Fiction In the Flesh

Had I tickled the fancies of the Fates with my clever prose? Thread of my life unwound in an incredible direction after I began writing stroke.

Searching for steamy fiction, I found a treasure trove – the mother lode of gay, male stories. Yet errant commas, peculiar punctuation, alien grammar averted my pleasure.

Figured I could write better and hit the keyboard. Created erotica, edited, and submitted.

Posted! Stayed at the keyboard, and the list of my story titles tacked over my computer lengthened. Going good, right? Well, sorta.

Got some goofball emails from stoners, lonely drunks, and horny daddies who sent incomplete questions and suggested scenes almost beyond belief.

After over five decades on earth, was I still so naive? I hadn’t considered writing the authors of my favorite fantasies asking for an illustrated copy of their work. I had no photos of anything other than adolescent underwear ads, middle-school wrestlers. Kept myself in the textual arena and in the fiction department – getting chancier online with anything more.

***

Writing is a solitary task? Not for me. My characters are noisy, sometimes drunk, angry. Some quite timid, docile. Some still live in my head. I became aware that they lived in readers’ heads as well. One fictional yet memorable twink came off the screen and into my life.

Emailed was entitled “Hard and Hot.” It included an impassioned message from a reader named only D.

He commented on a story I posted about a young man’s sexual indoctrination. The characters he wrote of were memorable; one of my best works.

A few emails were exchanged; I sent my usual brief replies.

D kept writing me, obviously reading through all my works. Then, he began writing his fantasies about me.

Fantasies about me? He confused the author with the characters. I sent an explanation of the term ‘fiction.’ Described myself negatively: “I’m a dud. A skinny, old geezer, cranky, seldom shower or shave. My shoes don’t match and I bitch all the time.” That would turn D’s faucet off.

How could that description elicit the opposite result? D wanted to meet me.

Alarm bells went off. Entrapment. He used a lot of youthful jargon – could be part of a self-appointed vigilante group. A man with my thoughts, posting his fantasies online, I could be a target.

“What say I write a story and use your name?” I thought that might avert the tide of his emails.

“You already did. I love it, read it every morning when I jerk off. How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“You described me perfectly.”

“Sir, I write characters I’d like to enjoy. All fiction; all fantasy. Thanks for the compliments, glad you enjoy my writing.”

Cut the conversation off, this was too easy. I was not being complimented but baited. D was either trolling or trouble.

***

Write what you know: my locations are about the beach; I live near a seaside tourist town. Unnerving when D said he’d be at a nearby beach with his brother for Independence Day. “Meet up?”

Way too risky, and the way I’d written the character in his favorite story, he was luscious. Was this kid as hot? Was this kid a virgin? What did he want from me? “How old are you?”

D sent a photo of his school ID, private university. His thumb was half over his information – couldn’t tell.

My imagination wouldn’t let it go. This was a turn of events, yet a horny man has been known to play long odds. Horny old men play impossible odds when the opportunity is pounding on the door.

“Meet you at the bandstand on the forth, in the morning. I’ll even shave.”

Figured I could dodge, get lost in the crowd if I had to.

Blood boiled, balls were heavy when he replied: “I’ll bring the lube.”

***

Morning of the fourth, I left early. Strolled to the pavilion with a coffee. Wallet, sunglasses, phone charged with the name and number of an attorney I’d heard was good with criminal cases.

Boardwalk was already crowded. Cafes full, families loaded with beach gear; scent of sunblock wafted. Sat by the gazebo as the city workers hustled setting up speakers.

Around nine, I started scanning the sidewalks for a slender, auburn-haired boy. Stomach didn’t take the stress well; felt like a first date with someone way out of my league. Behind that thought, a dark jail cell loomed.

***

Scanned the crowd, waited. Maybe he backed out. Headed back to my truck.

In the distance, a boy in brown shorts and a white tee shirt. My nom de plume appeared in large black letters handwritten on the back of a flyer announcing the fireworks display. He held it under his chin. Heart stopped. Underneath was a line of text too small to read.

Trying to act nonchalant, I stepped closer to the foot traffic as he approached. Before I could think, it jumped out, “Hey, I know that author.” Grinned when the most beautiful hazel eyes looked into mine and smiled back.

“I’m your theme today,” Under the larger letters, “write me.” A burst of sweat oozed; dick twitched, boned.

“Rus?” He canted his head to the side, scanning my body with a smile.

“...nothing round about him. Body was flat, ribbon-like with square shoulders, narrow, straight. Colors were white and reddish-brown.” 

"What's going on?" Dang, he did look like the character I described.

He was careful, glanced around for any accompaniment I might have.

“Auburn haired, pale skin covered in dots; face, neck, ears covered in freckles. Made his hazel eyes appear greener and his red lips brighter. Had a configuration of freckles resembling the Southern Cross on his chin. Attractive boy, by his combination of colors, certainly unique.”

Incredible coincidence.  It felt like I knew him in a past life. The rush of writing that story, the scenes, the hesitance, the expectancy and the lust all welled inside me. My stories leave moods, they swirled like currents through my guts.

In the flesh, my character Donnie.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“There’s a restaurant at the hotel.” He showed a key card. Found he was staying in a hotel on the beach with his brother for the weekend, parents were in the casinos. “I got the room all day. My brother’s at a party in Bethany Beach.”

Not that I didn’t want to be seen with him, and if anyone in the crowd knew me, they’d get nosy. I pulled him near the smell of hot dogs, onions, chili.

“Lots of good writers.... Why did you choose me?”

He turned to me, smiled as his eyes scanned me closely, “Seemed like you would-- you’d appreciate....” He sputtered, blushed, adjusted his briefs.

“Figured me for an easy mark, didja?” Ego barely slighted; cock twitched.

He grinned, glanced from the corner of his eyes, “Not easy.” He began, leaned close, “Easier. You don’t have to.”

We walked through the crowds. Pubes got stuck to my briefs with pre as my good sense vanished. “Would you…” I started, “Would you be afraid to go to my place?”

“Where?” He was looking at the hot dogs sputtering on the grill.

“About half a mile away.” Pointed to the north.

“Live alone?” He ordered two hot dogs with kraut and loaded them with mustard.

“Entirely.” I paid and we walked toward my truck.

Pulled under the carport, smiled at him, “Nervous?”

He blushed, “Excited.”

Damn, that response put the pressure on me – dick, don’t fail me.

***

Inside, he looked around while I got sodas, went to the back deck. He came out eventually, “Is my place what you expected?”

I thought you might have a hammock somewhere.” He winked.

He remembered that sensual hammock scene, my finest smear of smut.

The boy made small talk about school, he was bright; going to major in Communications. Stopped himself abruptly, “C’mon, I’ll interview you.” He led me into the house, sat me on the couch, slid right beside me and took my hand. Turning to me, “When did you know you were queer?”

“Always felt a little different, thought everyone did…” Had to think, “When the other boys started talking about sex and girls and screwing them, that was my first signal. They started dating. I couldn’t. I wanted another boy, well, preferably a man.”

“You like older men too?” He was delighted.

“Teachers, coaches, and I hate to say it, but my dad. He was incredibly masculine; deep voice, full lips, huge biceps….”

“Did you--?”

“Dad chased skirts, got in a lot of trouble with the women. No place for me in that mess. And the queer part of me figured I was an aberration – unnatural, I was ashamed. Didn't know there were other boys like me.”

“So tell me about your first time.” Designer shorts strained behind his zipper. Smiling eyes under the sandy colored eyelashes, forehead dotted with freckles.

Put my arm around D’s shoulder, leaned to him, “A friend of my parents came by the house, offered me and my brothers cash for clearing his back lot. My brothers bailed, I went. We were in the shed, getting the tools. I leaned over for something, felt his hand on my butt, between my legs.” My dick was reliving that excitement, glanced down, rearranged myself.

“Then what?” D’s hand came to my groin, slipped under mine.

“Well, he unzipped and I was awed. His smell, dripping rod, big balls. Huge package, dark hair all over his body. Told me to kiss his cock. Probably wasn’t any good at blowing him, but he shot a huge load before I was ready. Hit me in the eye first.” Had to chuckle, “Taste of cum, his musk, I was hooked. He stood me on the side of his mower, and sucked me. We stayed close for years afterward. With him I found a place where I didn’t feel like a mistake.”

“Did he fuck you?”

“Eventually. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but he hurt me. Felt bruised for several days.” I remembered that clearly. “But I came back for more.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” Leaned in to kiss his neck.

D swung his leg over my lap and I put my hand on his dick. Little more than a handful. “How old are you?”

Handed me his school ID; late bloomer. Of age, yet looked so young.

He kissed me leaving the piquancy of mustard on my tongue.

***

I turned the tables, “Tell me about your first time.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Tell me what you’d like to happen – what’s your fantasy?”

He snuggled beside me as he pulled out his phone, went straight for the porn. Showed me several photos. Came to the one he liked; side by side, lot of skin-to-skin.

“No warm-up?” Hoped for kisses, some hand work.

“Why?” He stood, pulled my hand.

***

Speed, D had; finesse, he lacked. With his looks, who cared?

In the bedroom, “Why did you choose me? You could have any man you wanted.”

“Men who seem interested, think I’m bait in a sting.”

He tossed his clothes in a heap on the chair and turned to me; freckled from head to toe. Smooth skin with a thin layer of fat smoothing his musculature, his bones. At full mast, untrimmed, short, coy foreskin, testicles sat in an in-between length, smallish. Bite-sized. A few hairs near the base, skimpy and pale.

D blushed with my gaze and tilted his head, “We’re on security camera, seven-twenty-four at school. Can’t do anything.” He paused, “It was the way you describe… boys and men.” He blushed deeply. “Like you knew me, what I wanted.”

Threw the covers back and embraced the boy, rolled us onto the bed, “Forget the porn, we’re going to make this memorable.” Grabbed another tart kiss.

The moment my chest hair brushed his skin, I tingled, I sensed the courage and shakiness behind his emails, the need to be held, appreciated; young body curious to be filled, to know a completion he’d only imagined.

Skin, his smell intoxicating, head was light. Wrapped my legs through his, pulled his body close to me. Touched as much of him as possible. Squeezed him hard to feel his breath, to breathe his exhale.

Silent conversation ensued as his relief rolled through him and he reveled in my skin, my smells. Biting my ears and hair, he pulled me to his smooth chest lightly sticky with sweat. Chests together, I slipped my hand between us; between two slippery shafts. Thumb went to the sensitive triangle under his cock. Grabbed and rubbed. He shoved his hips several times, heating fluids jumped from his slit.

He was still moaning when I licked my thumb, kissed his neck, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

After a heavy sigh, “Couldn’t sleep last night.”

His eyes closed, off to dreamland.

***

Quietly, I went to the kitchen. Hadn’t expected company, not much in the fridge. Went about prepping a small dinner listening to the neighborhood kids pop off black cats and cherry bombs, strings of penny-poppers through the neighborhood. Smoke of grills up and down the block, wended. Chicken, ribs…

Late afternoon he got up, showered, came to the kitchen, “Halve that cantaloupe, we’ll put some ice cream in it for dessert. I’ll get you back as soon as we eat.”

“Don’t hurry.” He sliced into the melon scenting the kitchen, “Told my parents I was at the mall, I’d see them after the fireworks tonight.”

Took our plates to the deck. Put on some music, danced together. Holding him brought memories and the beauty of his youth, his tenderness and courage enthralled me. His breaths on my neck kept me half hard, leaky.

***

Air cooled, he started the grill, I tossed on several bratwurst, skewered onion and tomato.

Sun sunk into the west, firecrackers broke the crickets’ songs. D grabbed his half-cantaloupe filled with ice cream and stood near the railing. Distant music faded as several loud booms from the cannons announced the fireworks display. “Look, they’re starting.”

Facing toward town, he watched intently, waiting for the next explosion. Suddenly a whistling sound, then bursts of light glowed on his face. He stood without moving, “That’s what I feel like inside when…” When he turned to me and grinned I knew what he wanted more.

I stood behind him, grateful I hadn’t used barbecue sauce, tugged his briefs down, grabbed a sausage from my plate, rubbed it deep into his cleft leaving a greasy trail.

He didn’t move, eyes toward the sky in the distance, holding his breath. He trembled.

Unzipped as a fountain of sparkling lights lit the sky. Leaned slightly forward, my straining rod coursing the oily path. Tip of my glans added more lube, “You’re so beautiful.”

Leaning further over, the cool skin of his rear touched my groin in the humid air, “Push against me.” Few slippery movements between us. In place, “Push out against me.”

Tried to keep myself from shoving… Couldn’t control it, the head of my rod popped in.

My hands went to his ribs, grabbing to feel his quick breaths from my sudden intrusion. Hands rubbed along his sides, as giant chrysanthemums thundered into bloom above us.

Fractions of an inch I moved into him, feeling his deep breaths, feeling soft vibrations of moans. He leaned forward over the railing. Cantaloupe fell from his hands. I held his narrow hips.

Still, I stood still as he grabbed the rail and pushed back against me. Tight muscle of his ass gripped me hard, pulled my cum; tugged at my guts. Head thrummed, I was as high as the brilliant, jagged streams of light, bursting like the fuzzy orange and purple flashes overhead.

Pushed back, moved his hips and moaned. He’d found what he came for. Let him work my steeled cock; more, more. Moving my left foot to the side, I lowered my entry and began pushing back; up the wall inside him, pushing hard where he wanted to feel me.

Frantic bursts from the far cannons, the big finale. D’s breaths sped, small yelps came. Pushed against me hard; his cheeks flatted against my groin, a signal for me. Low moan with each exhale.

Several shoves and I shot heated rushes deep inside him as the booms continued behind our primal sounds.

I only heard breaths and saw the eerie colors of the fireworks lighting our skin, blinking and fading. Tremendous, repeated booms shook through our bodies those moments. We stayed still until silence enveloped us, darkness enveloped us. Smell of his jizz rose.

Dick was done, fell out. He turned, held me. “Feels awful without you inside, like I miss you too much.”

“I know.” Between tender kisses, “Come back any time. Make me miss you the same way.”

We cleaned up quickly, I took him back to town. Let him off at the edge of the crowd near the boardwalk. Under the dome light, he kissed me, thanked me and he was gone into the swarm of people.

Transformed himself from flesh back to fiction.

***

Came back on Labor Day, and next July. Came back as a more completed man.

I kept writing. Always of a skinny auburn-haired boy, always of that insistent yearning of youth and a white-haired writer ready to oblige.