Slow Seduction

I’d been chasing this twink for weeks now. He’d show up every Friday night at the bar, sometimes Saturday too, and I’d get hot and bothered just watching him work it out on the dance floor. With a drink in hand, a lithe body in sticking-to-his-skin sweaty clothing, and a radiant smile that beamed across the whole club, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

But he ignored me the first few times we crossed paths. I’d watch him from my seat at the bar and sometimes he’d glance over my way mid-bump-and-grind, but the eye contact would be fleeting at best, non-existent at worst. I had a good twenty years on him — I had to be double his age — and no matter how fit I was, nubile twinks didn’t go for daddies like me. They wanted the jocks and twinks, so their sex would be like porn.

But all I wanted was to buy him a drink.

The fourth consecutive Friday of being in the club at the same time, I finally broke the ice.

“Hi,” I said as he came up beside me at the bar so he could order a Smirnoff Ice. God, he was even more delicious up close.

“Hey,” he said, barely giving me a second glance.

“You’re a good dancer.”

That made him smile — and, God, his smile was gorgeous. “Thanks, man,” he said to me, then he nodded as the bartender handed him the bottle. He took a swig and I watched his Adam’s apple bob with the swallow. “You should join us out there.”

I chuckled and looked at his small group of friends, all of whom were dancing and oblivious to my obvious attempts at picking up their friend. “I don’t know about that. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“You need one of these,” he said, tipping his drink back for another swig, “to loosen up. Just have fun!” And with that, he sauntered off, hips swaying to the music as he wove his way through the crowd and back to his friends. He looked my way a few times that night, but with eye contact that lingered.

I went back the next night and he was there too. I watched him dance — he was with only a few friends that night, but still seemed to have as much fun as when his entire group was there. He had an energy that attracted me and drew me toward him.

Fuck it, I thought, and flagged the bartender down for a Smirnoff Ice. With some liquid courage, I sauntered onto the dance floor and did my best not to look like a fool. The boy’s face lit up when he saw me join his small circle of friends. I realized then that I still didn’t know the guy’s name and he didn’t know mine. Right now, though, it didn’t matter. I took another swig of alcohol and sugar and tried to let the music flow through me, tried to match what the boy was doing.

He grabbed my free hand and helped me ease into a smoother rhythm. My heart started to beat faster, but not from the dancing — it was from the electric touch of his fingers on mine. He laughed as I made a goofy move and I started to relax a little more, overcoming the self-consciousness I fought against.

Several songs later, I was as sweaty as him. I headed back to the bar for another drink and winked at him over my shoulder as I peeled away from his group. When I got to the bar, I saw I had been victorious in my attempt — he had followed me.

“I never got your name,” I said. I held out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Tim.”

He grasped my hand and shook. My thick fingers dwarfed his fine features. “I’m Caleb.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

We spent most of the rest of the evening chatting at the bar while his friends kept dancing. I caught them looking over at us and gossiping, but they didn’t interrupt. As we talked, I learned that he was more than just a pretty face — he was smart, studying chemical engineering.

I sat a little closer to Caleb and he seemed to like it.  When a slow song came on, I dropped my hand to my thigh and brushed my fingertips against his leg. He put his hand on mine and held it as we carried on with talking. I felt my heart race again with a new feeling — this was no longer just sexual … I wanted this boy … I wanted Caleb.

We kept holding hands long past the end of the slow song, until the bar was starting to close down. Caleb’s friends had apparently ditched him, likely thinking he was in good hands. I already like his friends, I mused. When the DJ finished his set and the house lights came on, we stood, still holding hands.

“Do you need a ride home?” I asked.

He smiled rather mischievously. “I’d love that.”

He didn’t let go of my hand, so we walked together out of the bar and toward my car. When we entered and closed the door, he pulled me close and pressed his lips hard against mine, kissing me with a passion that easily matched what I’d been feeling all evening — what I’d been feeling since I first saw him weeks ago.

Overwhelming lust consumed me and as he kissed me, I struggled with his clothes and mine, lifting up his shirt and undoing his pants and him trying to do the same to me in our frantic and chaotic moment of passion. I wrenched his hard dick out of his pants a second before he did the same to me and I went down on it, taking it in my mouth, sucking on that youthful shaft. He moaned and quivered and leaned back in his chair. He never let go of my dick; he started stroking it in time with my sucking. With his other hand, he wove his fingers through my hair. It was a tender gesture, a caring one, and it only spurred me to suck him deeper.

Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol or a sign of how horny we both were, but he came quickly, filling my mouth with his tart heat. I swallowed it all down and licked him clean. He sighed with immense satisfaction, but when I sat upright again, he immediately dove down toward my crotch, sucking on my dick like I’d sucked on his. His warm, tight, wet mouth wrapped around my shaft and slid down to the base. The muscles of his tongue and cheeks and lips and throat all rippled and moved against my sensitive skin. This boy was talented. Or maybe I was just so fucking horny. Or … it was likely both.

I had a shocking lack of stamina and seconds later I exploded in his mouth, shooting jet after jet of cum. He swallowed it all down, not letting a single drop escape. And when I had finished shooting and he had finished swallowing, he carefully licked my head and shaft, cleaning off the last bits of cum.

He sat back in his seat and we both stared out the windshield, struggling to regain our breath. Our dicks, now limp and glistening with spit, still hung out of our pants.

“That was…” I said, struggling to find an appropriate description.

“Incredible,” Caleb said. He smiled and I couldn’t help the expression of sexual triumph that was likely plain as day on my face.

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, we packed away our dicks and I started the car.

“Where am I taking you?” I asked.

He looked at me and bit his lip rather demurely. “How about your place?”



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Dominating the Freshman. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Over Adversity (#triumph #luck #courage)

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life. Though I wasn’t exactly born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I’ve never been poor or hungry. Through a combination of hard work and lucky breaks, I managed to get a stellar education without ending up buried in debt. I’ve had several stimulating careers; none of them has made me rich, but they’ve all provided enough money for me to be comfortable and independent, and enough challenge to satisfy me, intellectually and emotionally. Between work and leisure, I’ve had the opportunity to travel extensively. Living in several foreign cultures has expanded my understanding of the world.

Aside from terrible eyesight, flat feet and some arthritis, I don’t have any physical handicaps, and for more than six decades, have escaped any serious health issues. My relationships have been lucky, too: caring and supportive parents, strong connections with siblings, a few lifelong friendships, a couple dozen lovers in my wilder days and a marriage of more than thirty years duration since I’ve calmed down a bit.

I’ve always been gratefully aware of my good fortune, but lately I’ve been feeling humbled and embarrassed. As one natural disaster after another unfolds around the globe—as humans inflict horrible suffering on one another in a dozen different conflicts—as my friends and acquaintances face disability, disease and death—I can’t help but wonder why I’ve been spared.

Recently I ran a contest for members of my “VIP Email List”. I do this every few months. My usual strategy is to ask anyone who wants to enter to send me an email, answering some question, often about marketing issues. Then I randomly draw winners from the emails I get.

This time, I simply asked my readers to send me a bit of news about what they’d been doing recently, or what they had planned for Halloween. I received maybe a dozen responses. I was shocked by how many of them talked frankly about the problems they’d been facing. One reader’s home had been destroyed by Hurricane Irma, another by Hurricane Harvey (she even sent me photos of the flooding). A long time fan shared frustrating news about her daughter’s most recent, unsuccessful surgery. Another woman told me about her tango lessons. She used to belly dance, she confided, but since her MS has worsened, tango is the only sort of dance that fits her physical limitations. Then there’s the fan who serves as caretaker for her disabled husband and autistic son. She told me she’s looking forward to spending a quiet Halloween curled up in a chair reading.

The thing that struck me about all these emails was their mostly cheerful tone. These women were all dealing with adversity far beyond anything I’ve experienced, but they didn’t seem discouraged or demoralized. This was life, their notes implied. We don’t have any choice but to handle it as best we can.

Personally, I think this deserves the term “triumph”. These women are quiet, unsung heroines, managing in the face of difficult odds. I find myself wondering if I’d have their strength, if our positions were reversed.

I have a second cousin once removed who was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), a fairly rare genetic disorder that condemns the sufferer to increasingly severe paralysis, usually leading to early death. You can find out more about this debilitating disease here: http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/06/charity-sunday-1-fightsma-donation.html Danny’s mom and dad basically spend their entire lives dealing with his limitations. I can scarcely imagine how difficult it must be for them, as well as for their other son and their extended family. Yet they post photos on Facebook of family gatherings, where everyone is smiling, including little Danny— grinning behind his oxygen mask. How do they do it? Where do they find the courage to live this life, to play the awful hand they’ve been dealt by Fate? Yet they do, one day at a time, and I believe there may be more love in their home than in most.

That’s my definition of triumph.

Then there’s this story, about a Syrian refugee who has managed to fulfill his dream of becoming a dancer:

https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2017/mar/13/its-dance-or-die-the-ballet-dancer-forbidden-to-perform-by-islamic-state

Talk about overcoming obstacles—though in this case they’re economic, geopolitical, and cultural barriers rather than physical ones.

These stories inspire me, but they also make me uncomfortable. I haven’t been tested like this. I’m afraid that if I were, I’d be found wanting. I feel soft, spoiled by my good fortune, not to mention slightly terrified that the ill luck I’ve managed to escape thus far is waiting just around the corner.

Then I realize that even if something awful happened tomorrow, I’d still have a million reasons to be grateful. And I wonder if this is the key to survival, to triumphing over adversity—recognizing that no matter how bad things get, they’re always a lot better than they could be.