 |
|
|
• The Videos
• Personals
• Links
• Wanna Be a Porn Star?
• STORIES • Pictures
• Books • Gear
• Contact Us
• Paul's Bio |
Paul Morris, Part 3 : Fleet Week
Every autumn, San Francisco is one of the cities that hosts a "Fleet Week". The Navy invades the town. The Blue Angels fly in tight formation under the Golden Gate then roar out over the Bay and the City. Aircraft Carriers and Destroyers dock at the piers along the Embarcadero. During the day crowds of families take tours of the ships. And at night the waterfront is flooded with sailors in their summer whites. Every year during Fleet Week I'm down on the Embarcadero a lot — military men are such an easy passion.
Last year, one night during Fleet Week, I walked down Folsom to a favorite sex spot of mine, a bookstore with gloryholes in the booths. Many of my friends wouldn't be caught dead there: too filthy, too sleazy, too depressing . I go there all the time so I can suck cock without any complications or conversation. Just serious and anonymous cocksucking, period. But sucking guys through gloryholes in San Francisco is probably different from anyplace else: the opportunities are so plentiful that everyone gets a little jaded. They let you suck them a little, then they go on to another booth and get sucked by someone else, then again to someone else . It's weird: I like it because you end up tasting — sampling — a lot of cock, and I hate it because you rarely connect as completely as two men can through that hole . On this particular night as I got close to the bookstore I passed a group of sailors, most of them dressed in street clothes. If you know military men, you know they have a particular way of dressing when they go ashore out of uniform. The clothes fit a little too well, are always well pressed, and are usually either a little too fashionable or look like they've been ordered from a catalog . Think "International Male": gay men from Fresno and straight sailors love the stuff. This group of young men was A few minutes into it I heard someone walk into the next booth. I went down on my knees and peered through the gloryhole . I rarely look up at faces: there's usually more than enough information for me in the region of a man's crotch. And what I saw through the hole was enough to tell me this was one of the men from the group outside, a sailor who had come in either to watch a movie and jack off, or to get sucked off. I watched his hands. He unzipped his pants and reached inside . He played with himself slowly for a long while, feeding quarters into the slot . I looked up and got a glimpse of his video screen: he was watching the sad guys fucking the fat woman. Then he bent over just enough to see if anyone was in the next booth and saw just enough of me in a kneeling position to know that he could get what he needed. He fished his cock out of his pants, a fat cut one, not completely hard. He turned toward the hole and I put a finger or two a little ways through to seal the deal. He moved closer and I put my mouth up to the hole and felt the heat of his cock before we actually made contact .
You could tell that it had been a while . You can tell when a man is getting something he really needs and this sailor needed this. I kept my head still as he slid in. Already fat, it grew, pulsing with his heartbeat . I love feeling a cock grow in my mouth and this one grew quickly until it was hard and big and curving upward. And fat enough so that I had to make an effort to accommodate it . When you get a chance like this, you know what a great thing it is to "service" another man. I nursed on his cock, I sucked and tasted it and gave it the best I had. The most intimate connection in the world is between a man who needs to suck cock and a man who really needs to get sucked. When it's right, it takes a couple of steps towards the spiritual side of sex. Even when — or maybe especially when — there's a plywood wall separating the two men. Sometimes he'd move in and out of my mouth a little, but mostly he just held there pressed against the hole : giving me everything I wanted, letting me worship and love this young sailor's pure virility. I kept having images of him at sea, aboard an aircraft carrier, surrounded by miles of bright blue water, a long tour of duty, intimate with nothing but work, routine and loneliness.
He didn't know you can lock the doors of the booths, and once in a while someone would jerk his door open. He'd pull it closed, almost slamming it . But even though it would soften a bit when this happened, his cock never left the hole . It was mine . To put it mildly, I had his undivided attention. He seriously needed this. Once in a while I'd hear him drop another token into the slot . My mouth, I realized at one point, was an expedient substitute for a fat woman's loose pussy. And I was fine with that . I was happy with that . A generous fifteen minutes into it he got harder, jerked some against the plywood wall and finally shot hard in my mouth, down my throat . Five or six hot jets that were the saltiest I've ever tasted. And his cock kept spasming after all the cum had shot; he pushed against the hole, his hips jerking a little . And then after several minutes his orgasm was completely spent and he stopped pushing and relaxed. And for over a minute we just stayed still — his cock in me, my mouth around him, the taste and smell of him, the heat of his young flesh that was still steadily oozing . He pulled out slowly and stepped back . I swallowed and stared through the hole: this beautiful pendulous fat cock, hanging and still dripping cum and spit . He knew I was looking and he gave me a good long gander at it . Then he slowly stroked it, milking out the last drops, wiping them on the booth wall. He was thinking about this, maybe feeling guilty, maybe feeling ashamed, maybe feeling grateful, maybe just relieved. This may have meant a lot to him; it may have meant nothing . I'll never know. But I loved watching his hand moving slowly as he thought about it . He pulled open his pants, tucked his long fat relaxed cock away ( At ease, sailor ) , and adjusted his clothes perfectly. He'd been trained by the military to be careful with his clothes. I put my fingers on the edge of the hole, like the good-hearted whore saying goodbye to the sailor who's about to disappear from her — from his — life . But I doubt that he noticed: when I looked through the hole again he'd already left the booth and I could hear his quick steps as he walked out of the bookstore .
San Francisco during Fleet Week can be a sentimental place, even for tough-minded sex-fiends like me . I sat for a while and felt lucky. Lucky and something else altogether. Fortunate to be who I am, what I am, where I am. But still again something else. Before I could put my finger on what I was feeling (before I could locate my heart), someone tried to open the locked door of my booth, jostling the cheap doorknob noisily. And then someone else walked into the booth where the sailor had been. I peered through the gloryhole, pushing my face close to the hole . And I smelled the warm smell of the sailor's sex — a raw, complex and intimate smell. You know the smell. You remember it . The new guy in the next booth quickly unzipped his jeans and shoved his soft cock through the hole . A nice enough dick, sure . It was weirdly cold. I sucked on it and it refused to get harder. This was a local, one of the guys who, like me, is regularly awash in easy sex. Generic cock, typical mouth. A colder reality of SF sexlife . But I felt the cocksucker slut in me insisting that this was, after all, a big dick in my hungry mouth. A big dick in my hungry mouth. And then I shocked myself: I felt a strange sense of faithfulness to the sailor, to the connection I'd felt . He was enough. I hadn't seen his face, I'd only been a warm hole for him to shove his big dick into, but he'd be enough for me this evening . I stopped sucking on the drooping cold dick, waited for it to disappear through the hole . I stood up, straightened my clothes and walked out .
The place had filled up. I recognized a bunch of regulars with their lizard-quick eyes, their competitive hunger (one lurched into the booth I'd just abandoned, bending to peer through the gloryhole before the door was shut). But one or two of the men leaning against the walls were too well-groomed and nervous to be locals: more young sailors in need. I grinned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I could have stayed and kept the booth to myself, sucking off more men, hoping to get more men, more cocks and loads, more sailors from the fleet . But the walls were lined with men who needed what I'd just had, who needed the chance to be the easy whore for a warm-blooded young sailor on leave . And I wanted them to have their chance : this cocksucker had had a sailor and that sailor had been enough. Let the others fall in love now.
|
