Here, In the Middle of Everything by John Flores
At your request, I drive us to The Hollywood Bowl, a concert hall that’s built in the basin scooped out of a hill, where we can listen to the music of the yearly jazz festival. It’s a tradition of ours. But the tradition includes much more than simply enjoying the melodious jazz. You’ve bought seats at the top of the bleachers, where nobody pays you any attention: the cheap seats. Perfect for our annual outdoor festivities.
We park at the base of the hill and walk up, carrying our picnic basket and blanket. After giving our tickets to the usher, we take several escalators to the very top of the bowl. The bleacher seats up here are nearly empty. Most people have crowded down low, to watch the musicians play. You and I have ulterior motives. We want a little privacy, and we can hear the music fine even way up here. For us, the music is simply a backdrop to our own enchanted pleasures.
Once we spread out, I help you lay down in my lap, so that you’re truly comfortable. Your feet are up on the wood and your eyes are closed. I stroke your shiny hair away from your forehead and look down at your pretty face as the musicians continue to play.
It looks as if there are fireflies in the sky, but I know that heralding lights are simply picking up the white wings of moths high up in the air. Still, the scene is plenty atmospheric, and when I bend down to kiss you, I feel you squirm against my lap. You’re letting me know what I know already. I’m hard. But now, from the way you’re moving, I sense you’re trying to tell me something. You want to do something about my hardness.
Here, in the middle of everything.
I wrap us even tighter in the quilt, and then feel your body as you move down, on your knees, still fully hidden by the blanket. I sigh as your hands fumble in hazy darkness for my fly. You unbutton the row of faded gold buttons with a quick tug, and then almost instantly your mouth is on me. Warm and soft and sweet.
I have nothing on under the jeans, and with the fly parted open, you can bob up and down almost all the to the base. The feeling is unbelievable. Yeah, we play oral games at home, whenever we want to, but being out in public is different. Being so well cared for while among thousands of other people is almost surreal. I can’t get enough of the sensation. It’s the fact that we are here, in the middle of everything, doing this most base and private act that makes me want to shoot right now. But I force myself to stay steady, to hold the course, to not rush.
Breathing in deep, I close my eyes, then open them a second later as I feel your fingertips pushing beneath me to stroke my balls through my jeans. I’m not sure how much of this I can take. But you don’t care. You seem to move to the very beat of the music, rocking your mouth with a rhythmic cadence, up and down, sucking in hard, and then relaxing. I feel myself getting dizzy, lightheaded from the way you move.
God, do you know how to suck cock.
You have these little special tricks that you do, swirls with your tongue, designs you seem to make as if you’re trying to tell me something, or transform me into someone else. And you do. With your little moves and your special suckling kisses, you push me right over the edge, until I’m falling into the music and the pleasure of being so well treated. Falling and rising up again. No more waiting. No more holding back.
And as the music sways over me, I know that I’m going to come.
Here, in the middle of everything.
About the author:
John Flores is the pen name of an L.A.-based writer. His interviews with rock stars including Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers have appeared in The Village View, Eye, and Zed.