[Breeder] Topher

[TheBreeder]

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(This post is a continuation of last week's The Other One.)

The Topher sprawled on his back before me in Earl’s living room, back in my teens, resembled the Topher I’d known from the community theater a few years before. His face was still round, but the skin was no longer creamy-smooth; he had a mild case of acne spotting his cheeks. His hair had once been precision cut with the roundest of kitchen bowls. Now it was stringy, and greasy, and hanging in ribbon-like lanks around his head, spread out on the rug. Like me, he was skinny, and pale. His little dick, however, was brown and soft, and lay at an angle across his thigh.

His eyes were bleary and barely open as he continued to stare at me. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his speech slower than he probably realized. “I thought you were one of those . . . goody-goodies.” He snorted at his own joke, then shared it with the strangers sitting on the sofa, over his shoulder. “He was one of those goody-goodies.”

The other men chuckled, though not so much at his joke as the fucked-up state Topher was in. He was obviously high, had been high for a long time, and intended to stay high for some time to come. Jim laughed loudest of all the men. He seemed delighted at the random stroke of chance that had reunited me with another kid from my past. My panicked brain kept imagining him quizzing Topher after the party, pumping him for every bit of information about me that he could, gleaning for tidbits he could use against me later. “He’s not such a goody-goody now,” Jim was smirking already.

I have always been stubborn enough not to acknowledge the taunts of those trying to irk me in public; I ignored Jim and swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to consider what to do. Fleeing would only let Jim know that Topher’s presence bothered me somehow. It would make me look like a coward. Besides, there was Earl, who was still standing beside me, his hand on my bare shoulder. I wasn’t going to let him down. “There’s a difference between being a good kid and a goody-goody,” he said, squeezing my neck. All the other men in the room nodded, as if Earl had said the wisest thing in the world. It was his party, after all. His house, his rules. The words were all the encouragement I needed. If Earl wanted to see me make it with Topher, I’d make it with Topher.

Although I didn’t really want to.

Normally with Earl, I had enough guidance that when I was thrown into an unknown situation, I could play along and know fairly confidently that what I was doing was right. If I was tied to a bench with my hole exposed, for example, I knew that I was simply supposed to serve up my ass to Earl and whatever guest he was hosting—to keep quiet, to endure, and to thank them afterward for the loads and the dicks they’d given me. If I was servicing multiple guys with my mouth, Earl’s hooked finger in my collar would indicate to me which dick I should be slurping, on, and for how long. Here, though, there was no such structure. He didn’t tell me what to do, beyond pushing me gently in Topher’s direction. I stumbled forward, staring at the stoner in his supine position. It seems impossible to me that Topher could have been conscious enough to summon the emotion, but I thought I detected challenge in those slitted eyes.

Probably, though, he was as scared as I.

The men sitting around on the living room furniture were mostly masturbating themselves, though not with any real vigor. It was the sort of masturbation men perform out of idleness, or when they’re trying to keep themselves erect. A couple of them had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Most of the men were in their late thirties, forties, and fifties; not counting Topher and myself, Jim was the youngest guy there. Their eyes glittered as I stood over Topher and lowered myself down to him.

I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I let my instinct take over. Some distant part of myself acted as observer, and tried to imagine what Earl and the others would like to see. I lay my body atop Topher’s, surprised at how warm he was even in the air-conditioned breeze. Then I pressed my lips against his and made out with him.

From around the room I heard the sounds of stirring as men sat up and leaned in, the better to observe. I knew I was doing something right when from deep within chests emerged grunts of approval and arousal. Topher’s breath carried the acrid stench of stale weed. He wasn’t really a good kisser at all; he pursed his lips too much and when his tongue emerged, it was with the tentative motion of a turtle peeking his head out of a shell and just as quickly withdrawing. The guys watching didn’t care, though. Jim didn’t care. Earl didn’t care what either of us was actually feeling. They were simply engaged by the illusion of it. They wanted to see two boys in lust with each other, and as mutually reluctant as Topher and I were, we were close enough to the fantasy that that they never glimpsed our mild repulsion.

All I had to do was put on a good show, I realized. I didn’t really have to enjoy myself.

This understanding freed me from my fear. If all I had to do was put on a good display of wild sex, that was something I could do in my sleep. I’d done it every time I’d pretended to enjoy a fuck in the park that had been average. I’d done it every time I’d told some deeply closeted married dude that his tiny dick had been the biggest I’d ever seen. And now, tiring of trying to get Topher to open his mouth and take my tongue, I did it by going down on him.

Topher’s dick was nowhere near as big as mine. He was a small boy, far shorter and slighter than I, though we were the same age. He didn’t harden in my mouth, either—but he didn’t really need to. I went down on his meat like a starving boy and kept my mouth on the base as I tried to ignore the strong smell of weed in his pubes. I grunted and groaned and gasped as if he were choking me, though he wasn’t. I ate him like he was my last meal, and the men around the room nodded and watched with hard, aroused eyes.

“Sixty-nine!” Jim barked out. “Sixty-nine each other!” Jim wasn’t the man who gave me orders. When I looked up at Earl, my mouth still on Topher’s dick, his nod was barely perceptible, but it was there. He wanted to see it, too. My mouth still concealing Topher’s soft dick, I swiveled my body around so that my own dick was positioned over the kid’s mouth. I had a perpetual hard-on during my teen years. Into it or not, if it involved sex, my dick was cooperating. I felt Topher’s lips latch onto me. When they did, his own dick began instinctively to swell.

After a few moments, we genuinely were sixty-nining each other. I didn’t have to fake sucking on his dick any longer. I suspect that, like me, Topher was simply not used to anything outside of his usual bottom role. He was probably uncomfortable and ill at ease at having to meet the kid who was ‘the other one’ to him—what’s more, the rival who got Earl’s bedroom and bed at the parties. The favorite child. Somehow I knew all this and pitied him a little for it. It made me feel a little tender-hearted toward him.

“Now fuck,” Jim commanded. Topher and I backed off each other’s dicks and looked at each other. He looked as confused and unsure as I.

I’m not sure how we got through the next few minutes, frankly. Neither of us was a natural top. I’d never fucked at all, before that moment. I’d been on the receiving end and knew in theory how it worked, of course. But it was like years later when I learned from my father how to drive. Though I knew the routes to take from years of sitting in the back seat watching my dad chauffeur me places, when it came for me actually to steer the wheel, it was tough to remember where all those streets actually went. I took a turn at inserting my dick into his hole and pushing it in and out, but I didn’t get any actual pleasure from it. When I sat on Topher’s dick and bounced up and down on it a little, he actually softened again and I ended up having to grind and fake intercourse. The men around us were more visibly excited, now. Some of them were masturbating each other, or openly sucking and playing while keeping their eyes on the performing boys in the room’s center.

They seemed satisfied. Jim, however, wasn’t. “That’s not how you fuck,” he said, lunging from his seat and pushing me off Topher. He grabbed the boy’s ankles and hoisted them into the air. Topher, caught off-guard, hit his head against the floor with an audible thunk. Jim shoved his dick into Topher’s hole and pistoned in and out with a jackrabbit motion. Topher was stoned enough that he didn’t really seem to know what was happening; he still looked at me, where I knelt several feet away, as Jim popped his little dick in and out of his hole.

Eventually one of the other men did the same with me. Topher and I lay next to each other on the living room rug. On our backs. Legs in the air. Used. For how long it went on, I don’t know, but it was what I wanted. I was back to what I enjoyed.

This is what I remember most about that afternoon, however. At some point after the living room free-for all began, I remember drifting out of a fuck-haze to find Topher’s hand resting on mine. At first I thought it was a casual accident—his hand had simply landed somewhere, and it happened to be on the back of my hand. I let my own hand remain where it was, though, and soon after I felt his fingers twine through mine.

Together, for what felt like the longest time, we held hands as we allowed ourselves to be fucked and filled. We hadn’t clicked when we’d been urged to go at each other, but there was something simple and sweet about his hand in mine. The men changed places, but we remained connected.

Maybe it meant nothing to him. I don’t know. Maybe, in his haze, he didn’t know whose hand he held, or that he held a hand at all. To me, though, all these years later, with Topher gone and Earl and Jim vanished into the past, I like to think it was his way expressing something—perhaps gratitude at helping him through a difficult situation, during a tumultuous part of both our lives. I feel the ghost imprint of his hand on mine even through the years.

I like to think it meant something. I wish I'd known then exactly what.

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