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MyJockStrap

Morning's Mourning

The next morning Trace woke with a feeling of release and regret and found resolution with a conviction of self-mastery and a promise not to repeat the previous night’s activities. The excess of sex falls quickly to a flaccid cock. Trace searched his mind for a better thought to redirect himself and found one by remembering he needed to check his post box.

Leaping from bed, he threw off his clothes, and making his way to the bathroom, he skipped the toilet and jumped into the shower. The warm spray poured over his body, as he released a warm stream of his own. His urethra was unusually sensate as the urine flowed from his cock and carried with it the residue of the previous night. Luxuriating in the wake of satiation, Trace removed the last vestiges of the previous night as he soaped his cock, which he knew would soon enough consume his every thought in the economy of scarcity allotted the single gay suburban male.

Toweling off, he savored the sated feeling further as he assumed full possession of his mind and body. Shaving, deodorizing, dusting, and brushing completed, he returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

While dressing, he realized how anxious he was to find a face to replace Elan’s, and the face of the man from last would not do. He decided the only way to get over Elan was to move on quickly, and thinking of the potential of the letters laying in wait, he wondered who—or what—was next.

Forcing Elan’s face from his mind, Trace retrieved his keys and made his way outside. The day greeted him warmly, and he paused over the Privet hedge to inhale its heady fragrance. He wondered if the sights, sounds, and scents of subtle beauty would always be available to him or if he would obliviously pass them by once he found his bliss. He wondered if bliss was little more than this—moving undistracted from sensation to sensation or if it was some state of oblivion. He reasoned the answer lay somewhere between consciousness and forgetfulness and set this location as his goal.

Pulling the small windowed door open, Trace slid two long white envelopes from the post box. One was thicker than the other, but both were thick enough to suggest they each contained a photograph. His pulse quickened as he flipped the box closed and retreated through the lobby doors.

Sitting across the truck’s driver’s seat and half hanging out the open door with a lit cigarette, Trace tore the thinner envelope open. Removing the picture before the letter, he held it before his eyes and dragged his cigarette. The picture was of a man standing in front of a late model car. Trace could not recognize the make of the car, but he immediately recognized the guilt he felt in not answering the letter he received from the military guy, and he knew he would not be answering this letter either. The picture was rather like the man himself—nondescript. Trace did not know what to look for, but he knew he was not seeing whatever it was he wanted—or needed—to see.

Chastising himself for what he knew would be another fundamental lack of courtesy, Trace alleviated his guilt by thinking he would take time to read the letter, despite his lack of interest and increasing anticipation over the second reply. He pulled the letter from the envelope. It contained just three handwritten lines: Hello. I am sending you my picture. It was taken outside my apartment building. No stress if you are not interested, but I am hoping to hear from you. Sincerely—Jim.

Despite his better self or maybe because of its fleeting nature, Trace knew Jim would not be hearing from him. Stuffing the letter and picture back into its envelope, he tore the second response open and pulled the picture from it. He was immediately surprised to see it contained two people—a girl and a guy. He was also surprised by the guy’s attractiveness. His sparkling blue eyes contrasted sharply with his reddish-brown hair. A tightly cut goatee framed his lips, and his smile appeared effortless.

Pleased with the picture, Trace laid it on his knee and eagerly pulled the accompanying letter from the envelope. At first glance, he could see it was longer than the first.

Greetings,

It is weird writing a letter to someone whose name you do not know, so I will keep this brief. I liked your ad, and in many ways, it felt like an ad I would have written for myself. I liked how you included more than stats, but I know they are important. I am 26, 5’9”, 155, and I have brownish-red hair and blue eyes. I guess the picture will let you gauge the rest (I am sure you can tell which one is me). It is also strange to be sending a picture to a stranger, but I liked your ad and trust you will return it to me at some point.

I am a clinical psych student pursuing my four-year degree (Still!!!), and I live in New Haven. I am originally from the eastern Connecticut shore, so I am not far from home, but I am glad to be on my own here, which means I live alone. It allows me to listen to Tori Amos non-stop and study in peace. Both of which I do a lot.

Call me when you get this, if you want to meet for coffee or something. My number is 203-867-5309.

Talk to you soon—Davis.

Trace could not help but smile at the thought of meeting Davis and not having to troll a rest area again. Staring his engine, he felt confident both thoughts would become realities.

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