It was like looking in a mirror, one that adds a few years, but a mirror nonetheless. He stood at roughly my height and had hair only a little shorter than mine and a bit darker. His beard was a little longer than mine (I had trimmed Saturday morning) but we had the same scruffy look. His eyes were like mine, only I realized that I was getting lost looking in to his. His breath was minty, but the smell of a cigarette still clung to his beard. He didn't use much tongue when he kissed me, and I had a strange feeling that his tongue was short, shorter than my own tied tongue. But he still gave plenty of light kisses to get me horny for him.
When I first came in to his apartment I was sure that I was going to fuck him a leave. The place was a mess, clothes and other things everywhere. I didn't want to look at any one spot on the floor too long. I tried not to blame him, he has been suffering migraines a lot recently, making it a blessing that he was headache free on Sunday, which is his only day off.
I almost want to describe him as a gentle giant, but he isn't that tall. There is a feeling about him, though, that makes it seem like he is. He has presence. Presence that has nothing to do with his extra weight. To me, he is the perfect size, but he carries a power in him. He has strength. He is a bouncer at a local gay bar (might be the only one in the area, not sure) and has been for seven years now. I've never been in the bar, having turned twenty-one while I was in Ohio, so I didn't meet him until this summer online. He has a reputation, however, for being an enforcer, someone who won't bend the rules and won't let you get away with anything.
I have no doubt that he could have hurt me, he probably could have knocked me out with one hit. But this man was not a violent man, even though between fucks he told me about some of the bad scrapes he has been in. He joined the army, and really embraced the lifestyle. And it is clear he hangs out with a rougher crowd in the local city. But I refuse to see him a a violent person. When we were rolling around on his bed and his hands were rubbing me and gently caressing me, I couldn't think of him as anything but the kind, smiling man who was holding me. He spoke in a way that suggested nothing surprised him. Even when I had shot my fifth load and my cock got hard again, eager for a sixth round, he laughed and called me trouble, but took the whole thing in stride.
Between the fourth and fifth times I fucked him, we were talking and I asked him what he lived for. "I'm a shadow," he replied.
"A shadow?" I asked, honestly not sure if I had heard him right.
"Don't know much about what came before or what comes after." What that has to do with shadows, I couldn't say. Instead I replied, "I don't need the past or the future. I just need to be here right now. I just need to be alive in this moment. That's what I live for: being alive." The words were heavy in the dark room, the way the absolute truth always is.
Each time I fucked him that night I built up more and more speed, changing the angles, hitting him harder, driving in deeper. I worked him to the point that as I fucked him for the fifth time his ass became too sore to go on. I ended up shooting my final load of the night onto his chest while I stood jerking off. My other four loads leaking out of his ass, ready to be tasted when I licked him.
"I am going to die soon," he said, "My thirtieth birthday is coming up."
"Wha--What?" I was blindsided by his comment as we watched TV after my fifth load. "Wait, is this some kind of gay death thing?"
"No, it's my death. I just feel like I'm going to die young. I always have, since I was in the military."
"Well, I don't mean to disappoint you, but I don't see you dying by your birthday." I was unsure what to say, how to react to something like this in a man I hardly knew. "Do you want to die?"
"I don't want to. I mean, I kind of thought I would have died from AIDS by now."
"Are you trying to get AIDS?"
"Then I wouldn't worry." I could tell he wasn't worried. Not worried about dying, about migraines, about the fact that he may be going bankrupt. He worried, but he wasn't worried. He didn't let those problems break the peace of the night we were spending together. It was a melancholy peace whenever he spoke about the bleakness of the near future. But as I kept saying (to his agreeing nod and smile) things always get better. He can't be in the gutter too long, he needs to make room for the others who are falling in.
I decided to join him in his peaceful state. I decided to actively not care about the future, what is in store for me. Why should I let that bother me when I had a beautiful man in my arms, one who I would gladly spend hours and hours with. One who I would love to talk to more. I have what can only be described as an awed fascination with his personality and his bearing. And a bit with the way he looked at me, the way he treated me like I was fragile. He viewed me as something that could get corrupted easily, like a pure soul. I don't remember the last time I could tell someone felt that about me; the last time I could see it in the face, written in their eyes. And in that moment, curled up with him, I felt like that innocent boy he saw me as. For that moment I believed in his vision, and I let myself be pure.