“The Perfect Friday the 13th Gift”
or
“A Short ‘n Sexy Pre-Valentine’s Day Story with Silly Pictures”
(originally written for a friend’s blog hop that was posted on 2/13/15)
Emmett rolls over in bed and elbows me in the eye.
“Ow!” I cry, waking from a dead sleep.
“Oh, sorry,” grumbles Emmett. “I thought you liked pain.”
I slap his arm. “Not like that.” I attempt to massage the pounding ache away, but my eyeball is already growing sore. Great, I think, I better not show up to work with another black eye. This time my co-workers at the university won’t believe I ran into the door frame—again—like I told them two months ago. Okay, I lied back then; what was I supposed to say, that my boyfriend likes it rough? I do too. Just not so goddamn early in the morning.
Yawning, Emmett mumbles and turns over. Through my one good eye, I etch his broad, muscular shoulders into my memory bank, the result of years of swim team in high school and college. The thought of him in a Speedo drives me crazy. I want to reach for him, but he’s scrunched up into a little ball, the epitome of cute. Sometimes he looks (and acts) like a grown-up boy in a man’s body, while other times he embodies a man’s man who enjoys taking control of his partner, regardless of the bodily pain. As gorgeous as he is, my honeybun is a complicated creature both inside and out. As if to prove his rebelliousness, a lock of his black hair stands straight up from the crown of his head like the silly cowlick that Alfalfa sported in The Little Rascals. That’s a pop culture reference decades before Emmett’s time, of course, which encourages me to bring it up way more than necessary. It’s just too funny not to.
See?
I rub my eyes and bright vivid sparks dance in my vision. The dull pain gradually subsides into my skull. Oh, Emmett. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and I have no idea what to give my boyfriend of almost two years. While still learning his quirks, dislikes, and favorite things, I find myself surprised every day with something new to chew on and digest. I have learned to be quick about noticing his tastes or they pass me by without acknowledgement.
What would he like? I ponder this question. Unfortunately, I don’t have much time for this, as the elbow whack has struck after I’ve hit Snooze on my iPhone. Eight minutes until I have to hit the shower before work. Hmm, eight minutes is enough time for some hanky panky. Right? I sit up a bit, relieved that my expanding waist remains hidden under my t-shirt. Damn, getting older certainly has its disadvantages. Besides the graying at my temples, I have discovered several unruly whitish hairs on my chest and in my trimmed bush down below. And now that the two of us are living together (6 months, 2 days, and 8.5 hours, but who’s counting?), we’ve taken to full-on nesting in our man cave. We stay in night after night, cook gigantic meals, and eat like ravenous wolves in the wild. I never thought I’d see the day, but being ten years older than Emmett, I now realize I am evolving into what gay men refer to as a “bear” due to all this hibernation. Do I have Bear Pride?
Well, I do like their pride flag. So I guess I’m getting there, pound by pound, slowly but surely.
In one sense, I’m lucky. Emmett and his peers love older men who identify as bears. Big, burly, hairy men are in vogue at the moment, and while I’m more than happy to claim this sexual identification, Emmett’s roving eyes need a poke with my elbow every now and then.
But the biggest disadvantage of getting older that I can think of in this moment is this: What am I supposed to buy my sweet yet fierce younger boyfriend for Valentine’s Day? Ten years’ difference can sometimes stretch between us like a vast chasm. I decide to get his take on Cupid’s big day. Perhaps a gift idea will pop into my head.
“Hey, Em?” I ask, poking him with my finger. “Do you know what day it is today?”
Groaning, he flips on his back, sighs, and runs a hand across the coarse matted fur that covers his chest. My little otter. My cock twitches while I watch his fingers travel through that hirsute landscape. I bite my lip to keep from saying how much I love him.
“Don’t tell me it’s that stupid day of hearts and candies and shit,” he answers. “Valentine’s Day is for straight married couples who feel the need to buy into what corporate America is selling. Or for old aunts who want to chow down on a Whitman’s Sampler while they crochet their afghans.”
(Author’s note: This is not an old lady crocheting an afghan – it’s Elizabeth fucking Taylor, people!)
I chuckle. He’s nothing if not straight to the point.
“No, babe, that’s tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll be getting a heart-shaped card from me along with a gift certificate to the local nail salon and ten bucks off the Senior lunch special at Norma’s.”
Guffawing like a braying moose at my dumb joke, Emmett shifts position and throws a meaty paw around my middle. I stare at his face, that stunning face that I’ve kissed and hit and spit upon and memorized. Strong angles cut into his pretty profile, made more incredible by a thrilling combination of softness and masculinity. For example, heavy facial stubble juxtaposes against porcelain-hued skin. His Greek background imbues him with all the handsome, ideal characteristics that I attribute to those gods from long ago who roamed the Earth in human form. Perhaps he’s the new incarnation of Eros, the god of love. I could actually believe that.
Smiling, I say, “Today is the day before Valentine’s Day. You know what date that is?”
He grunts, “Nope,” as his other hand crawls down under the sheets to scratch his balls. Lord have mercy, what balls! AC/DC must have had Emmett in mind when they sang, “I’ve got big balls.”
Heavy, fat, and always full of cum, his plump ballsack is coated with a soft smothering of jet-black hair, which sets off his thick cock in the most pornographic way possible. I mean, his package always look pumped up and out and ready to go. No gray strands reside in those pubes either, that’s for sure. He’s a beauty. I am so fucking lucky. I tend to repeat that mantra to myself at least 50 times a day.
“It’s Friday the Thirteenth, Emmett. What do you think that means?”
“Hmm, probably that one of us isn’t getting laid this morning due to his labeling the day an unlucky one, filled with superstitions and stuff. Am I right?” I hope not. “Let’s see,” he continues, bringing his hand back up from under the covers for a quick sniff before beginning to tick off a list. “Beware the cat shadowed with midnight black fur, avoid walking underneath an open ladder and, um, what else? Oh yeah, don’t watch a schlocky horror movie at the Drive-In featuring terrifying killers like the hockey-masked Jason Voorhees, who slaughters horny teens.” He shudders, a true child of the Eighties. “Now that’s some scary-ass shit. Especially if you’re a horny teenager.”
I agree and sit up in bed, making sure that the sheets are peeled down enough to almost display my goods, including just a touch of my newly silver pubes. Emmett likes that. I like this talk of teenage slasher movies, those things get me hot and bothered.
“Well, since you hate what tomorrow stands for so much, let’s take it all the way to the past when even Fridays themselves were thought to be unlucky once upon a time and back in the day. Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales states, ‘And on a Friday fell all this mischance.’”
Emmett grunts. “You would know that.”
“I better. I’m teaching it to my kids this semester. Now that’s what I call a very old warning. Even older? How about the Bible, where thirteen people dined at the Last Supper—Jesus and the twelve disciples. Some people believe having that exact number at the table was unlucky. What do you think?” Emmett only shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know either. Perhaps it was. Not everyone at that feast ended up living a long and prosperous life, that’s for sure. I mean, take Jesus. Hello? He got crucified on the cross with nine inch nails driven into his hands and feet.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. But you love nine inches, don’t you?” I tease.
He laughs. “You wish. I just love Trent Reznor.”
“God, who doesn’t. All that beauty and angst and he’s got an Oscar!”
“Don’t even try to get with my man.”
We giggle and cuddle closer to one another. I whisper, “What about Judas? Don’t forget about him. He was one of the thirteen too.”
“I bet he was hot,” Emmett decides with a nod.
I snuggle in tighter. “Jesus probably said, ‘Et tu, Judas?’ when he was betrayed.”
“Et tu, boner,” he responds, grabbing my dick.
“I love it when you speak Shakespeare,” I sigh. His soft palm slides up and down my shaft, which grows at a rapid pace from merely his touch. It always does. “Oh, that feels good. Makes me want to just say, fuck it, gimme Friday the Thirteenth with all its strange associations or give me nothing! Oh God and Jesus, keep doing that, that feels so good. Okay, wait, stop! I gotta concentrate here. Here’s what I say, Emmett. I’m going to take this day by the balls—pun perfectly intended, lover—and proclaim both Friday and the number thirteen as a day and number filled with, I don’t know…ah, not so fast! I don’t want to come too soon.” He looks like the Devil himself jerking me off. “Oh, I got it, let today be filled with mystical meaning, special significance, and Devil-may-care demeanor.”
Emmett snorts and stops touching me. “You and your alliteration,” he sneers, although I wonder if deep down he’s jealous. “Mystical meaning, my ass. I, on the other hand, choose to believe that Friday the Thirteenth is a lucky day, and screw what anybody else says.”
“You’re right, let’s have it be a day that portends and foretells interesting events,” I add in agreement, grazing his nipple with my fingers and inching my way down to his erection, “one that suggests anything is possible. One that won’t punish me for sucking dick, which, if you don’t mind, I’m about to do before I explode all over the place. I need your cock in my mouth,” I whine.
“Yeah, you do. Suck it,” he urges.
I like doing as he asks. I yank the sheets back to reveal his reddened, angry-looking prick, so flush with the true essence of manhood that my mouth waters from sheer man-lust. He doesn’t even need a cock ring to make those veins pop. Although I do love a sexy stud sporting a cock ring.
When I go down on him, I flash on a perfect Valentine’s Day gift that will not gross Emmett out while also taking into account our morning of Friday the 13th. After work, I’ll make a quick detour to The Pleasure Chest on Seventh Avenue in Greenwich Village to pick up one bottle of poppers and three cock rings before heading home to Brooklyn. Or maybe the other way around: three bottles of poppers and one stupendous cock ring. Whichever way I go, the 1 and the 3 are represented in a clever way, and I’m positive that Emmett will have fun trying each gift out.
Happy with both my gift choice and the delicious cock filling my mouth, I trust that I am going to give him a Valentine’s night to remember.
Hopefully one without a black eye.
