The Pugilist at Rest

Chapter 1: Genesis How did it start? What was its genesis? I was having lunch with my friend Zvika. He was telling of his latest s****l exploits but, since we were sitting at an outside table, I was only half listening while surveying the passing parade of humanity. It was a warm day in spring, a time when, as they say, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of—well, you know what. I swam in the s****l pleasure of appreciating the variations in the male form, and it was only a chance phrase from my friend that brought my attention back to him. “What?” I said. “He’s straight?” Zvika grinned. “Sure. He just likes to get blown from time to time, when he gets what he calls the urge. He doesn’t like to wait.” “Oh,” I said dazedly, considering the point. “Cocksucking on demand.” “That’s right.” Zvika frowned. “You know, the last time he even said he was looking for someone else to give him blowjobs. I wasn’t sure whether to take that as an insult on my technique or what.” I might have inquired further on this, but I didn’t. My mind was filled by the heady image of giving a straight guy a blowjob. Maybe it was the effects of the season, but the physical thrill I felt was unexpectedly intense. It was intoxicating. I found I couldn’t think. So I said, “Really!” Zvika looked at me sharply, and I felt my face burn. Before my nerve could fail me I said in what I hoped was a casual tone, “Well—let him know that I’m available, would you?” Zvika’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing. He’s a bit—well—rough.” Better and better, I thought, as a new thrill passed through me as I pictured a guy in torn blue jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Oh, yes! I shrugged. “I’m willing to try it. Just to see.” “To see what?” “Well, I suppose—to see whether I am into it or not!” “Oh. Right.” We passed on to other topics then, but I didn’t forget the exchange. Over the next twenty-four hours a slight butterfly-stomach sensation came upon me whenever I thought of something actually happening. Zvika didn’t forget either, which was somewhat unusual, and two days later I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. I almost let it go to voice mail, but on impulse decided to answer. “Hello?” Silence. I waited several seconds and was about to close the call, when a voice spoke. “Yeah, hi,” said a gravelly but not very deep male voice in something of a surly tone. “It’s Shawn.” Shawn? I thought. After a pause the voice continued. “Well, yeah. I—uh—know someone, right? Guy named Zvika? He said you might be interested in—uh, doing something for me?” “Oh!” A wash of excitement hit, my heart beginning to pound. Flapping a hand in front of my face, I took a deep breath. “Uh, yes. Sure.” Another pause. Then, “I’m just down the street.” What! Excitement and fear immediately intensified. I even opened my mouth to give a silent scream. But I took another deep breath. “Oh! Right.” “He gave me your address.” “Right.” I forced myself to be calmer. “So—is now—a good time?” “Sure!” I heard myself say, as if from a slight distance. With a sudden stab of recklessness I added, “Uh—anytime, really.” A grunt came in response, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming at the horrified realization of what I had just said. After another pause, “Okay. See you in a minute.” I closed my phone, my hand shaking. “Oh, my God!” I whispered as I looked around. A minute? No time to tidy up then—and, wait a minute! Was that really important? I chuckled nervously with a self-critical sardonic sense of the ridiculousness of the situation. It helped. Before I could move a muscle, the doorbell rang. I started violently, my heart really beginning to hammer. But I forced myself to take a deep breath, then let it out, slowly. Calm, calm! I was telling myself, when the doorbell rang again, longer this time. As I started again, I remembered what Zvika had said about the guy not liking to wait. “Okay,” I murmured as I ran to the front door. From the enclosed porch I could see the figure through the glass outer door. I opened it and there he was, standing on the front step. He wasn’t physically prepossessing, being slim of build and perhaps an inch taller than me. In fact, he looked almost weedy, wearing loose blue jeans and striped pull-over shirt. On the other hand, he did have a certain air: confident but indifferent, and his intense, dark eyes looked out from under heavy, black eyebrows with a challenging, insolent look. He gave me a cursory glance, nodded, and then simply stepped past me, walking through the porch and into my living room! I followed him in, my face burning with humiliation and incipient annoyance. But from this position I saw that his jeans were sagging in the back, exposing white undershorts—a look that I find hot. So, when I had closed the doors and got back into the living room I was again willing and interested. He was standing there looking around. “Your place?” I nodded. “So—uh, where?” I smiled and shrugged. “Wherever you like.” He went over to the couch and kind of fell onto it. Leaning back, legs spread, stretched out in front, hands behind his head, he stared blankly straight ahead. I stared, stunned. Was this all the invitation I’m going to get? After waiting a few seconds I decided that it probably was. So, with renewed nervousness but rising excitement, I knelt between his legs and trembling fingers undid his fly. He was only half hard, but I knew my job and, leaning forward I took the head between my lips, and began to suck. I have always prided myself on my cocksucking technique; I tend to get good results and, afterwards, favorable reviews. So, when, after several minutes I still hadn’t managed to get the c**k fully hard, I began to feel a bit unnerved. But, resisting despair, I tried harder. At last, however, I let the not-quite-hard c**k slip from my mouth and looked up at the guy, for suggestions or instructions. He looked down at me and frowned. “Um, you got any porn?” I felt a wash of cold go through me. I knew what he meant: straight porn. What? I found this idea deeply offensive. I mean, after all, if I was sucking his guy’s c**k, then shouldn’t I get the credit, rather than some other visual stimulation? I shook my head. “Sorry.” His frown deepened. “How about the internet?” “It’s off-line,” I lied. He now looked quite annoyed, and my own face burned with fresh humiliation. I looked up at him, not knowing what to do. He was looking straight ahead again, ignoring me. And when he looked down at me again I smiled solicitously. “Is there anything else I can do?” I was actually pleading now, for I had a sense of imminent disaster—either of him getting up and leaving, or hauling out and biffing me one for incompetence. His eyes, locked with mine, were cold; his lips curled into a sneer. Then he looked straight ahead again. “Just do your job—faggot!” The last word felt like a slap that I felt through my entire body. My reaction was complex, however. My initial feelings of incipient anger and resentment were swamped by shame and humiliation, and these in turn became part of a rising tide of intoxicating s****l arousal. Thus, it was as if in a dream or under hypnotic compulsion that I lowered my head, down onto the man’s c**k. And this time it was completely different. When I took the c**k into my mouth it wasn’t so much to suck it as to worship it. My action came from such a complete sense of my own utter worthlessness that I no longer felt any responsibility to make him hard. That, after all, I realized, would require an assumption of competence on my part, which was absurd. Who the hell did I think I was? A faggot, I reminded myself, and as the word sounded in my mind, I felt again that rush of thoroughly intoxicating excitement. So I repeated the word over and over in my mind, hearing his gravelly voice and enjoying a rising tide of surrender. This meant I could simply enjoy myself. And I did. I sucked and licked the fat knob with a sensuous languor, savoring the taste, shape, and heat of this man’s c**k. In short, I behaved just like a faggot. For the first time ever I found I relished the word, at least the way this man had said it. Harsh? Vicious? Perhaps. But there had been no actual hate in his tone. That seemed important. But where had the harshness come from then? I pondered as I worshipped, and suddenly it came to me—a realization that gave me a new thrill. It had been, I decided most definitely, s****l need. Wow! At this I redoubled my efforts, wanting to respond to his male urge, to revel in it. I did this without any expectation of a response. I groveled. And oh, how wonderful that was! I felt heat between my legs rising, and I was in sudden danger of reaching orgasm when I realized that I was no longer dealing with a partial erection, but with one that was rock hard. Jubilation flooded through me. I almost whimpered with pleasure. In my desire to merge with it I sucked, licked, and even rubbed my face against the swollen head, now slick with pre-c*m, pressing one cheek and then another, then my chin and neck, before finally taking it between my lips again, and lowering my head as far down onto the shaft as I could. That produced a grunt and a slight upward thrust from the hips, which response gave me more encouragement. I pulled my tight lips back along the shaft, right to the head before lowered it again, and this time I felt a hand press firmly down on the back of my head, forcing me down, until the c**k head was pressing hard against the back of my mouth. For a moment I almost panicked, for now I couldn’t breathe. But I yielded to the sensation of helplessness. I relaxed, and felt flooded with a great peace, which added to my excitement of surrender. He held me there until I began to feel distinctly dizzy, then he removed the hand and I lifted my head up sufficiently so I could breathe. Cold thrills ran through me at this. It was wonderful, and I wanted more. So I lowered my head again, and felt a renewed joy when again the hand pushed down even harder. This time he held me until I almost blacked out. And when he released me, I had to pull my head up entirely. I glanced up at him and saw to my surprise that he was looking down at me, his face a malicious grin. This gave me a thrill and I lowered my head again onto his rock hard c**k, this time not all the way, but sucking and licking in a desperate earnestness, my lips sliding up and down on the shaft. He shifted a little and grunted. So I sped up my tempo, and felt his entire body stiffen. “Don’t stop!” he gasped, and his hand returned to the back of my head, but not pushing this time but just resting. I ramped up my attentions, increased tempo, suction, lip pressure, and tongue action. In response I felt the c**k swell. At this point his hand did push down, hard, holding me in place while his c**k pulsed forth seed into my throat. In that moment the combined sense of utter surrender and fulfillment as his semen flooded into me, almost made me c*m. I didn’t, not sure if he would like that. But I swallowed every bit of his load as he came. This seemed timeless, but at last it was over. He removed his hand, and I sat back slowly on my heels and looked up at him. He wasn’t looking at me. He was leaning back, matter-of-factly putting himself away, acting as if I wasn’t there. My face heated in humiliation, which mixed with the s****l heat that still filled me. Again I almost came. I got a bit shakily to my feet and sat down in the armchair that faced the couch. He got up, stretched, and looked vaguely around the room. This seemed more or less automatic, bereft of interest, until his gaze lingered on my bookshelves. “A lot of books,” he said. “Yeah.” “You like to read?” “Yeah.” “Huh.” And that was it! I waited then, for more I guess, but there wasn’t anything. Without another word, without any acknowledgment of me whatever, he went to the door and let himself out. I followed, not too close, and stood in the open doorway, watching him. My mind suddenly began to work, then. I tried to remember his name—he had told me, I was certain. He had reached the sidewalk when I remembered. A mad urge came over me and I called after him, “Thank you, Shawn!” The use of his name, publicly, felt like a presumption and the moment the word was out of my mouth I was mortified. He didn’t react, though—at first. After another second or two, however, to my surprise he turned and nodded, but without actually meeting my eyes. Then he continued down the street. He was still in view, several houses down, when he paused at a sporty car that wasn’t in very good shape. I watched as he got in and drove away, then sighed and closed the door. Back in my kitchen I made myself coffee. Just as I was sitting down at the kitchen table, however, I froze—and began to laugh. I spilled some of the coffee I laughed so hard. It was all so bizarre! And I couldn’t quite get my head around any sort of evaluation of it. It had been hot, yes. But I hadn’t achieved climax myself, and there certainly was no interpersonal contact. Was that, I asked myself, okay? Was that what I wanted? Not really, I decided. But, just as I had just told myself this and was beginning to feel somewhat reassured by having re-established some sense of myself, I was assaulted by a fresh thought. It stabbed through my mind, and it was accompanied by strange and intense emotions. It was a question, and my face burned with the realization of how important the answer seemed to me. Would he call again?