Midlife Carnal Crisis

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Perhaps calling it a “crisis” is overstatement. It’s hard to tell at the moment. But everything began at that mountain pool, on a hot summer day not long ago. Maybe, after reading this, you’ll tell me it began a whole lot earlier, and maybe you’d be right.

Roger was looking at me, a bit uncertain, his dark eyebrows furrowed. Although a nearby neighbor, I didn’t know him well enough to be able to read his expression with much accuracy. He looked puzzled, that much was sure, but I couldn’t tell whether his quandary was somehow connected to me or a sign of some other internal confusion on his part.

He didn’t have any clothes on and neither did I. His chest hair was wet, dark and matted against his skin, and the midday sun accentuated the fact that his nipples were erect. Probably from the cold pond water, but perhaps not. I got the feeling he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to begin.

After our plunge in the bracing mountain water just now, his penis had retracted, but his balls, hefty and manly, hung low with little beads of water still dripping off his hairy scrotum.

We’d only been here once before on a hike, a few weeks ago, a remote pond off a trail to Lone Mountain here in the Berkshires.

“Clay, so what exactly happened last time?” He gestured vaguely towards the flat granite rock ledge we were on, maybe ten feet up from the pond. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“You mean your wet dream?” I arched my eyebrows, knowing where this was going.

He shook his head. “I think there was a little more going on than that. More I consider, the stranger it all seems. What happened, Clay?”

I shifted on my feet, a bit uncomfortable. “You really want to know?”

Our eyes met. This was going to be one of those “test of friendship” talks, something guys almost never enjoy, so different from our wives, who seem to manage their emotional lives with a lot more grace and efficiency.

“I do.”

I took a deep breath and looked away. “Let’s sit down, at least. The sun will warm us pretty good. We can talk.”

The smooth rock was indeed warm underfoot.

Warily he unrolled his towel, gave himself a quick wipe-down and arranged himself on it, sitting cross-legged, facing me. He had big, strong shoulders, lots of fur all over his rounded, taut belly. I liked how gracefully he moved that dripping, forty-year-old body, hardened from his work in the machine shop. Below the waist his skin was unearthly pale.

I sat down maybe three feet from him and our eyes met.

“That wet dream,” I began.

“That wet dream.” He stared back at me. “I haven’t had one of those in five years, Clay. Maybe ten? Common as corn when I was young but almost never now. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, we’d done our hike and skinny-dip thing, and you conked out here on this ledge afterward for a nap. I can’t tell exactly how your dream spooled out for you, but you spurted pretty good.”

Roger narrowed his eyebrows again. “All of that is true, Clay. As far as it goes. But I think you are leaving something out. I’m asking you to fill in the blanks.”

He didn’t look angry, but I knew he wasn’t going to let me off.

I looked away. “It’s complicated, Rog. Complicated.”

“Go ahead.” His voice was soft.

So I relayed to him again what happened, trying to get it all right. How we’d felt like a pair of daring teenagers again, doing the naked swim business out in the open since we hadn’t brought any swimsuits along on our excursion. How the water had felt good after our overheated hike, how we’d stoked ourselves out on the rock, this rock, to sun dry off before heading home. How he had fallen asleep, an afternoon nap after we’d chatted, and that I couldn’t help myself.

He peered into my face. “Couldn’t help yourself?”

I thought about it all, replayed it in my mind. You see, and I don’t really want to go into this at the moment for various reasons, I have this thing about sleeping cocks. Or cocks on sleeping guys rather. I have some difficulties letting things alone.

And there had been my neighborhood buddy Roger that day, naked, with a sweet-looking, soft penis lolling away on his thigh, breathing in deep sleep on this very ledge, outdoors, next to me, right by the pond.

If you’re the type who likes origin stories, I have written about this awkward little proclivity of mine, (Don’t) Let Sleeping Dicks Lie , it’s called. I’m certainly not the only one in the world with an obsession. Lots of people have highly focused interests in all variety of things, but it’s possible no one else has this particular eccentricity.

Anyway, Roger’s penis, a very handsome one at that, had been out there in the open and unattended, right next to me. So I did a little clandestine fondling, not a lot, and his penis got stiff and did the thing that penises are supposed to do, and he woke up and thought he had a wet dream, which was technically true, and here I had witnessed it, and he knew I had witnessed it, and he had been a little undone, a puddle of warm ankara travesti sperm on his belly that needed to be cleaned up, all of that.

I held my breath. “Sorry Rog, I couldn’t help myself. I touched you. Did a little stroking. Your prick looked so nice. I always sorta have a hard time resisting. It’s actually a handsome number you have there, you know, and I thought maybe a little release might be good. No harm, no foul.”

I paused, knowing how lame I sounded. But I also believe staying as close to the truth as possible is the proper thing to do with people, certainly friends, at least most of the time.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t right of me, will never happen again. One of those things.”

He looked at me.

“Forgive me?” I did feel strange. No one likes to violate the trust in friendships, ever, for any reason, and here I had gone and given in to an insistent urge of my own, unbidden and without permission.

He turned his head and looked off into the distance for the longest time.

Soft, rounded, green New England hills in the background, the sky blue, just a few clouds to the east. Pond surface was smooth, not even much in the way of bird or insect noises in the heat of the afternoon, just the lightest of breezes.

Silence. Always the worst sign of everything in humans, the quiet before the storm. Your wife not talking to you while she’s building up a good head of steam for an argument. Your boss pissed off at you for some dumb mistake at work, his mouth smashed shut in anger. Waiting for the thunderclap. All those times as a kid when you’d pulled some stunt that got discovered, and it was just a question of time before some adult unloaded on you. Punishment coming. An immense, forbidding silence.

While silence reigned, of course my mind went sprinting off in overdrive. I wanted forgiveness from Roger, didn’t want this to twist our friendship, new and slight as it was, but I also knew there was nothing more I could do about things at the moment. It was his call, that was it. I’d confessed. I was at his mercy.

So in the interval, I thought about me, my history and life so far. My sexuality has always been a bit confused, although perhaps it was less so earlier in my life, when almost everything was simpler.

I’d been married now for twenty years, mostly happily, since any time you have two folks together it is inevitable that not everything is perfect, and I never expected it to be so. Barb is a sweet soul, kind and tolerant, we are still a decent looking couple, even with middle-aged bodies and the wear and tear that aging and raising a family brings.

But then there are other things that intrude. I have never found it possible, or even advisable, to keep a shut-door policy on thoughts and fantasies. If the door is closed, they come in under the sill anyway, no helping that, and while many thoughts cannot, and shouldn’t, be indulged (like the periodic urge to strangle my boss), I have found it best to treat them in a neighborly fashion, and maybe they’ll just settle into a comfortable chair in your head, have a drink and merge into the background and not cause too much of a ruckus and try to rule your life or drive you nuts. Throw up a “Keep Out!” sign to thoughts and you are just asking for trouble. Live and let live, I say.

So here I am, married, kids grown, but still the loins stir themselves, testicles churning for a bit more activity than they get.

To put it at its most basic level, for the longest time in my life, when I see a sleeping cock, a penis on an unconscious man, strange desires surge through my system, and I have an unaccountable desire to interfere. “Help out,” as it were.

There, you have it. Can’t be dodged. I’m not gay, just have a thing for male genitalia. You may have heard of this sort of thing before. My wrinkle is just a bit different. Of course our little adventure here at the pond the other week, or my adventure anyway, couldn’t end simply, human dramas don’t wrap themselves up neatly. I hope you can bear with me.

Roger began to talk. Not so much to me as just out to the world, he wasn’t even looking in my direction. It had been long enough it took me by surprise. He didn’t say a single word about our little event and my owning up to what had happened.

He talked about his wife, Carrie. He went on at length. I knew roughly how they’d met and courted but got quite a bit more detail. He talked about their early, ardent days together, how often they had coupled, more details about their love life than I had ever expected to know, how things had slowed down with kids and middle-age of course, happened to everyone, and he had been hoping, when their youngest John finally left to live on his own last year, how Roger had hoped that might mean there would be more time for each other at home, maybe a bit more in the sex department. It sounded an awful lot like my own scene. He took a deep breath.

But the “more sex” part hadn’t happened, he said, despite some efforts on his part, and he had found himself a bit restless and ankara travestileri everything.

He looked over at me. He had an erection going, his penis lengthening along his thigh, the head a bit engorged. Maybe it was him talking about Carrie and their early years, he had been more graphic than I ever would have expected. I’d heard descriptions about the kinds of lovely things she’d done with his prick. But maybe something else was going on.

“That wet dream, Clay? It was nice. You know how long it had been since my last ejaculation?”

I didn’t want to speculate so just shrugged.

“Over two weeks! You managed to get half a month’s worth of sperm out of me.”

He shook his head. “It was one crazy dream.”

“Yeah,” I said cautiously, not sure where this was going. “I know mine can be totally strange. Those dreams sure can be downright bizarre.”

I halfway hoped he would tell me exactly what happened in his dream, but I didn’t dare ask.

He looked closely at me. “When I surfaced with the climax, Clay, I had a feeling, I wasn’t sure, but I thought you might have had something to do with it all.”

Okay. Here we are. We’d arrived at ground zero. I waited. His erection looked like it had grown a bit since I last looked.

“Forgive me, Roger?” I finally went.

He just looked at me, then turned and stared off into the distance again.

“What can I do to make things good?” I wasn’t pleading, I was more resigned I guess. Trying to do the right thing, make amends.

His reply took me by surprise. He turned and looked into my face.

“Would you do that again, Clay? While I’m awake this time?”

I swallowed hard. Last thing I expected.

My thoughts shifted instantly, from dread to elation.

Roger was sitting there, with a half-hardon, looking at me. Again I couldn’t read his expression, but I had not only just been delivered from awkwardness but gifted a supreme desire. I tried to keep my hands from shaking with excitement.

I stood up and arranged my towel out on the ledge, trying to be deliberate. I gestured Roger to lie down on my towel, and took my discarded shirt, rolled it up and put it under his head.

“So you can be comfortable.” Given what was about to happen, the understatement and triviality of the comment did not escape Roger’s attention.

He smiled at my efforts and took a look around the pond before settling himself on his back.

No one around, we were pretty sheltered. Even if anyone came down the trail to the pond, we were far enough from view to have some warning to cover up. But there was no question it added to the excitement. Outdoors. No clothes. An erection out in the open. Daring.

I slowed everything down, put all my senses on high alert. Sun warm on my back, handsome surroundings, outdoor mountain air. All was good.

And my buddy’s handsome body stoked out in front of me.

Barrel chest, lots of hair on it, just a little gray, even denser on his legs, which were all pale white making the dark hair stand out even more. A good, heavy groin thicket, old growth forest, his penis half hard, resting on his left leg.

A penis half hard.

I looked at it longingly, the shadows the early afternoon sun made on it. White shaft, slightly pinker head, those sweet balls underneath nestled in their furry cocoon. I rubbed my hands, knelt down next to him.

Roger had closed his eyes. I aimed to make this last as long as possible, but of course had no sense of his own arousal cycle, how he would react to my touch. It might be fast, he might want it fast. I would play it by ear.

I laughed at my internal phrasing. “Play it by feel” was a better way to put it, but maybe he’d contribute an audio track.

You get these dreams in life sometimes, and every once in awhile, if the dream isn’t too big, and you aren’t too greedy and fussy, it can all work out.

A nice half-erect cock in front of me, with permission to play. I quivered with anticipation but exerted extreme restraint.

I stroked his legs, the inside of his thighs, just below his navel. All around his groin, but not actually there. He was hypersensitive. His body tensed every time I touched him.

Five minutes of this, Roger laying back with his eyes closed, sun warm on my back, and his prick had gotten serious hard despite no contact. The kind of hard that makes a prick stand rigid. It was hovering like a miniature baseball bat about an inch above his lower abdomen, bobbing stiffly when my hands moved over him or he shifted position. I hadn’t even gotten to it yet.

Pleased so far, I still went slowly. I let my fingers drift to his balls, feeling underneath them, they had risen in their sac. They oscillated, one egg on either side of his shaft. The right one rose up a little higher than the left. His prick-head nodded as I noodled his nuts around.

My right fingers traced up along one side of his shaft, stopping before the top. Down the other side. Lightest of touches. Breath escaped from Roger’s lips. He’d gone and wrapped his travesti ankara arms around his chest, giving himself a hug. Maybe something to do to keep his hands occupied, keep the tension under control.

My fingers finally sought the top of his penis, barely touching it, tracing the sharp edge of his prick-head.

His shaft was pale, but it made his cock-head look pink, almost purple, in comparison. It was meaty, smooth to my fingertips, dying for more.

The payload aperture would have to wait. Fingers of both hands along each side of the shaft now, slow up-and-down. His sperm tube was clearly outlined. I imagined the rush of semen that soon would be coursing through it. Wondered if I would get a good look at him going off, maybe feeling the pulses of sperm with my fingers when he gushed.

The tip showed just the barest sign of dampness, not a drop yet, but wet at the end. If I wanted to, I could have had him spurting in two minutes. But I didn’t want that.

I reached under his balls with one hand, slowly dragged fingers up through them and along his shaft until a fingertip touched his damp tip. Did it with the other hand. I got a slow, teasing cycle going, thrilled to watch his balls drop down after I had nudged them up.

Roger’s legs were stiff, his toes curled. The most wonderful noises were coming from his throat.

I used two hands now, stroking each side of his shaft, pausing at the ridge-line to massage his cock head, a thumb just under the tip.

His hips pushed back into me.

Then, too soon, off he went. The first spurt went to his navel, my hand just underneath his cock-head, the second spurt went further. His hips bucked with his contractions, and the sperm eruption was spectacular.

I kept stroking, knowing myself how nice it is to keep the stimulation going. I kept my soft but now semen-coated hands moving on him, slowing after his last spurt, until his body gave off signs that he’d had enough. I sat back, watched his cock shrink back into what passed as its normal self.

The head got smaller first, all wet and spent and rubbery, and the rest of his prick followed. I was struck by how quickly he deflated.

He was quite a sight.

I had fetched an impressive quantity of sperm out of him. Several puddles of it on his hairy belly, his navel cavity filled to overflowing. He looked beautiful.

He raised up his head and looked down at the mess. I wasn’t sure whether he would be weirded out or not.

He surveyed the scene, then turned to me.

“Thanks bud. I don’t think I have had anyone pay that much attention, that much nice attention, to my prick in ages.”

He wagged his sodden cock back and forth. “Felt good. Real good.”

I was relieved it went off so well. That I had been able to please him. And of course my own cock was now insistently hard, sticking out from my groin forest, defiant.

Roger looked at it. Then into my face.

“I ought to return the favor,” he said.

“You don’t need to.” I was worried about anything that might ruin this event, and although I was dying for my own release, the last thing I wanted to do was damage what might turn into a promising scene between us.

He shook his head. “You did me good. Least I can do is reciprocate. Although I might not be as skilled as you were.”

This was not an offer to refuse.

We traded spots. I laid out on my back, my penis pointing up at my face, already hard from my own excitement pleasuring him. He knelt next to me.

I like the sight of my penis erect. Hell, I like the sight of any penis erect. But if mine is erect it is because I am excited. And the route to enjoyment is open, and the anticipation itself intoxicating.

I had gotten so aroused I figured that almost no matter how Roger handled me, I was going to be quick.

I was right.

Maybe if I hadn’t kept my eyes open to see the whole thing play out, it might have taken a little longer.

Roger began by fondling my balls with one hand while pulling on my prick with the other.

Feeling the pressure of his fingers under my balls was wonderful. He did long, slow strokes along my shaft, traced a finger along my cock’s ridge-line. Maybe this was how he did himself?

I shuddered with this thought. Maybe I’d get to see him do himself sometime? I had no idea then how all of this was going to spin out.

He made a circle with the thumb of his right hand and his index finger, began to run this noose up and down my shaft, the sliding friction lovely. I spread my legs and he took the hint, rubbing my balls with his other hand.

As the sun beat down on our scene, I looked down at the spectacle. Roger was totally focused, and I looked at his damp, deflated cock, wagging between his legs, the one I had just satisfied.

My own was aching. Roger took a moment and smeared the fluid oozing out of my prick-head around. He didn’t stop stroking.

The pressure built up within me. My legs stiffened. I felt the urge inside to squeeze.

My anus clamped shut and I shot. The first pulse was explosive, the second even better. Five good spurts of sperm came hurtling out of my prick. Roger, bless him, didn’t stop, kept pulling until his fingers were drenched with semen, and my own cock stopped twitching.

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