The Next(41)

The white band finally slid beneath his balls, freeing his penis and scrotum.

His left testicle was tender and relatively unscarred, but his right  testicle was marbleized with acid scarring, discolored and hard with  scar tissue. His shaft had the appearance of random skin grafting,  swollen irregularly with the same puzzle pieces of blotchy discoloration  as his thigh. He had no pubic hair. It appeared to be shaven off  entirely to disguise the fact that large sections could grow no hair at  all.

My throat swallowed a lumpy slimy ball. How could any father do such a  thing to his kid? I was angry for Marzoli. As I explored his scarred  skin centimeter by centimeter with my eyes, a horrifying thought  occurred to me. Marzoli would have had very few sexual encounters for  fear of disgusting someone with the sight of a groin scarred by battery  acid.

It's possible, in fact, he'd had no sexual encounter ever, man or woman.

My heart broke at the thought of a boy growing to manhood, permanently  scarred by his father and ashamed, embarrassed, and disgusted by the  very sight of his own organ. How it must have affected every encounter  with another. The date that leads to a kiss that leads to some groping  through the clothes that leads to desperate excuses to halt everything  before the pants came off:         

     



 

"I want to wait until we're married."

"I've got to get up early for work so I need to get home."

"I haven't taken a shower at all today so let's hold off."

I could see the go-go teenager with the hard rippled body in biker  shorts and cut-off jeans directing the bills towards his boots rather  than his underwear. I could see the man in the gym finding the most  remote corner of the locker room to avoid the jeers and stares that  would make him feel like a circus freak.

I could see the person who would perfect every other part of his body,  brain, and being in order to compensate for the imperfection from his  thigh to his belly button: the muscles, the intellect, the nobility, the  work ethic, the smile, the charm, and the wrinkleless button down  shirt.

My eyes welled with tears at the tough road Marzoli's own family had  sent him down, and how magnificently he found a way to travel it. But I  knew at this moment the slightest utterance of understanding or  compassion might be interpreted incorrectly. How easily I could join the  others with similar reactions that, ultimately, made him feel more  estranged than less. Marzoli was at his most exposed. The most  emotionally vulnerable. I had to choose my words carefully.

Then I realized the best reaction had nothing to do with words.

I didn't dare look him in his eyes. Instead, I put the fingers of my  right hand underneath his shaft. Its leathery look belied how it felt.  It was surprisingly tender and supple. Marzoli gasped when I touched  him, and I interpreted that as encouragement. I wrapped my hand around  the shaft. His penis filled with blood. The crevices on his testicle  expanded. The puzzle pieces of skin on his shaft stretched.

The head of his cock engorged, and I saw how the battery acid had melted  half the ridge of the helmet, leaving narrow white bands running from  the head to the shaft like erosion on a hillside after a flood.

"You don't have to," Marzoli tried to interject.

I shut him the fuck up by suddenly wrapping my mouth around the head of his cock.

He uttered an unintelligible exclamation of surprise and pleasure.

Every bulging scar and divot of his patchwork penis passed the  tenderness of my lips. By the time my nose pressed into his  leather-scarred abdomen, his cock had hardened to its full plumpness.  His eight fat inches were fucking fantastically proportioned-thick and  meaty. He slid them in and out of my mouth. The irregularity of the  scars on the head and shaft stimulated my tongue and the insides of my  cheeks.

I tightened my mouth and increased the suction.

He groaned.

Then I felt warm heavy drops falling onto the top of my head. I glanced up briefly. His eyes were closed, but he was sobbing.

I hardly knew what I was doing, but it moved him overwhelmingly. I had  to be his first blowjob. And if I was his first blowjob, I had to be his  first anything. Nobody who pursued perfection as stringently as he did  would allow anyone to know he was so imperfect in this area. This  intimacy was a gift of more value to him than any other. I knew I needed  and wanted to do more for him in return. I didn't know exactly what,  but I had to try something.

I let his head slide out of my mouth until one clear thread of saliva  connected my lips to his pole. Then I kissed my way down the side of his  acid-pitted shaft to his right testicle and suspended my mouth above  it, releasing hot breath onto the scarred and mutilated skin. I engulfed  the testicle in my mouth.

"Oh god … " he uttered, the vibration of his low growl resonating through his groin.

My tongue painted every last crevice of his testicle with warm, thick  saliva. I pulled at the skin tenderly with my teeth, and I could feel  his pelvis shudder slightly. I pulled it again a little harder. His ass  clenched. I couldn't resist burying my fingertips into his cheeks and  squeezing. His dick throbbed forward.

I realized that no memory was creeping into my brain or springing from  the shadows. Even as his hot rod pressed against my face, I was not  attacked by memories of Jessie being slowly sliced by the Blond Boy's  knife. There was no acidic rainfall of the horror of my father's face  melting from a blast of fire from the neighbor's house. The memory of  Tilden Park and the fire existed, but only like a show you Tivo'd and  could play on command if you chose. I was not a victim to its stalking  anymore. Because of Marzoli, I'd captured the memory from the shadow  where it crouched, sent it to trial, and ruled a sentence. I was not rid  of it, but I was free of it.

I released his skin from my teeth, and he let out his breath.

I ran my tongue under his shaft, around the hole on the head, and then  down the upper side of his dick toward his abdomen. With slow, full  strokes of my tongue, I licked his belly button, his sternum, the valley  between his pecs, the pit of his throat, his Adam's apple, and then  paused at the rough scruffy shadow under his chin. I breathed in the  scent of shaving cream and salt. I pressed my tongue against the  roughness and scraped my way to his side toward his jaw hinge.         

     



 

"Oh my god," he uttered in my ear.

As my mouth hovered there, breathing through his facial hair into his  skin, I felt his hand fumble around my back. The proximity and intimacy  was so fucking intense, he grabbed for anything to stabilize himself. He  ended up wrapping his arms around the small of my back and squeezing my  body flat up against him. The bareness of biceps and forearms pressing  into the vulnerability of my spine was a sensation I'd never felt before  in my life-the strength, the firmness, the maleness.

His mountainous pecs squeezed into mine, his hard nipples prodding me  through my shirt. How could a chest so massive and rigid also feel so  comfortingly soft at the same time?

As we embraced, my mouth pressed into the hole of his ear. I extended my  tongue into the hole and felt the heat. This was my first penetration  into this man, and strangely apropos. He was giving me his ear, and a  solitary, lonely person could ask for no more.

Except for this …

I moved my lips from his ear, across his temple to the bridge of his  nose, and then down to his lips and hovered. I looked him in the eye. He  felt the pause and opened his eyes. He was wet from tears, grateful,  sad, in ecstasy, in pain, overwhelmed. I needed him to know I was one  hundred percent with him.

That I was his skin.

He reached behind my head and pulled me in.

Our lips pressed onto each other.

How does the brain fire off so many synapses all at once? The  fingertips, the toes, the spine, the nipples, the buttocks, the armpits,  the scrotum … everything charged … everything on its knees for more.

This was it. The height of human evolution. The height of spiritual  ascendency. Every fucking Olympic victory merging with every gold medal  and raised in muscular arms to the sky on the top podium step. Our lips,  our tongues, our breaths-merged, emboldened, totally satisfying, yet  totally insatiated.

"More," he murmured, "More … "

He pressed his way down to my ass and squeezed.

God, god, god …

As much as chicks like to look at men's butts, many never really know  what to do with them once they've got them. Thus, Johanna approached my  bare ass with as much enthusiasm as she would a toilet plunger or an  electric lawnmower. Marzoli, on the other hand, pried his hand between  my cheeks and pressed upwards on my hole through my underwear and pants.

Holy shit!

The pressure shot brand new erotic sensations up though my abdomen into  my lungs and out my throat. How could I have gone through my life  without ever once feeling this fucking incredible feeling?

I couldn't help but descend down his chest with my tongue again, tracing  his rippled washboard to his navel. I had to make sure he knew I hadn't  blown him as a charity case; that it wasn't a one-time deal.