cock. ("Oh, yeah!," he kept repeating.) Then I had his cock in my hand, pumping him while my mouth moved down to find the top of his shaft and take him inside me. I sucked him in, and I kept masturbating the part of his cock not inside my mouth. It didn't take long, and I tasted his hot seed as it shot out of his penis and into my mouth. I had no compunction about drinking it down.

For as long as he squirted his semen inside me, Steven bucked his hips up and down, up and down, grunting and moaning with the pleasure I was giving him.

With much of the tension drained between us, an adventure in a more cloacal vein occurred at dawn, after Morpheus brought us a few hours of sleep, and after a quick, shared shower. Steven found a little container of Vaseline in my medicine cabinent. Back in bed, we coated each other's cock, and then we experimented for a while with frottage, rubbing our well-lubed and well-rested penises together, or against each other's thigh. I could have easily cum doing that, but after a while we stopped, and now I was on my back, Steven bove me. He then did his best to put me at ease, using his tongue and globs of spittle to lubricate my anus, then switched to the Vaseline and really opened me up as he gently probed inside me with his fingers. After a time he reached under my waist to find and manipulate my slick cock.

"You called someone's name," Steven said.

"What do you mean?"

"It's o.k., I don't mind. You called someone's name," Steven said, "when you were inside my mouth, just as you were beginning to cum that second time, you called out a name. Alan, you shouted Alan."

It was time for Steven to take what he required of me, while I received in equal measure the last of what I needed from him. After the preliminaries, he rose up above my ass, which in turn rested atop a pillow, and he made a tentative thrust, held still for a long moment, and then began to push his big penis past my resistance, making his way into my most secret recesses, deep, deep into my anus.

"So nice," Steven whispered as he pushed ever deeper inside me. "Oh, yeah!" he repeated. "Oh yeah!" I rose as best I could against him, enjoying the sensation of being fucked by someone I liked, giving myself so completely for the sexual pleasure of another male. When he pushed down on me, I could feel the heat of his balls on the outside of his ass, a nice counterpoint to the full feeling his nice cock was giving me, now. As Steven found his rhythm, the bed springs began a rhythmic creaking, creaking, creaking, a counterpoint to my frenzied cries.

I wonder at times if I will make love to a woman again. It is hard to imagine a woman inducing the same sort of passion one man can arouse in another man. It is the same way, I wonder, when two or more women share each other?

I have, in fact almost forgotten what it is like to have sex with a woman; I can, however, recall images and sensations of soft breasts pressed against my chest, of long legs wrapped tightly around my own, of legs shaved smooth to simulate and preserve an illusion of almost indecent youth, when in reality we are all decaying.

But each time I make love to a man I am reanimated, newly created and connected, almost human, and I can extirpate my guilt. It is guilt I cannot easily expunge, a guilt that has metamorphosed from the memory that besets my brooding brain. It is the memory that I was the one -- of course, of course -- who informed on my brother and his lover.

That is why I lie here with yet another lover, one of so many lovers after Steven. This lover's penis (an icon, like a crucifix or rosary beads from my mother's world, or a shem - a Jewish charm - from my father's realm) is nestled comfortably in my hand.

We both want this dance to begin, but I wait for a moment, wondering if l can ever close the broken circle.

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Keywords: bonding / first kiss / xxl-penis / big brother / male sex / little brother / asian / breasts / husband / homosexual / potent / gay date / my dad / masturbate / sex with a man / cunt / uncle / huge cock / anus / queer / shaved / roommate / masculin / semen / neighbor / lubricant / married man / relationship / in my ass / athlet / jerk off / father
In fictional stories it is fine to have sex without condoms, but in reality you should always use a rubber, regardless if you use Prep or not. Prep only protects for HIV, thats why other diaseases spread among Prep users that practice bareback sex.
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