Model Citizens

Chapter 6

The prostate, we learned in school, provides the ice cream and the sperm are the mix-ins. They are kept in separate compartments until some lucky chick is ready to eat her just desserts, at which time the helpful male combines the two and serves it up.

By the time that the class finishes that section, word circulates that the prostate gland is directly accessible through the back door and that some direct massage of said gland by a willing finger or three produces untold quantities of mythical proportions, likely to overflow any condom ever made, spew down the cheeks of even the best BJ bunny, or require a whole box of super absorbent kleenex.

The unstated accepted fact, of course, is that no guy would ever get to find out if this is truth or fiction. After all, what guy would ever admit to his buddies that the manly defenses of his sacred gate had fallen? Nobody.

Of course, just because it remained a thing of legend didn't mean that there weren't more than a few King Arthurs in school, searching for the Holy Grail of Perfect Orgasm, or wherever that path might lead them. This moment felt like I was King Arthur, and Ivan was either my Lancelot, my Merlin, or perhaps my Beaumains. [There's a new meme for those who like King Arthur stories! —JEC]

The first sensation was of short-lived fear.

The second was surprise that he didn't try to pop his finger right through and make a joke of it.

The third was pure, unadulterated pleasure. Ivan had lubed up a finger or two and was making little tiny circles right around the hole. Little tiny circles, like he was playing with a nipple or something. Or maybe he was circling like a hawk, preparing to swoop in for the kill. I kept up my stroking; he kept on with his circling.

"Breathe," he instructed. In my fascination, I must have forgotten to breathe and I was now desperately aware of it. My mind was split by two sensations. First, it was pulled in the direction of my dick —a major source of fun and satisfaction for many years. Second, it was trying to focus on Ivan and the little circles he was making in the crevice between my butt cheeks.

It can't be done, you know. Forget what people say about multi-tasking. Humans aren't built that way and the circuitry doesn't allow for it. Your conscious brain can only ever focus on one thing at a time. Sure, you can switch back and forth really quickly, like a switching between apps on your phone or computer, but that's not the same thing as true multi-tasking. We only process one piece of information at a time.

I decided to focus on my dick and to let Ivan take this wherever he wanted to go. My trust and faith in him was solid. If it hadn't been, then I could never have remained so solid myself.

Taking a deep breath, I let it slowly escape as a hiss, willing myself to go deep within, to become nothing but a union of nerve endings, soaking up pleasure from the outside world. It was heaven, but it took control to not blow right then. No longer in a hurry to get through this so-called therapy session, I wanted to stretch it out and milk it for all it was worth.

Then it began. First, the circling round and round became more of a piston stroke along the valley of my ass. Then, there was an experimental probe –sent to check my acceptance, I suspect. Once satisfied that I wouldn't fight, the probe became the piston again, but along a new, perpendicular axis going in and out through my butt cheeks. And then drilling deeper, into the depths of my hole.

It wasn't bad, really. After a few strokes of the piston I knew that it wouldn't bother me. After a few more, I thought that I might even like it. I tried to match the pace of my left hand with the piston, realizing as I did so that we were acting in concert, like one bigger piston. A two-stroke engine? The pleasure overpowered the humor and I returned to my nothingness.

"Are you close yet," whispered Ivan. Like me, he must have been sensing the intimacy, the reverence of the moment. "I've been close for five minutes, dude, but I'm really kind of liking this," came my whispered answer.

I thought I heard him say something under his breath, barely audible and clearly intended to remain so.

We both stroked in silence for a moment.

"Now comes the good part," he said, with a little more strength. His part of the engine changed to a rotary model. He was now two fingers into me, and it felt as though he were pivoting his fingers around the axis of my hole. Back and forth with a strong motion. And oh, lord, I could feel the change.

"Shake the poppers a little bit, and get a good whiff of them. Then pick up your pace."

No sooner said than done, and suddenly the world melted. If I thought my heart was racing before, now, it was a Kentucky Derby winner in the homestretch. My brain totally freaked and colors from nowhere came tumbling in under my eyelids. I felt powerful and yet hopelessly weak, both sensations washing over my body in alternating waves of joy and expectation.

I must've dropped the poppers bottle, because I could smell them again, not so strong, and I had both hands gripping my stick shift. As involuntary as blinking, my hips began to rise off the bed and back again, complementing the efforts of my fingers. Ivan was doing whatever he was doing and I heard him begin a countdown, as though we were launching the shuttle.

Ten, nine, eight, he began as I counted with him in my head. I knew where this was going, but would my body really produce a blast-off on a schedule?

Seven, six, five, we continued. Already I could feel the power surging through my gut, and the shaking was just beginning.

"Four, three, two, one, blast-off!" we shouted together.

And there came such a torrent of warm rain as I had never experienced before. Knowing what I know about myself, I always use a sock, a towel or something else to catch it. Or, of course, a condom. Or a mouth. In the shower, I use a wash cloth or just spooge onto the wall and wash it off afterward. On camping trips, we always shoot out into the grass and then make jokes when someone walks through that area the next day.

But that time with Ivan, there was nothing to catch me and I shot straight up like the rocket we were pretending to launch. It's the truth when I tell you that I even surprised myself, when we later found that I'd landed on the ceiling.

What goes up, must come down and the juice that didn't make it into orbit fell back to Earth for a perfect splash down on me, on the bed, and on Ivan.

"Holy guano, Batman!" yelped Ivan, using the UCLA towel to wipe the warm cream from his hair and wipe something else that I didn't want to think about from his fingers. He looked at me, and we both started laughing, going from giggles to hysteria in just a few seconds.

"I think," he said, "that the therapy was a success! I shall now report our triumph to the medical world. Look for my report in the Wall Street Journal sometime soon!"

"Hey, if you're done cleaning off the rain drops, then give me the towel so that I can soak up the lake." Naturally, he threw the towel at my face. "And before you get too cocky, the Wall Street Journal doesn't do medicine. They do money."

"And you don't think that tight-ass bankers wouldn't pay big bucks for an experience like this?" He wiggled his eyebrows with all due sincerity.

"Hey, don't discount my natural talents here, Doc. I've been paying homage to the sperm gods for years now and they've blessed me for it."

"Indeed they have, little boy; indeed they have."

After the clean-up,it was decided that there wasn't enough left in the spilled bottle of poppers to warrant saving. Though I offered to replace it, Ivan said that I'd never be able to find that stuff. So, I reimbursed him and asked him to also pick up a bottle for me if he ever bought them again.