By now, you’ll probably have got an inkling of the kind of boy I fancy and my loins ache at the sight of. Sometimes I can be hard from a standing—well, sitting—start inside about ten paces across the dance floor. But I’m not as promiscuous as you might think. Not that it’s not for want of trying sometimes. Now and then I just can’t help myself. Sometimes it’s because I’ve drunk too much, and I get that pang of regret and feel an idiot afterwards. And no, that’s not usually because I couldn’t perform. I have to be really, really pissed before that happens.
But this story kind of explains why, and it’s about one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever had a chance of fucking, and I let him get away. He was Brazilian, and around twenty. Dark, curly hair, deep brown almond eyes, super high cheekbones and one of those long slim bodies with slightly rounded hips . . .Just hang on a minute while I get a towel. I’ll be back.
What attracted me to him as well at first, was that he’d braided some kind of fluorescent threads into his hair, so they flickered red and blue and green in the dance-floor lights. I wanted to ask him how he did it, but I never found out, because he just put his arms around me, pressed his belly against mine, rubbed his nose against my cheek, bit my ear gently and started kissing me.
And could he kiss. It’s a funny thing, but some boys aren’t very good at it, I’ve noticed. I don’t know why, and lately I’ve been coming across (or not coming across so much) boys who say they won’t. I can’t really make that out. It can’t be because I smoke, because the last boy who said that did as well. And it can’t be fear of catching something nasty because two of them were quite relaxed about giving blowjobs, even anxious for 69, which is a fair bit riskier. I’ll find out why, one day.
I don’t know how long it was before we surfaced to breathe again and realised that we seemed to have collected a bit of a crowd on that part of the dance floor, so we moved into a more shadowy corner. And carried on. He was wearing a belt that wasn’t tightened up, and his jeans were part way down his hips, so I could fondle his bum in his tight white briefs. And I had enough room to stroke his cock through them.
By then we we both had erections of a rigidity you wouldn’t believe. We broke apart eventually, because he’d come with some mates, and he was worried they’d have missed him for the last hour or whatever. But he came back every now and then and we snuggled up to each other for another glorious snog. He had beautiful small firm nipples, too.
But we didn’t end up in bed. I’ve never actually been to Brazil, but I’d known the odd Brazilian—before this boy—and I know they can be pretty relaxed about sex. The trouble is, I also knew that the incidence of Aids and HIV is crazy there. That scares me. And you’re not going to believe me, but I’ve never actually had even a minor dose of an STD, unless you count the crabs I got from sleeping in somebody else’s bed once. And I hadn’t actually slept with anybody in it. Yeah, yeah, I know, I don’t think the doctor believed me either. Either I’ve just been lucky so far, or I pick my boys well, but it’s true. Now I’ve said that, keep your fingers crossed for me; or I’m going to feel that worrying burning sensation when I piss a week or two after the next time.
I raved about him to a girl friend (note the separate words, that means a friend who happens to be a girl) later. She’d been to Brazil, she’s got family there, and the first thing she said accusingly was “You didn’t go to bed with him, did you?” No, I didn’t, I told her. I knew what she was getting at. It was hard, in both senses of the word, but somehow I knew that we weren’t going to want to use a condom, either of us. And if we got the rest of our clothes off we were likely to end up being pretty reckless. And I didn’t want to ask.
As it happens, his mates grabbed him and hustled him off, because it turned out they were catching a flight that morning and by then it was 2 am. He cried a little bit when we said goodbye, though. I think my eyelashes might have been a bit wet, too.
But oh god, how I regret it. Of course, I console myself with the idea that kissing might have been all he was really expert at, but somehow I don’t find myself very convincing. Shit, I think I need that towel again.
I've not been a well boy the last few weeks; and I'm very, very weary now.
I need to concentrate what energy (and time) I'm going to have left—rather less of both than I thought until earlier this year—on doing things that are really important rather than messing about with blogs.
Now don't panic if you think you might have slept with me: that's because it's the way my little physical disability is panning out, not because of AIDs or anything.
But there won't be any new posts because of that. Sorry.
