Late to the Game

 I've been reading on and off for a few years, so here's a contribution -

 

 I don't really have any youth stories. My two best friends and I slept over with each other all the time since we lived within 4 houses of each other. When we hit middle school, we'd sit up late for the softcore on Skin-emax and HBO, but jacking was taboo—it was the mid-90s and sex acts had been transformed from something people do, to who people are, and of course every middle school guy sure as Hell wasn't a fag. 

 

 By the time I was 13, a true pedo uncle had mentioned circle jerks to me, it was a term I was both familiar with and that I was certain was an absolute fiction, it was so unimaginable that guys did that. Anyway, me and my friends never got anywhere. We compared once, and my semi was a dead giveaway. I know the other two jacked off under separate blankets sometimes, but never when I was around.

 

 I arrived at 32 still a virgin. I hadn't even held anyone's hand. Never dated. When I think about happily-ever-after, it's a wife and 4 kids; when I think about animalistic humping it's hot young guys throwing me around.

 

 A couple years ago, I started sculpting. I was mostly interested in the male body; females are played out. Also, I was in the middle of reading Plato's Republic, Phaedrus,and Symposium, and all enraptured by the messages about male beauty and love. (Don't ever let anyone fool you, though, Plato says some nice things but it's clear he held the physical aspect of these relationships in disdain.) I started out by asking a young man I knew to model - I was mortified to ask people and be rejected, and I knew this guy would just say yes, so I asked him, and he did.

 

 He was beautiful, 13 years younger than me, wild. He should've been dead from all the recreational drugs and pharmaceuticals he'd been taking from 15-16.5, but now he was just now 18, and putting all that energy into turning himself into an Oscar Wilde. After several months, he asked me to do a nude piece. I agonized over it for a few months; I wanted to for purely artistic reasons, but I never wanted him to find out how I'd become interested in him partly for sexual reasons. Our friendship had deepened, but I didn't want to lose that: my only friendship, honestly. I had no idea what to do; 32yr-old virgin. I can predict human behavior pretty well, but I couldn't figure out how to live this out.

 

 Finally, he pressed, so I sat him down the night before and told him that I had developed very strong feelings for him. I only had lamps on, to hopefully obscure the torture on my face. To my chagrin, the electric pillar candles came on by timer, and I was mortified to think that he might imagine I had set the light low for romance. Too late.

 

 I didn't imagine he could return my feelings. He'd been fucking since he was 15, he was beautiful and knew it, his dick limp was the size of an average guy hard. I was so much older, a bald spot, hairy back and a few extra pounds. But he had teased me sometimes, and he asked me about gay relationships often, so I had some small hope for us. The very few people I confided in for advice were all certain the only reason he had even asked for a nude piece was so that he could start something in a  sexual way. But that night, I just wanted to clear the air, and prayed we could keep the friendship.

 

 He said he had a lot of the same feelings toward me, and it didn't matter. That he'd see me in the morning for our appointment. But the next morning he texted to cancel, and said he'd write a letter with all his thoughts. He didn't speak to me again for 4 months. Then we reconnected, and for a couple months everything was like nothing happened. He asked for more sculptures, even a nude from behind, and I wept at what a beautiful thing we had made. Then, slowly, he ignored me more. I haven't heard from him in a year, now. I don't think I ever will again. It has destroyed me, utterly.

 

I was determined, however, to work with a nude, so I hired a model; an 18-y-old posing for the drawing classes. I hadn't actually seen him nude, but I hit the jackpot: another 5.5-incher limp, and thicker than my former friend.

 

 When an acquaintance saw my work, he said he was similarly hung to the model, and would I make a sculpture for him? I agreed. When he came in for a consult, he pulled down his pants and there hung a 7.5-inch miracle, three thick veins, and yes, black, with a peachy head.

 

 My work involved making molds of the subject. Physical contact is part and parcel. During our first session, the young man—he was 25—leaked pre-cum profusely. To the point that it was enough to actually pour out of the molds. Erections were normal; most of my models would get reflex boners while I was casting their torsos, but this was insane. I was sitting there making molds of a 7.5 inch horse cock growing up to 9.5", dribbling pre-cum all over my hands, on the floor, into the mold. He apologized meekly, and I said it was perfectly fine.

 

 The conversation was very frank as I worked. We discussed politics, sex, sexuality. He was a virgin, he hadn't dated in 8 years. After the first session, I asked whether he'd like to try for a purposefully-erect piece, since most guys are so concerned about size, and there he would have a monument to his manhood in his youthful prime. He agreed. As we worked, he got himself hard, the pre-cum came in streams; clear, sticky, odorless. While he was turned away, I sneaked my finger into my mouth: flavorless, too. The molding material is cold, heavy, and slimy. It inevitably killed his boner when it went on, so after two tries, I asked him to keep himself turned on, and what turned him on. He said the inside of his thigh was "it" for him, so I stroked there with one hand and worked with the other. He panted. Without a word, I ran my finger across the sensitive skin just below his head. I made myself breathe from the mouth, inhaling through the nose, but exhaling my hot breath onto his penis. My heart was pounding, I was flushed, my ears coursed with blood making it hard to hear—does that happen to anyone else during extreme, tense arousal; this blood-pumped deafness?

 

 When we left the studio, it had been only a few minutes before he texted me. We fenced for a couple of messages, and then I just went right for it: if he wanted, I'd suck his dick that night, as soon as we both had time to get cleaned up. An hour later, I was in his arms, in the woods. It was early spring, nippy, but neither of us had a place to ourselves, so there we were under the moon. I intended to just blow him and get going. I just wanted to drown in his cum, I mean I really just wanted to get my head pushed down onto his massive dick and have cum coursing down my throat as tears streamed down my face, and to go. But he wanted more. So, we started slowly, kissing tenderly. It was unnerving; I actually didn't want to kiss him, I wanted my first kiss to be something sentimental. Isn't that insane, in context? But to me, kissing is emotional, and personal, and what I wanted out of his cock was primal, and separate from emotions. Oh, but he was such a good kisser, every moment of it was sensual, I gasped and whimpered at his kisses. We must have kissed for ten minutes, then I dropped to my knees. I pressed my face into the inside of his thigh, inhaling deeply. I kissed him there, where I already knew it made him wild. I held him close with my right hand on his ass, and stroked his pulsing penis with my left, massaging his balls, too, and caressed his right thigh as I kissed and licked the left.

 

 He was afraid of his size. He had been clear: he didn't want me to try to take it all, or even to gag in the slightest; he just wanted me to lick the tip as I stroked. But I wanted it all. I worked slowly, and got a bit over half in. I kept everything in mind: used my tongue, kept my lips over my teeth, used my hands,gave his balls attention. I stayed at it, gasping, kissing his stomach and nipples, taking his finger into my mouth at times, I wanted him to come back to me over and over after this, I wanted to suck his dick every day forever, and I wanted him to want me to.

 

 As I pressed on, he shed his genteel qualms. Once I was used to it, he began pressing me down. I was so turned on by his rising assertiveness, I wanted him to bear down on me. I became more passive, and focused on opening the back of my throat as wide as possible, I knew he could feel it because he pressed harder in response to my silent indications. I wrapped my arms around his waist, caressing and cupping his butt as he took control of my head and pushed, coming up on his tiptoes, leveraging with his whole body. I hadn't been able to breathe for at least a minute, I could feel myself drifting, I focused everything on opening my throat and moving my tongue, and pulled him in as he pressed me down, feeling myself fainting. I was mad with desire, I was made wild with the idea of suffocating on his dick, I felt myself slipping out of consciousness, and it was incredible. He pulled back, instinctively, just as I really began to swoon. I breathed deep and continued on. Soon, he came, and I swallowed so hungrily that I could not tell you what it tasted like, or even how much there was, though there was a lot. I wanted all of it in me, none wasted. I sucked him for ten minutes more as he went soft, luxuriating in the feeling of his velvet skin against my tongue, reveling in taking his entire limp length into my mouth.

 

 Eventually, he lifted me up, and I wobbled all over the place with dead legs, like an idiotic Bambi, but he held me and kissed me. Then he went to his knees and took me into his mouth, insistent that I cum, too, but also that he wasn't taking any cum. It was sweet and funny.

 

 We headed to our cars, and into the night. I've blown him several times since. He felt bad when I told him I almost passed out; I still do it almost every time. To cum, I need him to bare down on me and push me to the edge, but I also like that it doesn't come naturally to him, that it comes out in the heat of the moment.

 

MN