Wednesday, May. 12, 2004 - 7:50 p.m.
He Who Cums Loudest

Last night Nate whimpered and squealed even more than usual. The noises this man makes! I—my touch, my tongue, my teeth—unleash him, somehow. Or maybe regress him. Hot.

I arrived at his place at 8:30. Nate was just finishing dinner. He wore grey silk pajama bottoms I’d never laid eyes on before, and a black t-shirt. And that was all: his dick swung bewitchingly in those PJs, let me tell ya. He caught me looking, teased me about the mesmerized gawk on my face.

We don’t talk easily, or in-depth. That’s not how we connect at all. We’ve been hanging out for over three months now, and our growing closeness comes almost exclusively from the succulent erotic vibe. Sex is so emotional with Nate. Sex is so emotional, period, of course; but when he and I go at it, the energy’s downright shamanic.

I’m extraordinarily happy—and lucky—to have him in my life.

Last night I was particularly aroused by Nate’s armpits. He’s been working out a lot lately, and this part of his anatomy has really firmed up. Pinning his muscly arms behind his head, I ate out of him there like some starving medieval glutton. And he cried and he squealed and it was all so fucking joyful and intense.

Embarrassed by his demonic screech of an orgasm, Nate said afterwards, “I will have to learn how to cum more like I sing.”

“That’s probably a better idea than singing the way you cum!” I opined.

He laughed. Nate’s sing-song of a laugh almost surpasses his many physically-splendiferous charms.

It’s not quite accurate to say that we don’t talk easily. I notice that we have our best talks—whether light-hearted or more serious—post-coitally. Sex renders us permeable; after all that lusty chaos, our selves reconstitute. More leaks out—and in.

“Do you ever wonder why we get horny?” Nate asked, once he’d wiped himself off.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my head resting on his chest, almost catatonically serene. “Like, as a species?”

“Yeah, but more psychologically: what is it that actually happens? There’s a physiological or biological component, obviously, the urge to procreate or whatever. But what is it psychologically that makes us want sex?”

I paused. “Um, well that’s probably one of those existential questions I’d ruminate on a lot more if I wasn’t so damned horny all the time!”

I’d say just about anything to trigger that sing-song laugh of his.

We did not come to any earth-shattering conclusions on the question. Cum-splattering conclusions, well now that’s another matter entirely, to be explored over the longer term.

Later, as I was bending over tying my shoelaces at the door, I ogled Nate standing there, back in his silk pajama bottoms. I said he could wear those again in my presence any old time. And I teased him once more about how loudly he’d cum.

“You came louder!” he exclaimed, a gleam in his eye.

“No, you did!” I retorted.

”No, you!”

“No, you!”

We laughed, and Nate said there was only one way to settle this: his next-door neighbor would have to be consulted.

“Yeah,” I said. “Knock knock. Hi there, we’re having our first fight and we need your advice: which one of our orgasms disturbed you the most just now?”

I kissed Nate on the lips, and headed off home. Exhausted, smirking, and throbbing with joy.