MyJockStrap
05-29-2005, 05:08 PM
A Rolling Boil
Trace pained himself over the exact song selection, and finding every song inappropriate, he decided to just hit play. Released from the speakers, Julia Fordham’s voice clarified the air but not his nerves. His pulse quickened as he heard Elan’s car pull into the driveway. Situating himself before the door, he prepared himself by pushing his bulge to the left and inhaling deeply as he braced for Elan’s entrance. His nerves rattled through his veins but were suddenly and unexpectedly stilled by the appearance of Elan’s face in the screen door. This sight of Elan breaking the crescendo of his nerves steadied Trace’s resolve and confirmed what he knew he had to do.
Seeing Trace, Elan smiled and let himself in: “Hello, there.”
“Hi, how are you?” asked Trace.
“Good, and you, Trace?”
“Good.” And Trace meant it as the heady scent of clove rose from Elan’s clothes and filled his nostrils.
Trace gestured toward the kitchen table, “Have a seat; would you like some tea?”
“Sure, what kind do you have?” asked Elan.
“I have a pretty wide selection—mostly herbal. I have—“
“Just give me something with an edge to it,” interrupted Elan.
Selecting a box of ginger, cardamom, and clove tea, Trace thought: Coming right up.
Elan settled into his chair and smiled as he noticed the music: “You always have the best music on. Her voice is beautiful. Who is she?”
“It’s Julia Fordham,” replied Trace as he turned toward the stove, settled the kettle on the burner, and turned on the gas.
“It’s nice, very nice.” Elan brought his legs out from under the table and stretched out in the chair. Lolling to the music, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
Increasing the flame, Trace turned to find Elan’s body laid out before him. Appreciating the ease of Elan’s posture, Trace smiled when he noticed a willful cowlick dangling over Elan’s forehead. The unruly tuft of hair swayed, undecided if it was going to fall forward or backward.
The kettle sounded with the beginnings of a boil as Trace pondered which way the lock of hair would fall, until becoming distracted by the graceful angle of Elan’s forehead. It ranged majestically over his well-formed brows and curved downward, leading to the beds of his resting eyes and the rising slope of his nose. Following the slope until it dropped off, Trace’s eyes fell upon Elan’s lips, which were parted slightly in the act of exhalation. Trace followed the darkening split between the breath moistening lips but was too distracted by the alluring contour of the chin, which led alluringly down the neck, over the bulge of Adam’s apple, and introduced the cleft of the chest, which was partly buried beneath a shirt collar that obscured the very topography Trace sought to explore. He frantically lowered his eyes in the search for skin. A thick black leather belt bolstered the restriction of clothing and led to the thick denim that obscured the lines of the body, except for a bulge emanating from one side of Elan’s crotch. Desirously seeking skin, Trace poured his eyes over the length of Elan’s legs until white socks and sneakers abruptly broke the blue haze of denim. Burrowing his gaze between the crossed ankles, between the border of hem and sock, he discovered a sliver of skin. The sudden reappearance of the body beneath the clothes set the tone for the athleticism of the sneakers, which Trace decided must be immediately untied.
As the kettle quickened with the roll of a slow boil, Trace stepped forward and took the cowlick fate into his own hands, by running his fingers through it and blending it with the rest of the hair, but as cowlicks are want to do, it sprung back to its stance of ambivalence.
Trace pressed the cowlick back in place and urged it to stay in place by running his fingers through the rest of Elan’s hair. In response to the touch, Elan opened his eyes and smiled: “That feels good.”
“That’s why I want to keep doing it.”
“Well, that’s not a problem for me,” replied Elan.
“It is for me—I want to touch you more than this.”
Trace continued to run his fingers through Elan’s hair and waited for something to happen. He had done it; the seduction was underway. He had established physical contact and verbalized his feelings. Holding his breath and stroking Elan’s hair, he waited for a response.
“But that is not the way it is for us,” replied Elan.
Trace received a response that fell short of the mad groping of cocks or the immediacy of the passionate kiss he imagined his seduction would elicit. Having ripped the lid off the containment of his passion, Trace found his desire bouncing off Elan’s body and collecting at his ankles, like two puddles of inelastic socks.
Disheartened Trace withdrew his fingers from Elan’s hair and stepped backwards: “It’s too hard for me to keep you as a friend.”
Sitting upright, Elan asked, “You just need more time to adjust.”
“I am too into you; it hurts too much. I’m sorry, Elan.”
Elan nodded slowly as he started to stand: “No, I understand. Believe me, I really do.”
With Elan reaching a standing position, the two guys stood only inches apart.
Finding himself that close to Elan, Trace’s cock hardened and so did his resolve: “How about we say goodbye before saying goodbye?”
Elan’s eyes widened with surprised, as he absorbed the full import of Trace’s suggestion: “That’s probably not a good idea.”
Stepping forward, Trace brought his lips within kissing distance of Elan’s: “It would make a good memory.”
Julia’s voice filled the space between them with a deeper degree of desire.
“Your loving in my bed . . .” Elan echoed the lyrics as his lips spanned the distance between their lips and agreed, “It would make a good memory.”
Grabbing Trace’s waist, Elan pulled Trace toward him, and as their bodies touched, so did their lips. The kiss started slowly with a soft sliding of tongues, but their mouths quickly swelled with a deep and mutually probing kiss.
Elan cupped Trace’s ass and ground their crotches together. Julia’s voice faded beneath the kettle’s full rolling boil, as Trace’s head spun with a disbelief that gradually faded as he pondered the limits of the kiss, and as the boiling water overflowed the kettle and sizzled its way to sublimation in the flame that created its boil, Trace became increasingly uncomfortable offering the kiss to Elan’s cheek and pulled away from Elan: “I cannot do this.”
Trace rushed to the stove, but before he could reach it, the overflow of the boiling water had extinguished the flame, and the foul smell of gas permeated the air. Removing the kettle from the burner Trace turned off the gas and turned to face Elan, who stood looking at him sullenly.
“This is very disappointing. Are you sure?” asked Elan.
“I’m sorry,” replied Trace.
A grinning discontent suffused Elan’s face as he walked to door, pulled his keys from his pocket, and left without uttering another word.
Waiting until he heard Elan’s car pull out of the driveway, Trace grabbed his keys and flew out the door. Starting his truck, he shifted into reverse before the first pulse of oil could course through the engine.
Pulling onto the road, Trace accelerated to a higher than recommended speed for his bedroom community and turned on the radio. An unacceptably romantic song sounded from the speakers, so he switched to the hard rock station and found the visceral vocals of the new Joplin blaring out her latest hit. Turning up the volume and lowering his windows, Trace careened through the wooded area of an increasingly rural road, and he wondered where he was going. Taking the next serpentine curve by swerving into the opposite lane, he floored it, as he realized his destination.
Trace pained himself over the exact song selection, and finding every song inappropriate, he decided to just hit play. Released from the speakers, Julia Fordham’s voice clarified the air but not his nerves. His pulse quickened as he heard Elan’s car pull into the driveway. Situating himself before the door, he prepared himself by pushing his bulge to the left and inhaling deeply as he braced for Elan’s entrance. His nerves rattled through his veins but were suddenly and unexpectedly stilled by the appearance of Elan’s face in the screen door. This sight of Elan breaking the crescendo of his nerves steadied Trace’s resolve and confirmed what he knew he had to do.
Seeing Trace, Elan smiled and let himself in: “Hello, there.”
“Hi, how are you?” asked Trace.
“Good, and you, Trace?”
“Good.” And Trace meant it as the heady scent of clove rose from Elan’s clothes and filled his nostrils.
Trace gestured toward the kitchen table, “Have a seat; would you like some tea?”
“Sure, what kind do you have?” asked Elan.
“I have a pretty wide selection—mostly herbal. I have—“
“Just give me something with an edge to it,” interrupted Elan.
Selecting a box of ginger, cardamom, and clove tea, Trace thought: Coming right up.
Elan settled into his chair and smiled as he noticed the music: “You always have the best music on. Her voice is beautiful. Who is she?”
“It’s Julia Fordham,” replied Trace as he turned toward the stove, settled the kettle on the burner, and turned on the gas.
“It’s nice, very nice.” Elan brought his legs out from under the table and stretched out in the chair. Lolling to the music, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
Increasing the flame, Trace turned to find Elan’s body laid out before him. Appreciating the ease of Elan’s posture, Trace smiled when he noticed a willful cowlick dangling over Elan’s forehead. The unruly tuft of hair swayed, undecided if it was going to fall forward or backward.
The kettle sounded with the beginnings of a boil as Trace pondered which way the lock of hair would fall, until becoming distracted by the graceful angle of Elan’s forehead. It ranged majestically over his well-formed brows and curved downward, leading to the beds of his resting eyes and the rising slope of his nose. Following the slope until it dropped off, Trace’s eyes fell upon Elan’s lips, which were parted slightly in the act of exhalation. Trace followed the darkening split between the breath moistening lips but was too distracted by the alluring contour of the chin, which led alluringly down the neck, over the bulge of Adam’s apple, and introduced the cleft of the chest, which was partly buried beneath a shirt collar that obscured the very topography Trace sought to explore. He frantically lowered his eyes in the search for skin. A thick black leather belt bolstered the restriction of clothing and led to the thick denim that obscured the lines of the body, except for a bulge emanating from one side of Elan’s crotch. Desirously seeking skin, Trace poured his eyes over the length of Elan’s legs until white socks and sneakers abruptly broke the blue haze of denim. Burrowing his gaze between the crossed ankles, between the border of hem and sock, he discovered a sliver of skin. The sudden reappearance of the body beneath the clothes set the tone for the athleticism of the sneakers, which Trace decided must be immediately untied.
As the kettle quickened with the roll of a slow boil, Trace stepped forward and took the cowlick fate into his own hands, by running his fingers through it and blending it with the rest of the hair, but as cowlicks are want to do, it sprung back to its stance of ambivalence.
Trace pressed the cowlick back in place and urged it to stay in place by running his fingers through the rest of Elan’s hair. In response to the touch, Elan opened his eyes and smiled: “That feels good.”
“That’s why I want to keep doing it.”
“Well, that’s not a problem for me,” replied Elan.
“It is for me—I want to touch you more than this.”
Trace continued to run his fingers through Elan’s hair and waited for something to happen. He had done it; the seduction was underway. He had established physical contact and verbalized his feelings. Holding his breath and stroking Elan’s hair, he waited for a response.
“But that is not the way it is for us,” replied Elan.
Trace received a response that fell short of the mad groping of cocks or the immediacy of the passionate kiss he imagined his seduction would elicit. Having ripped the lid off the containment of his passion, Trace found his desire bouncing off Elan’s body and collecting at his ankles, like two puddles of inelastic socks.
Disheartened Trace withdrew his fingers from Elan’s hair and stepped backwards: “It’s too hard for me to keep you as a friend.”
Sitting upright, Elan asked, “You just need more time to adjust.”
“I am too into you; it hurts too much. I’m sorry, Elan.”
Elan nodded slowly as he started to stand: “No, I understand. Believe me, I really do.”
With Elan reaching a standing position, the two guys stood only inches apart.
Finding himself that close to Elan, Trace’s cock hardened and so did his resolve: “How about we say goodbye before saying goodbye?”
Elan’s eyes widened with surprised, as he absorbed the full import of Trace’s suggestion: “That’s probably not a good idea.”
Stepping forward, Trace brought his lips within kissing distance of Elan’s: “It would make a good memory.”
Julia’s voice filled the space between them with a deeper degree of desire.
“Your loving in my bed . . .” Elan echoed the lyrics as his lips spanned the distance between their lips and agreed, “It would make a good memory.”
Grabbing Trace’s waist, Elan pulled Trace toward him, and as their bodies touched, so did their lips. The kiss started slowly with a soft sliding of tongues, but their mouths quickly swelled with a deep and mutually probing kiss.
Elan cupped Trace’s ass and ground their crotches together. Julia’s voice faded beneath the kettle’s full rolling boil, as Trace’s head spun with a disbelief that gradually faded as he pondered the limits of the kiss, and as the boiling water overflowed the kettle and sizzled its way to sublimation in the flame that created its boil, Trace became increasingly uncomfortable offering the kiss to Elan’s cheek and pulled away from Elan: “I cannot do this.”
Trace rushed to the stove, but before he could reach it, the overflow of the boiling water had extinguished the flame, and the foul smell of gas permeated the air. Removing the kettle from the burner Trace turned off the gas and turned to face Elan, who stood looking at him sullenly.
“This is very disappointing. Are you sure?” asked Elan.
“I’m sorry,” replied Trace.
A grinning discontent suffused Elan’s face as he walked to door, pulled his keys from his pocket, and left without uttering another word.
Waiting until he heard Elan’s car pull out of the driveway, Trace grabbed his keys and flew out the door. Starting his truck, he shifted into reverse before the first pulse of oil could course through the engine.
Pulling onto the road, Trace accelerated to a higher than recommended speed for his bedroom community and turned on the radio. An unacceptably romantic song sounded from the speakers, so he switched to the hard rock station and found the visceral vocals of the new Joplin blaring out her latest hit. Turning up the volume and lowering his windows, Trace careened through the wooded area of an increasingly rural road, and he wondered where he was going. Taking the next serpentine curve by swerving into the opposite lane, he floored it, as he realized his destination.