Free Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions by Shane Allison Page B

A pile of books in one corner, next to a small CD player. An open closet with a handful of clothes on hangers.
    “I have to take a pee,” Krzysztof said. “Be right back.” He closed the door behind himself.
    I picked up one of the books. The poems of Saint John of the Cross. Not the kind of thing I’d find in most of my tricks’ rooms. I opened it up, and Krzysztof’s name was written on a bookplate inside. So that’s how you spell it, I thought.
    The door opened. “Back,” Krzysztof said. He was already pulling off his shirt. Even in the candlelight, I could see how pale he was. There was a flurry of golden-brown hair on his lean chest, a little thicket between large nipples. He never took his eyes off me as he unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor. His briefs had a couple of holes in them. My dick leapt to attention. I put the book down.
    Krzysztof walked over to me and dropped to his knees, rubbing his face hard against my crotch, gnawing at my stiff cock through my pants. I grabbed a handful of his candlelight-blond hair and pushed his head into me. He whimpered and squirmed.
    “Unzip my fly,” I said. He did. “Take my dick out.”
    “Can I suck it?”
    “Not yet. Stand up.”
    Krzysztof rose to his feet. His torn-up briefs were stretched by his hard-on, the distended holes revealing the pallor of his hip, a flurry of honeyish pubic hair.
    “Now turn around.” The rest of him was slim, but his ass was perfectly formed, curves and masses beneath the white cotton briefs. There was a tear in the fabric, running halfway down his butt, exposing part of his crack. I went over to him and laid my hand on his ass, and he shivered slightly. I grabbed hold of the cloth with both hands and pulled hard, till his briefs gave way with a rip. He trembled even more.
    His ass was pale as milk, smooth as silk, beautiful. Most of his body might have verged on the scrawny, but his butt was astonishing. At the top of the cleft there was a dark tone to his skin, bruise-like, the kind of thing you sometimes see with very pale guys. I ran my fingers over the spot, then down into the crack. He shifted, relaxing so I could slide my fingertips over the moist heat of his hole.
    “Okay,” I said. “Get down on the bed, on your belly. Keep what’s left of those briefs on.”
    “Yes,” he said, lying down, looking expectant, nervous.
    “Untie my boots,” I said, standing on the mattress to either side of his head. He squirmed around and untied the laces, then pulled my shoes off. He kissed my right foot.
    “Now get your butt in the air.”
    The shreds of white cotton fell away, exposing even whiter asscheeks which, slightly parted, revealed a trail of dark blond hair. I reached down and spread his ass. His hole was perfectly shaped, clean pink nested in a halo of cinnamon-colored fur, and I wanted it.
    “Can I turn on music? My roommate…”
    “Sure.”
    He reached over and hit the button on the player. The chanting of medieval nuns. Unbelievable.
    There was so much I could have done with Krzysztof. I could have fucked his mouth, his ass; from the look of things I could have tied him up and beaten him. I could have shown the weedy fucker what a truly demanding top I can be. Didn’t, though. I knew then, with the certainty of damnation, that I was going to eat out Krzysztof’s ass. His ass. My mouth. Magic. Poison.
    I breathed in. Slightly musty but clean.
    “What?”
    Krzysztof repeated himself. “Yes, please,” he said.
    The nuns chanted away about salvation or something. I dove face-first into the Eye of God, started at the bruise-dark beginnings of his crack, tonguing flesh against bone, then lower, toward another sort of darkness. My spit matted down the hair. Lower. Lower. Toward the heat. My tongue brushed, just brushed, the soft pucker of flesh, then moved down to the ridge between his furry blond upper thighs, to the base of his balls, my chin resting against the baby-soft sac, the smell of his