He stood up straight and demanded, “Stehen Sie auf und verbiegen Sie vorbei. Bend over on the bed.”
I had my knees on the edge of the bed and my ass in the air instantly, offering Rolf my ass as if it was a bejeweled chalice filled with wine and he was a Roman solider about to go into battle. He slapped my humps a couple more times before he dipped his face between my quivering cheeks and lapped my hole with his tongue. His strong fingers dug into my fleshy mounds as he licked and flicked, slurped and slapped, grabbed and groped. My ass was his playground and he was as happy as a boy at recess.
He took off my socks, put both hands on the back of my T-shirt and ripped it from my torso. I wiggled my ass in front of him like a bitch in heat. “Get the lube,” I said. “Beside the—Aaaaggghhh!”
“My ass, my way.”
“Goddamn! Wait… I’m not ready….” The language I couldn’t access yet longed to dwell within.
“Süßer, fester Esel!”
Rolf mounted me and hopped on the bed, planting a foot on either side of my knees, and holding on to my trapezius muscle so I couldn’t break free. He wasted no time thrusting into my ass, filling my cavity with the full measure of his cock, shifting my body to accommodate his pleasure. Tears streaked my face and I couldn’t suppress the shrieks and wails that erupted from deep within me. No man had ever fucked me so hard with so little lubrication. No man had ever fucked me with such a big dick and such a lack of impunity.
Rolf pushed my upper body to the mattress and hoisted my ass higher, then hunkered down over me and held me in a full nelson. As his rhythmic thrusting quickened, his furry chest felt like a large Brillo pad scouring my back. His thighs, just as hairy and thick, collapsed on mine. The stabbing in my anus eventually gave way to pleasure and my agonizing shrieks and wails became mmms and ahhs of ecstasy.
Rolf panted in my ear. “You get fucked good, baby.”
“Wear my ass out.”
“Füllen Sie es auf, huh?”
“Yeah, baby, fill my ass up.” Black gay men who unabashedly pursued their sexual desires with men of all races.
“Fuck you like a dog. Uggghhh… Tight ass…!”
He rolled me on my back. My asshole had dried up, so he took the lube from the side of the bed, squirted nearly half the bottle into me then submerged his long brawny dick in the river of my asscrack. I held my legs back as far as I could as he began to pummel my asshole, his penis moving like a drill boring and busting the earth for oil. I held on to his round hard ass while his enormous body undulated over mine. He kissed my lips while he continued to fuck me. Sheets of Rolf’s sweat soaked my body and soon a lake of sweat and lube formed in the sheets beneath us.
“You like big white dick?” He grunted and swirled his hips.
“In German.” I licked his lips. “Sprechen Sie auf Deutsch.” In Deutschland you will speak Deutsch!
Rolf acknowledged me with a half smile. His hot breaths puffed in my face before his mouth closed over mine and his tongue coiled around my tongue.
“Sie wünschen Geschlecht die ganze Nacht?” Rolf asked.
“Fuck me all night, baby.” The emblem of the miscommunication that brought us together.
“Feste ass.”
The bed squeaked, scooted and rocked: the sound of bridled horses galloping across the German countryside: work boots tromping and scuffing wood floors.
Rolf’s mouth hung open and he shut his eyes tight, crying out, “Aaaaahhhh! Aaaaahhhh!” Copious amounts of semen flooded my asshole and spilled onto the bed. He kept thrusting into me well after he came; a squishing-squelching sound chorused with the staccato thumping of the bed. He raised his upper body and told me to jerk off. “Ich wunsche Sie ejakulieren.” His spit on my dick and told me to use it for lube.
I yanked my dick while Rolf’s cock kept stretching me out. He grasped my ankles and splayed my legs wide. I looked at his broad torso shiny with sweat and imagined Apollo driving his sun chariot across the morning sky; Hadrian, clad in armor and a centurion helmet, marching off to war, his blood-red cape billowing behind him; Hercules slaying the Hydra.
I groaned and a geyser of come exploded from me. My nut-busting orgasm felt as if it lasted for several minutes, and when I had squeezed out the last drop of cum Rolf lay down beside me. He kissed my temple and wrapped his arm around me. We slept.
The Strassenbahn glides through the rain-swept streets of Mannheim during morning rush hour. Though the skies remain overcast and gray, now and again the sun announces itself, not unlike a mischievous child sneaking out of bed to dance and play after his parents have confined him to his room. The citizens of Mannheim are still bundled in their heavy clothes, still stubbornly adherent to their own routines and resigned to the rough unpleasantness of the season.
I take a seat near the door and place my backpack squarely on my lap. I am rereading Dixon Weatherby’s first novel. It concerns Eugene MacArthur, a black gay man from Mississippi who narrowly escapes a lynching in 1947 and moves with his female cousin to New York City where he falls in love with an Italian-American mason named Giancarlo. It is an engrossing novel, and I read it now with the same wonder and zeal as when I first read it in my freshman year of college. The book enthralls me so much that I do not notice the Fahrkartenkontrolluer standing before me, waiting patiently for my ticket. His looks are handsome in a way that is devastating. His physique is undeniably gorgeous; it is a body not developed naturally but forged over years of discipline and a strict diet and exercise regimen—an archetype of masculine power and strength. I hand him my ticket. He examines it and, satisfied that I paid my fare, returns the ticket to me. “Good book?” he inquires.
“Ja,” I say.
“What is it about?”
“Ein Mann, der sich befreit.”
The officer nods. He appears intrigued. His gray eyes look directly into mine and for a moment we let the world fall away, existing outside the limits and order of language. We are two men with the same wants and desires, the same need for recognition, respect and comfort. We are not our nations, our languages or the stereotypes that have the power to confine and condemn.
The officer’s voice slightly quivers when he asks, “Could we meet for a coffee later today? At Connexion?”
I smile and nod.
“I’d like to learn more about your book. Perhaps you will bring it with you?”
I answer, “Ich hole Ihnen eine autographierte Kopie. Ich bin auf meiner Weise, den Autor zu treffen.”
“Ah, so you know the author? Yes, I would very much like an autographed book. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“At five o’clock?”
I nod and return to my book.
As the officer prepares to disembark the tram he turns to me and says, “You speak German quite well.” Once he steps off the tram he lifts his hand in a gesture of farewell and maintains eye contact with me until the tram is out of sight.
THREE BOYS AND A BOAT—OR POSSIBLY FIVE
Tony Pike
The summer of 1976 has remained in British folk-memory as the hottest and longest ever, in spite of all the records that have tumbled since. During that summer three young London lads who hadn’t met before rented a holiday cottage together on the Cornish coast, answering an ad they’d all seen in Time Out magazine. There was Jason, just out of university, aged twenty-three and the tallest and biggest of the three. There was Nick, living in that short limbo between school and university: at age nineteen he was a size or two smaller than Jason—though Jason found him quite big enough for his taste in bed. Then there was young Danny, with his last year at school behind him, guitar-playing, broad-brimmed-hat-wearing, very small and very cute, eighteen years old the week he met the other two for the summer.