Resume The Position

RESUME THE POSITION
By Landon Dixon 
(Freshmen magazine, August 2008)
Illustration by Jacob

The guy was gulping down water like it was raining men, and I knew it was only a matter of time. He was sitting on a tiger stripe beach towel about 50 feet in front of me — his smooth, muscular, ebony body gleaming with lotion and sweat under the hot sun. Judging by the salt sprinkled throughout the pepper of his close-cropped hair, he was somewhere over 40 — a somewhere that’s held a special attraction for me ever since I first glimpsed the studly Mr. Albert Beckles in one of my dad’s old muscle magazines.

This seasoned stud was camped out close to the deep blue water while I’d pitched my towel and trunks close to the bilious green men’s washroom. Waiting impatiently for the Nubian god’s bladder to reach maximum capacity, I was flat on my stomach, chin resting in my skinny arms, eyes full of that wicked eclipse of man, ready to spring up and beat him into the glory shack.

Maybe the 100 degree heat and 7.5 UV index had gone to my head, but this time I really meant to do something lewd inside that comfort station. I would finally make a move and advance from ogling mature men’s hard, chiselled buttocks and sneaking peeks at their low slung, veiny pipes to actually engaging them — filling my palms with taut cheek, my mouth with thrashing tongue, my virgin bum hole with a thick cut slab of meat. I was going to take that burning hunk’s licorice stick down my throat and suck like low tide, then jump to my feet and claw my cheeks apart and demand that the man of experience split my lily white ass in two with his blue-black ax.

Or so I told myself as I surreptitiously humped the sand with my hard on, dreamily eyeing the oiled muscleman. I’d told myself exactly the same thing with similar beach daddies all week long, using the occasion of the week after my 18th birthday to attempt to progress on my personal journey to flaming gaydom. So far, I’d barely advanced an inch.

Every day for the past four, I’d staked out the particular bathroom that had a reputation (so the newspaper said) of being a meat market and, other than glimpsing a few flashes of shrivelled prick at the urinals, gotten nothing more than a sunburn. But this time it was going to be —

He was on his feet, that noir dude with the tricked out body. I sprang up and raced for the plywood and fiberglass man-hut like I’d just downed a keg of icy cold courage. When I reached the concrete apron I jerked my head around and saw the big man wading slow and steady through the sea of sand, his neon red Speedo mouth wateringly bulged out at the front. A black velvet colossus with a need to pee.

I zipped inside, then grabbed onto the cool white porcelain of a sink and stared at myself in the shining mirror. The plumbing fixture shook in my hands, and I swear my sun-reddened face went pale, my straw blond hair white. That’s how ridiculously nervous I was.

And then the monster of a man was in the room with me. I almost wet my trunks with something other than ocean. He glanced at me clinging to the sink like it was a life ring, then ambled over to a urinal and turned his back to me. I gaped in the mirror at those round, rock hard cheeks bouldering out the sides of his thong-like swimsuit. They clenched deliciously when he pulled his pee gun out and sent a hot stream hissing against the gleaming white porcelain.

I couldn’t see his cock, but I could imagine it — vividly. But I wanted, deeply desired, to do more than imagine. At least cop a look.

So I swallowed the sand in my throat, tore my clammy hands off the sink, and turned around like someone waist deep in quicksand. I stalked over to the urinal next to the big guy, stiff legged as a clown on stilts.

He glanced at me, eyes large and brown, then back down at his business. I could feel the incendiary heat from his massive body so close, smell the sweaty musk of the manly man. My eyeballs rotated downward in their dried out sockets to see the biggest, darkest, most appealing length of penis I’d ever laid actual prying eyes on before. It was gleaming, like the rest of him, an ebony pipe that, even flaccid, nearly required two hands to hold.

I stared and stared until that muscle popped hottie gave his snake a final shake and eased it back into its Lycra lair. He looked over at my trunks, the front of which were tented to obvious and obscene proportions by the mesh enclosed erection that he’d inspired.

My face went redder than the guy’s Speedo, and I fumbled with my swimsuit, making like I was just there to take a leak. He turned and walked away. I heard a tap squeak, water running. I breathed again, pulling out my iron rod and actually trying to bend it down to go to the bathroom. But no bodily fluid but the best kind was going to burst from my engorged friend. Not in the happy, swelled up condition he was in.

So I stroked, from fuzzy base to mushroomed top in long, stretching, feel good strokes. I hardly heard the tap squeak shut and the water stop running; certainly I didn’t hear the pad of bare feet on concrete coming toward me. I almost shot through the fiberglass roof of that public pleasure palace when a hand suddenly touched my shoulder.

“Need some help with that?” a voice caressed my ear, as smooth and velvety as the hand on my bare shoulder. He rested his chin on my other trembling shoulder, his chocolate brown eyes on my exposed cock, and his hard, hot, musky body kissing up against mine.

"I, uh, well, um . . ."

His hand slid off my shoulder and along my biceps, under my arm and onto my chest. Long, dark fingers captured and squeezed one of my pointing pink buds, a warm palm rested on my twitching pec. A wall of heat surged through my beanpole body like an erotic tsunami. This was actually happening! Not a fantasy, not another wet dream with a sticky ending. I was really getting fondled by another man — a mammoth man with obviously plenty of hands on manhandling experience.

I could barely wrap my shattered mind around the situation as the dark daddy’s other hand slid under my other arm and across my heaving chest, down my drum tight stomach, and onto my own hand, still grasping my granite cock. “Uh. Oh, my . . .” I stammered, rocketing to my tiptoes with a wonderful tingling sensation.

The muscle guy brushed my hand aside and took hold of my pole, and I swooned back against him in a daze. He started stroking up and down my hardened length with his huge, hot hand, and I had an out-of-body experience, I was flying so high — on fluffy, blissful, white clouds of joy.

He gently pinched and rolled my buzzing nipples with his other hand, kissing my neck, biting into my earlobe, sticking his tongue into my blood reddened ear and swirling and swirling. Stroking and swirling. It was so right, so real, so wickedly —

“You’re not a cop, are you?” His hand motions stopped abruptly, sending me crashing back down to earth.

“Huh? Me? A . . . cop?” I shook my bleary head, desperately praying to the great Greek gods that this wasn’t the end of our encounter.

“Mm-hmm. I heard they were cracking down on this place. ”

I felt the warmth of his smile, his hands moving along my throbbing cock and across my chest again, the hardwood log that was his own prick pressing in between my quivering cheeks. And I was airborne again.

He licked my neck with his warm, wet tongue, bit into my shoulder with his sharp white teeth. His soft, bulbed fingertips rubbed my stomach and chest and achingly hard nipples, setting my shimmering skin ablaze. His strong hand pulled on my pulsating prick slow and sure and sensual, burning me down to the core.

I gulped, gasped, the seed bubbling, boiling out of control in my tightened sac, the tug of his mighty hand just too powerful to resist. My body jerked and my brain went sailing. White-hot jizz blasted out of my man-pumped cock and splashed against the urinal. I grunted and groaned like the feverish first-timer I was, bouncing off the big guy’s unbending body, blowing my rocks off like never before. He hand drained me of every last ounce of manly pleasure until I sagged against him, as limp and wrung out as my noodled penis.

“Guess you’re not a cop, huh?” he breathed in my ear.

He gave my cock one last affectionate tug, squeezing a final teardrop of splooge from my slit, and then he was gone. Leaving me clinging to that porcelain piss tank like it was a life buoy, my mind and body at sea.

I just couldn’t leave it there, however. I’d had my first sweet and salty taste of man love, and I wanted more. I was a true believer now, ablaze with fervor.

So after my heads had cleared and the bones in my body had re-solidified, I rushed out of the men’s room just in time to see my ebony prince saddle up in a pearl white Corvette convertible in the parking lot. I jumped into my own flame painted Fiesta and took off after him, like a hound dog takes after a silver fox. I tailed him to his house, and when he went inside I sneaked over to his open car and found my treasure: a subscription copy of Road & Track.

I spent the next two breathless days researching all the intimate details on “Donald W. Jefferson” that I could Google and microfiche. And the next three sweaty days and nights after that mapping out a personal plan of action and, most important, screwing up the courage to actually implement it.

Getting into his workplace wasn’t that difficult, though I did have to duck a couple of suspicious characters in order to make it into the employees only washroom in the bowels of the building. I wanted our reunion to be just as full of polished porcelain as our first erotic engagement had been.

After about an hour of squatting on a black-lidded toilet in a black-walled stall, surreptitiously popping my head up like an overeager gopher and anxiously eyeing everyone who entered, I finally ogled the magnificent man himself. “Hello, Officer Jefferson,” I chimed from my lookout.

His hands froze on the taps, and he stared at my grinning reflection in the spotless mirror. Slowly he turned around, looking absolutely resplendent in the dark blue uniform he was filling to every seam, the silver badge on his broad chest twinkling like my eyes.

“Busted,” he growled.

He strode over to my stall and kicked the door open. I staggered back on the toilet top, suddenly unsure of what was going to happen. It’s risky business calling a man out — a man on duty, no less — and letting him know that you knew he’d been doing anything but his duty when you’d first come into contact with him. Mind you, police brutality held as much promise for me right then in my hyped-up condition as did the prospect of being protected and served.

And . . . it was officer down!

Donald grabbed my belt and roughly unfastened and unzipped me, yanked my jeans and Jockeys down without even first reading me my rights. My collapsible baton sprang out into his face, and he took it into the wet-hot cauldron of his mouth without so much as a warning. The walls of the cop shop stall almost came tumbling down right on top of us, I was jolted so hard.

He engulfed my bloated pink cap with his full purple lips and tugged on it, his thick tongue darting out and scouring my straining shaft. It was almost too much to believe — virgin to boy toy in less than one week!

The uniformed hunk earnestly tugged on my glistening knob before briefly popping it out of his mouth to say, “Keep your eyes peeled for fuzz.” Then he popped it back into his wicked mouth and picked up sucking right where he’d left off.

I shot a glance at the black door to our porcelain paradise, my body and brain crackling with sexual electricity. Then I refocused my spinning eyes back on the man and my member. Just as he gripped my hips and dive-bombed my prick, swallowing me down to the sac.

“Code fucking blue!” I gasped, bucking with joy. My knuckles went white on the stall, my face red as a cherry, my body shaking like I’d been Tasered. As I desperately stared down at Donald’s upturned eyes, his flared nostrils, his lips pressing into my blond pubes, his mouth and throat locking me down in the softest, wettest, hottest prison in the world, I never wanted to go free.

But Officer Jefferson slowly pulled back on the pressure, releasing my pent-up pipe in dripping, dizzying increments, making my eyes and spine pop. When he had just the meaty head between his dazzling white teeth, he bit in, and I felt the erotic shock all the way from the tip of my high-tops to the top of my faux-hawk.

He swallowed me down again — pulled back up again. Deep-throating my raging prong with the greatest of ease and impact; the guy’s man-eating technique was obviously field tested to perfection. But my man-taking-it technique wasn’t. I was ready to blow.

Like a true veteran, Donald sensed it. He pulled my boiling shaft out of his velvet mouth and applied a choke hold just below the hood, slowing my flow. “Time to get serious,” he muttered. I wasn’t sure just what he meant. But he showed me — always the best way to learn! — leading me by my throbbing wet cock off my toilet perch, out of the stall, and over to a sink. “Assume the position,” he grunted.

I grabbed onto the cool porcelain with my clammy hands and spread my liquid legs. I knew what, and who, was coming now — just not how hard.

Donald strolled over to the door and locked it. He ambled in behind me, staring at my anxious face in the mirror. He loosened his gun belt, and it, along with his blue dress pants, crashed down to the black and white tile floor. I swallowed hard.

He slid his red briefs down. That crowbar of a cock I’d glimpsed a week earlier, un-erect, now rose up and pulsed hot and dangerous against my skinny white thigh — a nightstick long and hard. I bit my lip, sweat peppering my burning face. Hammer time!

Donald pulled a tube of lube out of his shirt pocket and shone up his snake, grinning at my gaping reflection. Then he slid his slippery digits in between my quivering butt cheeks and greased up my crack. I jumped at his warm, slick touch, almost pulling the sink out of the wall.

His probing fingers trailed away from my asshole, and something soft and bulbous took their place, shoving up against my virgin opening — his shiny blue-black cap. He gripped my waist with one hand and his gleaming licorice stick with the other, then drove his monster hood through my resisting ring and up into my tight anus.

“Fuck . . . yeah!” I groaned, in relief and pleasure.

It didn’t hurt at all. In fact, it was the best feeling in the world — that filling-up-with-cock feeling, the bad cop/good cop’s long, vein-ribboned steel sinking into my ass — stuffing me to the point where I thought I’d explode. Stretching my chute to the bursting point, flooding me with the warmest, weirdest, wildest tingling, shimmering sensation I’d ever experienced — my own cock an overblown length of numbed meat hanging from my electrified body.

Donald started pumping his hips, thrusting into my ass slow and smooth and deep. Both of his hands were gripping my waist now, fingernails biting into my flesh, quad-heavy ebony thighs banging against my jumping ivory cheeks, fucking faster, harder. His pole of a cock was churning my chute and turning me into molten liquid. My cherry hadn’t been popped, it’d been obliterated.

I had no strength left in my arms and legs, no will of my own. All the strength and will came from my mentor’s pistoning cock, pounding into my very being. My butt was on fire, stoked to inferno by the big man’s big, thick poker.

He torqued up the tempo to the frenzy point, rattling me and the sink, splitting my ass in two and sending me sailing. The sharp smack of his rock hard body against my bloated bum blurred into one long, sustained thunderclap, my ecstatic mask of a face bouncing off the looking glass.

I somehow tore a hand off the sink and grabbed onto my flapping cock. Donald threw back his head and hollered, hips flying, cock plunging, my gloriously reamed asshole flooding with hot, soothing salve. My own cock went off in my hand as soon as I touched it, soul-searing spurt after spurt of heated come splashing against the taps and into the sink, draining me.

He held me in his big, strong arms afterward, his strong cock still buried to the pube-pebbled balls in my blasted ass.

“How about we hook up in the men’s room at the Locker this weekend?” he asked. “It’s a real cop hangout.”

I bobbed my head, basking in the sweaty glow of my newfound manhood. Eager for my man to ride me like a porcelain pony again and again.