plenty of food for breakfast. Do you boys drink coffee now?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll make one of my big fun dinners, how ‘bout it?”
“Great.”
She leaned in for a brief hug, her perfume surrounding me. “It’s so nice to have you back for a few days.”
“Yeah.”
After she left, I looked around at the quiet rooms, longing for my parents’ company, yet somewhat relieved by her departure. Our simple house had once made me feel ashamed compared to Everett’s wealthy home. But now, it made me happy, content to return.
After eating half a banana and a gulping down some orange juice, I returned to my room. Everett still slept in my bed, and I eased myself back under the slim sheet. He stirred and grabbed my arm over him, as if wrapping me around him like a blanket.
After visiting Everett in Pittsburgh for a few days, we’d been apart for most of the week. His drive back to Greensburg was delayed and he’d arrived at my parents’ house a bit later than expected.
My parents knew better than to call us to breakfast. Dad managed the account books at the Best Rite supermarket, and Mom was a paralegal at a small law firm downtown.
In between his or my visits between “the sbergs” Green- and Pitt-, we had still called each other almost every night. We muttered cryptic code words for entire adventures we had shared, like “ bidens aristosa ,” named for the afternoon in a scrubby northern section of Fairmount Park where we’d enjoyed an open plain of hills to the east, and even a few horses in a distant field full of (in English) tickseed sunflowers.
We’d merely kissed that day, but it was splendid. I didn’t want to offer a critique as to when he wanted to go further. He pretty much showed it.
Other times, in private, we would explore new positions, new ways of blending our love and lust with the new challenges brought on by what Everett called “my new body.” I learned how to enjoy the experience without needing a finish, without trying to push him toward an orgasm, which in itself was, well, more complicated for him.
Retrograde ejaculation; just one of the many awkward biological terms that had become a part of our life, was reduced to a mere joke when he called it “Back-Ejac.” I grew to understand his preference for spreading our sexual fun, not be so, as he put it, “goal-oriented,” since him even getting an erection often didn’t happen. I took my cues from him as he guided me toward other pleasures; caresses along his neck, his underarm, connected by deep long kisses.
Bare under the slat of sunlight, the sheets tossed aside, he awoke fully and tugged the sheet down, surveyed my body with a smile before reaching downward.
“Flip around,” he instructed.
Everett had almost mastered a two-pronged approach of taking my erection in his mouth as deep as possible, accented by an increasingly insistent finger wriggle to greet my prostate, which invariably led me to an overwhelming orgasm.
With a slurp and a grin, he released my penis from his mouth. It plopped onto my thigh with a splat.
“How do you do that?”
“Practice.”
I wiped his cheek and lips of a shine of milky saliva, brought it to my mouth and licked my fingers.
“You are getting the best lunch ever.”
“Sounds good,” he patted my belly.
Later, barely dressed in shorts, having eaten a pair of immense sandwiches, we lounged on the sofa that afternoon. He squealed with delight at my younger pictures in family photo albums.
“You were adorable.”
All I saw was a gangly Dumbo with black-rimmed glasses. But his amusement spread to me.
“You know you’re handsome, don’t you?” he said.
“I never thought about it until you, we…”
“Oh, Giraffe,” he sighed. “You should know by now that I have impeccable taste.”
As he closed the album, I asked him if he had any family photos.
“I think my mother has most of those. I have my yearbooks. I’ll bring them
“Not really.”
“Well, I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll make one of my big fun dinners, how ‘bout it?”
“Great.”
She leaned in for a brief hug, her perfume surrounding me. “It’s so nice to have you back for a few days.”
“Yeah.”
After she left, I looked around at the quiet rooms, longing for my parents’ company, yet somewhat relieved by her departure. Our simple house had once made me feel ashamed compared to Everett’s wealthy home. But now, it made me happy, content to return.
After eating half a banana and a gulping down some orange juice, I returned to my room. Everett still slept in my bed, and I eased myself back under the slim sheet. He stirred and grabbed my arm over him, as if wrapping me around him like a blanket.
After visiting Everett in Pittsburgh for a few days, we’d been apart for most of the week. His drive back to Greensburg was delayed and he’d arrived at my parents’ house a bit later than expected.
My parents knew better than to call us to breakfast. Dad managed the account books at the Best Rite supermarket, and Mom was a paralegal at a small law firm downtown.
In between his or my visits between “the sbergs” Green- and Pitt-, we had still called each other almost every night. We muttered cryptic code words for entire adventures we had shared, like “ bidens aristosa ,” named for the afternoon in a scrubby northern section of Fairmount Park where we’d enjoyed an open plain of hills to the east, and even a few horses in a distant field full of (in English) tickseed sunflowers.
We’d merely kissed that day, but it was splendid. I didn’t want to offer a critique as to when he wanted to go further. He pretty much showed it.
Other times, in private, we would explore new positions, new ways of blending our love and lust with the new challenges brought on by what Everett called “my new body.” I learned how to enjoy the experience without needing a finish, without trying to push him toward an orgasm, which in itself was, well, more complicated for him.
Retrograde ejaculation; just one of the many awkward biological terms that had become a part of our life, was reduced to a mere joke when he called it “Back-Ejac.” I grew to understand his preference for spreading our sexual fun, not be so, as he put it, “goal-oriented,” since him even getting an erection often didn’t happen. I took my cues from him as he guided me toward other pleasures; caresses along his neck, his underarm, connected by deep long kisses.
Bare under the slat of sunlight, the sheets tossed aside, he awoke fully and tugged the sheet down, surveyed my body with a smile before reaching downward.
“Flip around,” he instructed.
Everett had almost mastered a two-pronged approach of taking my erection in his mouth as deep as possible, accented by an increasingly insistent finger wriggle to greet my prostate, which invariably led me to an overwhelming orgasm.
With a slurp and a grin, he released my penis from his mouth. It plopped onto my thigh with a splat.
“How do you do that?”
“Practice.”
I wiped his cheek and lips of a shine of milky saliva, brought it to my mouth and licked my fingers.
“You are getting the best lunch ever.”
“Sounds good,” he patted my belly.
Later, barely dressed in shorts, having eaten a pair of immense sandwiches, we lounged on the sofa that afternoon. He squealed with delight at my younger pictures in family photo albums.
“You were adorable.”
All I saw was a gangly Dumbo with black-rimmed glasses. But his amusement spread to me.
“You know you’re handsome, don’t you?” he said.
“I never thought about it until you, we…”
“Oh, Giraffe,” he sighed. “You should know by now that I have impeccable taste.”
As he closed the album, I asked him if he had any family photos.
“I think my mother has most of those. I have my yearbooks. I’ll bring them
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