Posing was really about the breaks...

That was the afternoon that Bolt let me feel his cock.

This kind of thing was not uncommon in the circles in which I ran at the time. Now, you have to understand, none of us was screamingly gay or anything (well, not among my immediate friends). It was simply a matter of opportunism. A group of young, quasi-employable twenty-somethings with too little self-esteem to imagine chasing down all but the very easiest of skirts; it was all too natural for us to turn to one another... friends, sympathetic fellow travelers. It felt forbidden and exciting. Just as well; it was just about all we had.

He was at my place, and he was posing for me. Among my crowd, most of us fancied ourselves reasonably good artists; it was, in fact, what brought most of us together in the first place. So these posing sessions were fairly common. Bolt had done this before with others in our cadre, but for him and me, this was a first. My folks were at work, and so there we were, downstairs on a bold, empty summer afternoon with nothing to fill it up with but one another. And he was naked, and I was sketching — also naked, ostensibly out of a spirit of democracy and egalitarianism. Bolt, it should be said here, was kind of vain. He worked out a little. In truth, he was nothing special; he wasn't dedicated enough to it for it to really shape him. But it made a difference psychologically, I suppose. That is to say, as I drew him, as I studied him, as I set every detail down on paper, he gained an erection, and a rather persistent one at that; so insistent that it ultimately had to be represented in the sketch. Bolt got off on being on display, being noticed, being admired.

After a bit he said, "Wanna take a break for a minute?" It seemed the moment had arrived. I paused and set down the pad and the charcoal. He remained upright, in both senses of the word. Holding his pose. Smiling at me.

An awkward moment went by, and finally I trusted on his reputation and simply reached up, cupping the length of his cock in my hand. "Hmmm..." he sighed softly. I moved along the couch, drawing closer, and raised my other hand to fondle his balls. He grinned down at me as I explored his maleness, pleasuring him furtively, indulging his vanity. He said, "Whattayah think?"

What was I supposed to say? It was a cock, not a Rembrandt; they were his balls, not Fabergé eggs. So I nodded and said, "Nice..."

"Yup," he said, the quiet centre of the universe, standing there while I felt him up. It seemed that this had to go somewhere; I either had to stop, or take it to the next level. My choice was to lean forward, and take his cock into my mouth. He moaned, his hands cradling my head, finally touching me. It didn't take long; maybe a minute or two until he had what he'd really needed out of the posing session. I swallowed him — I never had a problem with that — and drew off of him. He flopped down onto the couch with a contented groan, fondling himself, sighing and smiling as if it had been the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders instead of an ounce or two of cum out of his balls. "That was great," he told me.

I didn't even bother asking. I'd heard what he was like, even seen him in action at a few parties. Sober, there was no chance; he had too many hang-ups about what it implied for him to reciprocate. Drunk he could get past them most of the time, if grudgingly. Stoned, though, he was a madman... some other aspect of his ego would float to the fore on marijuana smoke and he'd be overcome by the desire to demonstrate himself the most accomplished cocksmith in creation. It's like pot turned him into the Blowjob Fairy or something. Unfortunately for me, there was none available that afternoon, so I was on my own. No problem; I sat back and did it right in front of him. Through heavy-lidded eyes he watched me with lazy intent as I took myself most of the way, made half-hard again by the spectacle, and then, taken by some charitable urge, leaned suddenly forward. He brushed my hand aside and replaced it with his own, taking me the rest of the way. I sat back and watched him masturbate me, and the two of us were treated to the mutually satisfying vision of my load launching out of his pumping fist.

I sat back, panting. "Thanks," I said.

He sat back as well, and in a move I found somehow even more erotic and intimate than if he'd gone down on me, he wiped his hand across his own chest, spreading my essence over himself as if it were some manner of clear, glistening warpaint... a manhood trial successfully undertaken by two young comrades together. "What are friends for," he told me.