My friendship with Vince went back quite a ways. The events I reveal here happened over twenty years ago. He was around sixty-three. I was approaching sixty.
He often came over to my apartment. Neither of us were married at the time and we spent many a night drinking Chianti talking and solving the serious problems of the world.
At that time, I owned a few old 8 mm stag movies. This night we were watching them for the third or fourth time. I happened to mention that I thought I might be able to suck a guys cock but I could never kiss him.
Vince reckoned that he felt the same way.
Now it happened that I had done well in an art show in Chicago and brought back some exotic liquors including a bottle off 110 proof, green Chartreuse and we were doing rather well with it. A pretty blond in one of the movies appeared to be Vince’s favorite. I noticed that his leg kept jiggling up and down in an obvious rhythm that had to be jiggling and affecting his cock in his loose pants.
“Wouldn’t you love to screw that babe, Vince?” I teased.
“Oh Yes.” The leg never stopped moving.
“She’s really given you a hard-on, hasn’t she?”
“You better believe it.
“Why don’t you take it out and do it right.”
“No. This is fine.”
“Nobody around to object if you want to jack it.”
“No. I don’t think so.” Vince’s leg continued to move.
The movie ended. I turned on my lamp and rewound the film. Vince said, “Would you mind playing that one one more time?”
I started the movie and turned out the lamp.
Suddenly, Vince stood and dropped his pants and shorts. “Here. I’m showing mine,” he said. In the glow of the projector, he lifted his shirt tails to display a thick hard cock pointing upward at a 45% angle.
I automatically stood, dropped my pants and removed my shirt. Fot the first time, in my adult life, I stood naked to show off my seven inches of cock to another man. It projected outward and upward as hard and throbbing as his. “Here’s mine.”
Vince revealed his scrawny, white ass as he walked to a couch closer to the screen, I presumed to jack off out my direct view.
Without thinking about it, I moved to sit beside him. Remember, we were both stoned on 110 proof booze.
Our legs touched.
He tentatively reached out toward my hard cock. I instinctively reached for his. For the first time since I was a kid, playing doctor with a neighbor boy, my fingers clutched a strange, hard cock and I felt anothers hand encircle my boner.
I worked my fingers up and down that hard stalk that, with a life of its own, swelled in my grasp. I bent to take it in my mouth. I touched the head with my tongue and took as much of him in my mouth as I could. There was no taste and the hard smoothness made my own cock throb. At age 59, I was a cock sucker for the first time.
When I came up for air Vince asked, “How was it?”
Vince went down on me. I shivered in the warm room. I wondered why we had never done this before. It seemed so natural, so reasonable. It felt so good.
Eventually we fell into a sixty-nine but no matter how long or how hard we sucked and licked and stroked each other, nothing happened.
Vince said, “I can’t come.”
It was probably the Chartreuse. Maybe we were filled with subconscious guilt for imbibing in the forbidden. I certainly felt none.
We got up. I dipped my still hard cock in my glass of chartreuse. I stood front of Vince and offered my tingling cock to him. He promptly swallowed it and licked it clean.
He was too drunk to go home and I was too drunk to drive. We fell into bed. Vince lay there, close to passing out. I didn’t want it to end. I reached between his thin, hairy legs. His cock had gone small and soft. The head was retraced well back into the pouting foreskin. I twisted in the bed until I managed to get his puny, little cock into my mouth, all of it.
The feeling was totally different from that long, hard stalk that I had managed to only half engulf earlier. I moved it about in my mouth. I could have gone to sleep nursing that few soft inches of my best friend.
Vince gave a moan and turned on his side, away from me and was soon snoring.
Next morning we had two of the worst hangovers within memory. The previous night was not mentioned. After a cup of black coffee, Vince left.
I took some extra strong headache tablets the doctor prescribed and after looking over the Sunday paper and forcing down a bit of lunch, I felt almost human.
Dressed in jogging pants and jacket, I lay back in my recliner and kicked off my shoes. I closed my eyes and thought about the previous evening. First, I wondered how it had happened. Was I queer? I didn’t think so. I had to be the Chartreuse.
I thought about Vince’s cock. It did not look like mine. It was slightly shorter and thinner and the head was smaller than the shaft. My corona was the largest part of mine, and when I was erect, there was no sigh of a foreskin.
My hand stole to my crotch to find that I was totally hard. I reached inside the elastic waistband. I wrapped my fingers around the hardness and squeezed. I tried to imagined Vince’s hand caressing me. I remembered his tongue on me, licking away the chartreuse, as I stood before him.
I quickly slipped out of my fleece-lined joggers. With my bare ass on the leather recliner, tilted back, legs drawn up and hooked over the arms and hard cock in hand, pointed skyward, I slowly and steadily stroked the old boy until the pressure built and ready to pop, my ass rose from the chair, suspended, and the Roman Candle throbs of thick, creamy cum sought the sky.
Breathing heavily, I sank back into the chair recovering from the strongest climax I’d had in years. Cock still in hand, I found that it had lost little of it’s firmness. My thumb and forefinger formed a ring about the swollen corona and held most of the cum that had not landed on my belly.
I winced a bit at the sensitivity of my glans as I stroked upward and smoothed the slick, slimy ejaculate over the satin smooth cockhead and used it as a lubricant. My fist came up over the head squeezed, then plunged to the root buried in dark, brown curls. I moved slowly at first. The feeling was too delicious to end it by cuming quickly.
I wished Vince were there. Vince and his fingers, his mouth, his tongue.
I stroked much longer the second time. Not as much came out but it was the first time I had made it twice on the same hard-on since I was in my twenties. I owed it all to Chartreuse and Vince.
I cleaned up, went back down stairs and turned on the football game. Still, even after the shower, and two stroking rounds with my hand, my cock still hung heavy in my clean sweats. I fingered it through the fleece-lined cotton. It felt good, just playing with a limp dick. I reached inside, remembering how different Vince’s had felt once it had shrunk to normal size.
I became semi-hard. It felt too good to quit. Actually, I was a bit tender down there but I could not leave it alone. Soon my sweats were down to my knees and I as stroking full strokes, Then going faster on a diminishing fullness until the jackhammer strokes had reduced my cock to less than half it’s size. I held the soft limp thing in one fist and squeezed until the head was somewhat swollen. I spit on it and rubbed it in with the other hand until the weak throbbing began and a thin ejaculate dribbled out.
I slept in my chair until dark.
I was so sore the next day that every step I took rubbed me and made me wince. It didn’t help that the friction made the damn thing grow which made more to become painful.
I did not hear from Vince all week. I called him on Saturday evening to invite him over. His 84 year old mother said he was out. Didn’t know when he would be back.
I failed to contact him over the next two weeks. I thought it obvious that he was avoiding me. Finally, I got him on a week night.
“Hey, Vince. What’s going on?”
“You been avoiding me?”
“No. Just been busy.”
Has it got to do with what happened last time you were here?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. We can just forget all about what happened.”
“Okay. Sure. Talk to you later.” I hung up. But it wasn’t okay with me. I didn’t want to forget.”
I sent off for a couple of X-rated movies. Two weeks later I called Vince. “I have a cassette of Behind the Green Door with Marilyn Chambers.
“Oh God! I’d like to see that.”
“I’ll bring the wine,” promised Vince.
Chartreuse was not mentioned. ***
We sipped Chianti, chatted a while and then put on the tape. Our last interlude was not mentioned.
We sat on a big couch facing the TV. When we got to the good parts and Vince’s eyes were riveted on the screen, I unzipped my pants, (I had left off my shorts) pulled out my stiff cock and encircled it with my fist. I nudged Vince.
“Want to join me?”
Vince looked over, spied my open crotch, and my hard cock sticking up. He went for his zipper. He was definitely hard as he pushed own his pants down.
I raised my hips an shoved down my pants and kicked them off. In a minute we were naked. In two, I held another man’s cock in my hand and felt his fingers wrapped around my staff and slowly moving up and down.
“God!” said Vince, “It feels good to have a hand stroke it that isn’t your own.”
“It sure does.” I squirmed as his hand cupped my balls. I leaned over to inspect his equipment and I remembered doing that with the boy next door when we were kids. MY cock, while not circumcised has always had a short foreskin. When soft the head is half exposed and sometimes resembles a large acorn. When hard the head is swollen, pink and larger than the thick barrel of the organ. The foreskin is stretched until it has disappeared. Vince’s cock even in erection had a bit of foreskin pouting over the head. I pulled it back to expose a corona that was not as large as the thickest part and then up to cover the end and more.
Vince stood and turned as I joined him. “Let’s measure.” We stood toe to toe and he held both organs in his hand, side by side. He prodded into my reddish brown pubic hair and my cockhead was poking a crotch covered with black curls. We were nearly the same length. We rubbed against each other and then had something of a sword fight without hands as we moved our hips from side to side to make contact with our hard-ons.
Vince took my cock in his hand and held the two head to head and then pulled his excess foreskin over the expanded head of mine until it was covered and we looked like Siamese twins jouined at the cock and the two heads rubbed together.
“We’re missing the movie,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Vince. “Do you care?”
We sat side by side. “Hell no.” I marveled at how good and how different his cock felt from mine. His hand squeezed gently as he milked my cock.
“I’m going to cum.” said Vince.
“Me too.” I moaned. We came in each other’s hands. I spurted and spurted and he squeezed as though he knew just when to stop pumping. And two old men, old friends lay back and watched the end of the movie, and played with each other’s softening cocks.
Later, with another movie on, I asked, “Could you cum again?”
“Maybe. Tonight, I think I could.”
We rolled into a sixty-nine. He could. He did. And I did. It was sooo good.
Vince died the following spring. That was a long time ago but I still think about what happened that fall.
These days there is no one I trust enough to hint that I would like to suck his cock. In fact there is no one I know whose cock I would want to suck. I do think it would be nice to have a jack-off buddy to play with. Once in my life, as I once said, I would like the experience of a hard cock up my ass. Let’s just say, at eighty-three, I’m still curious.