Page 18 of Snuggle Bug

My toes curl, and my eyes roll back as my thighs clench. Squirts of cum rocket onto my belly, spurting one after the other, and I moan as it happens so gently.

Greyson places his hand on my shaft that’s squirting against my belly. He presses it into my tummy, letting me squirt under the pressure of his palm.

"Goddam, boy. Hot thing like you getting all randy from a lil’ tickle. Something must be wrong with your cock. Gotta take you to the Hug Club’s doctor to get you checked out. Oh, wait—you’re perfect the way you are."

This must be the dirty talk Greyson was telling me about. "Don't stop talking now!"

"Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Bust your nut straight onto that pearly white tummy and paint it with your love for me. Don't mind me, boy. I’m taking a mental snapshot of you, but in 4D. I’ve got your moans, your cock, your cummies, all of it captured in my mind. I’ll replay this many times for the rest of my life. Can’t fucking believe you whipped out your cock and started beating. Had to bust in front of Daddy. Show Daddy what that precious cock could do. Damn, you're a stunner. A five-star boy."

"Not my cock right now, Daddy. My wee."

I’m in Little headspace. Not my Big brain. Sometimes, I call my thing my cock. Other times, when I feel so safe around Greyson that I know I won’t experience one iota of judgment, I call it what I really want.

My wee.

The sensation that I should feel some sort of shame for what’s happening between us bubbles up inside me. I bite my lip, trying to see if I actually feel shame or not. As it turns out, I don’t. Now, my heart tells me that, lots of people would judge us for doing something like this. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, because obviously we’re two consenting adults who’ve been in a long-term relationship who both want this. Still, people will always be ignorant.

Greyson reads my mind. Trailing his calloused thumb across my trembling cheek, he gazes deep into my eyes. "I know what you’re thinking, and no, there’s no reason to feel ashamed. Sexuality is a heart-shaped lock with an endless number of combinations. What works for one couple won’t work for another. We’ve found a combination that is perfect for us. It may not unlock the lock of desire for anyone else, but it throws ours wide open. You and me, baby boy. We’ve got each other. Holding each other. Being strong for one another and not letting anyone come between us."

"I don't feel any judgment or shame when I'm with you, Daddy. You’re the man I love with all my heart and I’m your boy. I don't care what anyone thinks. We’re one. Twin souls. Long-lost flames. I’m your ember. Blow on me, and see if I don't burst into flames. I’ll light everything around me on fire so that the entire universe bears witness to our love."

Greyson holds me. Just holds me.

Taking me into his big, strong arms, he presses me to his chest, hums a lullaby, and makes me feel so safe that everything fades away.

We’re two men obeying the orders of Aphrodite, that’s all. Steadfastly following her commands. As such, we’re divinely blessed.

I recognize the lullaby he hums. Three Little Lambs. Waxley hums it a lot while we’re playing because Wren sings it when they’re together.

I’m so happy to have found what Waxley and Wren have. With Greyson by my side, nothing can disappoint me.

EIGHT

GREYSON

Calloway and I have shared many wonderful moments tonight. Or last night. Or earlier this morning.

I haven idea what time of day it is. Whether it’s still "last" night, midnight, three AM, or noon the following day.

I hate time. Clocks, timers, all of it. We don't even understand what time is. We just blindly adhere to its forward-moving "arrow" as if that’s all we need to know.

However long Calloway and I have spent in the cuddle room might as well have been an eternity. And also no time at all. The second we leave, it’ll feel like we just entered.

That’s the beauty of discovering a place, a person, a pocket in the universe that you can slip into as if it means nothing at all. A great Russian writer once called things that allow you to breeze through centuries while never leaving your present position in space, in which all points are bolted to a concrete grid, "transparent things." They act as quasi-black holes that defy all laws of physics and gravity and permit you to plunge back into the infinite, irrealis mood of your memory.

Calloway is such a transparent thing. In him, I discover all the apples I ever consumed as a boy growing up next to that orchard. The ripe, succulent apples that happy bees helped give life, just having finished sucking the pollen out of the tree’s rosy buds, the pollen clinging to their little feet that they spread around, without care, without realizing that they’re the chief contributors to life on our planet. I find all the crushes I nursed as a blossoming young man, on beautiful boys that I wrote love poetry to in my classes in high school, who I never had the confidence to ask out. I even find an earlier version of myself, a me that the world hadn’t yet corrupted, a me who still believed in art, curiosity, and lovingkindness, which I had to force down when I became a lawyer.

Law is great, but it doesn’t allow you to be an idealist. Pragmatism is what’s needed to win in court. Yes, great lawyers are creative and always searching for new interpretations of existing rules, but they still have to draw inside the lines. Long discussions about the logical gaps in theories of chronological time don’t have any place in a law office. Your fellow partners will think you’re an idiot or worse yet, wasting company time. This all makes sense, and yet sometimes you want to put your work on pause and explore life’s deeper questions. Why are we here? Why can I inhale the scent of Calloway’s berry shampoo and immediately return to the boy I was when I used to go to my grandmother’s house every May, and a bar of soap she had on a shell-shaped soap dish in her bathroom smelled exactly like it?

Sometimes, I wish that I’d never gone to law school. I should’ve become a painter, a writer, a poet. Who knows if I’d have been any good, but at least I would’ve done something meaningful that would’ve provided me with a legacy. Calloway is proud of me because I help innocent people defend themselves against a corrupt criminal justice system, but my work will perish with me. No one remembers defense attorneys unless they also become writers and write a bestselling book. Helping people in the present always leads to obscurity.

At least Wren keeps a diary that he jots his feelings down in, one that Waxley can read forever.

I make a mental note to take up art. What medium, I’m not yet sure. Maybe I could become a filmmaker. I could be the first filmmaker to capture the beauty of Daddy and boy relationships. Maybe I could become a painter. The issue with that is that I don't know how to paint, and if my people aren’t stick figures, they’re deformed. Or perhaps I could take pottery classes. The ancients loved their amphora—vases or jars—on which they depicted all sorts of wild scenes. I could learn just enough to etch Calloway and I on a pretty vase, fill it with flowers every day, set it on our windowsill, and give my precious boy something to keep with him always, a token of my affection for him.

Calloway is proud of the work that I do, and yet all I truly want to do is plant a wildflower sanctuary and spend all my time painting him even though I don't know how to paint. I guess I nurse certain artistic ideals that don't conform to reality, but then again, who doesn’t? Art is the way we cope with life, or even a way we grapple with chaos. For a while, I believed that the universe had been "created" with certain teleological goals in mind, organized around a few intractable principles that prevented good, hardworking people from perishing before their time, yet the further I delved into my law practice, the tougher I found that to believe. Dealing with the darkest parts of human nature has a way of diminishing your optimistic outlook on life. I thought that all theories of being, of existence, of spirituality, were an attempt to negotiate with the fact that we’re extremely vulnerable, that bad things happen to any of us, even the best people, and that none of us really can explain why—except after meeting Calloway, my entire perception changed once again. My worldview reverted back to which it had one been when I'd been a dreamer, when I believed in goodness, compassion, genuine empathy, and lovingkindness. Now, I'm convinced that the universe looks out for each of us. And with my beautiful angel by my side, nothing bad can happen to either of us again.

Calloway shoots me a smile. It’s at once the most dazzling, heart-melting and also kindest smile with which anyone’s ever graced me.

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