I love the smell of penis in the morning: a vignette

The musky, slightly sharp scent of his enclosed cock wafted into my nostrils as he stood behind me, leaning over my shoulder as I scrolled through photos of my recent interstate trip on my laptop. 

He was wearing a worn rugby top and old flannelette pyjama pants, having only recently emerged from the guest bedroom looking scruffy and well lived in. It was a cold winter, and the nights could be particularly chilly here in the country.

I had known him since we’d come across each other back when we could still be called young, and as I am now in my late sixties and he is older still, that puts quite a few years on the tally of friendship. 

Despite some health concerns and a mindset that could usually be relied upon to put a negative complexion on the most anodyne issue, he was weathering the ageing process remarkably well, the signs of maturity enhancing rather than detracting from his already strong features. Age had certainly not wearied my gentle obsession with him, nor diminished his handsomeness in my eyes. 

I continued to find him as impossibly attractive as I did when he was in his thirties. I had developed an unquenchable crush on him at first sight when I took up the good fight for the local gay-lib organisation, which he was also involved with, back in the halcyon days of the late seventies, early eighties, and this had remained unshakeable (and unrequited) ever since. The group had slowly changed, fractured and finally broken up, as such volatile organisations usually do, but our friendship had survived it all, as had my happily secret desire.

Truth be told I rather enjoyed the futility of this unrecognised lust, enabling me as it did to cadge furtive glances at him whenever the opportunity arose, finding in his friendly disregard endless opportunities to entertain a more friendly regard of my own. His ignorance of the effect he had on me made it all too easy to catch him unawares, relaxed as he was in my familiar presence. 

I had also become adept at creating the most far-fetched scenarios for my occasional midnight wanks, fantasies in which he often took a prominent, and sometimes surprising, role; the drunken fumble, the hotel room share, the cross-country car trip, even once a surreal kidnap drama where our rugged captors forced us to do unspeakable things to each other under their threatening gaze. Strange where your penis can take you in the depths of the night, or even in the glare of a sun-drenched summer’s day.

But there is worse yet to these confessions. Once, when minding his house for a few days, I had found his studded, leather cock-ring in a drawer I probably should’t have been looking in, and made good use of it, ensuring that it was put back exactly as found once my fetishistic urges had been satisfied. Or on another occasion, during a casual visit, a pair of his sweaty, piss-stained undies sitting on top of a pile of washing proved too much of a temptation, and I almost reeled from his powerful odour as I held them to my nose. 

To have his sleepy, night-smelly cock now so innocently close to my face was one of those unexpected pleasures my secret business occasionally bestowed upon me, and I doubt it even registered with him that I inhaled more deeply than usual as I casually turned to look up at him from time to time.

As he finally backed away to prepare for the day I regretted the loss of those scents, so soon to be washed away in the shower, but took comfort from the fact that tomorrow would indeed be another day, he would still be here, and I had many more photos to show him.