Naked guy on the rocks; second installment of “Fuck Me … Please” …

Hi, friends and readers:

Have you ever been to Hawaii? I have; I spent eight days on Maui during spring 2008. I went by myself, but I never felt lonely because the people there were so friendly. Afterward, I wrote a short novel titled Maui that takes place in Lahaina, Maui’s biggest town. If you want to check it out, click on the listing in my blogroll.

Anyway, I’m pretty certain today’s photo post was taken somewhere in the Hawaiian Islands. He’s handsome, isn’t he?

I’m up rather late this morning, due to last night’s dinner party at our good friend’s home. The wine flowed and dinner was great. More wine flowed after dinner. It was such a nice time; I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening. Before dinner we watched sunset down the street at the beach. It was beautiful.

Today’s a typical Wednesday: writing, YMCA, dinner in the city with our friends. Nothing too exciting, but always enjoyable.

Thanks to everyone who wrote in to say they enjoyed the first installment of Fuck Me … Please. Here’s the second installment. Again, it comes with a caveat: this story contains graphic sexual scenes involving two men. It’s not for the squeamish and it’s not intended for readers under the age eighteen. If you are offended by explicit sexual language, don’t read Fuck Me . . . Please.

* * * *

I checked him out while he ordered a beer. He was my age, probably five-ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. He had what I call “pretty boy” features: a turned-up nose, dick-sucking lips, and high cheekbones. His eyelashes were long, like a girl’s, and when he blinked it was hard not to notice. His hair was dark, cut short on the sides, a bit of length on top. He turned his face toward mine–before I could swing my gaze–and then our gazes met.

He nodded. Then he said, “Hey.”

I said, “How’s it going?”

We made small talk. For a swab, he wasn’t such a bad guy. He told me his name was Tyler. I said mine was Forrest, and when we shook, his grip was firm. He was stationed on a nuclear submarine, he said, one presently in port. He’d been granted one week’s shore leave. He was from a small town in southern Illinois and this was his second visit to San Francisco. He’d taken a room not far from the tavern.

I asked what his hotel cost him, and he said forty-eight per night, which included donuts and coffee in the morning.

He asked where I was staying, and I said, “I’m screwed. I blew my last paycheck before I left Okinawa. Guess I’m on the street till I find temp work.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything. We ordered another round of beers. He turned toward me on his stool and then he rested his feet on the stringers. He placed one forearm on the bar. He talked about serving on a submarine, how for months at a time he lived underwater with one hundred-ten other sailors. Everybody lived real close, he said, and they had to get along.

You know how some guys have an air of confidence about them? Tyler was like that. I mean, even though we were the same age and I was bigger than him, with a lot more muscle and broader shoulders, I felt he was stronger and wiser than me. His voice was deep and he spoke good English, like a school teacher would, and he seemed to know a lot about important things: geography, current events, and so forth.

I bought beers till my money ran out. Then Tyler bought me a few more. He seemed to have plenty of cash. (I guess you don’t spend much money when you’re submerged.) By the time we left the tavern, the shadows outside had grown long. Afternoon traffic had picked up, and I felt woozy. I’d drunk maybe eight beers on an empty stomach and the alcohol had garbled my thinking.

I got bold. I asked Tyler, “Could I stay in your room? Just for tonight?”

He rested his hands on his hips, and then he looked at something over my shoulder. Then he returned his gaze to me.

He said, “Forrest, you need to know something.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “I’m gay. I’ve been stuck on that submarine five months–no privacy and no sex. While I’m in San Francisco, I plan to get laid every night, so having you in my room would not work.”

I was surprised as hell, ’cause Tyler seemed pretty normal to me. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, toward the tavern.

I said, “Is that place…?”

He nodded. T

hen it occurred to me we’d spent over two hours drinking beer and talking, and not a single woman had entered the bar.

Studying the sidewalk, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

I wasn’t innocent; I knew what sorts of things went on between guys in private. Once, I’d spent a weekend by myself in Wilmington, a city near Camp Lejeune. I was seated on a bench in a public park on a Saturday night and a guy came up and sat beside me, a decent-looking guy, maybe twenty-five. He wore eyeglasses and nice clothes, but he wasn’t a sissy or anything.

We got to talking and I told him my story: that I was a Marine, that I had a room in town for the weekend.

After a while, he said, “I want to tell you something personal.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “I think you’re good looking. I’d like to suck your cock.”

I was surprised, of course, by his proposal. I’d never, you know… done such a thing. But I was alone in Wilmington, and nobody knew me there and I said to myself, Hell, why not?

I told him, “All right, okay. You can do that.”

We walked to my motel (it wasn’t far), and once we got inside, he asked me to strip to my skivvies. He took off his eyeglasses and shirt. (He was pretty well built, actually). He got on his knees before me, on the carpet. Then he started mouthing my cock through the skivvies. He stuck his fingers inside the leg holes and tickled my nuts.

I got stiff pretty fast. My shorts turned into a circus tent. Finally, the guy yanked them down to my feet, and I kicked them off. I stood before him, butt naked.

The guy gushed over the size of my cock (It’s nine inches when hard.) and the way my balls look (He called them “low hangers.”). His tongue and lips were all over my pecker, licking and sucking, while his fingers stroked my nuts and combed through my pubic hair.

I mean, I got excited. I dug my toes into the carpet, I flexed my fingers.

This guy knew what he was doing. After ten minutes, I blasted a load down his throat, and then he swallowed every drop like my jizz was some kind of liquid treat.

I’d already had my Wilmington experience when I met Tyler, so the fact he liked men did not shock or repulse me. I still respected him, plus I needed a place to stay–badly. Looking up from the concrete, I made eye contact with Tyler.

I said, “If it’s sex you’re after, you can suck my dick. It’s not a problem.”

He kept his gaze locked onto mine. Then his eyes narrowed.

“What would you do for me, Forrest? How would I get satisfied?”

I shrugged and looked away. I didn’t have an answer for him.

He said, “I’m a top man, Forrest. Do you know what that means?”

I shook my head, still not looking at him.

He said, “It means I fuck ass.”

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2008

Okay, everyone, I hope you’re  enjoying the story so far. I’ll post another installment tomorrow. In the meantime, stay safe and enjoy your Wednesday.

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