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If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.
KENNY WILL KEROUAC
(A True Tale From The Castro. Eat your heart out, Armistead!)
I met Kenny four days ago, sitting at the benches by Harvey Milk Plaza. Mistook him for a stupendously handsome buck I met just the day before, named Ray: sported a righteous buzz-cut with whitewalls that absolutely set off his snub-nose profile in such a bonerific way as to give me an instant woody. A very rugged, male countenance. Like a model avertising Old Spice, or a luge competition. Judging by the length of Ken's legs and torso, I figure him to be at least six feet, if not one or more inches over. In short: he makes me drool, copiously.
Kenny looks something like Ray, especially with a dark blue hoodie that covers his entire head, and therefore (as I later learn) a haircut quite different from Ray's. He sits in a worrisome posture, head lowered over his lap (which I surmise is amply graced with a bountiful set of kok and balls). So I approach the darling lad with this innocent query:
"Are you Ray?" He hardly moves, probably because he doesn't know someone is addressing him. So I say once more:
"Isn't your name Ray?" He finally raises his head to reply:
"No. I'm Kenny."
"Oh, sorry," I respond. "You look very much like someone I just met yesterday." I take the golden opportunity to sit beside him, and speak further:
"So, how ya doin' Kenny. Is life treating you well?" To which he slowly replies in a sweet drawl I later learn hails from southern Georgia:
"Someone stole my bike last night. It was an $800 Bianchi." He sighs, and places both hands, open and face-up, upon those hefty thighs. I desperately yearn to kiss such virgin palms and lick those fingers till the cows come home; but wisely decide to take things slow.
"My gosh, that really sucks," I empathise. "I am so sorry."
"Do you have a cell phone by any chance?" He says, looking up at me with liquid hazel eyes and a countenance so friggin' gorgeous, I almost cum right then and there. Fortunately, there is the latest edition of the Bay Area Reporter (entertainment section) resting on my wanger-engorged lap.
"No, I do not," I reply. "But I live just a block away, and have a land line you are welcome to use."
"But can you afford long distance?" he queries. OMFG, I think. What kissable, full lips you have!
"Yes," I eagerly respond. "I have a very cheap LD service that only charges one cent per minute. You are welcome to come over right now, and use my phone."
"Can I? That would be nice," remarks Kenny, who then pulls out a glass marijuana pipe loaded with primo bud. "This is medicinal pot. Have a hit."
So I inhale deeply of the sacred herb, while gazing upon Kenny's glorious face. He must be all of 19 years, I ponder. The musky tang of cannabis coats my tongue. Suddenly, I am so stoned I can barely stand up.
"Let's go!" I say, and wobble on behind Kenny to the corner of Market & Castro, and wait for the light to turn green. As we cross the dangerous intersection, I enquire:
"Kenny, can I hold your arm? I have arthritis in my left knee, and sometimes it wants to give out. Like now."
"Oh of course," he says in that elegant southern drawl. "Here." And he hooks his arm around mine, in a firm clutch that makes me steady as a four-legged horse.
Finally, we're home...if a single room with bathroom down the hallway, and cluttered beyond all hope of redemption, can be considered "home". Be it ever so humble, I suppose.
My bedding is folded in a corner, where I suggest he make himself comfie. He immediately removes his blue hoodie and boldly-checkered shirt, then rests himself against the pale-green wall.
I seat myself in a ground-score, cushioned office chair which gives great relief to my aching lower back. Rest my right arm upon the shabby desk to face Kenny. My Acer laptop is turned on, the LCD monitor alit. A tale in progress, "Sean's Journal," occupies the entire screen.
He spends about an hour making calls. Ken is not pleased with his mother's refusal to help out with a small sum of cash (say, $30 or so). Nor with others he talks to...all of who seemed till now, to be a reliable backup for times when he is stranded without a copper to his name. Calls himself "Will" on the phone. Kenny hands back the receiver and sits in a dejected slump.
"My mom's a rockabilly groupie. Cares for nothing else, not even me." He wipes a tear away with an index finger. I struggle to keep my balance and not fall off the chair, and into those cool, smooth arms.
"So that's your real name: Will?" I query.
"I go by both. But my friends back home call me Kerouac."
"And why is that?"
"Because I love pumpkin pie."
"Aha, I see!" (No I don't, not really. But I later google "kerouac pumpkin" to discover the reference.)
"Do you mind if I ask, Kenny, how old are you?" To which he replies to my astonished ears:
Incredible, I think. A slot machine buried somewhere deep in my soul rings up three cherries: jackpot!
He places one hand over what is obviously an increasingly plump crotch, and makes an adjustment for the sake of comfort. Or is it an invitation to dive in and satisfy my oral craving beyond all heavenly measure? I grasp for some sort of Puritanical distraction.
"Would you like me to read some of my tales to you?" I offer. Maybe they'll cheer him up, I think.
So I read him several of my most recent pieces, along with a few poems from years back. They all seem to delight him, judging by a widening grin that puts a glow in my heart...and an Explorer Scout campfire in my loins. This man is so exquisitely handsome, I cannot help but gaze upon his noble visage far more often than is polite. He adjusts his crotch once more (but this time, his balls, too...one hand now thrust beneath those jeans).
He wears a dark blue T-shirt with a cartoon print of Wily Coyote astride an Acme rocket. Ken squirms a bit, and the shirt creeps up, exposing a tight waist and the lowest part of what appear to be neatly-ripped abs and a darling belly button. There seems to be a tensely erotic synergy pouring forth in both directions. But I just write it off to wishful thinking, and offer him a glass of 2% milk. A bit of white foam clings to his upper lip. I imagine licking it off with my tongue. OMFG, he's beautiful!
Cathedral-arched eyebrows (with irises like medieval stained glass) raise themselves a bit more in quizzical lust, beneath a dense mane of tousled hair that is dark mahogany in shade, with amber tones and a hint of curl. I could run my fingers through that, all day long, and never touch him anywhere else. Except perhaps the eyebrows.
Kenny smiles; gazes upon me with vitrious, green-gold speckled eyes that speak of delicious secrets and dreams of teenage kok fulfilled. I can no longer contain my increasing passion, so make the first move. A rather harmless offer on the face of it:
"Would you like a foot rub, Will?"
"Yessir," he replies, and removes his shoes and socks in record time.
Even his feet are gorgeous. What can I say, but this handsome fellow is totally arousing even down to those darling little toes. He moans in pleasure awhile, as I fondle each toe, and rub my index finger between the seperations. Then slide my knuckles firmly up and down each sole. And finish by roughly caressing those incredible feet all over, with the palms of my hands. I pull back to enjoy another Pall Mall:
"Peel off your shirt, and I'll give you a nice back and shoulder rub." I take another drag and exhale a cloud of smoke. "If you'd like," I add with a pensive shrug.
No sooner do I make the suggestion, than he yanks off his coyote T-shirt, and rolls over onto his stomach. But not before I glimpse a broad, smooth chest with such lickable nipples I could die. Wonderfully proportioned torso, too. A pair of orange-and-cream shorts protrudes several inches above his dungarees, which are pulled down to mid-rump level.
So I caress his shoulders, then seriously massage those angelic deltoids before moving further down to the torso, to knead the area about the rib cage, and then, that delightfully skinny waist. Of course, by this time I have my arse fully lodged upon his own fine buttox, as I slide my hands upon Kenny's sweetly smooth skin. Always fun to firmly rub my knuckles up and down the spine, and pause for some serious seconds at the coccyx. Where I press especially hard, in order to stimulate those sexual urges that I no longer doubt are real, and about to happen in a big, cum-shot way.
"Hold on a moment," I say, and remove myself from that seraphic anatomy, to grab a plastic squirt bottle filled with witch hazel.
"This will cool you off, and feel really good, Kenny," I advise, as I remount his solid buns and splash the astringent onto his back, shoulders, arms, hands, and nape. Massaging every part that is anointed, with great delight. Kenny moans numerous times, as I fantasize shoving my rock-hard boner up that rosebud anus, or him rolling over to grab my hips and suck me off.
Ah, sweet delusion, I praise Goddess. Then again, this is really happening. I'm actually feeling up one of the most beautful men I have ever met. Neither Larkin nor Randolph exist for me, at this moment. I pull away for a short ciggie break, and tell him:
"Okay. Roll over on your back, and I'll do your chest in a few minutes."
"Huh?" he opens his heavy-lidded eyes as if in trance, and languidly rises on one bent arm, where I grab his shoulders to ease him on his back. While I smoke my Pall Mall, I gaze upon this absolutely handsome dude, as he gropes his rod with a deft hand through the rough denim pants. Just gazing upon this man is a stunning revelation. He then speaks in that gentle drawl:
"I'll show you my kok, if you like."
"I bet you're super hung," I embellish. And he begins to unbutton and unzip his Levis a bit faster than I'd like. So I press my hand upon his, and declare:
"Whoa, slow down cowboy. I'd like to participate." I push away his right hand, to complete the unzipping, and unveiling of his family jewels. A kok so plump and big (more than five inches, though limp), I start licking and sucking on it, to see just how large it can get.
I am not disappointed. Though certainly, once hard I can't swallow more than the circumsized head, and barely half the shaft. He must be at least nine inches, I declare to no one in particular. I grow restless for more.
"Here, buddy, let's get these pants off now," I hungrily declare. So he pulls off his trousers, and the two sets of shorts (baggy swim trunks and boxers). I fling them over to the file cabinet beside the radiator. But before he peels off those boxers, I pull them back up and comment:
"Not so fast. I like a little clothing, it's sexy. Let's keep your boxers on a while longer, and let me decide when to pull them down. Okay?"
Kenny just smiles, and nods his head. He's already in ecstasy, thanks to my loving touches and kokplay.
So for awhile, I fondle his ridiculously ample wanger through the boxer's flimsy fabric, and it grows large and rigid under my busy hand. His erection sproings of its own accord, whenever I pull my hand away to admire Goddess's great handiwork of testosterone glory.
I splash witch hazel over his torso, and rub it into his cool skin. Then I bend down and kiss him for the first time. Sweet Delivery! His lips part, our tongues wrestle, as my hands grip his writhing torso, and he moans in soft spasms. I must be dreaming. This is too beatific for words.
Next, I slide my tongue along his neck, pausing to lick his Adam's apple before I move to the nape, the back of his curly-clipped hair, and his right ear. The oils in his hair taste and smell musky-lime! Obviously, Kenny loves my amorous play, so I surprise him with a sudden move to his left armpit, and start licking away. The salty sorghum taste of his skin is the most delightful flavor my tongue has ever grazed.
Now it's time to pull down those boxers, I decide. The South shall indeed rise again! I abruptly yank them off; his plump kok pops out; raises his legs a bit that I may remove them entirely.
"Unbelievable!" I remark aloud. "You are so friggin' handsome Kenny, not one square inch of you is less than perfection."
He smiles with eyes closed. "Thank you, Zeke."
"Oh please, I should be thanking you," I retort, while pumping my saliva-slick fist up and down his rock-hard shaft.
"Go ahead and cum right away," I advise. "No use holding it in. We can do all this again anyway, in twenty minutes or so."
So he begins raising and lowering his hips in a rhythm to match my accommodating hand. My tongue licks his spongy crown with fervor, then his shaft all the way to the base. Then each side of his boner, then the front, and then the back where I push it forward to resist the slight curve that keeps his johnson close to the stomach. It springs back into place, the moment I pull away.
"You are so delicious, Kenny," I moan while licking his armpits once more, and a slippery hand keeps his boner rigid as steel. "You are such a sweet and lovely man. Thank you so much for your company." And having said that, I kiss his cool, honeyed lips once more. They part to find my tongue with his own. I have never felt so happy in all my life.
A few more moments of brotherly bliss, then I withdraw. Straddled upon his knees, I query:
"Can I ask you a personal question, Kenny?" He opens his eyelids a slit, smiles and replies:
"Would you like to be goosed with one, or two fingers at the most?"
"Nah," he counters. To which I add (with a shrug of a shoulder):
"Just offering to maximize your pleasure, my dear lad."
"Oh, well, yeah," he remarks. "Just don't stick it in very far. I'd like that."
"So how much then: a half-inch? An inch?"
"Yeah, that sounds about right. An inch, maybe two; but that's it."
"Okay, say no more," I wave a hand through the air. "I know exactly what you want."
I then dip the middle and index fingers of my left hand in a tiny bowl slightly filled with Omega-3 fatty-acid Mazola corn oil...which I happen to have handy on my work desk, within arm's reach. (I prefer aloe vera gel, but the dollar store ran out, and Walgreens is too expensive.) I place that hand underneath his fat testicles, and seek the tight opening. Which I find after some caressing; Kenny spreads his legs apart for easier entry.
This boy is so tight, I have to literally force one digit through his sphincter with considerable vigor. But it feels so exquisite to slide my fukfinger in and out of that neat anus, I can barely contain myself from pulling it out, throwing those gladiator legs over my shoulders, and boinking the daylights out of him with my own granite wanger.
But that never happens. Nor do I ever intend it to. Foreplay is my forte; I'm quite happy to go no further. So we spend a couple more hours in each other's arms, while I feel him up in a variety of ways that gives him great satisfaction without disturbing his needed sleep. Including (but not exclusively), sliding a couple fingers in and out of that darling man's sphinctre. Which grips my goosestickers so tightly, I shiver in profound ecstasy.
He moans deeply, his chest rises and falls with greater force. Kerouac's boner springs up with great urgency. Which I press back down to his belly with my lips, and start licking that thick, sweet, golden-pink shaft. Glorious streams of semen ejaculate in one powerful gush after another. My tongue swims in a sea of pearly cum. I drink thirstily from the chalice of God's nectar.
Ponce de Leon's quest for the fountain of youth ends here!
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