There are those moments with bent knees when I am in prayer, and there are those moments when I am sucking cock. At this particular moment, those two things seem to have merged. It is Friday night, the eve of Shabbat, and I’ve now gone from one religious experience to another. Having finished swaying in services, I am now davenning before you, working to earn your come. My current prayer is a low grunting from the back of my throat, opening to you and all the lessons that you have to teach me, sacred as the words of the Talmud.
I am working my throat open for you one deep breath at a time. It is only with your recent presence in my life that my previously skittish and delicate gag reflex seems to have completely disappeared, and I am eagerly exploring you and this particular miracle to the fullest extent. I am taking in as much of you as I can, getting my mouth around the head of your cock and sliding farther down, adding pressure with my tongue and lips, pulling back again with more pressure. And then taking more, feeling the texture and heat of you. Circling, licking your hardness and chewing at your balls through your Levi’s. I’ve always said that the trick to being a good cocksucker is desire, and there’s no place I’d rather be.
It is said to be a mitzvah to fuck on the Shabbos, and we are most definitely fucking. Although we couldn’t be farther from being man and wife or the traditional definitions of making love here in this bathroom, we are carving out our own miracle, we queers at the bar, living and loving this connection of cock and throat and flesh. I have been distracted all day knowing where I will be tonight, in front of you, looking up from my knees, hands behind my back, mouth open. My throat has missed you, and I came here ready to provide you with full service.
Between your boots and belt, I have been caught begging to suck your cock, begging for the salt and the sweat of you. Wanting to know you. We do not know each other well yet, you and I, you of the ex-Protestant, current atheism and me of the star and faith, but we always seem to reveal a little bit more of our raw edges in this give and take of service. From the first time that you put my head up against the wall and fucked my mouth here in this bathroom, I’ve known exactly where I belong. It seems that we have started from the inside out, pulse and guts first.
It has been too long since you were last standing above me, and now, like a little boy given full access to a candy store, I am putting everything into my mouth that will fit. I will gladly have a sore throat for you. I am hungry for you, and although I do sometimes have flustered and uncharacteristically shy moments around you, this is not one of them. I am all motion now, inherent rhythm and desire and need. I would wake up and go to sleep with your cock in my mouth if you’d let me. Looking up at you from this bathroom floor, I understand the saying about lying in the gutter and looking at the stars. I want to be the best warm wet mouth fuck that you and your precious cock have ever had.
And in the midst of all this dirty action, cocksucking from the piss floor in dim light, you reach down and stroke my head. And you catch me off guard. I may be able to beg for your cock with proper inspiration, give in to the challenge of it, submit to being a begging boy, begging for cock, for need, for hunger, for come, but I’d never be a boy caught begging for love and affection. And it is in this new caress, you reaching down for me, unaccounted for and unexpected — it is in this touch that you claim me the most; your hand over the front of my hair, right above my forehead, in front of my yarmulke. I slow for the first time and look up at you. Our eyes lock, and this is the moment that I celebrate most of the evening.
This moment holds the spirit of the pause. The desire to be fully present, to take note of place and time and truth and knowledge. Regardless of technical scripture, this is how we’re supposed to be celebrating. And you, dear Sir, are teaching me about acts of faith. And I am learning. I breathe you in as if you can replace air itself, as if you are the single answer to all that I will ever need to take into my lungs. I have learned that I can go farther than I had once imagined. I take my last full breath, exhale with my heart and take you all the way down my throat.
I have learned to breathe around you. You and your faded denim, your scent of leather and sex and bourbon, your beautiful hands and the father touch that comes from them, those blue eyes of yours, I take all of your handsome self in. I both lose and find myself in this, and you’re groaning at me now, praising me, and I love this moment too, when you are about to lose and find yourself as well, when you will leave a piece of yourself with me, take me, push against the little breath that I have left. No one knows how to give it to me and take it from me quite like you.
You’re telling me that you’re gonna shoot your load now, asking me if I want it. I’m nodding as much as I can without dislodging you from my throat, this throat of mine that has become yours. And knowing that you are safe to perform your own act of deliverance, knowing that I will take whatever you have to give, you let yourself blow me open. I am teaching you about faith, too. It is a lesson about the overlap of cock service and heart service, and the fullness of both. It is a lesson about bliss, kneeling here on the bathroom floor in front of you. We are creating our own ritual of truth that leaves me dirty-kneed and wanting more.