John Opens the Bottle

He then begged me to reciprocate. I was shocked getting fucked was something any guy wanted, rather than something he was willing to endure as part of a devil's bargain.

He had me take him from the front. He was on his back on a bean bag, his legs high and wide as he guided me toward him. I was suprised by how easily I entered him. He closed his eyes, turned his head to the side, and allowed me to fuck him as I wanted. I lasted longer than I expected, probably a byproduct of being blown so recently. As he urged me on, I started to sweat and then I came so hard I was certain I had ruptured the condom. I had not. It, too, went into the ziplock bag and then with us when we left.

Nothing I had done before compared to what I had just done. I had loved fucking and being fucked by Lute, and I definitely wanted to do it again.

Part Three

We met in The Hole the next night at 10. We did not pretend our meeting was for any purpose other than the obvious one. We started stripping as soon as we locked the door behind us. We kissed briefly before he bent me over and took me from behind again.

When he was finished, he told me to fuck him against the door, then turned his back to me. I rolled on a condom, grabbed his hips, and pressed into him. I kissed the soft skin in the middle of his back. He smelled different than any man I had ever smelled.

I ran my hands over his lats and his shoulders as I slowly moved in and out of him. I reached around him, he took my hands in his, and he held them to his chest as he moved against me. By the time I came, he was flat against the door, which was banging rhythmically against the jam with us. Thump, thump, thump.

When I was finished, we settled into the bean bags, he lit a joint and we, for the first time ever, talked. "I thought you were a pussy hound," I offered.

"I thought you had a girlfriend."

"I do have a girlfriend."

"And I am a pussy hound."

"Then what is this?"

"What can I say? I like both sides of the teeter totter."

"I am not sure that I do," I answered, less convincingly than I had hoped.

"You seem to, especially when you're buried inside of me. Or, when I'm buried inside of you and you're begging me for more than I've got to give."

I blushed bright red. I had hoped he had not heard me whisper "deeper" as he fucked me.

Lute reached over and took my hand in his. "I'm just busting you," he said, raising my hand to his mouth and licking the back of it.

He offered me some of his joint. I declined. "Pot makes me horny."

"Then have some."

"I do not need it," I answered, more honest than I had intended to be.

"Show me."

I moved between his legs and started running my hands over his hard, muscled chest and stomach. His skin was softer than any skin I had ever touched.

He grew as I moved my hands to his thighs. I tongued his balls and where his legs met his crotch. I did not like the bristly hair against my face. But, I liked his penis, a lot. It was smooth, not veiny, and thick with a dark, almost purple, head.

I took him in my mouth and started to stroke him. I felt him climb to his feet as I did. He grabbed the hair on the top of my head and started sliding himself in and out of my mouth. "Take that dick," I heard him say. "Suck my big black dick."

I was surprised that his manner and his words turned me on. But, they did. I liked that he was in charge and demanding. I liked being forced.

I had him in an oral vice. I squeezed his balls as he continued throttling my face. I felt his orgasm start in my hand and move past my lips and into my throat, hot and thick. "Fuck" was all I heard as he buckled, his dick popping out of my mouth. I swallowed and sat back on my haunches, sweaty and tired. I laughed quietly to myself.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, ending his question with a preposition.

"I thought your cum might taste different."

"Different how?"

"I do not know. Chocolatey, maybe."

"You're a damn fool, John. Does a white boy's cum taste like vanilla?"

"No. And I know better. I just thought maybe. Actually, I hoped maybe. I am not a fan of that taste."

"Become one. You have to swallow mine every time. It's rude not to. If I'm going to let you suck my dick, you have to do it right."

"You're letting me?"

"You bet your white ass I am," he said. "And, now, I'm going to let you fuck me."

He pushed me backward into a bean bag and started to lower himself onto me.

"Hold on," I said. "I am not wearing a condom."

"I don't care," he said. "I need this . . . right now," he said, as he filled his hand with spit with which he then coated me.

His chest was in my face as he rode me. Every so often, he would stand, pulling off of me and putting his dick in my mouth. As I got him close with my mouth, he would pull out, and lower himself back onto me. We went back and forth like that until I could not last any longer and I came. I bit his chest. He pulled my head into his chest as hard as he could. I kept biting as he did. He came shortly after I did, right into the middle of my chest.

We went on like that the rest of the semester. During the day, Vi and I strolled hand in hand through Cross Campus and Old Campus, Yale's "Dynamic Duo," the picture of perfection. Vi was a beautiful, smart woman, independent and strong. I was a handsome, smart man, privileged and headed toward more privilege.

During the night, I stole away to meet Lute whenever I could. Some nights, I went from Vi's bed to The Hole, hoping to find Lute waiting for me. Other nights, Lute and I plotted to meet at 2 a.m., when the campus was asleep.

Lute and I were not lovers. We were not even friends. We barely talked. We closed the door behind us, locked it, and go to work. We were just fulfilling a need. Lute happily did things to my body that I needed and wanted that Vi would not. Some of them - a hand on my chest or side, a tongue on my nipple - were simple. Others - swallowing my penis and my cum, licking my anus, sucking my toes - were not.

I did the same for him, sating needs and wants he had that his women would not even attempt to satisfy. He loved having his balls licked and sucked. He liked ass play, including a buried finger when he was about to come in my mouth. He liked having his armpits licked.

Like me, Lute insisted what we were doing had no transcendent meaning. We were just two boys, getting off.

"Look, Jo, I've been with a few guys. But, I've been with way more girls. I like girls and will absolutely will wind up with a girl. I'm just playing with guys. And, playing with a guy doesn't mean you're gay or you won't end up with a girl."

His conviction and his words resonated with me. For me, there was a chasm between what I was doing with him and who I was. Vi - or someone like Vi - was my future. Lute was an exciting interlude, but I was convinced he was nothing more than that.

*****

Basketball made my last semester more challenging. Lute was gone a lot. I fretted about what and who he was doing when he was gone.

I was schocked when Lute told me he wanted to watch me fuck Vi. We had just fucked, meeting late in The Hole after the team's bus returned from Ithaca.

"Why?"

"I'm a voyeur. I like porn, especially real life porn."

I do not know why, but I agreed to set it up. Lute was in my closet, and I was cognizant of his requests: go down on her, make her come, fuck her missionary style, no covers, pull out, straddle her, come on her tits.

It was easier to pull off than I expected. And, knowing Lute was in my closet watching turned me completely on. To date, it was the best sex Vi and I had ever had. Once I made her come with my mouth, she gave completely in. She did not even act offended when I unloaded all over her tits.

"That was hot," Lute told me later, in The Hole. "But, white folks and black folks don't fuck alike at all."

"How so?" I asked.

"Well, you fucked her like you didn't want nobody to know you were fucking. When I fuck a girl, I fuck her like I want everyone to know she's getting fucked, and like I want her to remember what it was like to get fucked by me."

He offered to show me, and I took him up on a it. A few nights later, I was in his closet while he fucked a white girl into oblivion. He dominated her, pinning her down, and pushing her around. By the time he entered her, she was begging him for it.

"Beg me to fuck you," he demanded.

"Please fuck me, I'm begging you," she answered.

As he fucked her, the bed rocked. Lute was verbal, demanding that she tell him how much she loved it, how big he was, and how much pleasure his big black cock was bringing her. It was thrilling, but also troubling. It bordered on misogyny, but she did not seem to notice. She had her legs as wide as she could get them and was breathless when Lute announced he was going to come, pulled out, and unloaded all over her face.

"Tell me you love my cum," he demanded.

"I love your cum," she admitted, compliantly.

"Wipe it off your face and eat it."

She did. She winced with the first swallow, but he insisted she "eat it all."

Later in The Hole, I confessed to Lute that I had been both thrilled and troubled by what I had seen. "Look," he said. "I'm a black man. White folks have been pushing me around and telling me what to do my whole life. Even on the basketball court. I have never been coached by a black man. In the bedroom, I get to push white folks around and tell them what to do. I'm in charge. I make the rules. It's a tsicar act for me."

"Tsicar?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's 'racist' backward. It's reverse racist. It's the revenge of the black man. That's why I only fuck white girls and white boys. Like you."

I did not know whether to admire or despise him. I chose neither. I just kept fucking him.

*****

The night before graduation, Lute and I stayed in The Hole. Long after we should have been spent, we kept bouncing back for "one more time." We knew we were sharing our last time together. I was leaving New Haven the next day for Chicago with Vi. Lute was staying behind to keep playing basketball, to keep debating, and to keep studying. Our run had been erotic and great and lustful, but it was ephemeral. It could not and would not last. It was a vapor.

The morning of graduation, Lute kneeled before me and gave me my graduation gift. When he was finished, I returned the favor with my good-bye gift.

As I dressed for the ceremony, I did not recognized myself. There was a chasm between the person I thought I was and the person I actually was. I could not see what Vi saw or what my parents saw. I could barely stand what I saw.

After the ceremony was over, I headed to Chicago with Vi. I vowed to leave Lute and Cole and all that nonsense in my rearview mirror, the interlude over, my curiousity quelled. I vowed that I had fucked and sucked my last guy.

Part Four

For the first two years Vi and I were in Chicago, I upheld my vow. My will was strong, and I was a very disciplined man.

Vi and I remained the "Dynamic Duo." My classmates envied us.

There was also a stunning superficiality to us. There was no there there. We were far and wide, but not deep. I knew it, but I needed Vi to buttress me, to reinforce my will.

As I wrote earlier, my will crumbled when I saw Mace in Bryan Cave's library. I raised my eyebrows and my hand to him as I passed by. He smiled back, his cheeks matching the dimples on his chin. I knew then and there I was lost. I did not know and so could not explain how or why, but I was more overwhelmed by him than I had been by anyone, including Thatcher.

I went out of my way to solicit him. I visited his office. I invited him out.

He was either aloof or diffident, I was not sure which. He was difficult to pry open. I had to force his thoughts out of him, and when I did, they came out in drabs and dribs. But for being overwhelmed by him, I would have abandoned him, the effort to extract him too much.

I also wondered about him. He regularly drifted away. He would be engaged and engaging and then wander away mentally, present but not there.

I christened him "the Carrot." I invited him for a Friday night out.

We changed at my apartment. Mace was living with his parents in St. Charles, which was one of the dreariest things I could imagine. One, it was a 45 minute commute each way through heavy traffic. Two, St. Charles is generally low end. Three, Mace had grown up poor, and I imagined his parents were still living that way.

Mace surprised me when he played Yaz's "Mr. Blue." It seemed fateful that we shared that song.

I encouraged Mace sleep over. He really had no choice. He was in no shape to drive to St. Charles.

He was nearly asleep on the couch when I nudged him toward my bed. "This will not do," I said. "It will be too bright come morning. Stay with me. There is plenty of room."

He followed me to my room. He did not know it, but we were on our way.

The next morning, I asked him to tell me about himself. I was saddened and stunned when he told me about the death of his younger sister, only a year before in a car accident. When he finished, he was crying. I pulled him into me.

"I am sorry for bringing her up," I said. "But, I am glad to know. It explains a lot."

He raised his eyebrows, silently asking "what?"

"There is something going on behind your eyes most of the time. Even when you are enjoying yourself, there is something holding you back, lurking. And, you get lost a lot."

"Lost?"

"Yes. It is like you drift away. You are there, but you are not."

*****

Mace moved in. To my dismay, he moved a bed with his clothes. We had been sharing my bed, which I assumed would continue. His bed was a setback I had not anticipated.

We talked room to room. It was doable, but I used the awkwardness to resolve the setback. I suggested he should just stay with me, like he had. He agreed. It had not taken much to obtain his agreement. I had not had to cajole him.

I did not tell him, but I was naked that first night he rejoined me. I usually slept naked. I had not with him previously. I would going forward.

The next night, I insisted he get naked, too. It was a salient moment. If he resisted, my objective may be delayed or even denied.

He did not resist. We remained on our way.

I raised the topic of same-sex sex. Unlike Thatch, Mace did not divert me. He jumped right in, agreeing with my theory that a man would likely be better at pleasuring another man than a woman was. We were headed toward each other.

The pillow was removed.

The sheet fell.

Our dicks touched. We came on each other. Mace's dick was incredible, long and thick and perfectly shaped. It dwarfed mine. And any that I had ever seen.

Vi visited. I thought of Mace as I fucked her. I could not wait to fuck him.

I also could not wait for Vi to leave. I needed and wanted to be in bed with Mace. I needed and wanted to place my lips to his. I needed and wanted to trace his collar bone, his chest, his hip bone. I needed and wanted to feel him, to please him, to touch him, to love him.

I took him in my hand. He took me in his.

I lied about never having been with a man. Mace believed my lie. I felt deceitful, but I also felt that he would retreat if he knew I had been plotting all along.

Our mouths touched.

I desperately wanted my mouth on Mace's dick. I resisted. I was driving the car, but I needed Mace to think he was. I had to wait for him.

As I hoped, he jumped first. His mouth on my dick was the purest pleasure I had ever felt. My lust was gone, replaced by an abiding, deep love that eclipsed completely anything I had ever felt for Thatch. I knew I was in love with Mace. I soared at the sight of him.

Lightning had struck. We had caught it in a bottle. We put the cap on tight. We would never let it out.

Part Five

Mace was so resolute and strong. He wanted us, clearly and without reservation.

I felt feckless next to him. I wanted us, too, but not fully. I wanted us as a side dish, not as an entree.

In my mind, I would marry, Mace would marry, our children would play together, our wives would befriend each other, and they would talk about whatever women talk about while Mace and I sucked and fucked and lived and loved behind their backs. Mace was too smart to think my fucked up version of the fairy tale could ever come true.

When I was with Mace, I was fully alive. I had started wanting to own him. But, he owned me, body and soul.

We were just getting into the swing of us when it was time for Mace to head to New York to see Ellie. I was not sure how sure he was about where we were, and I fretted that a weekend of Ellie would remind Mace of what he had been. I pounced.

"Do not go to New York this weekend, Carrot. Stay here with me."

He refused. But, he slid down my stomach and took the tip of me in his mouth. I flinched at his touch. But, I regained my confidence that a weekend with Ellie would not be the end of John and Mace.

The next morning, I asked Mace when he first wondered about me.

"Truthfully?"

"Of course."

"Driving to Blueberry Hill. You sang along to Vogue. Straight men don't sing along to Vogue."

"I am straight, Carrot," I said. "This is not a thing, it is just you." I wanted Mace to feel special. And, I wanted Mace to be comfortable in what we were doing.

Mace asked me the same question.

"You kept me guessing. I thought maybe right off the bat. But, then there was Ellie, your instinct to sleep on the couch, and your instinct to return to your bed. When you slipped your briefs off with only a little prompting, I thought 'uh oh, here we go.'"

"Was that the plan?" he asked, putting me on the spot. I let a hint of honesty leak out.

"I am not sure it was a plan. But, I am not sure it was not a plan. I was certainly interested in seeing what would happen, how far it would go before one of us balked."

"Neither of us has balked yet," he answered. "And, the next step is a big one."

I was titillated. We were going to fuck, and it was Mace's idea.

I was distracted and hard all day. I could think of nothing other than burying myself inside Mace. In my life, I had never felt the intimacy, the raw vulnerability, that I felt when I first entered Lute. And, I had not loved Lute.

That night, we got right to it. It took work, but I eventually filled him, my pubic hair against his cheeks, my chest against his back, my feet against his feet, my cheek against his cheek, and my hands locked in his hands.

I was overwhelmed. If I had allowed myself, I would have wept.

"I love you so much, Carrot," I said.

"I love you too, Josie."

"How much?"

"Tons."

I started sliding in and out of him. I had to.

I came inside of him. I was overwhelmed yet again.

"I love you so much," I confessed. I did. Unlike I had ever loved another.

I fucked him twice more that night, including once on his back. Neither of us could break eye contact. I felt like I could see what he was feeling and thinking. I could have stayed there, in that moment, forever, open and vulnerable.

That night, Mace raised for the first time the possibility of a future together, just the two of us. I knew that could never happen. Even if I wanted it, and I was sure I did not. I would not be gay.

When Mace headed to New York, I headed to Chicago. I used Vi and the weekend to prove to myself that I was not gay. I did to her everything I wanted to do and everything she wanted me to do. By Sunday morning, I could not get hard. I was sexed out. I buried my face between her legs and took her over the edge again and again. If I could enjoy doing that, and I did, I could not be gay.

Still, Mace was never far from my mind. And, I got increasingly happy as I drove south on 55 toward St. Louis. Each passing mile marker took me closer to Mace and widened my smile.