I pay him a compliment. Honest. Sincere. I just let it hang there as he sits with it and blushes. I don't follow-it up with anything more. Just one complimentary sentence. And I try hard not to fill in the gap of silence with meaningless lyrics but instead letting the melody inbetween the spaces move him. It's hard. Hard not to explain or to cover it up with incessant noise that would detract from my intent. I just want him to know how beautiful he is.
He's appeared in these pages before. Back then, just a couple of years ago, he was a virgin and I was the oldest guy he's ever been with. Just barely of legal drinking age and he stopped me with great courage when I moved to fuck him. He was saving it. He tells me this now, after I've just fucked the cum out of him. Despite being quite clumsy with his tight hole, he remarked with astonishment after a couple of strokes in, "No fucking way!" And then he shot. Shot hard and far again, drenching the pillows and hitting the headboard. He normally takes a long time to cum but I fucked it out of him in mere seconds.
But I wasn't his first. That he gave to a couple that spit roasted him after a he had a particularly hard day at work. He was just over it all. And he wanted was to get fucked. Just wanted to get rid of his virginity. So he dove headlong into some piggy play. No more saving it. Just getting rid of it with a bang in the most spectacular way. It had become a burden, just like work.
It was a beautiful story told in such stark nakedness that it compelled some empathy. Not wistful regret or anything like that. Just a noble spirit sharing a beautifully honest story. And I thanked him for that with a compliment that ached to rise to the level of sincerity it was sourced from.
A pregnant pause later, he says, "I've lost some weight."
"Stop. Look at me. I don't mean it that way. You really are beautiful. End of story."
I wish my words were delivered with the amount of finality it was meant to convey but it came out haltingly as I measured in my head what the appropriate combinations of words would make him truly see. The deep responsibility I felt in making him share my insight cut across the words and chopped everything up. It just felt like I was saying something expected, something politically correct.
And as my eyes darted around the room for inspiration, they land on his glasses. Spectacles. An apt term as I offer him a compelling vision and he's instead enthralled by the spectacle of his clouded lens.