“You’re perverted, Tommy, you know that,” Nick said to me. It was mid November and vintage holiday jazz played softly as we sat in comfy armchairs, waiting for hazelnut decafs at our favorite java house.
“Well, why’d he have to go and unbutton his shirt?” I asked. We were talking about a recent date with my latest crush. I’d had such hopes, but he’d turned out to be just as quick to strip as the rest of them.
The barista came to our table, a cup and saucer balanced in each hand. He wore a dark blue canvas apron over a white button-down and khakis. He was new here. I wondered whether the khakis were pleated or flat front.
“My friend’s a pervert,” Nick told him.
“Shut up, Nicky,” I said.
Blue Apron smiled at me.
“I’m not a pervert,” I said to him, “my friend’s a slut. It warps his perceptions.”
“Sticks and stones,” Nick said.
Am I a pervert to love a well-dressed man? I say no. Nothing wrong with admiring a sense of style, a play of textures. Nothing wrong with appreciating a man’s ability to knot the perfect Windsor or fill out a pair of tight jeans.
I approach a man’s body as a mystery to be uncovered-a riddle with which to tease my imagination so that by the time I get him into bed, I’m comparing the actual terrain to a detailed map in my head. The color of his nipples. Whether there will be tattoos or piercings and whether he shaves.
Nicky was naked the day we met. No mystery. And then there’s his clothes.
Today, he wore a faded rugby shirt and I concede that he was entitled, as he used to play the game, but honestly, the navy and gold stripes did nothing for his redhead’s complexion. He wore it untucked and unironed for that pulled-from-the-bottom-of-the-pile look. With a little effort, he’d be gorgeous and it’s not like he couldn’t afford it, trust fund baby that he was. In fact, his money would be taking him away to Europe for most of December, where he’d be surrounded by custom Milanese lace-ups and Parisian silk knits and the incomparable tailors of Savile Row, not that he’d take advantage of any of it. As long as I’d known him, Nick had walked the edge between casual and barely-acceptable – shadowed cheeks, days-away-from-becoming-shaggy russet hair, an earring just a little too heavy for office work. But he was Nicky. How could I help but love him?
He asked, “You even remember what sex is?”
“Shut up, already.”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled his most irritating little smile.
“Fuck you, Nicky.”
His smile broadened.
“Slut,” I said.
Nick and I have nursed one another through everything from a bad bottle of vodka to an ungodly assortment of dating mishaps like the one we were drowning today. And once you’ve cleaned up somebody’s blown cookies or made a fool of yourself crying in his arms, you know you’ve got yourself a true friend. Even if he is a badly-dressed prick sometimes.
I poured half and half into my cup. I said, “So all I have to do to make you happy is have sex?”
Nicky said, “That … and tell me all about it.” He grinned.
I’d had about enough of this. He was supposed to be cheering me up. My spoon rang against the inside of my cup. Nicky stilled me with a touch so gentle that I forgave him even before he said, “Forget making me happy, bro. What can I bring you from Paris? What would make you happy?”
God, the way he was looking at me. Like he would keep looking at me, all intense and searching, until I shared the secrets of my heart. Or until I came all over my silk socks, screaming his name as he fucked me unconscious.
Having a man of my own giving me that look, I thought. That would make me happy.
“A pair of Gianni Barbato ankle boots?” I asked instead, grinning.
He smiled. “Is that all? How ‘bout a Euro-stud model in leather pants he never takes off?”
“Funny, Nick. Very funny.”
“I mean it, bro. Tell me what you want.”
“In a man?”
He grinned. “Unless you’re changing teams.”
I ignored that. “A man I can trust,” I said. “A man who doesn’t push. A man with enough confidence to try something different.”
A man like Nick, I realized.
I was getting hard.
I couldn’t afford to ruin the best friendship I’d ever had by letting my mouth run away with me. Time to get control of myself. I imagined him nude. That only made it worse, so I tried to imagine the anti-Nicky. Clean cut. Shirt and tie. Socks that matched his trousers. It helped. I took a slow, deep breath and said, “And of course, a man who likes to look good.”
As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. Nicky reached for a packet of sugar on the little table between us. “I see,” he said, stirring.
“It’s your turn,” I said to shut myself up. “What would make you happy?”
He kept stirring long enough for me to get uncomfortable. Across the coffee shop, Blue Apron pulled a couple of small tables together for a group coming in. The new arrivals took their time slipping out of exquisitely tailored jackets before settling into their chairs. Three women, two men. I couldn’t help staring at the taller of the men. He wore a fitted leather shirt that looked soft enough to be real chamois. His head was shaved. I wanted to run my hands all over him.
“That would make me happy,” Nicky said unexpectedly. He was studying me.
“Didn’t know you liked the shaved thing,” I said.
“Not that,” he said. “If you have that same reaction when you open your Christmas present this year, that would make me happy.”
Since that day at the coffee shop, I just couldn’t see going with my original plan of giving Nicky a handmade coupon that would entitle him to a backrub every month in the coming year.
I couldn’t see it because I kept flashing to the day we’d met, barely out of our teens, in the showers at the gym. I kept seeing the water running down his body, skating through the sparse russet hair on his chest before gathering in his glistening pubes. I kept remembering how the water made his dick an inviting spout for the runoff. His dick had looked solid and thick on his not-yet-fully-filled-out body, his balls seeming to push the luscious, soft mouthful in my direction.
Wondering how his body had weathered the years since was driving me to the edge.
This never used to happen to me. Certainly not about Nicky.
I spent a frantic couple of days shopping for an alternative gift that would help me stay within the bounds of friendship. I even brought home a killer cashmere muffler, though it was too expensive for our exchange. In the end, I slipped the backrub coupon into a green envelope and wrote his name in gold, but I wrapped the scarf, too. Just In Case.
When he knocked on my door on Christmas Eve night, as our tradition demanded, the first thing I saw was a long sweep of camels hair coat, British to judge by the cut. Yum. Then my eyes came up to the kid-gloved hands holding packages against his chest – packages that included a gauzy iridescent bag with a very nice French champagne label poking out the top. I climbed higher. His hair was immaculate, newly cut and sleekly styled back away from his freshly shaved face. A small gold hoop shone from his right earlobe.
He smiled and I finally saw someone I recognized in all that glorious packaging. It didn’t do anything to check my dick’s response. Here was my idea of a wet dream. He was also my best friend. This was going to be a rough night.
“Merry Christmas?” he said.
“Come inside,” I said and immediately cringed at my double entendre – Freudian slip, really, because I’d unintentionally told him exactly what I wanted him to do.
Nicky let it go, for once. He came in and whistled as he looked around my place. He said, “I can’t believe how great this looks.”
Back at you, I thought.
It did look pretty good. I’d laced the jungle of trees and houseplants in my front room with white twinkle lights. More lights edged the opening between my front room and hallway. Real pine garland wound around tall silver candlesticks on my faux mantel. I’d even loaded the CD changer with holiday music.
He handed me the thinly-disguised champagne bottle. It had been chilled. “This is for before …” he said, “and this is for after.” He handed me another package, a smallish paper gift bag which smelled of freshly ground coffee. Hazelnut coffee. Just like we were drinking at the café the day I’d lost my mind. His final package, a long, thin shape that screamed “necktie,” he kept in his hands.
I thanked him and set the goods on the coffee table, then reached to help him with his beautiful coat. I nearly dropped it. Nicky was wearing a moss green sweater that my twitching fingers wanted to confirm as angora, over a white silk tee shirt. His trousers were a darker tone of the same green as the sweater. The colors made his skin look flawless and lickable while the textures practically begged me to pet him.
I was glad to have at least his new coat in my arms. It was plush and soft and made to last a lifetime. I wanted to take my clothes off and rub it all over me. I hung it in the closet and swung through the kitchen for champagne glasses instead.
Nick waited for me on my suede sofa. He’d lit the candles on the mantel. The candlelight warmly caught the brushed surface of his little gold earring. I found myself staring at his lips. My own were dry.
I needed a little distance. I thought about the baggy, wrinkled tee shirt he’d worn the night of his last birthday. I thought about the time he’d asked me quite seriously what was wrong with flip flops. I thought about the pair of jeans he invariably wore when meeting any new man in my life, the jeans with the crotch worn white with age.
Picturing those jeans was not my best plan. I shook my head to clear it.
I said, “So are you heading to another party later?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You look good enough to eat. I figure you must be planning to hook up with somebody pretty special.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Here’s hoping.” He twisted the champagne bottle, using the gauzy gift bag to get a grip on the cork. In his practiced hands, the cork surrendered with a subdued pop.
I wanted the chance to do the same. Evidently Nick had been right about me needing to get laid. Every little thing he did was making me pant.
Nick poured the champagne and raised his glass.
“To friendship?” I said, hoping to convince myself.
“And happiness,” he said.
We drank to that. The champagne went straight to my dick, and I moved over to put physical distance between us. The stiff suede of the sofa mocked me with its sensual roughness.
I asked, “Who’s the lucky man?”
He laughed. “You don’t believe I would dress for you?”
What a tease. I said, “Never have before.”
“Let’s just say I was up for something different.” He smiled. I caught a hint of woodsy cologne that hit me like another glass of champagne.
He cocked his head and said, “Anything close to what you wanted?”
I swallowed hard. “Sorry?”
He grinned. “The boots.” He put his feet in my lap. He was wearing maroon ankle boots, the leather polished to a high shine. I cupped the slick surface with my hand, quickly wiped my sweating palm on the leg of my own trousers, then returned to the cool, hard boot. “Go ahead,” Nicky said, “take them off and look. I know you want to.”
I knew he was teasing. My dick didn’t care. All I could hope was that Nicky would go before I embarrassed myself, leaving me to jack off while the smell of these boots was still on my hands.
I pulled off his boots. He was wearing silk socks that matched his moss colored trousers.
“Look,” he said with signature Nicky impatience.
“Looking,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the miracle in my lap. Nicky’s socks matched his trousers. My lap was seriously changing contours in response.
Nicky said, “At the boots.”
“Gianni Barbato,” I said. “You remembered.” It was a struggle to breathe. The smell of stained, Italian leather and whatever cologne Nick was wearing made a potent combination.
He said, “I didn’t know your size, bro. I’ll have to call and have another pair sent.” He put his feet back on the floor. I kept his boots in my lap to hide my erection.
“More champagne?” he asked.
He must not have seen me shake my head and I was unable to speak, so in a heartbeat, I had another full glass in hand and a living, breathing god sitting much too close to me.
“Helmut Lang?” I asked, my voice a croak.
He grinned. “Odd toast, Tommy, even for you.”
“Jaipur Homme,” he said, his pronunciation betraying years of private-school French study. He raised his glass. “À la votre, Tommy,” he said.
My lips were numb. I managed a sip without dribbling and quickly set the glass down on the coffee table. One of Nicky’s boots spilled off my lap. The sole of the other lay along my stiff dick. I stared at his sweater so he might miss reading the runaway lust in my eyes.
“Do you want to touch it?” he asked, his voice deeper than usual. He guided my hand and set it on his chest. My hand curled reflexively, dragging my fingers over the softly tangled fibers. I was right. Angora.
“Nicky,” I said to his chest. I wanted to rub my face against it. And that was just for openers.
“Do I what, Tommy?” There was still tease in his voice, but it was luxuriating in sultry texture, same as I was.
I guided his hand. His fingers pushed aside the boot, curling around my cock through the fabric of my trousers. I moaned. He kissed me, soft and sweet. His hand started to move, setting my nerve endings alight.
On the CD player, Natalie Cole was dreaming of a white Christmas. Not me. I wanted a redhead in green wrappings. Even better, he seemed to want me.
I stroked his soft sweater, his smooth face, his sleek hair. It wasn’t enough. I lay back on the sofa. He lay half atop me, kissing me, his tongue taking the lead. I was inhaling the herbal mysteries of his thick hair when he started kissing my throat and neck, pulling at my skin with his teeth.
My prime erogenous zone. I writhed.
Nick pressed his hard dick against my thigh. I could feel the friction of my own cock rubbing against the wet spot in my boxers. There was real danger I would squirt if he kept sucking on my neck and pressing against me. I didn’t want that to happen. Not yet.
“Nicky, wait,” I said, my breath already ragged.
He let go of my neck and leaned away until he could meet my eyes. His were unfocused, his lips wet and fuller than they’d been. His cock still throbbed against my leg. “Problem?” he asked.
I’d never heard his voice get like that before. Husky. Roughened by lust. I shivered. He must have guessed my problem. He smiled. “Pervert,” he said.
I about choked on my laughter. He didn’t move. The pressure of his cock against my leg was relentless. He said, “Don’t you want to unwrap your Christmas gift?” He reached off the couch and handed me the necktie package.
He had to be kidding. “Now?” By some trick of the light, I could see the brown flecks in his eyes. His obscenely long eyelashes looked velvety. He was beautiful.
He sat on my thighs and watched as I tore into the wrapping paper with the distracted urgency of a six-year-old. It was no tie, but an endlessly long black silk scarf.
“It’s beautiful, Nicky,” I said, confused. This kind of scarf had never really been my thing.
“That’s not the point, Tommy. It’s not your present.” He grinned like a boy half his age and took the scarf from me. His eyes sparkled. He kissed me. I closed my eyes to kiss him back, more confused than before. I felt the silk scarf against my cheek. Then Nicky’s fingers raised my head off the couch. He wrapped the scarf around my eyes. Several times. I felt him tie a knot at the bridge of my nose.
“Now let’s get you out of those clothes,” he said.
I hadn’t thought I could get any harder. The tease of angora fibers unexpectedly brushing my ribs as he efficiently removed my cotton cashmere pullover, the feel of his breath against my hip as he tugged off my trousers and boxers left me stiff as a teenager. Just the idea of Nicky had been turning me on for weeks. Now he was not only here, dressed to the nines, but had me blindfolded and nude on my own rough suede sofa. I deserved a medal for holding my load.
I groped blindly and found what I soon identified as his arm. I stroked his sleeve. My other hand found a woolen-clad thigh to caress.
I felt warm inside. Alive. Intensely excited. As wasted as if I’d had all the champagne myself, and unable to stop smiling. This was fun.
I said, “Are you going to kiss me or am I supposed to get myself off humping your incredible sweater?”
He made a sound through his nose, but didn’t move.
Uncertainty – and pride – gave me pause. I said, “Are you laughing at me?”
He said, “No, Tommy. I’m finally getting what I wanted for Christmas.” His voice was softer than his sweater. Softer than his coat. I wanted to rub it all over me. My dick started to drool.
Then the true sensory assault began.
He teased my skin with the angora sweater, which he must have pulled off, trailing it over my inner elbow, my belly and between my knees. Not knowing where it was coming next was even more exciting than the feel of the soft fibers. My fingers dug into the crooks of his still-clothed knees while he tortured my nipples with playful swipes of that featherweight sweater.
When I couldn’t take anymore I blindly grabbed him and pulled him to me and kissed him until he was the one moaning and humping my leg.
My roving hands found his silk tee shirt already clinging to his back. I couldn’t get my hands under his pants because he was wearing a belt. I followed the belt around to the buckle and fumbled to open it without seeing it. Lust made me clumsy. It took forever. I was distracted by wondering whether his belt matched his boots.
Finally, I had his trouser fly opened. The waistband of his underwear led me to something that wasn’t ordinary cotton knit. My fingers explored what seemed to be fine, silky mesh.
“I want to see.”
He chuckled. He got off the sofa while I reached for the scarf’s knot. My fingers were next to useless after the sensory overload they’d had.
“Stop that,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. He climbed back on the sofa, on me. His bare foot brushed my calf. His bare knees bracketed my thighs. I could smell his skin, a musky overlay to the scent of my leather sofa.
I froze. “Are you naked?”
He placed my hands on his chest. He was still wearing the silk tee shirt. My fingers fanned over his hard pecs. The shirt clung to him like a second skin. I wanted to see it. He said, “I won’t risk being another Jonah, or Ethan, or any of those other guys.” The smile was gone.
I wanted to tell him how thoughts of his body had been haunting me while he’d been away, how I’d take him nude over anyone else clothed. All I could say was, “Nicky.” My eyes stung.
He dragged my hands down his body to his hips, saying, “I am going to lose the trunks. Soon. Enjoy them while you can, pervert.” He was smiling again. I could hear it.
My thumb brushed him and he gasped. I gasped, too. From where my hand was, no way should I be accidentally touching his cock. My fingers slid over the taut mesh fabric, tracing the length of a fat pole that put even my generous memory to shame. He was huge.
Whatever these trunks looked like, they were designed for an active man, with a snug fit and a special structured pouch that Nicky’s iron bar no longer fit within.
I licked my lips. “C’mere, Nicky.”
He settled with his knees at my shoulders and I carefully moved all that pulsing meat with my mouth. I pulled the waistband away from his body and went fishing with my tongue. I was rewarded with what seemed a small head for such a big cock. Not that I was complaining. It fit perfectly in my mouth.
The taste was rich, thick and not at all sweet. Something about it reminded me of cloves. Or anise. Something exotic and a little dangerous. It called to me. I knew I’d never tire of it. I kneaded his tight butt with my fingers while I tasted him. The trunks had a back center seam. Sexy as hell.
My mouth was getting to him, judging from all his moving around. I couldn’t risk losing his cock to tell him to stay still. Instead, I brought my hand into play to steady him.
My hand couldn’t close around his shaft. How big was he? I tried to picture his cock. It seemed as thick as my arm. As I lapped pre-come from his deeply-cleft glans, I realized this small, tapered cock head was the perfect shape for him to ease into a tight space, clearing the way for the battering ram to follow. My sphincter clenched in anticipation.
“Fuck me, Nicky,” I said.
He slid down my body. His exposed dick painted me with spicy nectar as he went. His lips found my ear, my neck, my throat. The scent of his cologne was giving way to natural musk, pheromones, sweat. The smell of sex. I moaned, my brain unable to take the crush to my senses. I didn’t know whether I could last until I had him inside of me.
He kissed me and lifted my ankles over his shoulders. He took his time getting me slick. I tried to think about mundane things. Laundry. Shopping. I kept coming back to how Nick had looked in that camels hair coat. How he’d said he was hoping to hook up with someone special tonight.
He’d meant me.
I whimpered with need.
His fingers slowly pushed in and out of my ass. Damn, he felt good inside of me. I had a last desperate thought for our friendship but it didn’t stand a chance against the champagne, the angora, the tortured days of thinking about his body. I’d just have to trust we could survive doing something about it.
My ass relaxed and started gripping his fingers. My dick slid over my belly, drooling into my navel. I took it in my hand and gave a squeeze.
“Hang on, Tommy.” His fingers left me. My legs slid off his shoulders. I felt him leave the sofa, heard the sounds of taut elastic and knew he was freeing that mammoth cock. I was ready for it. More than ready.
I felt the tickle of silk across my lips. It traveled down my throat and over my heaving chest.
“A gift from Paris,” he said. The fabric pressed against my cock and I realized he was wrapping it around me, tying it firmly just beneath the head. I found it with my hand as he climbed back on the sofa. The ends of the scarf hung long enough that I could just cover the tip of my tool with their decadent softness.
His name fell from my lips endlessly. I was begging.
I’d never been so hard in my life.
“It’s okay, bro,” he said, petting me. He wasted no time getting his sheathed tool into position against my now-ready hole, my legs over his shoulders. I was surprised to find he was still wearing the silk tee shirt. He wrapped his hands around my knees, pulling up until my hips came up off the rough suede sofa.
Sweat poured off me. I had to remind myself to keep breathing. My pulse pounded in my ears. I wanted to move, to squirm, but I was afraid I’d get hurt. I wasn’t sure I could take a pummeling from Nicky’s tree trunk. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I could take it, period.
I reached for him to distract myself. His silk shirt had become liquid skin. I teased his nipples through the fabric. He growled and jerked. “Tommy,” he gasped. I guessed I’d found his prime erogenous zone. I went after his nipples with all the energy and saliva I had to spare. His breathing became ragged. He buried his last three inches in one push.
My turn to gasp and struggle for breath.
I shook my head, unable to speak. I imagined his massive slab wedged deep in my guts. Hot. So hot. I relaxed my shoulders, my neck, my jaw. My fingers started to tingle.
He pressed forward and kissed me. Shivers shot through my body. I held him close and opened my mouth to his tongue. He kissed me like I wanted him to fuck me – wild, deep, messy. I pulled at my trussed dick, still hard thanks to his ingenious silk cock ring.
We smelled like sex now, thick and heavy. “Do it,” I said. I flexed my ass around his tool.
He groaned. He pulled back and buried himself again. His arms were shaking.
So was I. I took a deep breath and let it out.
He started rocking inside of me. My ass clenched at him every time he rocked back, making him moan until he rocked forward, igniting little sparklers of lust inside me. He rolled me up onto my shoulders, holding my legs while he fucked me.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Nick teased me, giving me just an inch, then a little more, then pulling back again until I was clutching at him, begging for real. My pulse thundered, pumping enough sweat to stain the suede beneath me. Still he teased.
How like him, with his rumpled clothing, his awful shoes. All these years, and I never knew.
He slid all the way in. We moaned together. He wrapped his arms around me. His lips on my neck about sent me into arrest. My dick was so hard it ached.
He started rocking again. The head of his cock rubbed against my swollen prostate. Sparks flew. Tears soaked my silk blindfold. I never knew there was room inside me for so much pleasure.
Nicky held my hips, slamming home with increasing speed. “Come for me, Tommy,” he said. His voice was gone. Just the sound of it nearly brought me off.
He pushed the blindfold up over my forehead and off my head altogether. His eyes glittered at me as he pumped into my ass, his lips wet and swollen. His silk tee shirt was completely transparent with sweat. I gasped for breath. I reached for my dripping cock and matched Nicky’s fuck rhythm. My balls were already drawing up.
His hand joined mine around my cock. He pulled the silk scarf loose. My whole body clenched. I could feel my seed boil. He licked my neck and gnawed the sensitive skin beneath my ear. That was it. I shot onto his chest, onto my chest, onto his neck. Come splashed his chin. I shouted his name.
His rhythm faltered. He tensed. He trembled. He let go of my ear and bellowed like a beast. Only the condom kept his hot load from filling me.
I kept coming. I kept shouting. My hands were numb. I saw flame and starlight. I grew hoarse. I was still coming, Nicky’s big dick deep inside me. His face swam into focus. God, the way he was looking at me. I gave another heave and passed out with his name on my lips.
I gave him the cashmere muffler and the backrubs. And everything else, come to that.
Nicky didn’t go home until early New Year’s Eve, and then only to get ready for a New Year’s bash we both wanted to attend.
I can’t wait. He promised to wear a tuxedo.