My Slut Bro

Let me tell you about my slut bro, Trey. He lives in Phoenix and I live in San Francisco. That's the way it's been since we met nearly ten years ago. Most people aren't able to count the times they've lunched with a friend, confided in each other about family and lovers, and walked their dogs together or helped load furniture in a truck for a move of address. With Trey, I'd say I've seen him less times than the amount of fingers I have on one hand. We don't even talk much. But in a world where technology grows as fast as Jack's bean stalk, e-mails and texting have given the two of us ample opportunity to compensate for the miles between us. It's not that we exchange impassioned messages about the repeal of Proposition 8 or Meryl Streep. Trey is a smart guy (a nurse practitioner) and educated, too (Vanderbilt University), but our messages are simple: “Thinking of you” and “I miss you like hell.” Our one line exchanges happen at random. In this you can say that there is more sincerity in them than in discussions about the state of the world. To be thought of with desire and endearment at the spur of the moment is tantamount to a whisper in the dark that you aren't alone.

Why Trey and I have this connection beats the hell out of me. And yet, there it is, a mystery as impenetrable as life itself. And rightfully so. Love and devotion, loyalty and friendship – these are the fundamentals of life that flourish at any given moment, without any design. Some people call these moments a surprise. Other people call them a blessing. I call them magic.

No exaggeration here: Trey's appearance was magical. We met in a dungeon. You know the scenario. No matter what city the dungeon may be in, no matter its size, it contains implements basic to the expression of a man's carnal needs: a barber chair; a floor slippery with cum; slings; and inflated images on video screens of fists up assholes, dicks in mouths, and man faces distorted in rapture. Beautiful men in a leather sex party are a given. This one had no shortage of them. Burly fuckers in biker boots were coupled with pretty boys in dog collars. Daddies were tickling gym hunky buttholes with their tongues and facial hair.

Underneath the rays of light emanating from the video screen, I was lying on a massage table that was draped in black leather. My legs were in the air. A  man with silver hair was pummeling his cock in and out of me. The man's muscles glistened with sweat and light. His eyes glowered with hunger.

“Bitch boy,” he whispered then spat on my face, in my mouth.

“Again, sir,” I said.

He spat and he spat and he kissed.

On one screen, Trey himself was lying on a massage table. One harnessed muscle man was positioned above his head, holding his legs in the air, while another hunk was eyeing his own cock tear open Trey's porn hole. That was what Trey did - homo porn. That was where I had first seen him - in a DVD with his whore butthole getting cock slammed and spermed. For two years I had played that DVD, called out his name while keeping company with my right hand... if you could call whatever I yelled out to his video image a name: “Scummy ass dude... Cum dumpster faggot... Shithead beautiful boy, goddamn I want you!”

I pulled my lips away from my sir. His saliva dribbled out of the corner of my mouth and down my cheek. Around me penises and scrotum engorged by cock rings, tattoos and hands pulling at my hair and pinching my nipples, all coalesced into one collage. In this mess of indistinguishable male body parts, one figure stood out. It was the figure of Trey. In the flesh. I hadn't seen him when I had walked into the dungeon. I hadn't seen him when I was bundling my clothes into a check-in trash bag. Yet there he was, a fuck action figure that seemed to have jumped out of the porn behind him and into my life.

“Thank you, sir,” I said to the fucker on top me.

He pulled out.

I jumped to my feet with the alacrity of a puma. The crowd moved aside. I stood in front of Trey. I reached my hand out to him in order to touch the object of my fantasies. He reached out his own hand to touch me. There we were, feeling each other's pecks and abs, penises and butts, two men who would be strangers no more by the mere touch of our bodies, touches that would render the two of us more familiar to each other than words. This wasn't just dick up ass. This was a collision. There might have been guys at the dungeon beefier than Trey. There might have been guys there taller than he and tougher. But none of them elicited in me even an ounce of the desire that Trey did. And it wasn't just because that Trey had been my porn fantasy for so long. I had had porn guys before. I would have many since. What made Trey different at that instant, what makes him different now and forever, was the ineffable something that emanated from us both and connected the air between us.

See him as I do. Trey is 5'4.” He has green eyes bright with intelligence and mischief, a body sinewy of muscles, and a hairline that tapers into a V – a sexual werewolf. His butt is boyish smooth and delectably round, to be sure, but what truly identifies it is the swish marks tattoo on his lower back that converge at a dagger pointing down his ass crack (“so tops won't get lost”), a tattoo synonymous to a sign above a door that reads Entrance (“my tramp stamp”). Trey walks with a cocky swagger. He chews gum like an arrogant prick. He fucks and gets fucked like a dog in mid-summer heat. But don't be fooled by his motherfucker act because deep inside, Trey is a nice guy who likes to know his partner after a fuck, a kid who ends his text messages and e-mails with “hehehe” or a colon juxtaposed with a closed parentheses.

My slut bro, Trey, is a sweetheart.

Arms around each other, Trey and I dropped onto the massage table, sucking tongue, licking necks, tickling anal lips.

“I need to really taste you,” I said. “God, I need to know your inner smell and taste.”

Trey hopped onto his feet, stood above me, then dropped his bottom onto my face. He pushed himself down onto me with such force that it seemed his butt was going to crush my skull. I alternated between slobbering his hole and gasping for air, moaning and munching. His asshole was smooth, hairless. He smelled of Irish Spring. Waves of pleasure convulsed his body. Like an echo, his groans reverberated in my head the cry of a boy losing himself to a manly sensation that was both frightening and irresistible.

“You're driving me crazy,” he uttered.

No shit!

Some dude raised my leg. A penis penetrated my anus, slid into me like an animal invading my inner butt walls, and then the penis stretched apart another hole deep up my male being. I nearly fainted. My arms, which had been entwined around Trey's calves, collapsed beside me. Rather than showing mercy, the invader pummeled my butthole guts with crazed abandon. A barrage of cusses and epithets surrounded the air: “Fucking faggot... Gay asshole... Homo slave...”

Another cock took the place of the one inside of me. This one was shorter, but thicker. It stretched my opening apart as if my hole were an elastic band with its endurance put to the test. Because it wouldn't snap, whoever the penis was attached to humped with such brutality that he was yelling. The sound that exploded out of him was akin to a war cry – guttural, bestial.

Dick after dick, all of them gushing sperm inside of me, slamming, probing, fucking – I felt as though these leathermen were actually a bunch of straight guys gang bang gay bashing my rectum with their erect monsters.

Did Trey show me any compassion? No. Not at all. He was now on all fours on top of me, shoving his penis down my throat, while the same penises that had been up me were abusing his own queer fuck hole.

“Who are you guys calling a faggot?” Trey asked. “Me? My new buddy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” guys ordered. They spoke in unison. “Be a good slave boy and shut the fuck up.” Then they took turns plugging Trey's mouth as Trey was plugging mine, plugging his mouth with the cocks that had been up both our holes so that these ass slamming meat heads started yelling shit like, “Taste your ass off our pricks, boy slave. Taste your whore buddy's funky butt.”

As I lay underneath Trey with my legs wresting on one man's shoulders and then another man's shoulders and then another, I could hear Trey slurping dick with the greediness a kid slurps an icicle stick. I could hear the slish slosh of cocks marinating man juices up his butthole.

“You're the homos,” Trey was able to say in between sucking two cocks. “All of you guys are the homos if you're all here fucking us two up the ass.”

Wrong thing to say, Trey. Or was it the right thing to say? Whatever. That declaration from Trey got these sodomizers so riled up that they didn't just fuck us... They demolished us.

We took a break in the sitting area in front of the dungeon. Benches lined walls splayed with images of buttocks split in half and torsos oiled and pumped. Trey sat underneath an image of a gaping manhole. I laughed.

“What's so funny?” he asked. “Do I have cum dripping out of my nose?” With his voice at its speaking pitch, his southern drawl was more pronounced, pronounced but not severe. He didn't sound like a hillbilly (although that would have gotten my trailer trash fantasies all worked up); he sounded like a post-pubescent Tim McGraw.

“You look like you just plopped out of that asshole above you.”

Trey raised his head, stuck out his tongue to simulate rimming the image.

I laughed some more. “Where are you from?”

“Phoenix. Well... Alabama, really. I tell people I'm from Phoenix because that's where my life as a cum slut began.”

“Philippines, born and raised, which surprises people because I talk like I'm American born and I take to whoring naturally. I tell people I shouldn't be a surprise. Either we're born to slut or we aren't.”

Trey chuckled mischievously. He nodded his head in consent. His balls glistened with semen. Semen wet his inner thighs, his forearms, and the spot on which he sat. Drops of semen were spilling out of his ass.

I licked my lips. It crossed my mind that such a gesture might have made me look like a lecher, but with the heat of Trey's body hitting me like a kick in the groin, I couldn't help it. I was melting. I was so wet with perspiration, spit, and sperm that I felt like a walking piece of butt sex.

As if reading one another's thoughts, Trey and I brought our faces together until our mouths touched. It seemed I was only learning at that moment the meaning of words I had been saying in everyday conversation my whole life: hunger, want, eat, need. We were like lions trying to swallow each other, snakes coiling around one another's bodies slippery with our natural juices.

We were animal.

“When do you leave?” I asked.

“Two days from now,” Trey said.

“Come home with me.”

“Can't... Boyfriend. Tricking is fine, but no sleep overs.”

“Fuck.”

Trey shoved his finger up my hole, teased my prostate gland. “I'll fuck you here,” he whispered in my ear. “We'll exchange infos.” He nibbled my earlobe. “No sleep overs, sure. That doesn't mean we can't do other things.”

I bent over in front of him. His cock head poked my ass lips. He teased my butthole by sliding his penis halfway in and then bringing it out to the tip of his head before sliding it in again. He did that for more seconds than I could endure.

“You fucker,” I said. “You're driving me crazy. I need you inside me. All the way.”

Biker boots, military boots, construction boots, yellow laces, and boot harnesses surrounded us. Faces that had been in our previous gang bang replaced the wall images. But they did not close in. They remained at a distance, spectators to the show that was Trey and me.

Trey did as I desired. He didn't stop at a few thrusts. Even when he flooded my insides, he didn't stop. Every ejaculation fueled him further, as if the cum firing out of him were the flames to a rocket blasting off.

Like a video, I thought. No. Better. Way better.

Here began our sporadic thread of e-mails and text messages. We would also exchange pictures of each other. Months turned into a year, a year into two and then three then four. No matter how much time passed, it only seemed like days; that was how alive the memory of our meeting was for us both. The one factor that indicated the passing of seasons was our pictures. Weight training and mountain climbing presented us as older than in the previous image, but older in a good way. We looked stronger, buffer, more manly than boyish, as if together we were experiencing a second bout of puberty.

At last, the chance for us to see in the flesh how much more manly we had grown came one spring. Trey took a weekend trip to San Francisco, where he booked a room in a motel. On the years that had passed, we caught up with each other in bodily touch.

“Look at you,” he said upon letting me in.

I had just come from the gym. Beneath my jacket, I had on a navy tank top bearing a police logo. The four months of weight lifting and body sculpting under the guidance of a trainer must have paid off because Trey was staring at my rounded shoulders and wide chest as if I were a gay Superman on the make. Trey himself was in a thermal jersey that fit so snuggly that his pecs and nipple rings protruded.

The room was blue – blue carpet, blue bed cover, a tinge of lavender on the upholstery. It was cold outside, but inside it was hot.

Without a word, I grabbed Trey by the head and rammed my tongue into his mouth. I was usually the small guy, but with Trey's being three inches shorter to my 5'7” frame, he sunk into my arms, melted into me. Something was barring us from completely melding, though: clothes.

“Oh, fuck, Trey,” I said, yanking his jersey off.

This time Trey rammed his tongue into my mouth and then, “I need you,” he said. He was so close to me and his voice was so breathy that what he uttered could have been a whisper in my head, the voice of my longing.

Trey tugged at the hem of my tank top, yanked it off like duct tape torn from its packaging. We fumbled for each other's belt buckles, jean buttons, zippers, boots, and socks.

The two of us stood naked at last, face to face, man to man. We eyed each other as two wrestlers on the verge of a fighting match do. The bathroom door was ajar. Light from within streamed into the room, illuminating the bed as if it were a moon lit ocean to plunge into. The drone of the ventilator buzzed like the passing of time. Too much time. So we wasted no more seconds and collapsed on the bed, entangled in each other's limbs and tongues.

Trey had been preparing for this, I could tell. His rectum was greasy with lube. He sucked his fingers, spread my ass cheeks, and proceeded to titillate my opening. I nibbled on his nipples, slid my tongue to his navel.

“Raf,” he moaned. “Oh, Raf.”

The way he said my name, he said it with ravenous grunts. He seemed unable to hold himself together. He might have lost his mind and his soul right there, my name thundering from his lips. To be the last person for him to think of, to be the last person whose name he uttered – what greater declaration of love and devotion could there be than that?

My response: I lapped up his belly button and tugged on his nipple rings. I deep throated his cock and finger raped his shithole.

“Buddy,” he declared.

Drawing strength from my strength, Trey flipped me onto my back, grabbed my ankles and flung my legs above my head. A boar on a food binge, he slurped on my sex hole, and without warning, he slammed his penis inside me.

Damn it, what a fucker! For a small guy, Trey was powerful and brutal, murderous when overcome with asshole desire. That one plunge was akin to being impaled by lightning. An electric current ran through me. It tore up my second sphincter and ripped through my bowels. I yelled, but that only made Trey more possessed by his need, his need of me.

“See what you do to me, Raf?” he asked.

That question needed no answer. In porn, he was usually the power bottom, only with me, his dominant instinct that had been lying dormant during our years apart erupted like lava from a volcano.

And that was what Trey's orgasm was – molten hot fluids gushing out of him.

Did he stop there? No. A man never does. Once is never enough for a man.

Trey and I got under the sheets. He positioned himself on top of me and pressed his chest against mine. We sucked in one another's words and thoughts by joining lips. We were gentle now, nurturing.

Trey spat on his hand, reached for my cock that was level with his ass, and he slid me inside him.

I didn't want to lose the gentleness that had overcome us, so I thrust tenderly.

He humped his ass up and down my prick with loving relish.

I discovered a sensitive spot on his neck with my tongue.

He moaned into my ear.

We sunk into the depths of an ocean... deeper... deeper... forever joined by dick in hole and tongue in mouth.

“You're sooo beautiful,” he said.

“You, too,” I said. “You have no idea how beautiful.” I couldn't take the pressure building up in my scrotum any longer. “You are...” I began to fuck faster.

Trey tightened his arms around me.

I grabbed his butt cheeks and spread them apart even further.

His hole became a gaping orifice begging my cock to plug it to the hilt.

“You are heart warmingly and groin heatingly beautiful and...” I came. I couldn't stop coming. My semen was filling his buddy hole, spilling out onto my cock, dripping down my balls “And... You gorgeous little mother fucker!”

The mattress springs creaked in a crescendo. The head board banged against the wall. If the motel came crashing down, its collapse would not have been as pulverizing as our fucking.

Stillness.

We ascended back to the ocean surface in an embrace, flung the sheets off to cool down. The room remained a smoldering box of blue and lavender. The bathroom ventilation continued to hum monotonously. Seconds seemed to have stalled.

“No sleep overs, huh?” I asked, in reference to the rule Trey and his bf, Steven, had laid down regarding other fuck mates.

“I almost didn't come,” Trey said. “I wasn't feeling well. I had a slight cold. But Steven told me that I shouldn't cancel.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

“Me, too. It's a good thing my cold cleared in time for this trip. But it was like Steven wanted to get rid of me. He probably had made fuck plans of his own.”

“So what if he did? He will want you back by the time your vacation here is over. Who wouldn't want you back?”

Trey laid his head on my shoulders and shut his eyes. He looked lost in a dream that was the two of us at this moment. Inseparable, we held the future at bay.

“No sleep overs, for sure?” I asked again.

Trey was quiet, nonplussed.

Did I kill the mood? “Don't say no. Don't say anything,” I said. “I promise... I'd never make you break any vows you made to Steven.”

“I don't know.”

“Trust me. Let yourself go. Keep holding me. You'll see.”

So I didn't sleep over, but Trey and I fucked and hugged and fucked some more till the wee hours of the morning.

“You're a clever one,” Trey said. “Shut your eyes. I'd like to hear you snore. Just for a moment.”

“No.”

Trey laughed.

“Next time,” I said.    

This was three years ago. Trey and Steven have since split, but I remain to be in Trey's life. When will our next butt fucking rendezvous be? When will we sleep in each other's arms and awake to one another's smiles? I don't know, but I do know this:

Trey and I are more than just two ships that pass in the night. We crash. We ignite flames of passion that burnish the galaxy. We plummet like an anchor to the depths of no return. We soar to the sun on the wings of Icarus. Sink or swim, melt or fly – the two of us act as one, a love born from the bond of brotherhood.

As Trey likes to say, “You're my slut bro.”