Eleven—A Session
After a while we sit down together. Usually the sofa. Close enough to be companionable, not so close as to be pointed. And we talk about nothing in particular. The weather. The news. How long the journey took.
The kind of conversation men have been having forever to fill space while something else is happening underneath it.
He’s still looking. Not the open curious gaze from earlier—that was the first surprise of me, and it’s passed. This is more careful. Covert. The eyes moving and then returning, moving and returning, like a man trying to read something over someone’s shoulder without being caught.
There’s something specific he wants to see more closely. I usually know what it is before he does, or at least before he’s decided whether he’s allowed to want it.
So I ask.
Not as an offer exactly. More as an observation.
Do you want a closer look?
And the relief on his face is something I’ve seen enough times now that it no longer surprises me, though it still interests me. The relief of having been seen wanting something. Of not having to pretend the wanting wasn’t there.
It’s usually my cock or my bum. Sometimes both. He’ll look, sometimes from inches away, with a concentration that has nothing erotic in it by this point—or not only that. It’s closer to the way a person looks at something they’ve been told is dangerous and have discovered is just a thing. Just a body. Just flesh arranged in a particular way that turns out, on close inspection, to be neither remarkable nor shameful.
Just a man. Looked at by another man. Both of them still breathing.
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