best served with melted butter

the psycho urges he could handle ok.
the psycho-cultural urges he could handle ok.
even the sociopathic-psycho-cultural urges he could handle ok.
but the socio-psycho-cultural-SEXual urges troubled him quite
a bit.
he was a sexy young man, tall, slender, rather-nice-looking,
actually. but shy, and bookish. and latin-club treasurer there
at the high school.
he dreamed of capturing the big strapping
gangling boys on the
basketball team, one by one, manacling them,
strapping them down, with ropes and
wires and chains, whatever was necessary, and then stripping them,
and fondling their big cocks and hairy bulging balls
until, in spite of themselves, he forced them to spurt their cum
onto their chests and bellies while he watched them
spurt. he would then lick their cum off of their
bellies and chests and even the cum that dribbled into
the tangled labyrinthine ringlets of their twisty pubic hair --
these socio-psycho-cultural-SEXual urges troubled him quite
a bit, actually, even though he knew these urges were not
the kind of thing he would ever act upon, even if
he were actually capable of capturing a nice big strapping
basketball player for his very own.
rather, he shredded paper and ate bits and pieces
of it. he sat alone in his bedroom and wept, and
he spent hours and hours masturbating when he
should have been sleeping.
he had a big smooth nice-shapely cock. he didn't think
any of the basketball players that he lusted
after would think he lacked in the area of
big attractive genitalia. and he sure spurted a lot
of cum each and every time he had an orgasm,
which was frequently.
ah how he longed to have his very own basketball
player tied up and subdued, that big basketball
player cock between his fingers, stiff, throbbing,
spurting basketball player cum.
he ached. he longed. he seethed. he burned.
he had stomach aches. he had headaches.
he dreamed dry dreams and he dreamed
wet dreams, and the naked sweating sexual bodies of
cum-spurting big-dicked basketball players inhabited
each and every one.
one day, to his utter astonishment,
he found himself
at the skate market, the place
where fishermen went to sell the skates
they had caught way out in the middle of
the bay. the skates were dead, but fresh,
their big stinger-armed tails still limp
and moist.  there was one particular skate seller
who had his shirt off, and who was sexy
and muscular and gorgeous, his dark brown
hair in little tangled ringlets that dangled
down into his sexy brooding eyes.
little latin-club-treasurer boy stood in
front of that skate seller and stared.
little latin-club-treasurer boy sprouted
quite a hardon. and so it was that
the skate seller took him down into
the bowels of the skate-fishing boat
and asked the little latin-club-treasurer boy
if he would suck his big smooth manly skate-seller
cock. and that is precisely what happened.
while the little latin-club-treasurer boy
was sucking on the big thick smooth
cock of the skate seller, the little
latin-club-treasurer boy unzipped
his own pants and stroked himself
and stroked himself and sucked
the skate seller's big cock and stroked
himself and sucked the skate seller's
big cock and at almost exactly the same
instant that the skate seller
began spurting hot vaguely skate-scented
cum into the wet slobbery highly receptive mouth
of the little latin-club-treasurer boy,
little latin-club-treasurer boy began
spurting cum himself. it went all
over his own feet and onto the tawny naked
feet of the skate seller.  after, he
and the skate seller sailed across
the bay and went naked-swimming
together for hour and hours, pausing
many many times to suck each other
off and fuck each other and lick
each other all over their hot
steamy bodies.
from that day on, basketball
players no longer haunted the dreams
of skinny little latin-club-treasurer boy.
he got a weekend job with the skate
seller whom he loved. they spent hours
and hours on board, capturing via clever
nets and hooks big flat skates,
performing grueling manual chores,
and after, and after, the sex
between them was always fantastic.
their love became legendary.
it was spoken of reverently,
a sacred thing that inspired
men and women alike. the little
latin-club-treasurer boy and the
big brawny sexy skate seller
traveled the bay, capturing
non-clever skates, selling them
gray and wet and drippy there
at the docks on sweltering
afternoons.  some of their
best customers were the basketball
team boys, but neither the
skate seller nor the skinny
little latin-club-treasurer
boy ever laid a finger on
any of those basketball team
boys--those boys just weren't
interesting, like something
washed up from an old dream
that wasn't even really
worth mentioning anymore--
if it ever had been,
in the first place.


--Carl Miller Daniels (January 31, 2007)