I asked if he wanted to go up and see the view from the upstairs terrace. He said no, there was no view because it was too cloudy. Then I asked him if he’d like to see the photograph I’d made of him and Bruno, framed and hanging in the upstairs bath. He said no, he’d already seen the photo. Then he stood up, as if to go. I didn’t really want him to go, and I didn’t think he really wanted to go either, so we engaged in small talk for the next ten or twenty minutes. Then I moved around behind him and asked: “Do you remember last year when I gave you a back rub?” “Of course,” he said “I haven’t had that happen since.” So I put my hands on his shoulders. He was as tense as a board. I massaged the muscles in his shoulders and asked him if he was always so tense. “Of course,” he answered. “That’s how muscles are supposed to be. Then I rubbed his shoulders, his shoulder blades, and worked my way down his back, lean and hard beneath a floppy t-shirt. Over the course of ten minutes or so, he relaxed considerably, but not completely.
“Lie down on the floor,” I told him. “On my back?” he asked, and quickly, although reluctantly, I told him: “No. On your front.” He dropped down on the carpet, and I straddled his back, pulling up his shirt. His back is long and lean, every muscle is perfectly outlined, and he’s darkly, evenly suntanned from long hours of outdoor work. Nervous from the physical proximity, as well as thrilled by it, I was obliged to force myself to remember to breathe. I worked his back and shoulders for a long time, then worked on his neck, gradually adding his sides. The pleasure was so intense I could scarcely stand it at certain intervals, and from time to time I held my breath so long I almost passed out. When he was even more relaxed, although far from truly relaxed, I allowed myself to rub his legs, then his thighs, then his butt, which was as firm as a fine piece of sculpted mahogany. My heart pounding, I commanded: “Turn over.”
His shirt was still pulled up, and I could see every muscle in his chest and stomach, every muscle in his neck, a sight which filled me with admiration, delight, and disbelief. “How can a human being be so firm? How can a body be so tight?” I wondered. “How can muscles remain so taut, even when relaxed?” I massaged his chest, his pectoral muscles, his rib cage. I rubbed his stomach; his solar plexus, and his sides. I lifted up his back from below and rubbed his center, then lay him down and did the whole thing once more. His acquiescence was the only consent required, and we didn’t talk. Gradually, I moved my hands to his lower parts and massaged his upper thighs, his knees and his calves. Finally, I rubbed my hands over his crotch, gently at first, as if by accident, and when he offered no resistance, but reacted with an almost instant erection, I took a final deep breath, unbuttoned his belt, unbuttoned his fly, and pulled off his jeans.
The situation I’d wanted, hoped for, and fantasized for three years was suddenly in my hands. I had him right where I wanted him, and he didn’t object. Rather the contrary. He loved it. I rubbed my hands over his belly, chest, nipples, and neck. I rubbed his balls, thighs, and throbbing cock. I felt every muscle in his his hot young body respond wordlessly to my every gesture. I knew the moment had at last arrived, and that I had to take advantage of it. There was no question in my mind, there was no choice. It was the moment of truth.