This was ten years ago. I could remember a bunch of things about him, but what I remember the most was how we geeked out about DJ Shadow in his room. It was kinda awkward for me. I had just come from work and was in some dress slacks and a button-front shirt. I even had my retractable ID badge clipped to my pants still, forgetting to leave it in the car. And I had met his roommate and the roommate's girlfriend. That's where the awkwardness began. Just after a few moments, I could tell the roommie and I were at odds. My attire stirred some ire in him as it echoed the oppressive corporate culture to a visually cacophonous level and his whole bohemian elitism was getting on my last nerves. Artist loft in downtown, but not the downtown Brewery, but a different building. Stone's throw away from skid row and it wasn't really even a loft, but more like a corner of a parking garage that a slum lord decided to pipe plumbing in. And I was totally fuckin' cool with it until I saw the look of disdain on this roommate guy. So as he judged me, I judged him and I basically pegged him as one of those privileged kids that thought poor is cool. Pulp song totally running through my head. Whatever. Been there, done that. My parents are refugees that had nothing and ya know, I'd rather eat.
So when the cub and I awkwardly excused ourselves to his bedroom, I was trying to find a way to recover and we somehow landed on DJ Shadow, building back up the rapport we had online. I'm not even sure where we met. Adam4adam? CL? Not sure, but it was a number of exchanges before our schedules worked out and we could meet. This was more than ten years ago, but I was still partnered and downtown was on my way home.
And all that back and forth and the numerous pic exchanges, sexual impulses could only be delayed for so long. Right in the middle of geeking out, I attacked the poor kid. Young cub type. Fuzzy faced before it became all the rage. And I pounced, stripping him of his elastic waist, thin athletic shorts only to reveal loose-fitting knit boxers underneath. And a scar. Or blemish. Or something.
"I just decided it would be cool to brand myself. Hot iron in the form of a question mark."
And as much as I wanted to inquire further, I knew I shouldn't. He folded into himself slightly for the first time that night. I don't think this branding thing was entirely his idea. I picture his roommate somehow being involved. I'm thinking like Ginsberg and Kerouac type of deal. Some unrequited sexual overtones and pushing oneself to the extremes of the human experience.
I treaded lightly.
Lips locked and my fingers slowly outlined the question mark on his thigh, tappnig it one final time in perplexity. Up to his balls. Slight tickle. And then to his hard cock. As the last of my fingers curled around it's length, he shot his load. A stroke of heat landing on my wrist, branding me temporarily.
"I'm so sorry. It happens all the time"
"Nah, it's all good. But you''re so fucking hard still."
"Yeah, it won't go down. Please don't stop."
And I didn't.
His second load was shot while I was fucking my cock down his throat. The third after I nuzzled his cock and slicked it up with my spit. The fourth was perfectly timed to the same moment that I spurted my load into his mouth. Or perhaps it was my load that made him crest for the fourth and final time.
A man in tune with desire and able to feel the extremes of sexual experience over and over again.
And unfortunately, that was the last time I ever got to feel him use his talents to spew load after load in a single session. We never got to play again, but I'd get random invites to his weekly parties. They became kinda legendary house parties showing off the local musical talent. And everytime I hear DJ Shadow or when LCD Soundsystem exclaiming that Daft punk is playing at their house, I think of that kid living life to the fullest... with his judgemental, elitist roommie.