A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

My head feels like it might spontaneously drown itself, so this entry is written at about half of normal mental capacities. Also, I hate summer colds. Hate them.

In my previous post I promised sex, a blowjob, and homemade pesto. What I did not mentioned was that I had only one of these three things.Jefferson makes fucking awesome pesto.

May is going to demo bottom at the upcoming Floating World for Jefferson’s class entitled “G and P-Spot stimulation.” May and I share almost no intersections in our lists of Things We Will Not Do. Occasionally this fascinates me.

An email floated about. It suggested getting to know one another. The Biblical sense here is accurate.

May and Jefferson had dinner one Sunday a few weeks ago. Thursday evening was to have a more complete agenda. I considered myself tacitly invited.

Jefferson is sweet, enigmatic, and, I suspect, top of his charm school’s class. He is also, as I mentioned previously, a great cook and a very good host. We chatted art, the scene, and sexual degrees of separation. (Apparently May is now six degrees removed from Elvis.)

Eventually, after a bit of wine and sundry, Jefferson proposed the business at hand. Again, very charmingly. “I’ll give the two of you a minute,” he said politely before heading back to toward the bedroom. May and I looked at each other with vague suprise - Why would we need that? I was thinking - and followed him.

(In retrospect this impulse, which Jefferson repeated throughout the evening, makes a lot of sense. Most couples do not communicate non-verbally with our alacrity.)

I like the way Jefferson put his hands on May’s skin. (This is the number one thing I watch when I’m observing scenes, by the way. The intersection of the top’s hands and the bottom’s body.) I like that he was forceful and patient when he had May’s hair gathered up in his fist and the boy was gagging on his cock.

What I will remember most clearly from that night is the image of May’s back curled in a perfect arch as he leaned over and took Jefferson’s cock so deeply that his nose touched skin, while Jefferson leaned to his bedside table, picked up his glass of bourbon and sipped it, one hand on my boy’s head.

Eventually May came up, resting his forehead on the bed and breathing deep. His nose has been stuffed for a week; that couldn’t have helped. He giggled a little into the bedspread. “It’s easier than bottles.”

Jefferson looked mystified, but I started laughing. “I taught him to deep throat on Corona bottles.”

I was a contented observer. Briefly I came to the bed and kissed my boy’s skin and face, a simple check in. I watched the two of them fuck. I smiled at the visuals. Someday I should explore why watching boys fucking makes me smile, because it does. There’s attraction built in there, and visual sensuality is inevitable, but in the end much of that reaction is strangely indulgent happiness. I suspect this is rooted in affection.

The boys ended up in the shower. I ended up back on the couch. I poured a glass of bourbon, dumped a handful of raspberries in the bottom, and curled up to read Lolita until the boys tripped into the living room, naked, still dripping in places. The conversation picked up where it had left off with amusing ease.

Jefferson was momentarily absent when I leaned in to May and kissed his cheek. “Your deep throating has gotten a lot better.”

He touched a spot about halfway down the side of his throat. “I could feel his penis pressing here.”

“How did it feel having sex with a man for the first time?”

He shrugged a bit. “It didn’t feel any different than when you fuck me.” There was a bit of wonder in his voice at this.

As I mentioned in our last episode, Jefferson and I did, eventually, kiss. He also did, eventually, work his finger under the fabric of my boycut panties. I believe I grinned a lot. We did, eventually, cuddle. But then, just when you thought that maybe I was going to have some delicious sexual romp and then write about it for ya’ll to thoroughly enjoy . . .

Jefferson fell asleep. I think the boy and the bourbon wore him out.

It was pushing 2 am, rapidly abandoning everyone’s bedtimes, and the evening came to a perfectly timed close. On the whole it was delightful. In the elevator on the way down to the street I pressed May up against the wall and kissed him. “Is it weird that, well . . .” with another kiss, “Is it weird that that made me love you more?”

He tilted his head in recognition. “No,” he answered. “It did the same to me.”