By DANIEL Castro

I walked to my door, and there he was. He was looking directly at me, meeting my eyes with his, surveying and mirroring my every move. His eyes were a deep, dark brown, and you could see the low skyline of the Brooklyn horizon in them. His black hair was unkempt, a side effect of the quarantine, and struck by rays of sunlight, hinting at red and auburn streaks throughout. I smiled at him, and he smiled back immediately– there was something in him I already loved. I had seen him before. I knew him. I moved to the edge of my bed and he followed without a word. I jumped onto my bed and started combing through my memory as I started feeling up his body.

I felt my way down his torso, happy trail untrodden, and came across his thick, dark bush before landing on the smoothness of his cock– he was the guy I met at the urinal in my office building, partaking in risky exhibitionism as coworkers popped in and out while I pretended to take a piss. But as I continued down his cock, I felt a softness to his skin– a foreskin. He was definitely the guy that I came home with three years ago, ready to release my quarter-century stresses, so I stroked his cock more enthusiastically, foreskin covering the head, uncovering it, then covering it again, an endless loop. I was ecstatic and could remember every moment we spent together.

I wanted to remind myself of the feeling of a cock in my hole– I’m not a bottom, but what did it feel like when I opened up to a throbbing Adonis? Without letting go of his stiffening cock, I slid my fingers over my balls until I reached my furry hole, recalling the addictive pleasure of a man inside me without the pain of additional girth, feeling my sphincter tightening at my touch, blocking entry. I pulled back the foreskin to reveal glistening precum and wiped some off on my finger, returned it to my hole, which tightened once more, but this time my finger slid right in. I gripped his cock even tighter and paused my stroking for a moment– I could feel the pulsing in his veins as blood pumped without missing a beat, coursing through like ecstasy. The rhythm was familiar as if it had been playing quietly in the back of my head for who knows however long.

I remembered I had been with him in the steam room at the gym, endorphins permeating post-workout. A guy had entered after showering and sat down a few feet away as the steam reactivated, creating a cover under which we slowly scooted closer, and our hands made their way under our towels, jerking our cocks off, my head inching towards his lap, my tongue paving his cock’s path to my throat, until the heat of the steam became insignificant, sweat confused with water droplets, our satisfaction and sexual desires prioritized. Actually, I knew him from before. Eyes closed, I saw flashes of us being in a car in Ecuador, cock out, slowly driving through a private neighborhood with a local resident, wary of guards on the lookout for any suspicious behavior while I filmed this scene on my phone, his cock gushing over his sweatshorts, intent on preserving a memory of international misdeeds. We had met in a hotel basement bathroom once– maybe twice, and fed our appetites for raw sex, my cock sliding in and out of a juicy hole, as the slats on the door hinted to those curious enough that we were engaged in an act of bacchanalia. We had driven to Slammer in LA and observed sun-kissed bodies in the darkness, the strong smell of piss, latex, and lube overtaking the senses, moans abound and eyes wandering alongside the occasional hands running over us.

He was with me when the hotel employee walked into my room on a work trip after a short chat on Grindr, sporting his work uniform, bulging trousers ready to be taken off, opening up a hole to be pummeled and filled with my ejaculate. It was only the morning before that he was with me at breakfast when I swapped phone numbers with the waiter who came over to our hotel that night, the taste of kush in his mouth and sweat in his hole as I tongued it fervently, the intoxicating musk of his ass clinging to my mustache for the rest of the night. He was the guy I found in France, a partner in uncertainty in the baths of Paris, when the couple beckoned me to join them, and where the grip of their lips upon my cock prompted a plea of “arrêt” before I unloaded on their faces, tongues out. I could envision him at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, nervous to see the guys stroking their large cocks out of the corner of his eyes at the dividerless urinals, inviting exploration and cruising vibes. But then I remembered I actually met him for the first time in college, after I posted on Craigslist and found in him a confirmation of all the desires stockpiled over time. He was involved in my first, my second, the third, the fourth, but I’ve lost count and faces have blurred. He was there when I bottomed for the first time, when the grad student fucked me gently and gave me some hope in my versatility.

He was the boy that played in the woods of Florida, exploring what it was like to expose himself to nature. The backyard was his playground, where he felt safe and could escape and truly be his own. I could feel him about to cum, I could hear myself moaning on his behalf, remembering the euphoria I had always managed to experience with him and which was about to manifest. I was close and he was closer, he was inside me, and he was suddenly me. I was one and only, a stream of memories igniting smells of sweat, stale breath, musk, pits, uncut cocks, saliva, sounds of moans and fapping, of whispers in my ears, brushed by stubble and soft lips, feelings of risk and adrenaline pumping through my head, inciting drunken horniness. It was me in the warmth of my cum gushing out of my uncut cock, spraying my unshaven bush, and leaving a milky trail up my torso– and my hole relaxed, because the guy I saw in my balcony door window’s reflection has never failed at my pleasure. He was me, and I was alone, but in isolation, I reflected and kept loneliness at bay.