Part of my symptomology is a healthy dislike, not fear but dislike of germs. It’s turned me into a habitual hand-washer, groomer of the self. I am indeed, as clean as I look. So when I found myself pressed against the bed by a bearded man reminiscent of the late 1890s to mid 1940s scholarly “clads”, visions of an Elder Hemingway captured my thoughts… even if much younger he was. I felt, in all reality, party of a poem.
I was no longer tormented by whatever undisclosed germs entwined his facial hair strands. All I wanted to do was feel his lips traversing my spine with the common interruption of hair against my skin. I came to believe that this man might teach me a lesson, not a sexual one, but one of life experience, one of literacy nature where he’d not only handle me strongly, but somehow manage to make me a character in his poem.
Concentrated solely on his actions I was. Feeling his firm grasp massaging my right and left flanks while his mouth made slow work of my back, enticing my mind to conceive the sort of writing that he’d do with the rest of my body. Then…
My thoughts and reality united by the unexpected sight of his bare chest. I have been raised in a time that sees hair but as repulsive sign of the human anatomy. Hair is considered the uncivilized, uncared disgust of the human structure by those who are in the “IN” of the fashion industry. While it could be argued in support of their views for an organically-grown-out-of-control hairy physique… I argued to support hair, and against current dogma about it simply because of his sort of manicured chest that turned his physique into a rugged, manly reverie.
He infused my society-structured beliefs with rage when I saw his bare chest, then torso down to his belt buckle where the obliques pronounced themselves until covered by the pants. I had been lied to, shaped to believe what others wanted me to believe, but now I wondered what hid at the end of the “V” shaped muscle towards his lower abdomen. There was no time to analyze the perception of the few sold to the many, sold to me.
I could see his shoulders, his forearms flexing as he prevented gravity form forcing him onto my back. This man was built by uncountable years of evolution bestowing upon him the prowess to lure the opposite sex. It had given him allure, seduction, by all mighty God, facial as well as body hair. It had given him a physique desired by any and all fitness aficionados. …and he was right behind me speaking to my skin the way only learned men can muster.
He journeyed towards my rear with the gentle of his lips; the bites to my lower back sending goosebumps up and down my spine. The hairs on his beard touching every part of me introduced me to the unacquainted delights that can only be brought about by masculine hair. I felt intoxicated by the verses, stanzas, and couplets he summoned from within me. I was filled with the need to have this man inside of me. To hear how I sounded completing schemes of rhymes and meters with each inch that delved deep inside of me.
Do you know how it feels to have your hips lifted from the bed slightly to the point where your crotch lifts from the bed giving clear passage to a woman’s wonder to a bearded man? I have! He toyed with me as if I was a writing utensil during a free form writing barrage. His mouth touched my glutes all about and precisely at the center of my attentions. He traced about the orifice, slightly piercing me with his tongue, his moustache and beard running amok upon my rear massaging, enticing, telling me of a world far beyond pre-pubescent ideals. He bit my buttcheek, and not very softly. I liked it, and hoped to all grandeur that I see his teeth embroidered on me so that I could see in the morning that his look of medieval sophistication had more medieval than sophistication.
The enticing of my rear wasn’t the sole consumption he made that day. He kept my hips elevated from the bed while he traced all about my labia, both inner and outer. He would bite my lips with his lips and tug on them as if informing me that this stanza might only rhyme with vulgarities. I loved the feeling of his hands on my pelvis, holding me, spreading me as if a butterfly basking in the morning sun before preparing to take flight. But flight wasn’t to be had…
The bearded man shoved his face into me, his nose touched the orifice of my butt while his lips, mustache, and beard suffocated my belief. He then meticulously lowered his nose from the orifice of my rear end down to the my pulsating being, all while taking a profound breadth as if a pedestrian on a flower garden. When he pulled me up to my knees, and laid down on the bed, I rushed my left hand to clean the moisture I had left on his facial hair. He caught my hand in mid flight shaking his head declining my symptomology. He wanted his beard to remain entrenched in the lust of my secretion.
He called me down next to him, led me to kiss his lips, then down to his chest where I felt for the very first time the difference between a man and a boy. I wasn’t only immersed in his chest with my mouth, but also my hands as I squeezed hard, dug my nails, and caressed his groomed chest. Little by little he continued to push my head towards the crotch. For a little while I stayed running my index in and out of the lines created by his crafted abdomen. One hand I kept seducing the hairs on his chest. Oh how I wished to fall asleep touching this very man.
With one swift push of my head I came face to face with all of him. He maneuvered my head from his inner thighs, lower abdomen, and pelvic bone, to his navel, but never to his engorged body, traced with protruding veins and a glistening head. I wasn’t allowed to put my mouth, my lips, my tongue on it. I even asked to allow me feel him just a tad so, even if it’s running my lips from the tip, down the side and inserting the scrotum in my mouth… a little just to wet him and slightly clench my appetite to feel him inside my mouth.
He didn’t oblige. He ignored my pleas to shove him in my mouth. He simply wanted me to reveal my desire to be seduced, and abused.
For the next few hours I laid beside him, watching him sleep, tracing his lips with my index finger, running my hands on his chest, on his abdomen. I had long ago forgotten about the moisture trapped in my crotch, about the need to feel every inch of his being pushing me to the edge of desire. Now I watched him, wondering how this hairy man came to lay on my bed. How this man left me secreting desire while he effortlessly fell asleep. How he managed to release me of this dire need to constantly wash my hands. I now waited until he awakened so that I could fulfill my appetite by climaxing and laying in bed with remnants of his poem written on my face, lips, chest, ass, and, well, the book in which I’m waiting for him to write his final stanza.