Wednesday, May. 15, 2002 - 10:13 p.m.
Tickles & Time
Titillated Pink
Not always, but quite a bit of the time, Cyrus is extremely ticklish. When he is, I cannot find a spot on him to touch, lick, or fondle without torturing the poor guy. (And I consider myself rather resourceful in the touch, lick and fondle department.) I’ve never seen—touched—anyone quite so tickle-prone before.
So I’ve been tormenting him cruelly.
I was curious to read Simon Sheppard’s piece on the PrideVision website the other day; apparently, tickling has become a quasi-sexual fetish scene, S/M’s junior cousin. Who knew? I also note the etymology of ‘titillate’: titillare, the Latin word for ‘tickle’. Hmm…
Cyrus and I have been treating his paroxysms as an interruption of sex. He begs me to stop, I eventually sometimes do, and he gets frustrated with his nerve endings; it takes a few hands-off moments for him to shift gears somehow before we can resume whatever it was we were doing, this time on the other side of his tickle zone.
But maybe, just maybe, a different kind of delight could be had were we to plunge more deeply into his titillative episodes? In giving himself over to these fits of wriggly laughter, might he taste something sexy and new?
Something tells me Cyrus would agree with Sheppard’s contention that when it comes to tickling--qua fetish or occasional childish diversion—it’s more fun to top than to bottom.
Besides, last weekend he discovered vulnerable spots on my love handles. The bastard.
A Summery Saturday Together
He wore shorts. But not short enough.
He was much less self-conscious about my admiring gaze, now that we’d talked about it.
After lunch—we shared an avocado and shrimp sandwich and an asparagus and cream cheese sandwich —in the park, once Cyrus had successfully deflected my requests for al fresco mischief, he talked more about his home life, family stuff, stuff I shaln’t be writing about here. My curiosity did not mean I needed to offer much feedback; I like that about the way this is going. Getting to know him, allowing him to get to know me: it feels so wonderfully unhurried.
We window-shopped and browsed around town. We went into the ToysRUs of candy stores, where Cyrus stocked up on his favorites: Jelly-Bellies. I did my best to forgive the fact his predilection was shared with Ronald Reagan, that evil American who’d already been in office a few years when Cyrus came to be. I was tired, so while he loaded up with Jelly-Bellies I plunked down on the comfy old sixties-style couch in the corner of the candy store and farted loudly.
(smirk)
But it wasn’t me, eh? The candy store owners rigged up a whoopee cushion. Honest. A self-inflating one, no less. I was suitably amused, and dragged Cyrus over to have a seat there. He did. But he didn’t do it right so there was no whoopee. I made him stand up and sit down again until he did it right. Then we laughed.
We went for coffee because it was time for my two hour smoke. Two identical twins sat there beside us outside the Starbucks. They both had Elvisey pompadours, pumped-up forty-something bodies and a strange sadness in their green eyes. The one guy strummed a guitar, singing; his brother sang along too, somewhat more hesitantly. They had beautiful voices.
Cyrus and I talked about twins. I told him about sighting another set of identical twin brothers in a shopping mall recently, how I’d turned around to check them out from behind and saw identically-patterned male pattern baldness.
We watched guys together all the day long; I teased Cyrus mercilessly over his sheepish admission that, after we’d spotted the young blond hottie working at the pastry shop two weeks ago, he had returned a few days later with friends to ogle the pastry boy some more. The young blond hottie hadn’t been working when Cyrus went back; neither was he there when we walked by Saturday; nor was he on duty when I dragged Colin down to check him out Sunday.
Later I said, “I’m commenting more on guys today than before. Is it okay?”
It was. And we kept on eyeing the candy and comparing notes and making it all part of how we were together.
Later, after yummy sex and yummy Vietnamese food—I actually can’t remember which came first, so to speak—we started making out all over again. “I’m usually a once-a-night kinda guy, eh?” I warned, surprised and a tad impressed by the night’s second urgent erection.
Cyrus wasn’t sure, but he thought he was a once-a-night kinda guy too.
But we found ourselves back in the bedroom, where he gave me another incredible massage. Soon it was almost eleven, almost time for Cyrus to leave so as not to anger his mother; we weren’t sure how to express or expunge what was burning us up.
So we tried a little bit of everything, ultimately—or, penultimately, as it turned out—concluding that, yes indeed, we were suitably matched in the quotidian spurt department.
Cyrus was now in a big hurry to get going. He surprised me by scampering out into the well-lit living room buck-naked to check the bus schedule on the web. (The huge window here by my computer is always un-blinded.)
He shrieked when I pointed out this inadvertent exhibitionism, running back to douse the lights. I, also naked and not only still rock-hard but condomed, had a surprise of my own, twirling him around and pushing him up against the wall and pushing back up into him.
A few pleasantly guttural moments later, Cyrus exclaimed, “I’m going to make a mess all over your wall!”
He said that like it was a bad thing.
We were having a grand old vertical time but no encores were coming down our pipes, and besides, Cyrus had a curfew to catch. So we disengaged and he quickly dressed. “While you’re down there…” I quipped, as he knelt a minute later to tie his shoes. And oh, what an obliging fellow.
It was a beautiful day. There’s this list that keeps lengthening. Of what might get explored next time, some time, in our own sweet intervals.
