We're playfully giggling under the covers like a couple of teenaged girls at a slumber party.
"You're so cute. You're like my little gingerbread man. I'd put little gumdrop buttons on you and..."
I interrupt him. Sternly. Sorta.
"Boy, I'll cut you. With my little gingerbread knife!" And I trace an incision from ear to ear with my index finger. Of course, as his permanent five o'clock shadow scratches at my finger, I get heavy lidded with sexual lust. Fuck, I love his scruff.
"But then," I continue, "the knife will crumble without effect but to make a mess in this bed." I hold a wry grin for a second. Theatrics. Interweaving the macabre with the frivolous, sexual and comic.
He laughs, but then a pregnant pause. And with a wistful sigh, "Why can't I find a guy like you. A SINGLE guy like you. You're perfect."
I try not to do it. Not to utterly destroy the underlying compliment he's paying me. But I can't help pointing out the cognitive dissonance. Nicely. I tiptoe around to my point.
"But I'm not sure if things were different we'd really get together." He's still lost in his fantasy so I feel like it's safe to continue as he probably won't hear a word of what's coming next. "I mean, we're both tops. And while I'm a dog in that I'm a total fucking whore, you're one in that you're completely loyal."
We've been play buds for years now. And we've never had penetrative sex. We pretty much just rub our cocks on each other. Really long, hard frot sessions that sometimes end without either of us cumming. And other times it ends with him leaving me drenched in his cum. Literally drenched. The fucker can shoot, and shoot repeatedly long heavy ropes of cum. But the reason why we don't have full on fuck session is out of his respect for my relationship. Or rather out of respect for what he thinks a relationship should be like in his head, this idealized monogamous complement of souls. And I don't fight it because I still like the kid. He's a perfect little pocket muscle cub. And I don't quite mention that an intimate relationship we're having is probably much more adulterous than if we were actually full-on fucking each other without these little intimate moments.
He babbles for a bit and we somehow orchestrate a fluid dance under the sheets so that we're spooning. I'm the big spoon. And as my hands dance across his fuzzy chest, pulling him back closer to my chest, he somehow manages to talk himself into thinking I'm the perfect mate again. I don't fight him on that anymore. I kinda just revel in that compliment and revel in how our bodies are complements and my cock responds. It jumps and hardens against his fuzzy mounds as I hug him even closer to my smooth chest. A second twitch from my cock that strains even harder against his ass. He responds by backing his ass closer to me.
And although I can feel his body, smell his sweet musk that intermingles perfectly with a very light scent of cologne, and even taste the heat that emanates from his body. I also understand that what I'm holding onto and hugging so close to by body is just an illusion, a fantasy. And that's perfectly fine.