As we climbed into bed, Jimothy asked if I was gonna fuck his foot again while he was asleep. "Do you want me to?"
"I'd rather watch. I've never seen anybody lick boy juice off my toes before."
"K, I promise I'll wait 'til you're awake in the morning."
"This has been one helluva day," he said softly as he laid his head on my bare chest, and played affectionately with my nipple. "I feel like wrapping you in chains and taking you back home with me."
"How would you explain me to your folks?"
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I'd tell them you stepped out of a spaceship or something -- that you were on some highly secret mission from a distant planet, and that we mustn't tell anybody about you."
"What were you thinking when you were fucking me?"
"That it had to be a dream. Even now it seems like a dream. I'm like wow! Here I am looking at your brown nipple. I can see it, and I can feel it -- and I can hear your heartbeat. But if I suddenly woke in my own bed alone, it wouldn't surprise me."
"Well, lemme tell you something, Jimothy, you're gonna wake in the morning and I'll still be here."
I was working out with my chest expander when my musical bud stirred. He must've been plumb tuckered out after the concert the previous night -- not to mention fucking my lights out afterward. He rolled over on his side, supported his head with his hand, and watched me for a minute or two. "What a wicked sight," he said, finally. "I've never woken to anything as wild this before."
I knew full well that he was lusting after my bod, but I wanted to hear him say it. "What's so damn wicked about it?"
"It's just the way your tanned muscles ripple, and stretch, and bulge, and… hell, they look damn good enough to eat. I could smother you in Ego waffles and spend the rest of my life eating them."
"Be my guest," I laughed as I threw the chest expander on the spare bed, then stood next to him with my hands locked behind my head. My throbber was hovering just a few inches from his face.
"You like to be admired, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah, it turns me on. I guess it's like the difference between you singing in the bathroom, and singing to an audience."
"Are you gonna jack off over my toes?"
"If you want. Can I ask you why?"
"I dunno how this is gonna sound, Daniel, but you remind me of a guy back home. I call him Sex Prince. I've even written a song about him. Anyway, he's totally awesome. Everytime I see him I'm like whoa! And I've gotta try to hide my boner. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I admire him like he was on some kinda pedestal, the same way I admire you."
"It'd be cool to see myself the way other people do."
"Take my word for it, Daniel, you're a god. Now, normally a guy would consider himself lucky to lick his juice off the boygod's toes, but since I've got the chance to watch the boygod lick his juice off MY toes… well, y'know, that's gotta be a totally cool experience… cuz like, hey, it's me."
"OK, so how are we gonna do this thing?" I pondered, then thought of an idea. "How about you stand on the bed? That way, I can blow you and offload my juice onto your feet. And, by the way, I think you're a god, too."
After Jimothy had stood on the mattress, and placed one hand on the wall to maintain his balance, I took his delicious, morning piss boner between my lips. He used his free hand to hold my head while I got busy jacking my throbber. Every now and then, though, I'd pause 'cause I didn't wanna shoot before he did.
The sensation of Jimothy's strong hand forcing my face against his aromatic pubes each time he thrust his boner half way down my throat was way cool -- like he was really getting into fucking my face big time. "Suck me, suck me, suck me," he kept groaning as I worked my lips and tongue around his shaft and knob, and used my spare hand to fondle his nads.
Pretty soon, I sensed that he was about to shoot, so I increased the grip on my meat, and my stroke speed. At almost the same moment as my mouth filled with the first of his thick, sticky jets, my own cock exploded. I was way too busy forcing his jizz past my tonsils to check whether or not mine was on target. And I figured he was too preoccupied with emptying his tight balls to worry about it either. But as the last of his creamy wads fired outa his piss hole and hit the roof of my mouth, I got a chance to take a quick look at his feet. They were covered in my shiny, fresh juice.
After I'd squeezed the remaining blob of cum from Jimothy's swollen knob and swallowed it, he raised one foot at a time to allow me to lick my boy juice from around his toes. Occasionally, I'd glance up at his cute face to see if he was pleased with my performance. His smile said it all. He was in heaven.
"Your bathroom scores brownie points," Jimothy said to mom as he shook at heap of cornflakes into his bowl.
"That's nice, dear."
"It's just a thing. I kinda rate houses and restaurants on the cleanliness and coolness of their bathrooms. Like if they have cool mags to read or cool pics on the wall, they get brownie points."
"You enjoy gardening?"
"I have to admit, gardening mags are not my absolute fav, Nancy, but it was cool to look at the pics while I was… well, while I was in there. Can you pass the sliced peaches, Daniel?"
Most of the breakfast convo centered around Jimothy's concert the previous night, despite his often trying to change the subject. Greg was a lot more impressed than I'd anticipated. "You were the bomb, Jimothy. Totally. Jeez, I wish I could sing."
"You just open your mouth, Greg… but not with a mouthful of cornflakes. That kinda distracts from the lyrics a tad."
"How did you learn?"
"Well, I guess I was an enthusiastic bathroom singer to begin with. Then, when I studied guitar, it kinda came naturally. Like masturbation."
There was a deathly silence as everybody at the table tried to come to terms with Jimothy's unexpected and controversial remark. Meantime, he was spooning cornflakes and peaches into his mouth like nothing was amiss -- just as casual as you like.
"You relate masturbation to singing?" Andy asked, finally breaking the lull.
"I only do one of them on stage," he grinned. "But, yeah, in a way."
"How so?" mom intervened, obviously curious.
"Well," he paused to swallow a peach, "everybody can masturbate, right? Whether you want to or not, it's not something you have to study at Harvard. It's not like you get a degree in jacking. But some people take more of an interest in it than others, and some people are better at it than others -- at least, that's what I figure. I've never actually done a survey -- it's just a gut feel. I'm a gut feel kinda person."
"I still don't see the connection," Andy admitted, looking a little perplexed.
"Well, it's like anything. If you enjoy it, you do it, and the more you do it, the better you get. Y'know, when I hear guys like Greg saying they wish they could sing, I wonder how hard they've tried. I've got a feeling that people kinda make up their minds that they can't sing, so they don't give themselves a chance."
"I think you're wrong," Greg argued. "It's a gift."
"And you don't have it? Hey, everybody can sing. That's why it's like masturbation. Everybody can masturbate, but it doesn't mean that they all wanna be porno stars."
That cracked me up totally, which was probably just as well. It relieved the tension and, pretty soon, we were all falling about in hysterics.
"I think I understand the connection," mom agreed as the laughter subsided. "There are singers and there are singers, but not all singers are good enough to be professional, or even want to be professional, for that matter."
"True. But they're all good enough to have fun. Singing is fun. And, hey, we need butchers and bakers and candle stick makers. We can't all be on the stage making fools of ourselves." Jimothy returned his attention to my bro. "How badly do you wanna sing, Greg?"
"I already sing badly."
"No, like do you just wanna sing, or do you need to sing?"
"How do you mean?"
"Lemme put it this way. To stand on a stage in front of hundreds or maybe thousands of people ain't easy. It means you're being scrutinized by all those eyes and ears. It's a helluva risk, and you've gotta be prepared. You can get wild applause, or you can end up looking like a Caesar salad. Anybody who needs to sing, who has this burning desire to entertain, to communicate, to give, is willing to take that risk. Actually, they're driven to take that risk. It's like they don't have a choice. Are you with me?"
"Yeah, I see your point. You're telling me that if I really had the desire, I'd be singing already."
"Yeah, desire is everything. That's why guys climb mountains."
"But that still doesn't explain a person's natural limitations," Andy argued.
"Oh? And what are they? A bunch of doctors tell some guy he's got six months to live cuz he's riddled with cancer. Ten years later he's still alive, and the cancer is in remission. So what are natural limitations? According to the doctors, they're things they see through a microscope. But you can't see passion through a microscope, or determination, or belief in yourself. My feeling is that people place limitations on themselves, or allow other people to influence them negatively. If the Egyptians had done a feasibility study on building the pyramids, they wouldn't be here today. So it all gets back to masturbation. If a kid believes that his palm will become hairy, he'll leave his dick alone. I'm not rich, but I'd be willing to give a thousand big ones to each guy whose hand had turned hairy cuz he masturbated. And," he observed with a wry smile, "I'm pleased to see that there are no hairy hands at this table."
"Are you an advocate of masturbation?" Andy asked.
"Everybody should sing," Jimothy smiled. "That's all I'm saying."
At that point, I decided that Jimothy's argument was flawed. "Hey, I don't know anybody personally who can sing and play guitar like you do. It can't be just a desire thingy. There's gotta be more to it."
"I woke up this morning and saw you working out with your chest expander. If I worked out with a chest expander do you think I'd end up looking like you? Nope, I'd end up looking like me, cuz that's who I am. When I sing, it's me who's singing. I'm not David Bowie, or John Lennon, or Freddy Mercury -- I'm me, and that's who I wanna be. Just like you're Daniel, and that's who you wanna be. But you work at being Daniel, just like I work at being Jimothy. Some people, maybe most, don't work hard at being themselves, or improving themselves. They just wanna breeze through life -- they wanna take the line of least resistance. What makes people like you and I different is that we need to be our best, we need admiration, and maybe even adoration, from others. That's what drives us. That's what makes us try that little bit harder."
"I agree with everything you say, Jimothy" mom interrupted. "I guess my only criticism is your choice of masturbation as an analogy."
"It's a common denominator. Maybe too common. The subject makes a lotta people feel uncomfortable. But why should it? Why weren't we designed with shorter arms? Does anybody here at this table think that masturbation is unnatural?" Jimothy's question was greeted with silence, which seemed to prove his point. "Anyway," he eventually continued, "I have a confession to make. It's a habit of mine to change the direction of conversations. I often say something controversial cuz I like to watch the expressions on peoples' faces. When you were all telling me how cool I was at the concert, I figured I'd throw a spanner in the works to see what happened."
"In other words, young man," mom smiled, "you love to stir."
"Yeah, that about sums me up."
Paul had just arrived on his BMX as we all stood in a group in the drive. Jimothy was getting ready for the return trip. He closed the trunk of his blue Toyota and approached us. There was a smile on his face, but also sadness in his eyes. "Thanks for everything. This whole experience has been the bomb." Then he hugged us all, leaving me 'til last. "You rule, Daniel."
"You're the dope, Jimothy."
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Diary Part 113