Alley Man
By siktici ©2017
I met Sean at a lonely period in my life. It seemed, somehow, serendipitous because both our lives changed.
Please contribute to Nifty.org and show its founder how much we appreciate this wonderful website!
"I get it; you're not interested. So, who ARE you interested in?" I asked an attractive blonde with an `I'm slumming' expression on his face. You know, the kind of guy who looks like Owen Wilson but talks like Cyndi Lauper?
"Him," the Owen-look-alike said and pointed to Gerald, currently captivated by a go-go boy.
"Him?" I asked incredulously. I immediately compared myself to Gerald, unsuccessfully. I didn't want to admit it, but if I didn't think of Gerald as a brother, I would throw myself at him like a pair of panties.
He smoldered with little preparation. With animal magnetism, he drew men and women toward him with rugged, mature expressions--the kind of expressions that perpetually asked, "What?" or "Seriously?" But his personality, so positive and convivial, combined with immense empathy, to make him irresistible. Yet, the most attractive thing about Gerald was that he didn't have an ego. He was approachable, amiable--the kind of guy who speaks to anyone, anywhere. So, when the Owen Wilson-look-alike chose Gerald as his object of lust, I really wasn't as jealous as I pretended.
"Yep," the faux Owen said, "he's hot."
His composure annoyed me. So, to get at him, I said, "He's old enough to be your fuckin' grandfather," and folded my arms in satisfaction.
"So are you," he said.
Stunned, I staggered to the bar. "Shithead," I hissed.
"Now, now," Bob, the bartender, warned. "You wouldn't come here if you didn't like fuckin' down little numbers like that."
"You saw, huh?" I asked.
Bob nodded while preparing two shots for me and one for himself. He knew me so well.
"Don't spare my feelings, you prick," I said after throwing back one shot and feeling the burn. "But you're right, Bob," I said.
We toasted each other, and before throwing back our shots, we said in unison, "Fuck him!" Bob knew how to remind me not take myself so seriously.
After checking with Gerald, now talking to that blonde who verbally kicked me in the nuts; I glowed with embarrassment, settled-up with Bob, and headed into the arctic air of Chicago. Normally, I would take a taxi on such cock-shrinking nights, but I was still smarting from the truth of the Owen Wilson look-a-like.
Walking along the icy sidewalk, I slipped here and there in boots not meant for snow; and replaying the insult, I almost missed the barely audible plea.
"Hey," a rusty voice echoed softly in the empty alley. "You got any food?"
I was used to the bite from homeless guys, but this guy didn't ask for money and didn't give me a story.
I'm not feeling so good," he said, leaning against a wall, "but I think I'd feel a lot better, if you give me some food."
I didn't respond for a few beats, because I was skeptical.
"You got any?" he asked and fell to the alley floor, creating a large snowy plume.
He woke with more than a start. Had I weaved instead of bobbed, I would have caught a nasty shot to the head.
"Easy, big fella; just a man bearing food," I said.
"Water," the stranger said, weakly.
"What was that?" I said, assuming he was sick from bad drugs or something.
"WATER!"
"Give that man some water," I said a bit loudly, because secretly, he scared the piss out of me.
After drinking a third glass, his breathing slowed and his concern asked, "Where?"
"My place," I said as disarmingly as possible (I remembered his almost connecting with my head).
"What happened?" he asked between gulps.
"You passed out."
"When?" he asked and took another glass from me.
"Oh, about two hours ago--Listen, I have some questions of my own," I said.
"Sure, but can I have some more water?" he said and handed me the glass. I remembered my manners and smiled, he smiled too. It made me a little less concerned.
He looked to be in his late thirties, but life had bent his six-plus frame. His stringy and matted hair, mostly light brown, had strands that were casualties of the sun. Every inch of him needed a good scrub. His large frame, hosting homeless-inspired muscles, was stuffed in a grimy sweat shirt under a thin jacket. He wore jeans so small that I clearly saw his large cock. Strangely, despite his illness, his light brown eyes were surprisingly clear, and his habit of looking into my eyes when he spoke made me act shy.
"I think I can eat a little of that food," he said with a weak smile and deep dimples that appeared and disappeared.
I found it difficult to help without hurting his feelings, because there was so much that he needed. But I had a plan:
"While you finish up the food, I'm gonna find you some clothes and run a bath. After that, I'm gonna tackle that hair and--"
"Hold on. Don't go changing me!" he said with a half-hearted chuckle. "Look, man, I appreciate anything you can do, but let's go easy, huh?"
"Easy," I said and stared intently at his cock's imprint.
After hungrily eating the food and drinking more glasses of water, he finally relented. "I'll take that bath, if you don't mind."
I helped him to the steamy tub and slowly lowered him. "So, what's your name?" I asked, while swabbing his back.
"Sean. Sean Anderson," he said in a low voice.
"Nice to meet you, Sean. I'm Josh Tanner," I said and we shook soapy hands.
"Why Chicago?" I asked as I moved around to his chest and middle. "No offense, but there are less hostile places to be homeless."
He rubbed his soapy beard and ignored that I had submerged the washcloth to his crotch. Gently swabbing his cock and ball sac, I felt him grow firm, and I grew along with him. He pointed out, "I didn't plan on being homelessness, but who does, huh?"
I burned with embarrassment, but he let me off the hook.
Grabbing my arm with a soapy hand to push it farther into his crotch, he said in a seductive whisper, "But I do rely on the kindness of strangers."
His cock was amazingly large; I saw its triple-barrel perfection with Braille.
"Mmm, are you taking advantage of me?" he asked with glossy eyes that stared the truth out of me.
"I hope so, or I'm doing it wrong," I said in intoxicating lust. I had never given a man a bath, at least not like this, so I made the most of it while he luxuriated.
I washed every crevice of his hairy body with a tenderness that surprised me. "You have such a nice body," I said and cleared away the hoarseness in my voice.
His body had grown solid, yet gaunt, with muscles tempered by homeless effort. His beard, no longer scruffy, hung limply to his belly which was drawn due to malnourishment. He was so weak that I had to help him from the bath and dry him, and in doing so, I could no longer resist the need.
"I feel it too," he said in an husky voice. "We both need it," he said and looked for the truth in my eyes.
With his sitting bedside and my kneeling on the floor, I placed his legs over my shoulders, lowered him to reclining, and took his cock into my mouth. I took slow and deliberate care of the steady precum that polished his deeply red head. Robust heat, emanating from his stiff cock and my mouth, collided on our surfaces and sent waves of pleasure radiating through every atom of our bodies.
I took him, deeply and relentlessly, and so tenderly, as to bring an aching to my surface. He answered with arcs, twists, and turns of emboldened pleasure that caused us to instantly feel that this wasn't just a blowjob. This was a realization that few men received.
I took all of him, took all his cum, and moved beside him to help him through the intense aftermath while priming my own instant release. And in the afterglow, we kissed, hugged, and hoped. This was instant, unadulterated love; a love that could last us for the rest of our lives. He thanked me for his release; I thanked him for the chance; and we instantly fell asleep.
I woke to my legs were being raised. Not that I ever had a problem with that, but I usually wanted to supervise the move. After a few seconds, I realized it was Sean and rose slightly to see his silhouette.
"You awake?" he asked.
"I am now," I said, as evenly as possible, because I didn't want him to stop.
"Good, I tried everything else. Wow, you pass out," he said.
I couldn't be mad. Before we drifted to dreams, I was hoping he would take in the night. I quickly hardened and pulsed a pool of precum on my stomach.
"You're behind the wheel, Sean," I said and lay back. "Oh, yeah, that's nice," I said, enjoying the familiar warmth of a man's mouth on my cock. I closed my eyes and actually saw the words, "You're behind the wheel," float like cirrus in my mind. Caressing Sean's head, I brought us to a rhythm that held off my orgasm. "I want you to fuck me, Sean," I said, which delighted him. He touched a part of me that I rarely revealed, and the wonderful thing about that was I didn't feel vulnerable.
He applied a condom and generous spit before taking the wheel. With a skill reminiscent of encounters from my younger days, Sean fucked me with a sweet savagery, an aggression helped me tap a higher pleasure.
"Going deep...going deep," he said with gritted teeth.
"Take my hole. Take it! Yeah, Yeah, YEAH," I said with each punctuated thrust. I spoke with abandon before feeling the most explosive orgasm I had ever experience. Rope, after thick rope, splattered my chest and face and trailed to oozing.
With each convulsion, I gripped and released Sean's cock until he exclaimed, "You're making me cum. Oh, Damn...Oh Yeahhhh..."
He followed with a primal groan that increased until he ripped away the condom and sprayed me with watery squirts, as if they were coming from a spray bottle.
As Sean lay beside me, his head on my chest, I said, "Wake me anytime you get the urge. That was amazing."
"Yeah, that was great," he said; then drew silent before adding, "Nobody's ever made me cum so hard."
"I'm glad it was me," I said and kissed him before we slipped into dreams.
Sean stayed with me for a while, but his drug use and our escalating arguments caused me to separate from him. And when I couldn't resist him, he used my love against me. Then we started the process all over again until I stopped it. After he realized I wasn't going to enable him, he agreed to go for treatment. It was very difficult not having him next to me and making plans for our happiness. Finally, after three months he invited me for a visit.
"Maybe when you're finished up here, you can move back with me?" I offered tentatively.
"The thing is..." he said and lowered his head. "I mean, I don't think..." he tried to explain but trailed to silence.
"I understand," I said with difficulty. It felt as if my throat was closing.
"My counselor says I should stay away from my past for at least a year," he said with heavy sadness. He raised those clear brown eyes to mine to say, "Hey, a year will go by before we know it, right?" Then looked away before I could answer.
"Yeah," I said, looking at my fingers, because had I looked at him, I would have surely cried. "You have to work on staying sober," I said, bravely.
He looked helpless, as if he didn't know how to save me from the hurt, which was another reason I loved him.
"Really, I understand," I lied.
"I'm glad, because I was worried," he said and gently raised my chin. "I would be no good to you like this, and if we pushed things, we would destroy each other in the process."
I heard his words, somewhere behind my denial and sadness, then love shined in his face as tears fell from his eyes and landed on my me.
If I loved him, I had to let him go, and the powerful truth of that caused me to lower my head and softly cry.
In a courtyard, we sat arm-in-arm and watched the sun lower behind a forest of pine that seemed to surround the place. As night intruded, I kissed and hugged him, and said I would wait for him. He said he would always love me and would keep in touch, but we both knew that life would take us in different directions. And I could truly say that because I met a man in an alley, on an arctic Chicago night, I had the rare opportunity to experience selfless love.