Cock-Sucker: Cruel Obsession

You don't know me, and you do. There's no reason in the world why you should know me, and yet we are attuned to each other. The time is approaching. Some things are destined to be. I know this deep in my soul. I have no doubts. There will come a time, and it will be very soon, when you will know me intimately. You don't know me. But I know you. I know the car you drive. I've watched you leaving your office-tower and wending down into the private parking lot. Watched the way the wind catches your coat, curling it back, rippling across your body. I've tracked you across the precincts. You aren't aware that you're being watched, as you pause at the pavement café, as you sit to sip your cappuccino and browse your newspaper. This afternoon I was sitting so close to you I could have reached out and touched you. But I didn't. I can become invisible. I have that ability.

You're probably wondering how I obtained your email address? I know things about you. I know things about you that even your wife doesn't know. For example, I know that on occasions you've used Male Escorts. Well, there's nothing you could pay one of those male escorts to do that I wouldn't do, or have done to me, purely for the pleasure of doing it. If you know what I mean? If you'd only give me the opportunity. I'll be your messed-up boy. I'm twenty-seven, tousle-haired like a Raphael street-urchin, dark-complexioned. And I'm sick of my life. I'm unemployed. No real skills. Live in a wretched room with no prospect of escape. But it's cool to know nothing. I've done most things in my time, some morally dubious and self-destructive things. But I'm essentially passive, introspective, and easily-led. When I do the weird stuff I just turn on the 'bad body-double' mode in my head. The other me does the things I'm not capable of doing. You don't know me, but we are destined to be together. Nothing can change that. It's only a matter of time...

I don't understand why you never got back to me. I waited. I was sure you'd respond. Maybe it's only make-believe? No, it's stronger than that. Do you believe that some things are meant to be? This is meant to be. Maybe I didn't make my intentions clear enough. If that's the case I'm attaching a few photos of myself so you can check me out. So you can see exactly what it is I'm offering you. Of course, they're nude photos, my slutty pouty look. Pretty, for a boy. With an indolent sneer and an insolent air. In the first photo you can clearly see my cock and balls. You can do just exactly what you want to do to me down there. My cock is not as big as I'd like, barely 180mm erect (seven inches), but it's still 140mm soft (five-&-a-half inches) which adds deceptive promise. In this one you see my lips parted, ready to accept whatever it is you have a mind to slip between them. With the piercing eyes, they say, of a Caravaggio model. And my quick knotty kidult muscles and slender rawhide limbs, like a wild thing, half-fed and ravenous with a lust for life. Here, you can see my ass, they tell me it's 'rounded and girlish', well – that's yours too, naturally, and without limit. My physical allure can best be appreciated either vertically, or horizontally. How much more explicit can I make this invitation? Using all the favourite metaphors, you can slip your key into my lock, thrust your gun into my holster, sheath your sword into my scabbard. I'd call that a bargain, the best you ever had. I'm gonna look so good on you. If time was money, I'd be a millionaire. I can wait. But do it quickly, before my desire gets old.

I admit this, because I am always going to be honest with you. There are devils in my head. You might say I don't know wrong from right. I confess that yesterday I went with another man. I'm a healthy red-blooded boy, I got physical needs. I wanted you, but you still haven't responded. What do you expect me to do? The man is irrelevant. He had a highly edible cock. That's all I needed. He approached me. His intention so obvious it was painful. I despised him. But couldn't pass him up. He buys me a drink, gropes ineptly in my groin beneath the table-top, pleased by the hardness his fingers encircle there, and whispers 'do you give head?'

I smile as prettily as I can and say 'I was born to give head'. He's watching my mouth and lips as I speak, as though envisaging all the things he could do in there.

His eyes almost goggling out of his head, as though he can't believe his luck, 'man, am I going to have fun with you.' We go back to his hotel room, and we do it there. Full of all the usual trepidations, what will he expect me to do to him? what will he want to do to me? will it hurt? But also curious to see what he's packing. He's sweaty and desperately anxious. It's as though he's seen various things on DVD or porn-sites, which he's been just waiting for the opportunity to try out. Now he had that opportunity. He stands with his hands behind his head as I gobble him, obviously a pose he's long-anticipated assuming. Then he holds me by the ears as he fucks my mouth. Working his way through his repertoire of fantasies. But that's what he wants so that's what we do. As I'm blowing him and looking up to meet his eyes, I'm seeing your eyes. The deep dusky-pink pigmentation of his cock is almost shockingly bright, straining and glistening, and – already good-sized, I swear it's grown another inch in response to my working on it. He's whimpering and breathing so heavily his glasses come loose, fall and bounce off my head beneath him. And when he ejaculates he wants that thing where I crouch, mouth-open, gazing up adoringly at him, as he spatters it direct onto my waiting tongue, across my teeth and my lips, directly into my throat. A power thing, of course, that's largely a porno visual stimulation technique to make it look more explicit. We both know, me and you, it's actually more fulfilling for both participants if it all happens fully inside the recipients mouth.

When he comes it's like he's been struck by lightning. I fear he's going to have a heart-attack. Naturally once he's finished grunting and spurting I make sure I take it fully back in and suck on it some more to clean it up. And with each taste, it's every molecule of your protein-laced gift I'm drinking. It wasn't great sex, but it was adequate. Nice, not challenging, but fun. His scrotum is not symmetrical, which is annoyingly distracting. They should be shaped like a number 'eight' laid on its side, but one of his gonads hang lower than the other. I've never liked that. I guess he wanted to mess around some more, but his eagerness has let him down, once he's come he's lost his hard-on.

Afterwards he tries to get romantic with me, which I don't like and don't need. I shove him away. We're both still pretty much naked – or rather, I'm wearing only T-shirt, he's got his socks on, which must make it look even more absurd, but as I shove him away he comes back fumble-grabbing at me, cupping, fondling and petting my balls with a quite disturbing urgency. It's not that I'm averse to his sexual advances, after all, I'm not exactly unused to having my scrotum cosseted by strange men, it's just that I'm taken unawares. And, a little alarmed, I make to defend myself, but as my hands come up they accidentally connect, hitting him, and he reels back, he buckles and pitches into an untidy heap on the floor half-slumped against the bed. Breathing steady, but showing no inclination to get up again.

I stand watching him for a moment, all tensed up, my own breath panting hard and heavy. He looks even more pathetically repellent, I can hardly believe that a few moments earlier I'd been gobbling him. Only the spermy-foreskin taste in my mouth tells me different. His dick is now a shrivelled and ridiculous thing. But there's still an accusing blob of his pearly-white ejaculate on my chin. I didn't realise I'd missed a bit until I accidentally catch my reflection in the mirror, and smile at the image – hey, do I look hot! Kinda foxy, in a debauched way. I wish you could have seen me at that moment, there with the proof of my erotic defilement dribbling down my chin. You'd have wanted me, as much as I want you. I look for a moment, then begin to get dressed, feeling like the guy out of 'Midnight Cowboy'.

His clothes are stacked neatly on the chair, so I start going through his pockets systematically, more from curiosity than evil intent. His mobile. His wallet. Opening it to find his credit cards. He has a diary, which enables me to learn his name for the first time. Not that it matters. He's also written down his PIN numbers, naughty. But hell, I've earned a little of it. So I take it. He was now snoring. I guess he'd more gone to sleep than anything else. He'd had some amber wine sent up. It wasn't cheap stuff. I drink what's left, washing out the taste of him. Then I leave him there. At the nearest ATM I access just €30 from his account. I could have taken more, but I don't. I figure he owes me that at least.

But let me explain. I work spontaneously. There are profound brain-things happening in my grey-matter. My thoughts are capable of going from one side of my brain to the other, ignoring all the synapses in between. Sometimes ideas move on machine-gun impulses, slowing into ideas that snake off on and on luxuriantly into longeur. So now I'm thinking, does your wife suck you off? I imagine her doing it, but no, I can do it better. If they do it at all, women do it with an agenda. They do it with the expectation of reward, maybe not necessarily even material, but certainly emotional. There are strings. They do it with unspoken conditions. Women are capricious, unpredictable creatures. For them, sex is a negotiable currency. They're beautiful, sure, desirable too, and they use their beauty to beguile, tantalise and promise, then they frustrate, tease, flounce, and never deliver. They don't like anything that musses their hair or smudges their make-up. They make you feel guilty, clumsy, and unworthy. Men spend their lives grovelling for sex, wishing and hoping for the green light, hurt and bewildered when it never comes.

That's not so for guys. It's hardly unreasonable to want your cock sucking every now and then, it's a fairly basic requirement. But when your wife or partner's not keen on doing it, or refuses, there's always someone out there who will be happy to do what they will not. It's not necessary to be Gay, or even Bi – that black-&-white binary approach just doesn't work anymore, it is what it is, all that's necessary is to decide not to live in resentful frustration. To find a warm and welcoming mouth that appreciates the gift it's being given. As comedy-actor Charles Hawtrey phrases it, 'I'm sure sex with a woman is nice, but it's not as good as the real thing.' Guys who love cock love it for its own sake. With me, you can do every dirty little thing you've always been too scared to ask your wife to do, hell, you don't even need to ask me, just do it. For me, the only reward I need is to do it to you. Just the chance to do it is all the reward I need. I can show you just how grateful I can be, in ways you won't believe. My mouth can take you places your cock's never been before. All I need is for you to let me, please...

Wherever you go, I won't be too far behind. I know we should never be seen together, so we can meet in secret. I don't want to waste your time, just want a small part of you, for a brief time, to be mine. What can I say, this need is beyond my control. I'm not asking to be out in your world. I know my manners are not quite right. I'm content to be your back-street secret, your dirty little secret, no-one else need know. I won't phone you at home. I won't bother your wife. I'll keep myself to myself. I'll just accept the favours you grant. I'll just be around as required. You're playing with fire. I'm not going to pretend things to you. I'm not going to lie. My life is out of control. I've had a lot of guys. A lot of guys have had me. Maybe it's my naughty streak, my devilish grin. As a serial slut I've probably had more men than is humanly healthy. And done things, far too many things and too often, than I shouldn't have done. But it's what I do. Nevertheless, I seriously feel I've reached a turning-point in what I laughingly refer to as 'my life'.

Have those old creeps been debauching my innocence? Well, no, not really. I was already a dirty-minded sod. All they've been doing is enabling me a means of expressing it. Despite which I'd begun to feel a little... used. Until I happened upon you, or you happened upon me, and my future was decided. No question about it. You reached out and took hold of my mind. These are precious intimacies I'm sharing. Why am I divulging all of this to you? Because I have no edit button. And where you're concerned, I can't do anything but tell the truth. And because you could be enjoying and taking full advantage of the same levels of slavish devotion. Do my candid confessions shock you? Are they too explicit for your sensitivities? But there's nothing here that the vast majority of men on the planet do not fantasise about doing, either to women, or to each other. Sometimes those desires are screwed down so deep in the recesses of their subconscious they scarcely dare admit them, even to themselves. But those dark lusts are there. I merely facilitate what is already there. I make myself the instrument of their dark pornographic fantasies.

Or do my squalid reminiscences make you horny? Do you wish you'd been there? Maybe I invent them to provoke that reaction in you? You'll never know, unless you respond. Because there's more, some things I scarcely dare admit to myself. I've been used and abused in their hands like a tool. Like something momentarily distracting, amusing, but disposable, to throw back into the trash once they've had their fill. I have seen too much in too few years. I'm fortune's fool. Yet there's still one thing I can't understand, and that's all of the sick things that a man does to another man. Not sexually. But psycho-wise. My mind has been ripped. Does their treatment of me constitute abuse – even if it's a situation I was fully complicit with, even one that I'd purposefully sought out?

Yes, but only if you buy into the theory that it's precipitated by social inequality and exploitation of the vulnerable by those with wealth and power. That it's due to the way the system is unfair to the underclass. If you can fight and you're physically fit, you can Box your way out, if you can sing and present yourself you can make it in Pop music, or if you're a model or an artist you can use those routes to escape the dead-end ordinary life and grab your slice of La Dole Vita. I have no such talents. This is all I have to barter, myself, my body, my servitude. I've always had problems with relationships, complex adult relationships even more so. As a 'kept boy' I am not expected to have a mind of my own. I do as I'm told. Perform as instructed. That relieves me of the awkwardness of taking initiatives or making advances that may be spurned. It's safe, with none of the pain of rejection. Until it ends.

I'm not always necessarily proud of the things I've done. But I'm not ashamed either. I made a pragmatic decision early on about the kind of life I wanted to live, and what I had to do to achieve it, the narrow channel of choices I had to attain them. That's what I've done. Now I've made another pragmatic decision about what I need to reshape my life. And it's you. I need a stabilising influence, an alpha male. I need control. That's what I need, a firm guiding figure to discipline my desires and give my life structure and meaning. I'm a shape-shifter. Mercurial. I define myself by proxy. Taking on the moods and mannerisms of those I'm with, like a chameleon. I am property, so I become who they want me to be. I twist and morph into whatever they desire, until I've no recollection of what the real me is like anymore. If such a thing exists. If such a thing ever existed. I've forgotten how it feels to feel. I catch my own reflection in the mirror, or in some plate-glass storefront, and I wonder what it is I'm looking at. Perhaps if I was with someone strong, I could become strong. If I was with someone good, I could become good. And I know that you are that authority figure. If I have to lose me to find you, that's as may be. I shall not easily be dissuaded. I watch you, from a distance. I'm strung out on you. We should be together. There's no time like the right time. And the right time is now!

Why have you not responded? Why have you not got through to me? Yes, I know you're safely married. Yes, I know you have a respectable high-prestige career in the city. But I know other stuff about you, other more furtive things that could be damaging to those elements of your life. I know you have a taste for boys, sure – above the legal age of consent boys, but would your wife, or your office colleagues appreciate that fine distinction if they were in some way to find out? I doubt it. That's the kind of taste best kept separate and distinct from your life. Someone like me, someone party to that knowledge, could be dangerous to the stability of your life-style. Not that there's any threat implied there. That's not my intention at all. I know you have a taste for boys. I know you've paid for it. I know what you do with them. All I want is for you to do those things with me. I'm offering you that on a plate, no strings, no conditions, no sub-text. Don't put me through this uncertainty. Don't tease by depriving me of what I need.

You have a very wonderful wife. And two delightful children, Anatole and Amélie. I was there today, in your home, don't ask me how, I have my ways. Madame didn't know who I was, or the secret we share, of course, she believed my cover story. To her, I was just a student carrying out a survey. We had a very pleasant conversation. It was so strange to be there, inside your rooms. The chairs you sit upon, imagining your body-warmth still there, the indentations made by your weight. The HD screen you watch. And your beautiful, so perfect family. All the things I've never known. Your successful life-style must be very gratifying for you, such a source of well-deserved pride. And to know that with just one word I have the power to explode it all and destroy that idyllic life forever. Not that I would. That's not what I want at all, please believe me. Merely that I could. By exposing your grubby secret life, your squalid little assignations. I'm not great at logical thinking. Nevertheless, I feel things are very much in the balance. There are moments when events could have tipped either way, and I was close to doing something I'd regret. My stomach was in a state of constant turmoil. A kind of anticipation of something, I'm not sure what. But I resurfaced, and got myself back on track. It was a funny situation, but I wasn't actually having fun. I was trying to cope with the fact that I was really upset and stressed. That you have so much, and I want so little, yet you persist in denying me even that. I wish I could stand up and make a difference, as a power to change people's attitudes, fight discrimination and combat homophobia, be a force for good in the way that Peter Tatchell or Quentin Crisp have been. But I'm not that strong. I am what I am. I live the best I can. I do what I must do, to get what I most need...

I saw you again today. You were sitting and laughing together over drinks in the Bistro with your smart sophisticated friends. All so immaculately tailored, articulate, confident. All the things I'm not. As I watch, I feel so close I could inhale you, yet I'm excluded from your life, you remain beyond reach, I'm isolated. It seemed to me that every once in a while you'd glance around a little nervously, as though you suspected I was close. As though you could sense me. As though you can pick up drifting thoughts from my mind, and I've got no defence. Something like intuition, or telepathy. Maybe you were a little scared I'd make my appearance and do something to embarrass you. That's not my way. Maybe I do hang around you a little more than I should. But sometimes, when I want something so bad, and it's denied to me, it hurts like physical pain deep in my head. That's what I most fear. For myself. And for you. I wonder if Madame told you about my visit? How did she describe me? I bet you didn't admit anything, I bet you concealed this intimacy we share. Because you are complicit already. Lying awake at night, navigating psychic frequencies, I touch your ambience. Something deep in my consciousness tells me you are near. You fear she will find out about me. You fear your colleagues in the Bistro will find out about me. Don't be afraid. I can wait. I can wait, a little longer. But I'm not a dreamer, I'm a doer, I can't wait forever.