Gracias, sir. There will eventually be a whole series of Cock Tales… due to my promiscuity quite a large series. If only I could find the time to commit to writing them. I may possibly get a new one up tomorrow ;)
I once pseudo dated a unemployed former heroin addict who spent his days tattooing himself on a barber chair in his kitchen. A smaller fellow that made up for his lack of height with charismatic Jim Morrison-esque dimly lit kitchen performances, showcasing his erie junkie Iggy Pop swagger. These men may have been his idols but Id never know… we never talked about anything but music and sex.
I had met him a few years prior, I only remember this because he laid out a man twice his size in one punch. Years later he was still wearing a belt I made as he performed with his band while lying floor with his hand down his pants grabbing his huge cock while people gawked in amusement. I was intrigued. Our first conversation was complete brilliance in which “I hope you get gang raped and turn into a shell of a person, A FUCKEN SHELL OF A PERSON!!!” was yelled quite loudly. This kept us laughing for days.
Nightly we would watch Al Green’s Soul School performance of ‘Tired of Being Alone’ and he would reminisce about the time when performers were actually talented. This was first time I ever realized that I was absolutely attracted to black men; specifically black men in purple vests, no under shirt and firmly toned glistening muscles. My love for Gary Clark Jr. is a is due in its entirety to this man. Gary Clark Jr is a 1972 Al Green. Bless his fucken heart.
His name was epic and he possessed talent in abundance. But it was clear that he was a showman doomed to never gain any form of notoriety. His lack of judgement with a girl resulted in an illegitimate child that was still very much an infant. Needless to say, we always used condoms. For many reasons but largely due to his past drug history and the obvious fact that he had been sleeping with females unprotected. Even if he would have been tested, I would have never wavered on the condom rule. And he never complained.
His bedroom was just a mattress on the floor always with the sheets half off the bed, as if they gave up their grasp on the corners on purpose. What’s the use? Why bother? Making the bed wouldn’t make the living situation any less shitty. I think he was a chef, or a line cook. I never gave a shit. There was no reason for me to need or want that information. He wanted nothing from me and I wanted nothing from him. It was a simple uncommitted emotionless fuck fest dance party.
I noticed him in a friends image on Instagram and realized we had not spoke in a while. And he had shaved his beard. I heartlessly shrugged. But I did smile as the image reminded me of how beautiful he was. Good times.