Episode
12 - The Beauty of Men's Eyes
The music hall pulsed with the sound of the
band. Trace jumped in place with his two friends, while Davis,
the only person in the row not driven to movement by the music,
sat with his feet propped on the seat in front of him.
“Does your date not like the band?”
asked Dawn.
The question embarrassed Trace, and he feared
that was the problem. Davis and he had conversed easily over
the phone several times, and this ease transferred to their
initial meeting earlier that evening. They even conversed easily
during the thirty-minute drive to the concert, but now, Trace
was feeling the date was not going well.
“He’s fine; look he’s into
it,” directed Karen with a pointed finger.
Trace followed Karen’s pointed finger
to Davis’ upraised knees, where he saw Davis’ hands
resting between his legs and reappearing, rapping to music,
just beneath his crotch. His posture was subdued but his rapping
hands indicated an excitement. Trace found himself appreciating
this boyish disregard for setting. In fact, he found it charming,
and realized, for the second time that evening, he was attracted
to Davis. His first confirmation came upon their first meeting.
Hearing Davis pull into the driveway, Trace
stood before his apartment door and readied himself. There was
an imbalance in their meeting because Trace had already seen
a picture of Davis, and his following it up with a request for
a date confirmed his interest, but this would be Davis’s
first time seeing Trace, and Trace worried about rejection.
He wondered how he would know if Davis found him attractive
or not and decided to be vigilant for the slightest sign of
attraction on Davis’ part. This formed his most pressing
concern, but there was another. Photos, rather like Heraclitus’
river, are nothing but a moment in time. Trace was attracted
to Davis’ photo, but he wondered if the attraction would
translate in person—as he resolutely pulled the door open
at the first sound of a knock. Trace felt his attraction rise
before him. Davis was a rough approximation of his picture,
but in person, his features were more striking than a common
camera could capture. His tightly trimmed goatee framed his
pouty lips, and his closely cropped russet hair topped his crystalline
eyes, which were of a deeper blue than he had ever seen before.
Something of Elan left him as he realized the beauty of men’s
eyes extends to more than one man.
Trace turned and jumped with the rest of the
auditorium the moment he felt himself becoming the object of
Davis’ attention, but eventually, he found himself in
this position, as they said goodnight. Trace shifted nervously
beneath Davis’ gaze, as he realized he was wholly undecided
if Davis was attracted to him or not. Either way, Trace decided
he was too turned on to let the night end with a simple thank
you and goodnight. Unsure of how to proceed, he approached Davis
and offered a perfunctory handshake.
Wrapping his fingers around Davis’ more
firmly than a handshake requires, Trace pulled him toward his
own forward moving body. The space between them breached neither
man balked at a kiss as they pressed their parted lips together.
Trace found the answer he sought in the kiss
blossoming between his lips. Such reciprocity unnerved him,
and he feared the space of the after-kiss, but the increasingly
passionate play of tongues suggested that would not be coming
anytime soon.
Creating a moment to collect himself, Trace
removed himself from the progressive fluttering of tongues by
stepping beside and behind Davis. His hands surveyed the equatorial
belt line between torso and hip as he moved along.
Davis asked, “What are you doing back
there?”
“Taking a breather; that’s all.”
Intuitively, Trace assured Davis of his desire by leaning into
him and found the contrast of Davis’ soft round ass and
flat hard back overburdening. A burning passion grew within
him, and for the first time, his desire threatened its own resolution,
and he smothered it by returning his lips to Davis’.
With his lips sealed over Davis’, Trace
stepped backward and sucked Davis toward him. Davis followed.
Their mouths remained sealed as they moved through the hall
and into the bedroom. Trace stopped only when he felt the backs
of his legs pressing against the bed.
Davis spun around, fell onto the bed, and pulled
Trace on top of him. Their hard bulges collided, and they ground
them together, prompting expression and immediately filling
the room with the sounds of pleasure, which only urged them
to prolong their forward thrusts. The sound of desire reverberated
through the air and threatened to permeate the walls, which
were already sounding with the shaking headboard. Trace figured
a soundtrack other than desire would better greet his parents’
ears.
“How about some music?” suggested
Trace as he peeled himself from Davis.
“Sure, whatever you want to hear is fine
with me,” replied Davis.
Trace redirected his cramped cockstand and
made his way to the collection of compact discs on the kitchen
shelf. His hands shook with an excitement that exceeded nervousness
as he fingered the discs. Despite having imagined a sexual scenario
thousands of times, he was not prepared to select its score.
Everything his finger paused over felt too forced—too
dated—too obvious. He could not decide on a genre. He
figured vocals would inevitably contrast the action or add too
much narrative to them. He did not want too much or too little
being read into his choice, so he decided on classical, which
in this collection meant Baroque. He selected a Bach harpsichord
suite, slipped it into the player, and walked back to his bedroom,
where he found Davis laying naked, except for white socks and
dark blue boxers.
Trace paused a moment to absorb the sight.
His cock rose before him as he stepped toward the bed and lowered
himself to Davis, whose arms and lips enveloped him. The bodies
melded at their hips and lips, and this only urged them toward
a more primal union.
Breaking the building sexual rhythms, Davis
pulled his head back and asked: “What music is this?”
Trace listened a moment as the before now unheard
music filled his ears. He immediately recognized it was not
Bach. The plucked strings and harpsichord indicated it was instrumental,
but something was not right. He frowned as he realized it was
holiday music. He must have selected the wrong disc and immediately
rose to change it.
Davis grasped Trace’s arms and pulled
him back onto him: “Don’t. I like it.”
Trace yielded to Davis’ pull, and once
their lips met, it was as if they had not parted. Kissing among
the notes that filled the air, the choreography of tongues exceeded
the pieces arrangement.
Trace’s orientation lapsed, and he slipped
from the kiss, as if it was not happening to him, as if his
body was not involved. He recalibrated his consciousness to
the reality his tongue was in Davis’ mouth and the fact
his body was grinding against Davis’ nearly naked body,
but the taste of lips and the feel of tongue on his own eluded
him, as did the burning itch in his cock from the moment before.
He was there, but if he lessened the intensity of this forced
consciousness even a bit, he knew he would fall out of the experience
completely, and fearing he would become completely untethered,
he reoccupied his head by reclaiming his tongue and probing
Davis’ throat deeply, as if something just lost could
be found there.
Davis pulled Trace’s shirt from his pants
and over his back. Trace pulled his torso up, which allowed
Davis to pull the shirt over his head. Standing Trace loosened
his pants; they slid from his body and pooled at his feet. Stepping
out of them, he stood in his boxers and socks and slid his finger
into his sock, but Davis stopped him before he could pull it
from his body: “Crawl on me, just like that.”
Trace felt himself slipping from his body again,
as he watched a man in white socks and plaid boxers mount Davis’
body. Davis wrapped his arms and legs around the man’s
chest and legs and seemed to hang there except for the man’s
thrust, which pushed him directly into the bed. Davis ground
his crotch into the man’s thrusting hips, and Trace felt
himself again, as his cock surged with blood. Both men began
painting as they paced their rhythm to allow for the longest
grind and repeatedly brought their hips together in this pulverizing
dance. Davis hung from Trace, who felt the lock of Davis’s
feet wrapped around his lower back and his rock hard cock blunting
his own hard shaft. The pace continued until their panting matched
their pulsing rhythm, and each man entered the orbit of orgasm.
Releasing their holds, they pulled their boxers off, and moved
toward the revelation of cocks. Curling into a sixty-nine position,
they slid parted lips over mushrooming heads and pulled on rigid
shafts, until a hush filled the air, as they approached the
unavoidable outcome. Exhaling until breathless, each man sucked
cock until a pulsating ripple coursed their urethras, causing
a pissing sensation, and they filled each other’s mouths
with cum.
Davis’ cock deflated as he melted into
the bed, and Trace slid his still serviceably hard cock from
Davis’ mouth and dropped a last pearl of cum onto his
lips.
Disentangling their limbs, they lay side-by-side
breathing deeply. Davis was the first to speak, as he propped
himself on his elbows: “Can we do that again sometime?”
Trace pressed his lips to Davis’. The
two locked cum drenched lips in what would become a twenty-minute
kiss, as Trace mumbled, “Definitely.”
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