I've tried to work everyday. I've tried to read a book, read a magazine, read the paper. I've tried to drive. Drive to the store. Drive to the bank. Drive to work. Drive to school. I've tried to sing a song. Any song. A happy song. A sad song. My favorite song. Songs I hate. Songs I've never heard before. I've tried to think about something else, anything else. I've tried to think of someone else, anyone else. Doesn't work. Can't work. Can't drive. Can't walk, sing, think without thinking of being with him. Can't do anything without thinking of him.
Holding his hand. Walking with him. Walking holding his hand. Walking holding his hand, looking at him. Looking at his perfect smile. His perfect face. His strong muscles. Walking with him, holding his hand, looking at him. Kissing his lips. Holding him. Holding him tightly and kissing his lips. Running my fingers through his hair and holding onto him as if my very life depended on it. And holding his hand. Oh to hold his hand. Our fingers woven together like a tightly-knitted sweater. Walking with him, hand in hand, watching him, listening to him breathe. Walking with him, holding his hand, watching him think. Watching him daydream. I wonder what he's thinking about. I wonder what he dreams about. I wonder if he knows how much I can't stand to be away from him, how ridiculously head over heels in ga-ga love with him I am. Watching as his eyes move from trees and the mountain in front of us to the path we are walking to. Watching as he puts together his own dreams, his own wonders.
I wonder if he knows that I find it hard to talk to him without sounding like a total fool. That when he speaks I can't concentrate. When he speaks and I am listening to him I can't help but dream of being with him. Being with him alone. He talks, he whispers, he laughs, he shrugs, he moves. I get all weepy when I think like this. Weepy and sad, shaking my head.
Being with him alone in the dark and gently holding his hand and kissing his lips and kissing his fingers and kissing his lips again and again. And slowly, delicate like a sigh of silent relief, tugging at his shirt and pulling it over his head and throwing it far. Throwing it far away, as far as I can throw. Just to look at his chest. His shoulders. His arms. To look at his chest and lean down and kiss his chest and put my head in his bosom and hold him and have his arms wrap around me in a warm Florida sunshine filled embrace. To kiss that chest. To tenderly nibble on his nipples, to kiss his stomach.
To smell him is taste the sweetest fruit, the sweetest chocolate. I close my eyes and deeply breathe in his chest, his arms, his fingers. I breathe him in like he is air itself in perfect harmony of boy, man, lover.
He lays there watching me with interest as I pull at the elastic around his waist. I want to hold him in my hands. I pull at the elastic and run my finger along the inside of it. He surprises me by slowly pulling his light blue and white checkered boxers down to this knees, then works them down to his ankles, kicks them off, and lays down again, satisfied that my needs are quenched. "Not even close" I signal by closing my eyes and slowly shaking my head.
He relents and folds his arms behind his head and watches.
I lay my head down on his stomach watching his manhood in all its greatness. It is so beautiful I almost gasp at the wonder of it. I believe it to be just a little more than seven inches…
About Me
- Hang Man
- I started hanging when I was 12. At first, it was only once or twice a week, but then when I discovered I could cum when hanging, it got a little crazy. I’d hang before school, run home for lunch and hang again; then quick after school, I’d run home again and hang before practice; come home and hang again after dinner. I’d watch TV, then right before bed, I’d hang again. Five or six times a day, I’d strip naked, hook myself to the ceiling, and step off the bed to hang for 9-10 minutes each. I had kept a list of how many times I’d hung along with the length of time in the air. By the time I was 13, I’d hung for the equivalent of five full days, at 10 minutes each. When I started, I would hang with my butt against the wall, but it got waaayy better when I turned to have my side against the wall, and better still when I figured out I could hang in the middle of my room from my ceiling. At 15, I hung outside in a tree. When in college, I hung from a bridge. You name it, I've probably hung from it. I had my first encounter with a boy at 23 and started electrocuting my balls at 25. I'm 34 now and still hang almost every day. It may be wrong – but I really love hanging.