Sex on a Steamy, Rainy South Florida Sunday Afternoon
I had had an especially bad week. I was scheduled to see a second vet to find out if my fourteen year old doxie, Bebe, might be suffering from a neurological disorder. l was gearing up that following week to receive a plasma injection, about the only option l had left to relieve the pain and loss of strength in my right shoulder stemming from an old, inoperable rotator cuff tear.
And l was plain fagged out from having three of my fuck buddies in one week.
Uncharacteristic for south Florida where rain showers give way to sun twenty minutes later, it had been raining all day since the night before with no indication of stopping. A perfect Sunday to catch up on my sleep with which my three dogs, still half comatose in bed, totally agreed.
So when Jim, who l had played with the beginning of the week, texted me in the middle of my coma nap around two in the afternoon what l was up to, I knew exactly what he had in mind but my response was almost automated.
“Sleep,” l replied.
Jim’s “LOL,” woke me up and made me realize what a jerk l was. There would be time enough to sleep when l was in the grave.
“Get that manly butt of yours over here now fucker,” l texted like a corrected Trump tweet.
“Fifteen minutes,” was his reply.
I thought it might be fun to play around beneath the overhang on my enclosed patio while the rain came down.
I was right.
Greeting him in my kaki green “Nasty Pig” tank top and nothing else, my dick saluted my buddy like a five star general as he stripped, leaving only his tight baby blue T shirt and blue jockstrap on. I could see from his rising bulge he – or l should say that beautiful eight inch piece of man meat l knew so well – was happy to see me.
We started, like we usually did, with our nips, both hardwired to downstairs, and as he sprawled his lean manly frame on the old sofa that faced my heated pool, steam rising in a surreal way in the rain, l began to make love to every inch of my favorite fuck buddy. Kissing his hairy chest as he stroked mine, l worked my lips down his abs, then returned to his lips. He had grown a tight goatee just a few weeks before that perfectly matched his shock of sexy George Clooney gray hair, and l instinctively began to kiss, then suck it like it was some new erogenous zone we were discovering together.
But the most surprising “go with the flow” moment of the afternoon came when, on my knees, making love to his junk, l asked very romantically, mesmerized by his perfect butt below, “You clean?” He hesitated for a second – for dramatic effect or just to be a prick – then nodded in the affirmative to which l slowly dove my tongue into his lightly furry manhole like a World War ll Japanese Kamikaze pilot aimed for a U.S. Navy carrier. I delved deep for about twenty minutes in what turned out to be hottest rimming session in our respective checkered gay existences.
We played until 5 when the sun came out, took a dip in the pool, then decided to call it a day. I watched the very depressing finale of “Feud,” where Joan Crawford, one of the icons of old Hollywood, dies alone and broke, then went to bed. Later that week Jim would learn his beloved cocker spaniel had a brain tumor, while l would be relieved to hear that my doxie’s neurological condition was only a bad ear infection. But l was hit in the balls by a second orthopedic specialist who stood to gain thousands from me but told me flat out that my anticipated plasma injection would probably do nothing. I thanked him for his honesty but decided l would go through with the injection, six hundred bucks out of pocket, if nothing more than to cross it off my bucket list.
But for a few hours fantasy and reality merged as two naked men who knew one another’s bodies better than a mapmaker knew the continents made love under my patio overhang on a steamy rainy south Florida Sunday afternoon.