MICHAEL

{NYC, 1995}

"I keep moving back and forth between wanting to take care of him or marry him and both are wrong and I don’t give a shit."

I meet Michael in the Ramble and an hour later we are home in bed in my newly single apartment on the upper east side. He’s 19 and I’m 30 and his hair is floppy, his eyes are like almonds and he looks like a young Michael York from Logan’s Run. His voice is lower than you would expect from his boyishness. I keep moving back and forth between wanting to take care of him or marry him and both are wrong and I don’t give a shit. He’s smart, sharp and funny and we click and he’s looking at me like I’m handsome and together which is less than half true but I show off or say anything I can think of to impress him. His shirt unbuttons and he is trim and his skin is very pale and so sexy and when I pull his pants off, his long, thin, uncut cock falls out and dangles down between his legs. He looks up at me and I melt. His hair keeps falling into our kiss and it turns me on, even when he brushes it away. He goes down on me and I watch him, and then he begins to move his body around until his chest is on my stomach and his ass takes position over my face. I reach up, spread his legs and lower him down into my mouth. I push my tongue up into him and he relaxes down onto it. I go in over and over, wetting and opening him and he moans, sitting up a little so he falls harder down onto me. I grab his hips now and pull him up and around and he gets it, turning to face me. He reaches behind, takes my cock into his hand then sits down on it. As it goes in, he smiles and I raise my chest and head up before bringing it all down and then thrusting up into him. He yells out and I reach for his waist then his shoulders. He spits down onto his cock and begins to stroke it as I fuck him. “You don’t give a fuck about my cock, do you?” he asks, smirking. “Do you want to drive out to the beach?” I ask.