The Underwear Guy and the Star Running Back

Dallas. I’ve lived there three times. For several years during that last stretch, I was about a ten-minute drive from one of the most popular gay bars in town. One thing I loved about it was that it was democratic. I don’t mean politics; I mean you could show up decked out in funky skin-tight black leather pants and with your bare butt showing, or in a suit & tie, and either way you felt right at home.

I fit neither extreme. I showed up, always, in faded Levi’s and on the prowl. Some of the best dick I’ve ever sucked, some of the best cocksuckers I’ve ever known up close and personal, I met at that bar. “Have you ever been sucked off through your underwear?” one of them asked me one night. He was short, pudgy, and cute. Hispanic. Mid-twenties, I figured.     

I’d been sucked off on the floor; while on a bar patio; on a massage table; in the restroom where I worked; behind a tree on a parking lot in broad daylight; while driving down a state highway at night; while leaning back against a wall while the dude’s Shar-Pei sat on its haunches and watched; while sitting on a stranger’s bathroom counter; while standing in the middle of my living room with my Levi’s around my ankles (one of the best blow jobs ever); in a pitch-black crowded (I sensed) backroom at the best blow job bar in town (never saw the guy who unbuttoned my Levi’s and sucked me off slow and easy); not to mention a certain apartment courtyard at high noon when temptation overcame caution.     

But never sucked off, I told that pudgy, cute little Hispanic guy, through my underwear.

Twenty or so minutes later we’re at his apartment and waste no time getting to it. First, on a couch. But that’s just a warmup. I like it. I like it because, well, because it’s a blow job. But different. I know it will take longer, a lot longer for me to cum. That’s good. Get to enjoy it longer. Get to prolong the thrill. 

Finally we move to the bedroom. He sucks a little harder, but because it’s through my underwear, it’s more like he’s eating my dick instead of sucking it. The sensation is incredible. It’s exhilarating, and yet it’s strangely frustrating because there is no skin to skin contact, and that’s what my dick is longing for, that’s what my hormones want. I want to feel the inside of his mouth. I want his tongue on my dick. I want him to lick it, suck it, flesh to flesh. My whole body feels like it's screaming for release. It’s torture, and, at the same time, pleasure so intense it’s indefinable.

Finally, it happens: the most intense, explosive orgasm I’d ever had. My shorts are soaked.

He gets up, goes into the bathroom and comes back with a warm wet cloth. I shuck my shorts and wipe up the sticky mess. He laughs and says, “Did you like it?”

I laughed. “You couldn’t’ tell?”

I start to dress. “No,” he says. “Spend the night and fuck me in the morning.”

I can’t believe it. He didn’t want my dick in his mouth, but he wants it in his ass. Oh well, why not? Fucking is not my favorite thing, but if he wants me to fuck him, I’ll fuck him.

Fucking gives me a different sort of orgasm. That’s the only thing I like about it. It takes me longer to cum, and the longer it takes, whether through fucking or being sucked off, the better it feels. That was why, of course, I came like a horse when he sucked me off through my shorts.

Anyway, I did fuck that little squirt the next morning. Safe fuck. I don’t know where the cum came from, because I think I unloaded about three gallons the night before. However, I did cum, and he did, too, about the same time I did. I liked watching him jerk off while I was fucking him. I liked hearing his say, “Fuck me. Fuck me.” I like seeing him cum. 

Which reminds me of the time I fucked a 22-year-old who had been the star running back on his high school football team. That wasn’t in Dallas, but in another part of the state. He didn’t want anything but to be fucked, and he made that clear before we left the club where we met. I might have declined, but another guy at the bar that night had told me that he knew him, told me about the football thing. So I couldn’t’ pass up the opportunity to fuck a former high school star running back.

It was well after midnight when we got to his place. I’d had just enough alcohol in me that I felt good, loose, ready for a good time, ready to do something I seldom ever did: fuck ass. And what an ass, what a butt he had. Bubble, the kind that makes my tongue get hard. I asked him if he’d ever been tongue fucked. Yeah.

“Did you like it?”

“It’s okay, but a dick in my ass is better.”

“Can I tongue fuck you first? Just a little bit?”

“Yeah.”

If my tongue had been a foot long and he had let me, I would have kept going up that ass until I had no tongue left to go any deeper. My dick got hard. But not as hard as it was a few minutes later when  it entered the hole I’d just lubricated with my tongue. Knowing that I was about to fuck a guy who had been a star high school running back was part of the thrill. A big part of it.

Dirty talk is also, for me, part of the thrill during sex. I’m verbal, very much so. But it’s been my experience that most guys are not. At least not while it’s happening. My football player was no exception. Until it was over. Not until after I came and came and came and the spasms finally stopped and I pulled out and peeled off a loaded condom. It was not until then that he spoke.

“You fucker,” he said, and laughed.

“You’re only the third guy I’ve ever fucked.”

“Bullshit. I’m not believing that.”

“No, really. It’s not something I normally do.”

“What do you normally do?”

“Suck cock. Get sucked.”

“I’m not into that.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“I had a girlfriend once who did it.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

“Sure. But a guy? I don’t know, I can’t explain it.”

“But you like getting fucked. That’s obvious”.

“Yeah. You can fuck me anytime you want to.”

“After I tongue fuck you?”

“After you tongue fuck me.”

That was twenty years ago. Never saw him again.

Or the underwear guy.