Nine

The king is dead. Long live the king.

Some time ago, I wrote a post wherein I was forced to relate the end of a long-term, high-density, low-frequency dalliance with the only man ever to maintain a sustained 9 on the TED nipple play scale (0 = don't even look at them! it tickles!; 10 = bit them off: I'll grow more). I don't feel like linking to it, so I'll summarize: I apparently went to 9.5; he freaked out and never called me again. Sic transit gloria mundi, which is Latin for "damn!"

Anyway, there's this guy Gil who, apparently, lives a couple of miles down Georgia Avenue from me and who had been telling me for the longest time (weeks!) that he wanted to be my bitch (his words, not mine) and that he wanted me to give his nipples a workout that would leave them swollen and sore for days on end. A major challenge for you, perhaps, but for me just another day at the office, albeit a very good day at the office.


There had been a number of failed attempts to hook up, and I was beginning to wonder whether Gil was either terminally unlucky or yanking my chain. When he said that he wanted to hook up a couple of Saturdays ago, I reminded him that we were expecting a couple of feet of snow, but he said that wouldn't stop him. Fortune smiles on the intrepid, I guess. Anyway, I said sure because no one else was going to go out in that weather, so if he didn't show up, I'd be no worse off.

Gil called when he was on the way to the house, saying he'd be there soon and expressing wonder at the people who were simply abandoning their cars on the road. Well, two feet of snow, you know. But he's in construction management, and he has a pick-up truck, and pretty soon after he called, he was marching up to the front door and then standing in the entryway removing his boots and then being grabbed by me as I started to kiss him. It had been his saying that he liked to make out that had sold me on him.

A lot of guys who like to kiss don't bother mentioning that they like to kiss because they just don't see why anyone wouldn't like it. Similarly, a lot of guys who simply won't kiss other men don't bother to mention it because it never occurs to them that the same guy who wants to fuck them until they scream for their mamas might want to make out with them. Anyway, Gil hadn't lied about liking to kiss, and he was pretty good at it, for a thin-lipped white guy. Actually, everything about him was thin. He was the lean, wiry, hairy sort of construction guy, rather than the barrel-chested, beer-bellied sort of construction guy, not that there's anything wrong with that.


Anyway, I had fun pushing him up the stairs while pulling his sweatpants halfway down his ass and then tossing him on the bed and going almost immediately for his nipples. We were both in heaven, right from the outset, and he seemed to be transported to higher and higher levels of paradise (Full disclosure: I have never read the purgatory or paradise sections of the Divine Comedy, so I don't even know whether paradise has levels. But you take my meaning.) as I worked his nipples harder and harder. And, believe me, I threw everything at them that my fingers, tongue, lips, and teeth could provide. I didn't bother getting out the nipple clamps, since neither of my pairs of nipple clamps is all that intense, and my teeth do a pretty good job. Maybe I should invest in a pair of jumper cables, but I always have trouble remembering which clamp gets grounded instead of going on the battery terminal. And, of course, there are the analogous problems if you use them on a guy: if one set of clamps goes on his nipples, where does the other set go? Some guys say their nipples are hardwired to their cock, but the implications seem painful.


Time pretty much stands still for me when I'm working nipples (even gently), and I've waited a while to write this up, so the details are a bit vague now, but Gil stayed around for about 3.5 hours, during which time he went down on me and rimmed me, and during which time I fucked him twice. I ate his ass, too, but that hardly needs to be said, n'est-ce pas? There was also maybe a half hour of entangled napping under the comforter, and that's always nice. When we were about an hour in, he told me that I'd have to kick him out to get him to leave, but I knew that was just talk: he has a partner (or something like a partner; he's very vague on the subject, and who cares, really?) at home, and, hell, what am I going to find better to do in the middle of a weekend snowstorm than eat some guys nipples for as long as he can take it. In the end, he did leave, citing the need to take care of some cats he was sitting. Whatever. Nobody really needs to feel like he left too quickly after a 3.5 hour midday hookup.

It remains to be seen, as it always does, whether this will turn into a regular fuckbuddy situation. There's something about him that he's not letting on, and I suspect that it may be a guilt thing where he has trouble accepting that he wants to be submissive until the urge overwhelms him, and then I have to be the one who's available when that happens, or wait for another urge. Or maybe he just has to wait for his nipples to recover. I'm sure they were sore for at least a week.