I was doing really well this year with the whole avoiding-that-motherfucking-Christmas-Shoes-song thing, but on Monday evening when I was driving home from the office, I turned on the Christmas music station, I heard four or five bars of it before I switched over to NPR. I screamed (I am not making this up) and then cursed for about fifteen seconds. I hate that song with the fury of fifty white hot suns. I won't go into how inappropriate it is for young children with dying mothers to be begging money from strangers for fuck-me pumps. But I will say that if you find yourself in a shoe store on Christmas Eve (is there any way a sentence that begins with those words ends happily?) and some urchin tries to hit you up for money for shoes for his dying mom, you should (after you've stopped laughing and threatened to call the child welfare authorities) insist on something more sensible. Maybe a nice pair of Keds is what Mama wants to wear into eternity. There's no public transportation in heaven, so Mama's gonna be walking a lot. They make red Keds, don't they?
Because it's always either famine or feast around these parts, Torless (I don't remember what I used to call him, but "Torless" fits in with my naming scheme, and the irony is irresistible.) texted me yesterday to see if I could get away for a hookup. I thought he was in his DC apartment, so I said sure, but he said that he was heading to his folks' place in Rockville. I've done him there before, but I didn't feel like driving all the way to Rockville on my lunch hour, so I told him no.
But then he saw me online around 3:30 and said that he still wanted to play and that he was sure that no one else would be home until 6, so I told him I'd be there at 4. Torless is a bit like William, but to a much lesser extent: he plays games, but neither as many nor for as long as William; he's fucked up, but only a little bit; and he's hot -- but not quite as hot -- in the sack. In any case, he doesn't require much effort, and he's clearly worth it. He's the perfect thirty-five minute fuck. He's enthusiastic, and he likes all the things I like, only backwards
I very much don't fancy being caught in some guy's parents' house, and I especially don't fancy being caught with that guy in his parents' bed (I can only assume that his own bed is too small: whenever we hook up at his parents' house, he throws an opened up sleeping bag over their bed, and we go at it.), so I didn't waste any time when we got there. I grabbed him, kissed him, and fondled his nipples until he was melting (i.e., for three seconds), and then we went upstairs.
It was pretty much your standard hookup: Making out, lots of nipple play, pinning his hands down over his head, him going down on me, me eating his ass, him sliding the rubber on me, me fucking him in multiple positions, and both of us coming at the same time.
Wait a second. Both of us coming at the same time is something that almost never happens to me. Most guys who cum from being fucked do so pretty quickly, way before I'm ready to shoot. But Torless' ass kept getting tighter and tighter, and as I was getting close, his ass started to contract harder, and just after I'd felt the second spurt shoot out of my cock, the first spurt shot out of his. I guess I really did fuck the cum out of him. Go me. That was pretty great. Torless isn't much for conversation, so I cleaned up, dressed, and went home. I had dinner with b&c and YFU, and then YFU and I made about twenty dozen cookies. Go us.
I wound up with a Christmas Eve solo that I didn't mean to audition for. Oops. It's a verse of "I Wonder as I Wander," and I think it may involve me walking around with a lantern while I sing. It's a lovely song, but there's one note in it that I'm not confident about. This means that I'll go into vocal protection mode for at least twenty-four hours before I sing. Sadly, that means no egg nog. Fortunately, spiced wine is very good for the voice. But screaming is bad, so I'll have to take extra care to avoid hearing "Christmas Shoes" again this season.