graybeards: It’s not like I look at a guy on the street and think, “I wanna fuck th

graybeards:

It’s not like I look at a guy on the street and think, “I wanna fuck that,” like when I see an attractive woman. I don’t fantasize about them, and even threesomes with a second guy aren’t really my thing—I’m bad at sharing.

So I don’t know how it happens. One second, I’m hanging out with a buddy from work, and the next he’s on his knees begging to blow me. It’s happened for decades, with all sorts: from the dopey defensive lineman on my high school football team taking it up the ass, to the twinky gay college roommate whose mouth replaced my hand for freshman year, to the married father of four now smothering himself on my growing bulge.

I shrug and lean back as I plant my hands on the back of my head and enjoy. He doesn’t look surprised when my hardening ten-inch cock flops out. OK, so maybe I let him catch a glimpse of it at the urinals earlier. Something happens to these seemingly-normal men when they see one this big. All their insecurities are intensified and the only cure is swinging between my legs. “Fuck,” I think as the man slurps down my huge head, “I’m not about to complain.”