Me and Al were supposed to be a one time fling, but it was inevitable that we’d be together a little longer. The first night we met, we had dinner at El Tepeyac, a Mexican restaurant in City of Industry, just outside of Los Angeles. My 65-year-old, six foot tall, 280 lb. hunk of a Mexican man, despite what was said between us leading up to our date, was keeping it classy and showing me a good time. His salt and pepper hair, those brown, bedroom eyes through his wire rimmed glasses, his white smile, and the cologne matching the casual outfit of a burgundy, long sleeve shirt, black slacks, and brown penny loafers was overwhelming. I was putty in his hands. That following weekend, he invited me to his home and that was all she wrote, as the sex was more than us being naked and exploring each other, but really trying to figure which buttons to push. Our chemistry was intact, so it was as no surprise to a fly on the wall in the home, when the following happened.
It was a lazy, warm fall Sunday in Los Angeles, as we usually awoke with a kiss in bed, followed by our erotic shower, before we fixing breakfast and turning on the television on to Sunday football. We really couldn’t get enough of each other, enjoying each and every moment together when we could, and touching when and wherever we could, regardless of who was watching and where, which explained the nasty showers. Just like other Sundays, after we’d clean up and dry off, an hour later, we’d be sitting on the couch, watching the commentators make their picks and chowing down on some chorizo and eggs (he might’ve cooked), or some biscuits and gravy (means I cooked). Once we finished, we dumped our plates and the pots in the sink to soak as the games would be getting ready to start. Like normal, he was sitting upright on the couch, and I relaxed my head on his lap and belly.
“You comfortable,” he asked.
“With you, of course, papi, always,” I responded, looking up at him and he looking down at me.
Sometimes, a “look” would set things off between us, and this would be no different. I reached up to his face, as our lips met initially, then things got a little heated as a sweet peck turned into heavy tongue wrestling, and his cold right hand in my basketball shorts, teasing my balls the way I liked them to be teased. He was the prime example of why I adored older men, just the touch, the feel, an older man exhibited really cooked my grits. While he had his hand in my shorts, I started laughing and tried to grab his hand to stop him, though I wanted him to keep going.
“You’re about to start something,” I said. “Football is coming on.”
“Fuck football, its just the commercials anyway,” he responded.
I turned my body around to lay at the opposite side of the couch. He yanked off my shorts and tossed them across the living room, I raised and spread my legs exposing my full sack and hardened tool, then he took his right pointer finger and gently rubbed the middle of my sack, which he discovered during our first time, was my “spot.” I was laughing, trying to encourage him to wait til later, but that only enticed him more.
“Honey, you better stop, the game is about to come on,” I warned him.
The next thing I knew, he was scraping my sensitive balls with the bottom of his beard, as he knew that made me cringe and leak precum like a broken faucet, and kept doing it until I began to moan. As a top, like Al, I always felt I had to be in control, but this handsome man had the keys to all my doors, in and out of bed, it seemed. He never penetrated me, but knew how to push my buttons, and I couldn’t help myself when he did, he was magical. His beard soon turned into his tongue, and his tongue soon turned into his mouth, as he clamped on to my jewels, sucked, then tugged and stretched them to the highest threshold, which sat between pleasure and pain. I had to bury my face in the pillow as he continued because I was making all sorts of noises and I was embarrassed, and soon he put his mouth on my now throbbing dick, going up and down. I was in absolute heaven.
