2000-10-01 - 23:46:38
Feasting My Eyes

Feasting My Eyes

As we discussed various poses and backdrops, I toured my friend--19-year-old, black, gorgeous J.C.--through the rooms in my house. Joey's digital camera in hand as we made our way downstairs, I blurted out the words that had been half-formed since his arrival, minutes before.

"Look sweetie," I said. "I just want you to know that I am not going to take advantage of this situation."

J.C. giggled.

"As much as I might want to, as aroused as I might get, I am not going to try to turn this into sex."

He said he already knew that.

Downstairs in the room painted citrusey yellow, J.C. slowly began taking off his clothes--baggy blue jeans and a bright yellow and green tartaned shirt--as he debated what kind of pictures to take first. He decided he'd like a couple taken in his tight black, knee-length lycra shorts. Photographic foreplay, an appetizer before the main course.

J.C. then casually peeled off those shorts, my first view of his naked body since he had shared it with me a few times, seven months ago. At first, I was not so much aroused as in awe: his perfect skin and muscles and Leo tattoo and--oh!--that fabulous bubble butt. I was particularly curious--healthy gay male that I am, I suppose--about J.C.'s penis. I realized as I gazed upon it that I'd never seen it flaccid before. Thus, it had never really dawned on me until now that he was uncut.

Everything else I remembered.

He lay face-down on the couch; I got a couple great shots highlighting his posterior assets. I then suggested that he stand, scrunched right up into the corner of the room; the contrast between the bright yellow walls and his dark skin was exquisite.

I guess it was around this time that my fascination moved from pure awe to lust. An erection crept up on me, especially once J.C. plunked down on the pale blue couch and began pumping his cock, wanting a few hard-on shots. He giggled, said it was going to be difficult to get hard under these strange circumstances.

"No, you are not going to offer a hand!" I said to myself.

Instead, I told him the story of me having similar erotic photos taken, how much difficulty I'd had getting it up, how the old geezer had leaned over and slurped me just long enough to achieve the erection. J.C. laughed, said my little story had turned him on. And sure enough, a lovely woody was happening.

We came back upstairs to my living room; I had especially wanted some shots of J.C. on my ornately-engraved teak Chinese trunk beneath the nude painting of a black man. He was happy to comply. His erection kept coming and going; after a few self-conscious comments to which I responded soothingly, this became a non-issue.

My throbbing erection--clearly visible through my jeans--was not an issue either; J.C. would occasionally point and laugh. My body hummed as I suggested this and that pose, snapped picture after digital picture.

I was in heaven.

"J.C., we don't have enough butt shots!' I kept crying. "You've got an absolutely amazing ass, and we don't have enough pictures of it."

So I coaxed him to sprawl out on my pale blue couch in the living room, a similar pose to the one downstairs, except his back was arched more and his neck was twisted around to flash me a naughty grin. I thought I might actually cum as I snapped those few shots; that perfectly mounded butt so exquisitely foregrounded, those dark-brown eyes gleaming.

I hadn't intended to suggest he don one of my jockstraps, thinking he might not be comfortable wearing such a personal item of mine. But he brought it up. Yay! Watching J.C. slip into my tight white jock was a sight I shaln't soon forget. The rear view was bedazzling; I noticed the straps were not even, almost went to fix them myself. But I--Mr. Oh-So-Immaculate--instead merely pointed out the problem and J.C. looked after it himself. A few jock shots ensued, front and back. I began to get trigger-happy and daring in my suggestions for further poses.

Having made the erection-thing a non-issue up to this point, I now said, "Hey, you know what would be fucking hot?"

"What?"

"Get a big hard-on going in that jock. That would be amazing!"

J.C. agreed. I popped in a porn video, and while he was watching that I had to run downstairs for something. By the time I got back, that wee white jock was stretched to the max. Stomach puckering, I captured the mouthwatering image.

"Okay," I said, camera still at my eye, "Now let it out."

He went to pull the jock down from the top.

"No, from the side," I clarified, breathlessly.

J.C. yanked at the stretched pouch until that mighty member flopped out. Yum. A few more pictures like that.

Then he was naked again. Swept up in the electric moment, my crotch almost painfully distended, I lay down on the rug near him. "Hey, J.C. Come stand overtop me, eh?"

Laughing spicily, he said, "Yeah, that would make a sexy shot. You should do this for a living!" One foot on either side of me, he peered down at me as I framed his dangling dick, his bubble butt, his face.

We finished up downstairs--several juicy shots of J.C. rinsing off in the shower. I didn't remind him of the steamy shower he and I had once shared there, but the memories were never far away as I snapped picture after picture. Finally, at #38, the camera was full. (Joey had told us we'd probably only get 25, so we were lucky.)

And then he got dressed. I began to catch my breath. As my hard-on slowly receded, I began to feel headachey, a tad pouty. My poutiness made me smile, because I had to acknowledge that--yes, of course--a part of me had hoped for some raunchy, sexual finale to this long-planned photo shoot. Being able to smile at my sulkiness made it disperse that much faster.

J.C. hung out here for three more hours, mostly surfing on the Internet. I cooked spaghetti and meat sauce; we browsed through online personal ads, chatted.

At one point he clicked on an online ad of an 18 year old, said "Hey, here's one for you!" I laughed, said I wasn't only interested only in young men, that certain older guys who look and seem boyish also can catch my eye.

"So," J.C. said, "was that it? I wasn't boyish enough for you?"

"Huh?" I replied. "What do you mean? You're incredibly boyish!"

"Oh, never mind," he said, returning his gaze to the computer screen.

I was caught off guard. He hadn't sounded pouty or even all that serious when he'd said this, but it was J.C.'s first reference in aeons to our brief little fling.

"Might he still be feeling a little rejected because I didn't want to do the 'boyfriend thing'?" I wondered to myself.

As J.C. happily browsed through personal ad after personal ad, commenting lightheartedly about this guy's pic or that guy's nickname, as erotic tremors continued to reverberate in my pelvis, my heart sank. I shrank down into remorse, wishing everything was different, simpler, more recognizable. Wanting to reach out and touch this achingly beautiful man, as a lover. Wishing that this could work. Or, at least, wanting to communicate just how fucking meaningful our post-fling friendship is to me, how increasingly essential he is becoming to me. How much I love him.

Recounting to myself the sexy, friendly atmosphere of the photo shoot, soaking up our touchy-feely vibe as we sat at the computer goofily rating mens' pics and profiles the world over, I realized no such words were necessary.

Expressing excitement at seeing how the pictures turn out--once Joey got a chance to 'develop' them--J.C. returned home a few hours ago to get ready for a blind date with a cute young guy who answered his online personal ad. By the time he left, I was again savoring the breadth of our unconventional relationship--a platonic friendship shot through with more sexual energy than many of my past romances.

There are so many ways to love men.

Moments after J.C. departed, Joey kindly--and understandably--offered to come right over and pick up his camera; I was happy he was in a hurry to do this favor for me. He has now just emailed me the 38 pictures, and over half of them turned out great. J.C. will be impressed.

Now, boys and girls, it is time for Queerscribe to turn in; it's been a long day, eh? I'm pooped out.

And hey, once I'm all tucked in, I've got this date with a jockstrap, just dying to have me rub it all over myself, as I savor--to my heart's content--the whiff of a particular young man's particularly-pubic scent.

Oh yeah baby!

Previous | Next