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Butterflies and Boners 1. My other half has joined a long line for the powder room, leaving me leaning against a pillar to study the crowd. Twenty, twenty-five feet away, two men walking side by side as they leave the show. Neither glances in my direction as they pass. Toward the stairs to the street they stride, perfectly in sync, right foot to right foot, left to left, as they softly converse. Just turn your head, I tell myself. Unable to heed my own advice, I stare without blinking as they climb to the first landing. Their display of intimacy has nothing to do with me. Past my half-century mark, sometimes happiness seems rationed. The moments are doled out in microdoses, in the tickle of joy from music I love, in the glow of conversation with someone I admire, in the sharp anticipatory pang before a good meal. Even these pleasures seem well-trodden, though. But oh, life manages to find endless fresh ways to make me hurt. Tears prickle behind my eyes. I feel flayed and raw from the pain. Turn your head, I chide myself, as tenderly as possible. Again, my face lifeless and dead, I ignore my own good counsel. My attention flicks away from the couple on the stairs to her concerned gaze. The queen turns her coiffed head; together we watch the pair walk toward the June night outside. The impossibly tall vision in the black sequined gown puts a hand on my shoulder. She nods in sympathy. Peter first hit me up on Manhunt five years ago. He was a high school senior a month shy of graduation, a kid in the peak throes of adolescent sexual discovery. He wanted to be used and loved and consumed and appreciated, all at once. He wanted someone with confidence enough to follow through, and experience enough to tailor an encounter into something special, instead of regrettable. Peter was a puppy, game for anything, eager to be taught. I was the old dog he fixed on as an ideal teacher. I reciprocated his desire. When we first started chatting, his face was baby-smooth, his hair sandy and impossibly tousled. My dick would strain and yearn as I stared at his fist clenching, vise-like, around his thick shaft. His flat stomach would ripple and heave as he beat. Much as I loved the videos, I looked forward even more to the selfies Peter would share. Peter had a pair of enormous, liquid basset-hound eyes that melted me every time I saw them. They seemed like kind eyes, the eyes of a thoughtful young man; I imagined I could look into those eyes and fathom exactly what he wanted. I wanted nothing more than to make Peter happy. To give him what he wanted, with a paternal affection that was, on my end, sincere. We chatted about seemingly everything, from school to family to video games to sex. I relished our wide-ranging conversations. I sent Peter a text asking how he was enjoying his time off before university. I never received a reply. These things happen, I told myself philosophically. If our connection had been meant to happen. I thought of Peter more than occasionally, wondering how it would have played out, had our paths crossed. Would he have been the next Scruffy in my life? There was something about Peter, about the sweet way he communicated, about the way he seemed to hunger for me, that reminded me of them. Perhaps I idealized him merely because I wanted to be hungered for by a beautiful boy. I needed someone covered in sweat and semen to look at me with dazed love in his eyes, the way Scruffy had. I longed for someone to take care of and protect, as I had with Spencer. He had a thirty-six-year-old boyfriend. The most perfect relationship, he called it. Hearing the news caused a pang. In his next breath, though, Peter told me he still thought about me. Three messages later, he was sending me more movies in which he pleasured himself. Once again, I was breathless at the sight and fantasy of the boy. Yet here he was, showing himself off to me, telling me how badly he wanted my cock in his throat. Despite the so-called perfect relationship, it seemed to be me that Peter really wanted. Without much effort on his part, Peter had rekindled my desire for him. But a month later he was off again to study abroad. I could do it again. What choice did I have? A year and a half of silence. It was with a weightless feeling of suspense that I clicked on his profile. It was Peter again. Peter, admiring my photos on a bareback site. I told him that yes indeed, he was talking to the same man. Once again gave him my phone number. Now he had another boyfriend—older— and they were exclusive. But, he told me, if it were ever to open up, he wanted to explore every inch of my body with his hands and mouth. He had fond memories of our chats, he said, and such lust for me. I must be a foolish man, I think, so easily to swallow the candied words a pretty boy feeds me. Yet over the next two weeks I fell back into the old pattern I'd always shared with Peter. I voiced my desire for him. I let him flatter me over the blog, and the way my words made him feel. I sighed with desire when he texted his latest videos and photos, and listened as he would speak glowingly about his latest perfect relationship with his new older boyfriend. Then, with his next breath, Peter would confide he wished he was curled up naked next to me, with no space at all between my groin and his ass. Could we meet again for coffee or a meal? Perhaps reconnect and get to know each other again? When was I free? He would do anything to reestablish our relationship in a casual way—though it would be so hot to get sexual with me. On the turn of a dime, Peter would pivot from reminding me that he was exclusive with his boyfriend, to wishing I would just shove three fingers up his ass, then paint his guts with my monster dick. He wanted me fisting him. Then, without warning, he stopped answering my texts. Another year would pass before I heard from him. I reckoned our union would take place when it was meant to take place. His reappearances made me happy during a few years when happiness was difficult to find. Forcing something fragile or elusive ruins its sweet simplicity. With each hiatus, I would be mildly disappointed—but not so devastated that I wanted to discontinue the friendship. I convinced myself life with a Peter in it, no matter how remote he may be, was better than a life without. The last sometime was in winter of this year, after a year and a half of silence. Toward the end of a rare bachelor week for me, I was sitting for lunch in a pizza joint, waiting for my pie and browsing Instagram. I saw that Peter had sent me a message on the app. After I reminded him of my phone number for the—what? He was back in New York for graduate school, he told me. More to the point, Peter was alone that afternoon until six. I considered bolting from my seat right then and there. I told him the times of day I was likely to be available during the upcoming two weeks. I happened to have a meeting in the Village that very same Monday, so we made a date to meet. In the interim, Peter and I kept in touch almost daily. I listened with pangs of actual jealousy as he outlined his sexual adventures under the new open relationship he was enjoying with his boyfriend. He was giddy with excitement as he told me about making out with his current and soon-to-be ex- boss. Out in public highway bridge fucking bareback

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8 Comments

  1. Having my say seems to have to given me the closure I needed. I sighed with desire when he texted his latest videos and photos, and listened as he would speak glowingly about his latest perfect relationship with his new older boyfriend.

  2. There was something about Peter, about the sweet way he communicated, about the way he seemed to hunger for me, that reminded me of them. I've been looking forward to it, he wrote back.

  3. Marc was a personal trainer over at the local gym, and a hunk of a man. I thought about texting you while I was in the city, I told Peter later that night.

  4. I went about my business that afternoon as usual. When I got out of the shower, I found another text waiting for me.

  5. This old dog was too stupid to recognize what was right before his nose all along. Any pangs I felt, though, were dulled by the prospect of my own gratification, come that Monday. There was something about Peter, about the sweet way he communicated, about the way he seemed to hunger for me, that reminded me of them.

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