Learning from Porn
by William Keckler, the Poet Laureate of the Gay Pornosphere
One thing we learn from porn
is that virtually all plumbers
have ingenious desires
and designs on large subpopulations
of the human race.
Their demographic is everyone.
And though you scoff
at the lowly state
of acne-ridden delivery boys,
we know for a fact from porn
they are only one doorbell away
from your sweet Desmond's willing ass.
Maybe you have sat in the dark
with Travis Bickle too,
and learned the way boys whose hands
are well-acquainted with their ankles
really are, once they realize
the camera of desire is watching
them, hungry, waiting.
It is all so very educational.
It really is the perfect university
for a life of masturbation
and confused regret.
ReM/Mixed Erotica: The Secret to Perfect Fondue
"Remember,” said Malcolm, "the most important thing is to attend to the flame.”
Wendell twiddled with the knob on the small burner, noting how the flame responded by swelling or diminishing.
"Keep your hand on that knob, and you’ll be able to maintain the cheese at a perfect level of heat.”
"I think I can do that,” Wendell said confidently.
"Excellent. I’ll attend to things down here.”
Malcolm was speaking from the floor, where he was kneeling in front of Wendell’s bare legs.
When he had invited Wendell over for, as he put it, "an evening of fondue and sex,” Wendell hadn’t realized the two were to be enjoyed concurrently. But as soon as Malcolm had set the fondue things out, he’d invited Wendell to remove his shorts and briefs. And when he chose a position on the floor rather than occupying the seat across the table, Wendell had begun to get the idea.
Now Malcolm reached between Wendell’s legs and caressed the inside of his thigh. "Delicious,” he said.
Wendell squirmed pleasantly in his chair.
As Malcolm teased his leg, Wendell studied the luscious little pools of oil that swirled around the viscous surface of the molten cheese. He felt his own precum begin to trickle out, and the sensation was like an echo of the liquid motion in the pot.
"Keep watching the flame,” Malcolm reminded him. Wendell twisted the knob slightly and saw the cheese settle down into a slightly more placid level of excitement.
Wendell felt Malcolm’s fingers stroking upward, slowly proceeding toward the place at the very top of his thigh where his pleasure receptors seemed to connect directly to his cock—where the delicate flesh almost functioned like an extension of his actual balls. His face flushed as he relished the anticipation.
Malcolm kissed the inside of Wendell’s knee, making him even wetter at the slit of his cock. Wendell opened the flame back up a little and watched the cheese seethe more intensely again. Shifting his ass upon the vinyl chair, he felt himself bubbling under as well.
"There’s nothing like a perfectly-nurtured fondue,” said Malcolm.
His forefinger was now grazing Wendell’s cock slit, and Malcolm could feel the man’s excitement beginning to make his fingertip wet. Wendell closed his eyes momentarily while a shiver of exquisite sensitivity shot through him. Then he opened them again to monitor the fondue. He wriggled his crotch forward against Malcolm’s finger as he rode the burner knob, taking the flame now up, now down, letting it dance around the equilibrium point while the cheese luxuriated and glowed.
Malcolm’s wet finger was now probing Wendell’s fuck hole, delighting him with his own fresh lube. Wendell’s bottom cheeks humped the chair; but still he kept his eyes on the pot. It threatened to boil, and he adjusted the knob.
Suddenly Malcolm’s thumb was on Wendell’s own swollen knob, with just enough pressure to charge the man’s entire body with erotic electricity. Wendell danced in his seat, feeling himself beginning to lose control, but refusing to let go of the dial he’d promised to supervise.
Wendell was in heaven, writhing on Malcolm’s finger while taking jolt after jolt of pleasure from the thumb. He clung to the flowering sensations like he clung to the fondue knob. He wanted to wallow in the churning ecstasy for as long as he could before letting go and giving in.
Wendell let the flame rise again, and saw the fondue attain a perfect, glimmering meltiness, just as his cock melted into pure, liquid bliss and the tremors from his ejaculation ricocheted off the fingertips that clutched the little plastic knob.
He forced his eyes to stay open, but his vision blurred and the whole world seemed to dissolve into the primal soup of the orgasmic cheese.
As the haze crystallized back into reality, Malcolm’s smiling face appeared above the edge of the table. He looked approvingly at the table, then at Wendell. "Good job,” he said. "Shall we eat?”
ReM/Mixed Erotica: The Ass Pajama Lottery
He calls them his "ass pajamas,” and they are identical—in every respect but one—to his other pair of pajamas.
Each set consists of a skin-tight cotton jersey with matching bottoms—almost like longjohns, but without ribbing. Each set is the same solid color, a vivid raspberry-sherbet pink.
He has modified one pair—adroitly cut and hemmed it—so that the bottoms have no seat.
From the front, I cannot tell which pajamas he’s wearing.
Every night, he goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, while I finish the dinner dishes. We both know that his sex drive is not as high as mine, and that whether or not he will be in the mood is a matter of chance.
Every night, I enter the room and find him sitting up in bed reading, in raspberry-sherbet pajamas, the covers pulled up to his waist. Every night, he gives me a tender smile, puts his book down, and scoots under the covers until he is lying flat, face up, on the bed. He closes his eyes.
Every night, I greet him in bed and kiss the thick, smiling lips that echo, in more muted tones, the hue of his pajamas. Then I pull the covers down just beyond his bare feet. He looks good enough to eat in his sorbet-smooth second skin, his fresh, loving face framed by a Prince Valiant shell of chestnut hair that sinks listlessly into his pillow.
We do not want him to have to tell me, in so many words, "I want to be fucked tonight,” or "I do not want to be fucked tonight.” And so, every night, I simply reach a hand under his ass. This is what he and I have arranged.
If I feel the seat of his ordinary pajama bottoms, then I kiss him again, I pull the covers up to his chin, I whisper goodnight . . . and I pad off to the bathroom to handle my own libido.
But if I feel the frank immediacy of his bare ass, then I know that he is inviting the squeezing of cheeks and the tickling of the hairy space between them. That he is longing to be rolled over, so that his ass may be attended to with fleshy kisses and little slaps. That he is counting on me to caress and cajole his naked bottom until his raspberry-sherbet crotch darkens with precum and his raspberry-sherbet legs spasm and kick with uncontainable delight.
That he wants to feel the taut rib within my own pajama bottoms, as I press down upon his radiant, jiggling cheeks, and flatten them ever so slightly with my weight.
And we both know that before we sleep we will merge, stripped and torrid. That we will fuck with a frenzy that makes the house seem to vibrate, as it does when the washing machine spins its ass off on a Sunday afternoon. That we will shriek our ecstasies like the enamel tea-kettle—which rests quietly now, downstairs, in the kitchen that I tidied up while he was choosing his pajamas.
Bernard has been seeing Nathan for three years now, and while he loves him like crazy, during that time it’s been like dating two separate men. At weekends, the sex is mindblowing, but during the week, Nathan refuses to be distracted from his work. Bernard makes it his mission to spice up their weeknights.
ReM/Mixed Erotica: Any Day of the Week
"You’re obsessed with my ass, aren’t you?” said Nate, as he scooted the aforementioned attribute onto the passenger seat of my car.
"What do you mean?” I asked this question knowing, of course, exactly what he meant.
He gave me a perfunctory after-work kiss. "I mean that you look at it the way most people look at a sunset.”
"I can take or leave sunsets,” I explained. His ass, tonight, was wearing the lime capris within which it looked more mesmerizing than a hundred sunsets. In my humble opinion.
"I can take or leave my ass,” he shrugged. "I don’t see what’s so special about it. Even when I stand totally nude in front of a three-way mirror, all I see are six boring buttocks.”
A punctual erection challenged my ready-to-drive-the-car posture. As I answered Nate’s observation, I grasped the parking brake—classic displacement, if you’re of the Viennese school. "That’s why it’s my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of. Furthermore, I defy you to find anything in our vehicle more deserving of my obsessive fascinations.”
He smiled. "Always the logical one, aren’t you? I guess I’m just blasé.”
I patted his hand and attempted to put things in perspective. "You’re not blasé. You’re just ass blasé. And not even consistently. For example, you weren’t blasé about your ass last Saturday night, when I was squeezing and tickling and patting and fondling it . . . and, if I recall correctly, you emphatically urged me to keep doing all of the above.” I recalled correctly, all right.
"Did I? I don’t remember.”
"It certainly looked like you, anyway.” I put the car in gear.
"Fine. So I’m un-ass-blasé on weekends. I’ll collect my prize at the door. But this is Monday, and we need to get groceries more than we need to talk about my ass.”
"Speak for yourself. But I concede that we do need some groceries.” I always try to meet him halfway in these situations.
We pulled out of the parking lot of Nate’s workplace. I had picked him up here almost every weeknight for years, and I’d learned that the post-work decompress was not the time to catch him in a sexy frame of mind. He was tired, preoccupied . . . and unnervingly practical. He was hot stuff from 5:00 Friday till midnight on Sunday; but it was as if all his sexual mechanisms shut down during the work week—as if the hormones went into hibernation and the libido went out of town on business.
As we drove the two miles to the supermarket that evening, I realized that I wanted desperately to seduce Nate on a weeknight. We’d been together for three years, sleeping in the same bed every night and rocking each other’s socks on weekends. Now I was intent on coaxing the socks-rocking side of his personality out of its dormancy on a Monday night.
Everyone needs a hobby.
In the weeks that followed, we observed our accustomed rhythm—hectic activity and quasi-platonic companionship during the week, capped by abandoned sexual indulgence on weekends. I relished the weekends as much as ever, but my desire to carry our lust across the weekday threshold was becoming increasingly strong by lingering unfulfilled. Nor had I neglected the task of trying to fulfill it. Every Monday, I hinted, I caressed, I teased . . . but his response always extended to affectionate appreciation, and no further.
Spring turned to summer. When we got home with the groceries one Monday night in late June, we were both drenched with what the meteorologists quaintly call relative humidity. I made a gambit.
"Whew! I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to put on some fresh clothes,” I prompted. Nate concurred.
"Since you have to change anyway, how about wearing the blue shorts?” Though I tried to sound casual, the significance of this suggestion was clear to us both. He owned several blue shorts, and he knew precisely which one I meant. My favorite. The short shorts. Iridescent peacock blue. Always, by household custom, worn without underwear.
He spoke tenderly but decisively. "Bernard, I’ve absolutely got to work on that presentation this evening. I’ll be up and down from computer to printer to fax for the next three or four hours. Do you really want to see my balls every time I sit, stand up, and bend down?”
Hmph. He wouldn’t have asked a question like that on a Friday. "Of course I do.”
"You know,” I teased, "you’re not only ass-blasé, I think you’re also c—”
"Shh! I’m getting the shorts, okay? We sincerely hope you’ll enjoy yourself . . . but don’t take it as a commitment on my part.” His eyes twinkled—playfully but not, I had to admit, lasciviously. Not yet. He smiled indulgently at me before bopping briskly into the walk-in closet.
I got myself a microbrew and a Wodehouse, made myself comfortable on the love seat that faced his workstation, and settled in for a challenging evening. Was I correct in surmising that he could not go sans underwear all evening without becoming aroused?
Nate had been at the computer for about forty-five minutes when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand dart between his thighs and his hips subtly pivot.
I’m the kind of person who is not above saying "Aha.” This I now did.
"Aha! It may be Monday . . . but you, my dear, are getting horny.” What I’d phrased as a fact was really just optimistic speculation, and I cocked a hopeful eyebrow his way as I awaited confirmation.
He gave me a weary but tolerant look. "I have to piss, if you must know.”
"Indeed, I must.” I am nothing if not adaptable, and I was right behind him as he headed toward the bathroom. "Mind if I come with?” Nate has pointed out that I have a tendency to drop objective pronouns when aroused.
He paused outside the door, turned, and shook his head dismissively. "I’m right in the middle of what I’m doing. I was hoping to make it quick in there.”
It was hard to believe that this was the same man who—only a couple of Saturdays ago—had phoned me from a urinal in Bed Bath & Beyond’s men’s room to tell me he was having the best piss of his life, and that he wanted me to listen. "Wish you were here,” he’d giggled, like a kinky postcard. Now I was here, but business was just business. I waited just outside the bathroom door as the brief auditory duet of waterfall and flush marked his efficient absence with musical precision. His efficiency made me all the more aroused.
He settled back into his work, and I bided my time. Apart from studiously including him in my field of vision, I did not intrude on Nate’s agenda while he worked at the computer, dashed to the printer, and ferried documents to the fax machine. But every time he rose, sat, or even shifted positions, I got a glimpse of balls. And I began to notice that his eyes usually met mine, just instantaneously, after such a moment. It was as if se were silently asking, "Did you see my balls that time? Did you see them?” It was driving me wild to know that he knew, all the time se was working, that he had exposed balls, and that I was watching, waiting for them to swing toward me. And that, somewhere beneath his conscientious attention to his all-absorbing business presentation, he was, I could sense, turned on by this.
I began to home in on his rhythm. His fingers tapping on the keyboard, his legs shifting position, his papers rustling . . . these themes interacted to establish an erotic beat that was punctuated by his unconscious flashing, which was becoming more frequent. Tappity-tap WINK rustle-rustle WINK shift-rustle-rustle-shift WINK.
And, every time he flashed me, I looked for the first hint of precum. At last, at the moment when he momentarily parted and closed his legs in conjunction with a particularly emphatic click of the mouse, I was sure I saw a wet stain that subtly glistened. I put down my book and gave him my full attention, waiting for the next development.
When I seemed to see his hand flit once again between his legs a few minutes later, the motion was so quick that I wasn’t sure of what I’d seen, despite my unwavering focus.
"Horny now?” I asked, in a tone falsely calm, as though my interest were mere idle curiosity.
"Um, I—” He was actually blushing. My pulse began to race.
"I thought I saw you touching yourself.”
"I don’t remember. I was concentrating.” He tried to get back to work.
I stood and walked toward him, meeting his eyes and offering what I hoped was my most seductive smile. "Concentrating or not, you can at least tell if you’re getting wet, can’t you?”
"Fuck!” he suddenly said.
"I thought you’d never ask.”
"It wasn’t a request, Bernard, it was a garden-variety expletive. I just lost a contact lens.”
"Oh. Well then, let me help you find it.” I began to explore the carpet at his feet. I didn’t see the lens. I looked up, about to relay the bad news. But, as I raised my eyes, I found it. It had dropped onto the edge of his shorts. And, just as I spied it, it toppled a bit further and came delicately to rest on his person, nesting exquisitely in his pubes. I grinned from ear to ear.
"Don’t move,” I coached.
"I won’t. Where is it?”
"Where indeed. Hold perfectly still.” I kissed his ankle.
"Mmm,” he said involuntarily, and his legs twitched. "What are you doing?”
"Kissing your ankle,” I specified.
"I thought you were picking up my contact lens.”
"Perhaps you should do a little less multi and a little more tasking,” he suggested. "Ohh . . . that feels good,” he added.
I kissed my way up his right leg, as far as the inside of his knee. I paused there to note the effect of my attentions on what a meteorologist might call the "glisten index” above. I was gratified by what I saw. I began anew on the left leg, beginning once again at the ankle.
"Bernard . . .”
"No, I’m busy. You’re distracting me. Ohhh, wow . . .” I had just reached the back of his left knee, where I lingered. His legs were definitely indulging in a hip-driven swivel now, and his cock was morphing into a creature that wakes up hungry.
The contact lens was still resting safely in his thatch, so I knew I could stretch this out a little longer. I kissed upward along the inside of his left thigh.
"Bernard . . . oh . . . the lens, Bernard.”
"Got it,” I said. And I had. It was between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. The other fingers were now pressing gently on Nate’s bulge.
I offered up the contact lens, which he claimed, and I immediately returned my hand to the place where I’d found the lens. You never know, I thought—there might be another lens, or something else of importance, lost in his garden. I duly explored the area with gentle motions of my hand. He began to purr, so I inserted the forefinger of my left hand just to his moist slit. He parted his thighs a bit further and shivered sensuously. I intensified my intimate caress and resumed kissing the most delicate parts of his leg.
His groan told me that he had psychologically passed the point of no return, had finally resigned himself to a toe-tingling sexual release on this busy Monday night. As I sped up the motion of the finger that tickled his cock tip, I cooed my admiration.
"You’re gorgeous,” I told him. "Gorgeous,” I repeated. "GORGEOUS,” I said an unnecessary third time, at a slightly higher volume. By now he was oozing precum, and I knew that he would want my articulate tongue. I eased my finger off, gently clenched his knee joints, and began to smother his delicate cockhead with wet tastes along every bit of his exposed masculinity. Every squirm of his ass pressed his hot spots sensuously against the earnest mouth that titillated and sizzled.
As he ground his crotch compulsively against me, his groans intensified and shaped themselves into a consonant. "Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he intoned, with rhythmic insistence.
My tongue worked harder, and his hairy thighs began to tremble around my ears. His ass cheeks were hot as fresh-baked rolls. "Mmm . . . mmm . . .” He was trying to say more. As he gasped between the incipient cries of urgent, orgasmic bliss, a word emerged, belted with ecstatic surprise:
"Mmmm . . . m—m—Mmmonday,” he crooned, shaking, his song diffusing into tender, rapturous whimpers, his cock kissing me wetly, his arms flopping gracefully, gratefully onto my shoulders.
I stood up, and he led me to the love seat, where he collapsed on his flank. I had managed to remove only one trouser leg before he reached into my shorts and pulled me toward, onto, and into him. His hole was so relaxed that I slid in effortlessly. He was still wearing the peacock blue short shorts, and they tickled my belly as I rocked languidly through the few short moments it took for me to spasm giddily into his slippery, tingling embrace and fill him with sticky weeknight distraction.
A: Does David know you've turned me into a piss slut?
B: Well, I think he knows, generally, that piss sex has rocked our world.
A: So he doesn't know that you've taught me to drink all of your piss throughout the day?
B: I haven't told him explicitly that I use your mouth as my urinal, no. He has no knowledge that I mark my territory like an animal and that your mouth is mine to piss in and spit in and fuck.
A: Does he at least know that I bring you tall drinks and ask you to gulp them down so that you'll piss in my mouth sooner?
B: No, I haven't mentioned that you serve me pre-piss or that you beg for me to piss down your throat every waking hour. Why, do you want me to tell David about your insatiable thirst to have hard pissing dicks spraying your tonsils?
A: I wouldn't be ashamed for him to know. I just don't want him to think it's some sort of sweet, nurturing act. I'd want him to know that when you unzip your pants, my mouth opens to be your toilet. I'd want it to be clear to David that I don't guzzle your piss so much as submit to you relieving yourself down my throat. I'd want him to know that you abuse my mouth and that when I urinate it's your own piss flowing through my dick. I'd want him to know what when I've finished swallowing your piss, I ask you to drink more so that you can do it to me again. I'd also want him to know that if I'm thirsty and you're not ready to piss down my throat, I'll piss in a glass and drink it in front of you, since it's your piss, and that you like watching me do that.
B: So you want me to tell David that you're a nasty piss slut and share graphic details?
A: I'm just saying I wouldn't mind him knowing, if he did. I had just assumed you'd already told him what you do to me.
B: I don't know that David would even find it hot that your mouth is my urinal. This is a fringe fetish, after all.
A: You're right. Let's play it safe and not tell him.