“Make it rain, big boy, but we’re not in the desert anymore so wherever you like,” I tell him, but he doesn’t get it. So, I let him shoot across my cock, balls and bush. He quivers between my legs and watches himself shoot, open-mouthed. When he’s done, my pubic hair is canvas to his Pollock inspired paintwork. A pearly lattice of wet constellations covering my entire midsection, that’ll later turn to lace for me to peel off after he’d gone. He takes a second between exhales to admire his work with a shaky hand on my thigh. I admire it, too.
We start at the climax, the end product, the fruits and not the labour. This is the nature of cum, its story, its mythology, and I have to try my best to be as true as that white.
I was a late cummer. All the other boys at school, when not being taught that war trumps love, had already made t-shirts and socks as hard as armour before I’d fired a single shot. I was fourteen when the first eyebrow-raising electricity ran across my skin to the tip of my cock and I thought I was pissing. A solid stream of white ribbon fell on the navy carpet, and I shivered from sweat across the finish line of my childhood.
Suddenly it was everywhere. On my right hand, the doorknob, on the news, in houses of parliament. It was talked about in TV shows, in films, in books, in poetry, and in music. Our history books are covered in it and so are the documentaries about Iraq. I was raised to be a capitalist, and cumming for the first time helped me see the real currency, and how it’s spent. It’s blasted into the wombs of women and spattered on the faces of guys wanting to taste the exact value of the salt. I saw that even in the smallest loads it is spent generously.
Obsession is fertilised by shared thought, and Danny planted that seed deep. An hour after inviting him back to my place for the first time, he quickly learned that my nipples are a faucet to a steady flow of pre-cum. He had me sit with my back leaning against his prickly chest while he rubbed saliva-slick fingers over my hard nipple, which was wrinkled like the skin of an overripe passionfruit. He was stroking me with his other hand, only stopping to taste a glassy drop squeezed onto his thumb.
I came on my stomach, with him whispering in my ear to stay still. He jerked my cock like he was signing a signature with it. He held me, taking my body weight against him for a long time. I started to feel the cold droplets melting down across my hips and I asked for a tissue. He told me to watch my mess, so I did, with him taking tastes and making me taste myself, too.
“This stuff is what makes the world go round,” he told me, “since Zeus blew his load in the ocean and Aphrodite was born.”
“I’m not sure that’s right,” I replied, and he waved me off. He scooped up a fingerful of me and put it under my nose.
“What does it smell like to you?”
“Like swimming pools and Callery Pear trees.”
We smoke down the time, our cigarettes quick fuses, and then he told me, “I’m ready to go again,” I sucked his already glazed semi-hard cock, feeling his head bloom in my mouth, and bloom again with warm sweetness. Somehow, I knew he would know, so I asked him why he tasted so sweet, …