Posted by Dink (L12), 05/05/12 @ 9:48pm
My penis feels sticky, and itches from semen left too long to set and form a crust along the shaft. Jacking off without a cleanup strategy is always something that I come to regret one way or another. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and glance around for my phone.
My laptop is nearer, so I slump down into the couch and reach for it with the tips of my toes, slowly dragging it across the floor towards me. I don’t have a plan for getting it into my hands without having to sit back upright, but it’s best not to focus on these things, which serve only to discourage me. One thing at a time.
When I get into position I go immediately to dotSuck and click on the “New Topic” button. I’m laying down now, typing with one hand reaching down to the keys on the floor, with the other twisted and lost under my body, either asleep or by this stage quite possibly worn right off.
I write: My penis feels sticky. Need somebody to call to help locate my phone so I can contact a prostitute and/or nursemaid to erectify my situation.
I tilt my head back to funnel the drool down into my throat, but can’t muster the strength to swallow. I lean forward, giving up, and let my saliva fall to the floor. I lie there for 10 or 15 minutes, mouth agape, eyes open, watching the reflection of the TV in my puddle.
The phone rings. It is beaneath me, somewhere. I believe it is in the hand of my decaying arm. I roll myself onto the floor with a loud thud and the phone spills out in front of me. With my good hand I pick it up and say hello.
The caller says, “Hi! It’s Memo!”
“The character Memo Moreno from the obscure 2001 French-Canadian indie movie Driven?”
“Hah. No. From dotSuck.”
“Oh.” As I recall correctly, I posted there to solicit calls so I could find my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding my phone. Thanks.” I have no idea how to hang up on somebody with this thing.
“Hey, who are you going to call?”
“Random numbers until somebody agrees.”
“Do you want me to come over?” He sounds slightly concerned, which must mean that he cares enough about me to blow me if I force the issue. I am not opposed to having just about any warm, wet thing on my penis, but I was planning to hold out for somebody with breasts I could clap together with my thighs.
I recall the coyly seductive photo Memo posted not long ago, with his all-American body on full display in the reflection of a mirror, accidentally on purpose. I ask, “Are you topless right now?”
“I might be.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Hah. You’re crazy. Listen, I’ll be over there in about 20 minutes, just stay put.”
“Great.”
I spend the next 46 minutes trying to watch Driven from memory, but the characters keep developing wolves for heads and vibrating erratically. I don’t speak either French or Canadian, so the dialog is made up and, for the most part, the movie is two vibrating wolfmen talking about Radiohead.
Memo Juez knocks at my door. I don’t bother even to grunt, giving him the benefit of the doubt in figuring that the door is not locked.
Moments later he steps into the dark room, offering an apology. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, “but inventing the technology to travel to Vancouver in 20 minutes took me about 13 minutes, and then I had to find a shirt.”
“Huh?”
“It involves an antigravity device attached to the front of a secured chamber–in this case my washing machine–which creates a gravitational well and effectively pulls the chamber into it at an ever increasing rate, without losing the relative distance from that which it tows, and actually–”
“Shh. Why did you put on a shirt?”
“I am often shirtless at home, but I do put one on when I leave the house in most cases.”
“Take it off.”
“I’m just here to make sure you are okay. You were talking a little crazy earlier, and–”
“Take off your shirt.”
“I’m not going to take off my–”
“Shh. Take off your shirt.”
“Christoph.”
“Shh. Take it off.”
“I don’t feel completely comfortable doing that for–”
“Shh.”
With a sigh of defeat, Memo skillfully flips his shirt up and over his head with one hard-working, beef-eating arm.
“Come here.”
He takes one step towards me. “Like where?”
“Like right up to me,” I say, patting the arm of the couch.
He sighs some more as he comes closer to me. “All right.”
“Put your hands on the arm.”
“What?”
“Put your hands on the arm of the couch.”
“Why?”
“So they hang.”
“So what hang?”
“Your breasts.”
“What? No. And they don’t ‘hang’.”
“Come on.”
“No. My breasts– my muscles don’t hang.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I lie, “I mean, I just want you to lean over me so I can check out your muscles.”
“Okay then,” he says as he leans forward, dangling his breasts over my face.
I pull my sticky, itchy cock out of my shorts and begin to stroke it, while batting at his left breast with my free hand.
“Jesus christ, Christoph.”
“Shh.”
“I don’t even think I’m sure of what you’re doing right now.”
“Shh.”
He holds his position for about 3 minutes while I prepare my orgasm. He talks about his cats, who he likes to watch play in his garden, and I try to tune him out. Almost there.
“Okay,” I tell him, “Open your mouth.”
“Please don’t make me do that.”
“My penis is itchy. It needs a full reset with a proper cleaning. You are a very good friend.”
Defeated, shoulders slumping, he takes me into his mouth and finishes the job. His tongue is remarkably adept. He drinks it all down, pulling the last drops out of me with a strong, milking motion through clenched teeth guarded by his lips. He thoroughly licks and cleans the shaft.
When it is over he brings me a glass of water, then simply gets into his washing machine and leaves. He trembles like a wolfman. I will have to call on his services again.
I pour the glass of water onto the floor and squint at the reflected image looking back at me. We’re not so different, Memo and I. I look into our face and say, “I love you.”