Page 56 of The Kiss Principle

“What’s wrong with me is I don’t like hearing bullshit. I’m here with you because I like you. I’m not here because I expect five-star servicing. This is not a fucking car wash, and it’s not a fucking Taco Bell, and you’re not some escort I hired because I can’t get laid.”

“You think Taco Bell has five-star service?”

I smacked his thigh again, but more lightly this time. “No more bullshit. Do you hear me?”

He was trying to glower; he had the right bone structure for it, and I remembered those dramatically brooding pictures of him framed against the ocean. But now that I knew the goofball inside, it wasn’t effective.

“Good,” I said. “Now give me that dick.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.” But he spread his legs and lowered himself to lie on the mattress again. Then he raised back up again. “Fernando, you don’t have to—”

“Jesus Christ,” I said and pushed him back down.

I lowered my head between his legs. The smell was familiar—sweaty dick and balls. I’d smelled it on myself before. But it was different. It was Zé, and I recognized his body as part of the mixture. Maybe raunch wasn’t my thing because the smell wasn’t a huge turn-on, but I didn’t mind it either. Dudes smelled like dudes. That seemed like Gay Shit 101.

I slid my hand under his dick, and Zé shivered. I wrapped my fingers around it, and his whole body tensed. He was definitely hard. I mean, this was the first cock besides my own I’d touched, but I’d had a lot of boners in my life, and Zé’s fell in the drill-through-concrete category. I slid my hand down his length, rolling the foreskin away from the head of his dick. It was reddish-purple, nicely shaped against the long shaft. He shivered again, and I used my free hand to stroke his thigh. I bent and licked the tip, and it tasted salty, a little bitter. Zé moaned.

Well, I thought with something like a hysterical laugh growing inside my head. Here we go. All those jokes about swinging on knobs. Get ready to watch me swing like a motherfucker.

On my first try, I took the head and a little of the shaft into my mouth. The taste was stronger—not as bitter, which must have been the pre, but salty and musky, and my brain made an automatic connection to why one of the slang terms for dick was meat. Different from eating out a girl, I thought. Different taste. And definitely different having something inside of me, taking up my body. Again, I thought, this is what it’s like to get fucked. But it wasn’t, not really. I remembered that video, that daddy type railing the younger guy’s mouth. What would it be like to get into that headspace? No control. Just taking that dick as it invaded you again and again.

I closed my lips around the shaft and sucked, but I realized almost immediately that wasn’t what I was supposed to do. I pulled off him and went down again. Too far, this time. He hit the back of my throat, and I started to gag. Okay, I thought, as I fought down the reflex. Okay, he’s got a big dick, and you’ve got a gag reflex like a motherfucker. I tried to remember what I liked. How I liked it. I ran my tongue around his knob. I lapped at that ultrasensitive spot below the head. He was leaking more; thatbitter taste flooded my mouth. Maybe that should have grossed me out, but it made things hotter. He was moaning, his hips restless as he tried to lie flat, and he was leaking in my mouth, and I was doing this to him. I was making Zé feel this way.

Reaching out, I searched for his hand. When I found it, I laced our fingers together. His tightened around mine. I picked up the pace, taking as much of him into my mouth as I could, building up a good rhythm, and then breaking to lick and suckle and tease his head. I felt the change when it began to happen, and it blew my mind. His whole dick hardened like it had gone to the next level. I could trace the veins with my tongue. It was insane: like he was steel, like every piece of him had been tightened to its breaking point. He was muttering in Portuguese, sounding like he was stoned, and then his head came up, his eyes glassy and blind, and he made the unmistakable grunt of a guy about to nut and slurred, “Fer! Fer!”

I sat back and pumped him twice, and he came all over himself. A huge load. Thick, white jets of come against the rich brown of his belly and chest. One of his legs jerked, and as the orgasm subsided, I realized he was shaking. I relaxed my grip, released his dick, and took myself in hand. It was easy, looking down at the wreckage of him, to bring myself off. One, two, and my load was flying too, spattering all over his dick and balls and thighs. I rode the crest of the orgasm, and when I came down, I felt like someone had taken me apart joint by joint. I propped myself against the wall and, for a while, enjoyed looking at him.

He had one arm over his eyes, and he mumbled something in Portuguese.

“A little louder,” I said.

When he peeled his arm away, his eyes were wet. His smile was tremulous, and it made me think of butterfly wings, like it might flutter away at any moment.

“Hey,” I asked softly, “are you okay? Was that too much?”

He shook his head.

I rubbed his leg.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

“That’s me.”

He made a face and tried to kick me, and I laughed and caught his leg and rubbed it some more. His breathing slowed in increments. Then he raised himself on one elbow and said, “Fernando, that should be illegal.”

The embarrassment caught me by surprise; I ducked my chin, shrugged, my face heating.

He scooted toward me, took my head in his hands, and moved in for a kiss.

“I, uh—I probably taste like dick.”

“You’re hot,” he said, “but you’re not bright, are you?”

I had an answer for that, but his mouth was on mine, and after a while, it didn’t seem important.

When Zé finally pulled back, he looked me in the eye, held my gaze until it felt like too much. Then he turned his face into his shoulder to wipe away another tear and whispered, “Thank you.”

It was on the tip of my tongue: I love you.

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