Dennis opened the door, flipped
on the light, and stepped aside, while gesturing with his
arm for Trace to enter. Trace walked into the apartment and
wondered if it would be okay to end the date by heading directly
to the bedroom. Deciding this would not go over well, he redirected
his energy toward the living room, which looked like a collection
of all things beige. The walls, the rug, the furniture were
all beige, and even the dried palm reeds were spray-painted
and stuck in a beige colored vase. Thankfully, the couch was
hued with a deeper gray tone. If not for this difference,
Trace thought he could easily mistake the floor for the couch
and end up on his back like a turtle upturned in a field of
sand. Trace positioned himself on the couch and tried to calibrate
his erect expectations to nothing more than dry humping, for
that was what he had come to expect from a date with Dennis.
Dennis, who was at-home in the
land of ecru, plopped down beside him and moved in for a kiss.
Trace was startled at the suddenness
of the approaching pink lips but was glad to see a color other
than beige, so he eagerly returned the kiss, but it did not
become red hot, for just as Trace leaned backward to encourage
Dennis to crawl on top of him, Dennis broke the kiss.
Trace became immediately frustrated,
and he could sense something like the pants rule coming, and
he braced himself for the new edict.
“I want us to be exclusive,”
stated Dennis.
Trace could see where this was
going, but he thought this tenet was decidedly more restrictive
than the pants-on rule. He wanted more sex, not more commitment,
and he realized he certainly did not want more of the latter
without much more of the former.
“I don’t want an
answer now,” said Dennis, as Trace sat unaware he had
even been asked a question. “Think it over.”
Uncertain of how he would, or
should, handle this question, Trace became increasingly aware
of the pressing question in his pants and offered a nodding
negotiation. This was the second time he found himself negotiating
the space between Dennis and his cock, but finding this second
time easier to manage, he hardly took note of it.
Dennis smiled and ran his finger
along Trace’s thigh: “You haven’t found
my spot yet.”
Trace did not know where this
was going, but motivated by the gliding finger, he decided
to play along: “Spot?”
“You know the place that
drives you wild when it’s touched—or whatever,”
Dennis grinned.
Trace became intrigued at the
invitation but wondered if the pants rule would allow him
to find it.
“It’s not where
you’re thinking; my pants don’t need to be off.”
Unnerved, Trace felt Dennis was reading his mind.
Dennis kicked off his shoes
and pulled his shirt over his head and sat before Trace grinning
like a little boy with a secret, and Trace dove into him to
discover it.
Dennis fell back on the couch,
and Trace moved awkwardly over his body searching for he knew
not what. He started at the neck. Not yet aware of advanced
techniques in this area, he licked and sucked there, but Dennis
did not respond, so he moved to an ear, licking and nibbling
there. Dennis moaned seeming to enjoy it, but his moaning
quickly morphed into words: “Feels good, but that’s
not it.”
Trace pulled his lips from Dennis’
ear and kissed him, creating a delaying tactic. He attempted
to suck Dennis’s always-recalcitrant tongue into his
mouth and tried to think of where he should explore next.
He figured he could search with his hands while he thought,
and he slowly began to finger Dennis’ stomach.
Trace did not expect to find
much this way, but he thought he could survey the surface
of Dennis’ skin and test the sensitive areas later with
an application of lips. Reaching Dennis’ belly button,
he stuck his finger into it, but Dennis did not respond. Tracing
the rise of stomach above the navel, Trace brought his fingers
to Dennis’ breastplate and let them linger there. He
was uncertain of where to explore next, and then it hit him—armpits.
The underarm held no specific focalization of desire for Trace,
but he had gotten into the game, and he wanted to find the
spot, for he had formed a vague hope that if he found it and
played it well, he might be able to remove Dennis from his
pants. It must be his underarm, thought Trace, and he moved
in this direction, but as his hand slid across Dennis’
chest, his fingers grazed a nipple, and Dennis squirmed. The
slightest touch of his fingertip brought a spasm to Dennis’
entire body. Trace had found the spot.
Trace pulled back and looked
at Dennis, who lay beneath him wide eyed and wearing a wantonly
submissive expression. Trace sighted his nipples and realized
he had never really noticed them before. They were erect.
They were the size of pencil erasers. They were not grotesquely
sized; they were just that large. Trace found them most curious,
and he bought himself time to consider them by taking one
of the erect erasers between his fingers. He had never spent
much time pondering nipples before. His mind always gravitated
toward the other work of lips: lips locked with lips, lips
applied to skin, lips wrapped around hard cock, but he was
seeing there were things for lips to do here, and he lowered
them to the eraser he had pulled and pinched to a full degree
of erectness.
Dennis’ response was immediate
and not subtle. He moaned loudly and polysyllabically. He
writhed and gripped Trace’s hair between clenched fingers.
Trace was so distracted by the response, he hardly thought
about technique, of which he knew he had little in this area,
but it did not seem to matter. Whether he licked, sucked,
or bit, Dennis remained at a fever pitch of excitement, and
he seemed ready to fall out of his pants, but before that
could happen, he used his grip of Trace’s hair to pull
him from his chest: “That’s the spot, but it can
only lead to trouble.
“I’m ready for trouble,”
thought Trace.
Dennis eased Trace back and
slid his shirt over his chest, revealing his nipples: “Now
you.”
Trace lay back looking at the
ceiling, as Dennis sucked one nipple and pinched the other.
He felt Dennis’ tongue on one and his fingers on the
other, but he felt nothing more than moisture and the pressure
of pinching. There was nothing sexual in the feeling, but
Trace detected a subtle sensation—the opposite of an
itch, something akin to the boredom of skin. He lay there
looking at the ceiling and realized it too was painted beige.
Trace knew the date was over, and he would have to leave to
get off.
Given the sexual limits between
them, Trace found it easy to make a quick departure. He simply
said he was getting too excited.
Dennis walked Trace to the door.
He remained shirtless, and his nipples were still hard. He
held the doorknob with one hand and Trace’s shoulder
with the other: “Think about what I said earlier. I’m
being tested next week, so I’ll be ready. If you are
too, then we can take this a bit further.” Dennis stared
at Trace, who simply nodded to acknowledge the implicit request
had been received.
Driving home, Trace could not
extract humor from the irony. He was rushing home from a date
to have sex with himself. The very thing he wanted from Dennis
was sex, but he was falling deeper into commitment, and now
he had to have an AIDS test. Suddenly feeling like someone
was in the backseat, Trace darted his eyes to the rearview
mirror, but no one was there. Returning his eyes to the road,
he accelerated before his aching balls turned blue.
To be continued. . .
