Giovanni turned and kissed me on the forehead. “For luck,” he said. He dashed toward the stage, but instead of ascending the stairs that Carlos was descending, he jumped onto it with one graceful leap.
He started to sway with the music. His spine hugged the pole and he swung around and around, but his eyes never left mine.
And my eyes never left his. He was dancing just for me. The crowded room shrank and all the bodies disappeared. It was just the two of us, and the music. Giovanni opened his belt and ran his hands down his chest, across his stomach, and then under the waistband of his jeans.
His belt flapped as he moved his pelvis so it slapped the pole on stage. His hips gyrated to the right and to the left, then he performed low knee bends and squat thrusts, his eyes never leaving mine. How I could make eye contact and still absorb every detail of his dance was beyond me.
In my heart I wanted to see him take off his clothes, but another part of me wanted the dance to last forever. The song ended and another started. The button on his jeans opened and his flat abdomen was exposed. The fan of hair grew darker and thicker. His belt acted like a coiled dick onstage, flopping one way and the other, again slapping the pole.
My body tingled with the electricity in the room. My heart beat in time with the music.
His zipper lowered, the denim giving release to the rigid flesh beneath. His erection rose from the V as his tight jeans worked their way down his legs to reveal a perfect body. My private Hero. He danced and swayed.
My mouth watered. The music rose and he smiled at me. I smiled back. He cocked his head to the side, toward the back hallway and the upstairs rooms. He glowed with pleasure and excitement. Do you want a private dance? he asked me from across the room.
Could I be reading his mind? My body swayed with the music. The beat grew and my palms went damp. I wiped them on my legs and smiled.
Come with me, Giovanni called with his silent glance. Come with me. He danced and danced. The music climaxed with the last note.
I said aloud, “Yes.”
Applause broke the silence as Giovanni pulled up his pants and zipped before the announcer could say a word.
He jumped off the stage and extended his arm in my direction.
I ran to him.
His hand reached for mine as the audience parted. Our fingers wove together as our palms touched. He pulled me to the hallway and up the stairs. The stairs turned at the top, and we entered a hallway lined with doors to dressing rooms. Giovanni grabbed a key, and we entered one. He motioned for me to sit on the bench and he stood with his hips at my eye level.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked, as the Pointer Sisters’ “Dare Me” started. He opened his belt and unzipped his fly. He pushed his pants down to the top of his boots and moved closer.
My hands reached around and cupped his ass. His cheeks fit perfectly into my grip. His buns were warm and tight, covered with a fine down that tickled my hands as my fingers massaged the muscle and explored the crease. Despite his workout onstage, his skin was dry and soft. His tan line showed the tight fit of a Speedo. I licked my lips as my hands rounded his hips and my thumbs lifted his balls. They dangled low and heavy, then rose with my thumbs as my fingers combed through his pubic hair. His erection stood straight out, even bigger than it had appeared onstage. Foreskin sheathed the mushroom end and precum glistened on the fold of skin.
I breathed in deeply, his erection bobbing against the tip of my nose. A musky male scent assaulted my nostrils and I felt faint. I’m dreaming, I thought, and I didn’t want to wake up. My fingers ran up and down the length of his shaft. My cock pressed hard against my Calvin Kleins, tenting my pants. His foreskin pulled back and the head of his cock slipped out, the pearl of precum glistening before it dropped onto my finger. I rubbed it between my fingertips and savored the sensation.
Giovanni moaned as my fingers encircled his girth, pulling the foreskin back and forth, exposing and covering his sensitive glans.
“What would you like?” he breathed. His wet tip brushed my nose, burning it with the sweet smell of cum.
Before I could speak, his hands worked my fly open. He pulled down my Calvins. A huge wet spot soaked the front. He squeezed the cotton between his fingers and then brought them to his mouth. He licked the ooze off and swallowed deeply, delighting in the taste.
His cock lowered toward my mouth and my tongue lapped his precum, which was sweet and salty, and all male.
His hand squeezed more precum from my briefs and he brought his fingers to my mouth. My juices mixed with his. Ambrosia.
“Want to try something I enjoy?” he asked.
I nodded. I was unable to speak.
He pulled his foreskin down and opened the fold wide. He spit into his hand, wet the folds, and rubbed the head of my cut cock with his other hand. Spreading the precum around, he guided my cockhead into the end of his foreskin. His tip hit my tip and the moisture mixed. He pulled the hood over my cock, securing them together in a vacuum. A sucking sound rose from the mix of spit and precum, as dick met dick in the hood of skin.
My hands grabbed onto his ass and pulled him closer and our dicks humped as my hips met his thrusts. So this is what it feels like to have a foreskin. Wonderful.
His hand jacked our cocks at the same time, one huge penis shared by two. His sensation was my sensation. Our hips rocked as my hands worked his ass. My fingers were slippery and found his tight sphincter. My index finger circled the ring and probed the deep pucker in the center.
With each circle of my finger, I pressed harder, and Giovanni pressed back. His asshole was a mouth sucking on my finger, drawing it inside as I pushed. Another pelvic thrust and my finger broke through, into the warmth.
Our rhythm quickened.
The foreskin hood formed suction and more precum added to the seal. Giovanni’s hand stroked our two-man tube. Eighteen inches of male pleasure spanned us, joined us, became us. Pearls of juice seeped out and lubricated our common shaft. His hand ran down to the hilt of my cock, and back to the hilt of his. He spread more precum with each pass. Our hips rocked back and forth. I fucked his foreskin and it sucked my cock. Tension grew from the base of my penis and pressure built in my balls. My finger sunk deeper and deeper, seeking his prostate, faster, deeper. My finger found the magic spot. An eruption exploded from his cock, engorging the small skin pocket with hot, wet thickness before spraying through the seal of foreskin and coursing down the length of my shaft, soaking my pubic hair.
As the wave hit, my balls released and matched his load. Giovanni’s hand never stopped. More cum spilled out and spread across our cocks. My finger continued to stimulate his gland, producing wave after wave. Our climaxes ended at last, and he pulled back. Foreskin suction popped loudly in the small space. We separated, but my cock strained forward for more. Mine didn’t want to release his yet.
I sat back, spent. Giovanni struggled to his feet and found his legs were unable to hold him up. He collapsed on the bench next to me. “Wow. That was wild.” He ruffled my hair. Our breath returned to normal.
I reached for my wallet. Giovanni held my wrist.
“What?” I asked confused.
“Why don’t we settle up at your place? I get off in a few minutes, we could go out for supper and make a night of it.”
“I’m staying at a hotel,” I said.
“No problem, we can settle up there too.”
“My room has a Jacuzzi.”
“It may take us all night to square up,” Giovanni said as we walked out of the booth.
“I hope so,” I said. “I hope so.” And it did.
PHYSICAL THERAPY
Jay Neal
Indeed, it can happen just that fast. Without thinking, I stepped out of the shower and strode naked and wet across the floor of the bathroom to fetch a towel. Before I could even register the fleeting sensation of my wet foot starting to slip on the tiles, I found myself flat on my back saying, “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” and trying to find a
position for my leg that didn’t cause intolerable pain.
There followed plenty of tiresome, time-consuming details we needn’t go into: dragging myself to the phone, ambulance (cute med tech!), emergency room, X-rays—it is broken!—operating room, anesthesia, surgery, recovery. Undermining my notion that surgeons only take things out, I am now the proud owner of a metal plate in my upper thigh, screwed into the top of my femur, and sure to arouse the interest of security personnel at any airport.
Recovery meant only rare periods of rest in the orthopedic ward between bouts of taking pills, giving blood, talking about bowel movements, and torture delivered at the hands of the Physical Therapy Brigade.
The Brigade arrived on the ward every morning, bright and cheerful and bringing with them a frightening assortment of infernal devices that would shame the Spanish Inquisition. The Brigade claimed they were there to make one feel better, but I knew that they must secretly be after some very important information. If I knew what it was they wanted to know, I’d happily have confessed.
Every day seemed to bring someone new, undoubtedly because most patients quickly developed a love-hate—mostly hate—relationship with any individual therapist. So far I had myself experienced: 1) the petite, blonde, fairy princess with the relentless sadistic streak; 2) the Wagnerian Brunhild type who seemed dedicated to my personal immolation; 3) the beautiful and unexpectedly strong man from Nigeria whose command of English was perfect except when it came to the vocabulary of pain and words like stop!; and 4) the comedy trio I thought of as the Marx Sisters. What—or whom—I wondered, might be on the program for this, my fifth day of so-called recovery following surgery?
The Brigade arrived right on schedule for morning maneuvers, marching through the hall in precision formation, their tools of torture swinging and clanking as they went. We had made it through a weekend of second-string tactical units, so there we were at the top of the week with the A-Team in full force and ready for new challenges. That meant new faces and an excuse for a new burst of optimism on my part, foolish though it may have been, that perhaps I would be visited by a compassionate human being for a change. Ridiculous, naive, and unlikely, I admit, but one must hope: it speeds patient recovery and all that therapeutic jazz.
My optimism was further stirred to see that the Brigade that day included in its ranks someone who was actually cute. Tall, youngish, just chunky enough to verge on husky, with a nice smile, a cheerful face, a spot of red coloring on his cheeks, and short, wavy, dark-blond hair. He had noticeably small ears but notably big hands. I like big hands. He evoked for me memories of the best of the corn-fed stock I grew to appreciate when I was going to college in Iowa.
How could this have happened? I am quite convinced that the dark masters of physical therapy, devising their sundry tortures in the shadowy depths of the hospital, would never knowingly send a therapist whom one might actually find pleasant—no doubt it would violate some law of reciprocal returns in physical therapy. Therefore I had to conclude that this masculine masterpiece was destined to work with some patient other than I, a patient who would find him suitably repulsive, difficult though that was to imagine. Alas—he looked to me like the perfect prescription for what ailed me: take two before bedtime and…maybe two more in the morning.
But maybe for all that he was a pill too large to swallow: once I had him in my nefarious clutches, just how much could I do with him? With one very gimpy leg I was hardly in a position to assume a position where any manner of athletic physical activity would be possible. Likewise, despite my most fervent desire, it was not going to be possible to fling my legs over his shoulders and enjoy with noisy and carefree abandon the tantalizing fruits of his loins. There would be no chance to discover in exactly how many ways this institution’s ubiquitous latex gloves could be used to explore body cavities. Most unfortunately, it seemed likely that my abilities at that moment might extend only so far as a Gedankenficken—a “thought-fuck.”
And then the morning formation was over, and the troops were dispersing to face their adversaries for the day. But wait! What was this? Contrary to all reasonable expectations and the wisdom of the Rolling Stones, sometimes you do get what you want. Incredibly, he, the cute one, the succulent vision, the stuff of wet dreams for weeks yet to come, was heading toward my room, determined and cheerful looking.
“Good morning, Mr. N. How are you and your leg doing this morning?” He pushed the door closed as he came through.
What a delight, I thought, to dispense with all that “how are we” stuff so popular with so many of the health-care types. It was almost startling, in fact, to be spoken to as though one had finally advanced into adulthood.
“Just fine, thank you. The pain is starting to recede, and I’m getting the earliest hint that some lateral motion in my leg is becoming possible again.” He gave a good impression of actually listening.
“Excellent, excellent. My name is Marc…”
“Marc with a c?”
“Yes, with a c,” he grinned, “and I’m your physical therapist for today. We won’t be doing anything too awful, just trying to continue the good progress you’ve been making and getting some more mobility back into that leg.”
His scrubs were a lovely teal-blue color that brought out his eyes. The V-neck in his scrubs also brought out his chest hair rather nicely. From the dense yet short and delicate hairs covering his arms, I thought I could reasonably extrapolate to a body-wide layer of fine, soft hair, something to brush gently with one’s fingertips into pleasingly swirling patterns. Not to mention, of course, those large hands. I admit to a bit of difficulty paying attention to what Marc-with-a-c was saying, although it was great fun watching his lips move.
“Why don’t we start by getting you into your chair?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
The chair itself—a nondescript thing with arms and a cushion and a back that could recline—was the venue for most of my leg exercises. Getting into the chair was a significant enterprise that involved maneuvering me first into sitting at the edge of my bed, getting me into a standing position, moving my butt in the direction of the chair, and then lowering me into it. It wasn’t a terribly graceful proposition.
We had gotten as far as my sitting at the edge of the bed. Marc paused and looked over the situation like he was having a brainstorm.
“We already know you can do the standing thing. How about today I lift you into your chair so you can save your energy for the exercises?”
It sounded good to me. I nodded hearty agreement.
“I’ll lean over you and lock my arms under yours and around your back. Reach around my arms with your arms and hold on to my shoulders. I’ll lift you up slowly and transfer you to the chair.”
Again I nodded. This was a surprisingly intimate suggestion on his part in view of the fact the I was wearing only a pair of loose-fitting shorts. I easily overheated in hospital gowns and under warm blankets, but there’s always one nurse with tightly pursed lips who finds it intolerably improper that one should be totally nude under one’s own sheet, so I compromised with the shorts. Mind you, I found the intimacy of Marc’s proposal a positive inducement. He leaned over me and I lifted my arms so he could encircle me with his arms. I felt his large hands clasp together behind my back and I tried not to moan aloud. His head next to mine, he spoke softly in my ear: “On three: one, two, three….”
He began to lift me up ever so gently. “Wait,” I whispered back. I had a brainstorm of my own. He lowered me gently back, released his hold, and stood up.
“Was that causing pain?”
“No, that wasn’t a problem at all. I was having trouble getting a good grip on your shoulders, that’s all. I thought maybe if you took your top off…?”
Such audacity! Such presumption! Such impudence! Where did I ever find the reserve of nerve to ask this guileless young man to start disrobing right in front of me? I still can’t believe that it came out of my mouth. What’s more, I still can’t
believe that he did it.
Without demure he crossed his arms in front of his torso, grabbed the hem of his top, and lifted it up his body. I was enchanted as the tiny hairs on his abdomen brushed up and then lay back in place against his smooth skin. As he pulled, a delicious scent of lightly sunburned skin filled my nostrils. His rib cage expanded and lifted and then his small, dark-red nipples popped out from under the cloth. Fortunately his face was covered as the luxurious bushes under his armpits revealed themselves to my hungry gaze, otherwise I might have embarrassed him with the intensity of my interest.
He turned the thing right side out and laid it at the end of the bed. He didn’t seem particularly bothered about being half naked with me. That I counted as a step forward.
We recommenced the transfer maneuver, skin to skin this time. Needless to say, my grip over his shoulders was firm and secure and my attention was undivided. As he lifted me up ever so gently, the flexing of his muscles tensed his pectorals, causing his nipples to perk up in the most inviting fashion, precariously close to my mouth. To avoid that oral temptation, I buried my face in his armpit and concentrated on breathing deeply and regularly. What a heavenly scent: agreeably acrid and musky, complex and masculine. I knew this scent from an early crush I had on one of those Iowa farm boys. It was an unexpected delight to enjoy it again.
I was in the chair and we were releasing our hold on each other, but not too quickly. I thought I detected—or imagined—a lingering tenderness, a slight desire on Marc’s part to continue the physical contact. Surely a little imagination doesn’t impede the physical therapy.
He leaned on the arms of the chair, his face close to mine. “I have one other patient to see this morning. Why don’t you rest here for a while and I’ll go see to her. That way, when I come back, I’ll be all yours.”
All mine sounded like a pretty good proposition. I nodded. Marc stood and tugged his top back on before he slipped out the door into the hallway. Ah, well, I thought, one step forward, two steps backward. Still, all mine. My eyes fell shut and I slept.
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