There is no denying I do get cynical sometimes. It isn’t really surprising is it? Let me give you a for instance. When I got up this morning, feeling half dead and with the half alive half of me feeling half dead as well, which is worse, what did I find? I found one of my cats had peed on my shoes overnight.

Now I love cats you know I do, everyone knows that, love ‘em better than I love most humans but, pissing on my shoes, even when it might be seen as a way to demonstrate affection, is not something I readily appreciate.

So cynicism reigned supreme and instantly on a morning when it was cold and the sky dreary. So cold that, even now, at the end of April as it is, I really do think it is time to re-hibernate. There may have been hedgehogs out on the lawn in March and all the spring flowers appearing earlier this year but now it is cold again, cold and dismal and, along with being terminally cynical, I am also not happy.

It isn’t as if I didn’t sleep well. I did. I went to bed at ten thirty and slept right through solidly, not waking until the six thirty bell. Half dead means more than that however. It means a torn shirt and a pair of trousers with the knee out and no money in the pockets. It means a meagre breakfast taken in haste amid massive chaos, bad tempered wife arising part way through it all. And it means unwarily slipping one’s feet into shoes one of the damned cats had pissed in.

I shall break something today, I know I shall. Without fail because the day has begun that way. I’ve an ache and a grumble and an urge which combines them both. I can change my shoes but I don’t want to change my socks. My feet would get cold if I took them off, besides I’d have to go and find another pair and that would only cause more aggravation.

………………

She rises and goes without a murmur, without it seems even properly acknowledging me. Oh well I’m only the husband……

Her exhaust drifts, fades, feeds the flowers. I tidy up, put the wreckage away. At nine she phones having safely reached the office. All is well so far, in her day.

I look at some pictures of her in an album. Beach scenes when we were on holiday in Corfu. There was a naturists beach and we went there, she went there in order to show off.

There must be a lot of pictures of her naked floating around if the number of people with cameras was anything to go by. Why she had to walk about so much I’ll never know, except she had to get attention when, in that heat most people wanted only to lie down.

She laughed at me later on, back at the hotel when I challenged her. So I encouraged her even more the next day, even touched her up while another couple watched.

Now she is bored again, immersed in work and all the worry she brings home with her.

………………

At ten I redress and put some soft knickers on under my jeans. My mobile rings; it is him. Where are you he asks. Don’t you want to fuck?

He will like the blouse I know he will, love the scent I put on specially. Not too much because……well because.

I see him waiting at the door when I park, go to him quickly, eagerly; he steps aside, ushers me in.

His room smells of beer and takeaways; he offers nothing but himself. I know I should have shaved but he hasn’t either. We kiss anyway, hungrily and the stubble burn is shared.

He is as hard as hell when I reach for him, wanting to feel the press of his body against mine straight away. There are times when I can’t get enough of him and he can’t get enough of me either and this morning, today, now, looks like being one of them.

I bite an earlobe, slobber on his neck, my hand shovelling stiffly down the front of his trousers.

His fingers slide off to find the smoothly shaped over my cheeks soft knickers.

He grunts, gropes and I know where I am with him.

We don’t say much, either of us, there is no need, actions speak louder than words, don’t they. We grunt of course, in our own personal language, grunt and fumble as we tussle with our needs.

My shoes are slip-ons, not pissed-ons and they come off my feet so very easily. He feels a nipple, pinches it, its what I like, want, need, so desperately. The soft knickers come partway down in sympathy with my jeans when he tugs at them, impatient to have his way with me. I squeeze him harder, rubbery bendy, by now racing with my eagerness for him.

Our kissing is done for the moment now hotlipped I open my mouth and take him willingly and oh hell how good he feels, he feels, he feels……

He knows me and I know him, desires and urges and everything.

I took a picture of her out of the album to show him in a mad heightened moment of disregard the last time we were together. Nice tits, he tells me but have you got any of her being fucked?

The sofa beckons then the bed and after a moment the sofa again. We’re fluid, mobile, rather like amoeba, chasing each other and neither not even entirely naked yet.

The feeling is sharp and gritty, a significant sear when he enters me. Its always like that when we’re in a hurry, his hardness, my tightness, all manner of things.

But the tightness goes and the electric thrills come, heightened further and faster when he pinches my nipples again.

There is tension of course, a quivering in the make and break touch of muscle and skin. I shift, lie sideways and close my eyes while he plays with me. In a moment, in an hour perhaps, he’ll take me on hands and knees or bent over the little kitchen table again.

And while she works I play and don’t consider anything but him.

You have to read it right to get the rhythm, de dah, de dah, see how it goes then leave a comment, but that’s not the only reason I’ve written this. I’ve written it because I want to tell you how much I like his body, like his hands his teeth and his prick and what he does to me, for me, with it. The least you could do in return dear reader is leave a few words of your own so I will know you liked what you read. Or not, as the case may be, that is.

I get hard then go soft again, it often happens like that. Sometimes I won’t get hard at all until he starts to play with me. But I know from his movements and the noises he’s making that very soon he will ejaculate. I suppose it is a funny word to use but no funnier than penis or anus, nipple or masturbate.

He slows, eases, allows me to relax and carefully I get onto my hands and knees without losing him.

It’s the way he likes it, the way he can get in the deepest the way, this time, he wants to pump his stuff into me. And knowing that gets me stiff and hard all over again.

I have to masturbate then and he lets me do it, encourages with grunts and little movements, easing so I can put my left shoulder on the rug and turn my head sideways.

The rug smells musty, dusty, fusty from feet and fables but it doesn’t matter because I can reach and grasp and add my own fractions to the fission we feel. He will suck me afterwards, I know he will. Whether I’ve cum or not. He always does.

He shoves and I hurt, ache, want need, NEED! It is agony, no it is discomfort then it is, is, is agony again, but when he explodes I manage, just manage to cum and cum with him.

No it isn’t always like that, sometimes he takes me and I get nothing and sometimes when I offer he doesn’t want. Sometimes it is crude and dangerous and hurried, a suck in a cinema or while he is driving his car.

I’ve been fucked in an alleyway in the pouring rain by a stranger because he wanted me to do it and I wanted it so much I didn’t care. Its only sex, a cock in an arse, release, regret and recriminations.

What I love is the feel of this man. His roughness, his hardness, the sandpaper scrape of his cheek against my neck. I love the rubbery feel of a ready cock, the taste of it and the way the stiffness stays still under the movement of skin. I love his sensitivities too, he can kiss as gently as any woman when he tries, lie quiet and limp, hardly breathing, breasts equally as attractive as a young girl’s, body as seductive overall. He even cries sometimes, when I tell him I love him. Because he knows I really don’t, knows I only say it because it is what he wants to hear. He knows, as I do, that if I really did love him there’d be no need to say so, we’d feel it anyway, both of us, in ways which, for the most part, would remain unspoken.

We don’t dwell long on the subject of love. I think about other men when I am sucking him, dream about the lovers I’ve had when he is fucking me and how they all, without exception, felt the same.

Sometimes I think of her, hard at work in her cluttered office with secretaries and phones that constantly ring. She’ll have lunch with some man or other today, flirt with him over a lettuce leaf, eye him over coffee. He’ll take stock, size her up, consider the probabilities and possibilities.

I know she fucks other men and I am not bothered. I’m neither acquisitive nor inquisitive, and certainly not jealous! She’ll tell me when she wants to, or not, as the case may be.

I know he fucks other men too. He hasn’t said in so many words but I just know and I find myself immune to emotions in that sense.

And I know he’ll move on when he tires of me. I know he will tell a friend about me, describing my arse, make suggestions, reveal how I like having my nipples nipped. Then I’ll get cynical, despondent, negative but still wanting, always wanting, leaving messages while I search for the elusive all over again.

New men are always a challenge and that’s part of the excitement. New scars to find and new foibles to fix. Old men are quieter, slower, less demanding often, wanting little more than a kiss and a cuddle perhaps.

I lived with an old man once, years ago, didn’t I tell you about him? That time, for a change things were the other way round.

I still have some ear rings he once bought me, found them the other day in a box in a drawer. She knows about him, yes she does ‘cos I told her. Sadly she thinks I’ve left that sort of thing far behind me now that we’re married.

Settled down, she calls it but I’d call it secretive.

And whats sadder still is I haven’t the heart to tell her. I just play and let her get on with her work.

© Aahlu. Mayday 2011.