On my cock.
Which of course is exactly what Mateo offered. Still, it is one thing to know that Mateo hypothetically intends to touch that area, and it is another to have him touch it.
Because the touch is…
Well, it’s different from when I touch it, under the covers, conscious that I am imagining the wrong-gendered person when I let myself touch it. That I am doing a biological activity that shouldn’t be performed solo. That is intended to be done by couples that are together and are in love and that I am alone and touching myself and imagining things my teammates, at least in Mannheim, would squirm at, and that I am behaving completely insensibly when all I try to do is to be sensible, when all I desire is to be good and well-behaved and make people proud.
But now Mateo is touching me…there.
Even though he doesn’t have to do so.
Even though he could be on his way back to his apartment.
Even though this is not part of any massage.
His fingers stroke my shaft, and my whole body feels amazing.
This is incredible.
His hands move with confidence, and he touches my balls lightly.
That also feels amazing.
I gaze up at him, startled, and he smiles.
He moves his fingers over my shaft, over my balls, and a blissful look comes over his face, like he is really enjoying doing this. He is seeing the most private part of my body, the strangest looking portion, and he is enjoying it.
At least, I think he is.
He looks like he is.
“Relax,” Mateo soothes, and I attempt to do so.
I am floating on a cloud, and Mateo is beside me and all my worries are far, far away.
Mateo continues to stroke me. His fingers don’t reach around my shaft, and I crane my neck up to watch his fingers move up and down.
His eyes meet mine. “Why don’t you sit up? Then you can see.”
He drops his fingers, and I scramble back. He puffs a pillow for me, so I am comfortable leaning against the wooden headboard, chosen more for its aesthetic pleasing worthiness than as a location for handjobs.
I worry for a moment that he will stop entirely and that awkwardness and embarrassment will replace this moment, but instead he kneels on the bed. I spread my legs to accommodate him.
This is… intimate.
Exceedingly intimate.
Mateo can see all of me in this position. He can see my head—the sexual one, of course he can see my normal one too, and he can see my shaft and my balls. Everything is redder and harder and wetter than normal. But if he looks down, he can see more. He can see my bottom.He can see the place I once imagined he would enter. The place I assumed that he had been before.
He avoids that area of course.
He is not my boyfriend.
He is not going to have sex with me.
But this is also sexual and intimate. Normally when I touch myself there, I do not think to use lubricant. I do not go into pharmacies normally and buy material to touch myself with. Normally if I touch myself—and that is not a frequent occurrence, hockey is long and demanding and I feel foolish wandering the internet with its vulgar websites and pictures and videos of people who might not want their pictures and videos to be published, and I feel foolish letting my imagination run wild, lest I accidentally imagine someone I should not be imagining: a teammate or friend or acquaintance who might be horrified that I am imagining them doing acts that involve little clothes. I do not want to see them later and blush and stammer.
It is better to avoid that section of my body as much as possible, to wait until retirement, to think maybe I am asexual and none of it is necessary, even though I do not feel asexual in my heart, not even a tiny bit—though thinking that doesn’t help me either.
