from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Frips lays still, a pillow over his face, pretending he is asleep... a palm rubs softly over the head of his dick, and then a soft breath and a mouth took him in... The world dissolves into his crotch, the pressure beneath his balls as the come strains to spew... he trembles and shakes as his dick begins convulsing, spewing out his lust.
Then he's embarrassed, crest-fallen, bewildered that this man he knew as his brother-in-law had just given him his first blow job. He had been asked if he wanted a massage, said yes... and now... what?
"I know you weren't asleep." The man turns off the light and goes to the bathroom. Seconds later he hears a moan and assumes old Assolips has beat his lust into toilet paper.
He is just glad to be alone. He remembers circle jerks with kids in his neighborhood. For some reason they always had porno, and sleep over's inevitably ended with beating off. Sometimes they did it for each other... usually not. There was even a vacuum cleaner that they all used, one after another on their little pre-puberty dicks. He isn't gay, knows from all the crushes. He'd see the latest greatest girl in the hall at school and be amazed how violently his body reacted, how white, electric nervousness filled his entire body, making very his skin seem to vibrate, his heart pounding like all hell, breath short, stunned with a feeling between embarrassment and a pained, wistful wanting. He knew just how easily they could make his whole world their smile… and men had no such effect on him. Still, he had loved that one part of the blow job when his crotch blew out fire.
1978 and his baby fat is gone and Flips is released into the late seventies, before aids kills off the free-love movement. He goes to college part time and spends the rest of his moments going from bed to be; , looks at the freshmen crops of women coming in as a wave of lovers flowing over him. Handsome and long haired and a maniac in bed, he has no end of women coming back to him only to find someone else had taken their place. He always tells them he was that way the first night, when they were just mesmerized by his blue eyes and blonde hair and shiny white teeth. Looks like a movie star seemed to convince them he was something more real than he was... The only time he feels alive is when he’s wasted and getting laid. He was out there every night in the college bars, driven like an addict cruising for a fix . . . he almost always came home with something… by closing time, he wasn’t picky at all.
1988 finds him faithful to a woman he wants to marry, a young man already full of regrets. He has done what was done to him. Took the women and used them like sex-toys, ignoring their feelings, not caring what he had to say, who he had to be... They may as well have had their faces covered with a pillow, like he was during the blow job... which had not turned out to be the last one Assolips slurped. He had refused to touch back, otherwise he just let it happen, like he did back then, when he was sure nothing could affect him that he could put out of his mind.
1997 he is in therapy, trying to sort out the whys, how he can change. The therapist has some imaginary person in mind that he can morph into, someone who doesn't drink, doesn't hate themselves, quits smoking, is faithful to his wife, and loves teaching. They talk like anytime he is not that person, he is sick. He finds a place then for what happened with his brother-in-law, calls the man what he is -- a pervert who took something from him, and drove him out to prove to the world he was not something every one around him seemed to hate and make fun of...
The books he reads convince him that he became the abuser, in his way... using people's loneliness to lure them into a bed to be just a part of his nightly adventure, forgotten the next day -- or, even worse, the next month, after he has lavished them with attention, took them to the realms of pure lust and held them trembling afterwards . . . until the next drunk found him with someone else and another Niagara of tears came on.
His therapist wants him to forgive himself. He isn't sure that people should forgive themselves, somehow thinks the pain is deserved; a sentry trying to stop him from repeating his more twisted life patterns -- the self-hate made him, as he lays down and seeks sleep, create pacts with himself that the problems swirling through his mind will be shut off when he kills himself; that he will do it the next day... He calms himself with elaborate plans of how he will do it... thinks of retching on Drano... holding his wrists in ice water to dull the cut of the razor slicing up his forearm... taking an overdose and getting on a blow up raft and rowing out deep into Lake Michigan, far from the lights and lives of the city, where when the pills start to hit, he will prick the raft and let it slowly empty his unconscious body into the swirling waves.
In 2046 he's undeniably, irrevocably, OLD. He spends weeks contemplating the reality of his coming death, and his legacy, such as it was.... sits down and decides to write an apology to the hundreds of women he took as if they were empty vessels. He isn't sure what he will do with the document? He decides to write his own obituary, calls the Tribune and finds out how much it would cost to prepare for the premium obituary package, with his picture and the words he would write. The process seems easier than he could of hoped, and with one phone call, he was assured that the last impression people had of his tired flesh was an apology for the times he didn't act up to his own ethics, the times he did just what his thoughts criticized other people for... He also added how people become their worst fears, and sort of get over them, in time.
They wouldn’t take it in the end. Told him he had to give his information to one of their writers. They suggested he just take out an ad. He could tell from the Tribune guy’s voice that they all thought he was crazy and then he decided that, yes, maybe it is a little crazy. He tells himself it is better that way, that there’s no use bringing up old hurts in the women who were still alive. Still, he hates that his memory is cursed in some minds.
2052 bewilderes him. The technology is beyond him. He can barely run the Halo program in his room, has to get help whenever he changed the scenes, which he likes to do. Some days he sits in forests and watched deer quietly grazing, squirrels running through trees and making miraculous jumps from branch to branch, raccoons meticulously cleaning apples in a creek... He could go to the Serengeti and watch cheetahs run after their prey -- which they could never catch thanks to a series of miraculous escapes generated by the No Kill setting.
2053 finds him in a hospice waiting to die. The days seem longer than ever before in his life, then at night they seemed to have gone by bewilderingly fast. He's spent the evening ensconced on Juno, one of Jupiter's moons; vacationing aboard the Space Station and the moon were among his fondest Recalls. The Halo put him right there, in the midst of his memory. The freedom of Information act let him pull up all government surveillance footage of the period, and since everything in public places was taped, he has quite a good library of his last twenty years. That was one thing about the present age that he would not want to live without, like so many things that he didn't even know about in his youth -- weren't even conceived of by mankind.His last wife was still alive then, and he liked to see her walking through his room hand and hand with him. He had proven to be a good man in the end, even by the unrealistic standards drilled into him when he was young... learned all his lessons from his whoring youth and the first two fated marriages -- which confusion and well meaning mistakes and bad habits destroyed after a few short years of lusty bliss.
In the Halo's, he sees himself being tender to Mary Ann, kissing her hand, stroking her hair. He knows she felt loved by him, trusted that his gaze saw into her heart, where her beauty refused to decay. She was one of the few who felt his strength even when he was at his weakest. Watching himself standing beside her with their arms around each others waists, he marvels at how Normal Rockwell it all became in the end... standing on the shores of Lake Michigan, watching a flock of green and red ducks from the concrete pier on Loyola Beach, where they'd had a condo for their last years. Without the Halo's going, he could barely remember her without seeing images of himself putting the hypo in the bottle... She had chosen to have him inject her with a morphine overdose, couldn't bear the pains of the cancer eating through her abdomen. He had wanted to argue with her, knew he could have pleaded for her to stay and changed her mind, made her feel like she had to hang on for him... she could have stayed in her body another month or two. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything in his life... but he knew that was just the selfish side of him -- a part that he would not listen to anymore. He had kissed her soft forehead, said, "Goodbye, my love," and with trembling fingers that could barely obey his orders, he slid the needle into the IV, pushed down the plunger... injected the clear fluid. As the warmth of the dose spread through her body she smiled again, that same smile that had made him fall in love with her years and years before... and then he closed her eyes.
In 2054, he sleeps soundly for two hours and then sits straight up Bed-On-Fire-Awake. His heart smashes oddly around inside his chest. Beats frantic. Flutters. Slows downs. Becomes erratic. He tries to count the heart-beats. Thinks, 'Is something wrong?' He's just too tired to give a damn... unsure why he woke up for a second? Drifting back into a deep sleep, he's happy that none of the usual demons were bitching at him. . . keeping him awake. . . they couldn't fuck with him when he was this tired. He’s grateful for the reprieve, turns over on his side and whispers, "No insomnia tonight.”
"
Then he's embarrassed, crest-fallen, bewildered that this man he knew as his brother-in-law had just given him his first blow job. He had been asked if he wanted a massage, said yes... and now... what?
"I know you weren't asleep." The man turns off the light and goes to the bathroom. Seconds later he hears a moan and assumes old Assolips has beat his lust into toilet paper.
He is just glad to be alone. He remembers circle jerks with kids in his neighborhood. For some reason they always had porno, and sleep over's inevitably ended with beating off. Sometimes they did it for each other... usually not. There was even a vacuum cleaner that they all used, one after another on their little pre-puberty dicks. He isn't gay, knows from all the crushes. He'd see the latest greatest girl in the hall at school and be amazed how violently his body reacted, how white, electric nervousness filled his entire body, making very his skin seem to vibrate, his heart pounding like all hell, breath short, stunned with a feeling between embarrassment and a pained, wistful wanting. He knew just how easily they could make his whole world their smile… and men had no such effect on him. Still, he had loved that one part of the blow job when his crotch blew out fire.
1978 and his baby fat is gone and Flips is released into the late seventies, before aids kills off the free-love movement. He goes to college part time and spends the rest of his moments going from bed to be; , looks at the freshmen crops of women coming in as a wave of lovers flowing over him. Handsome and long haired and a maniac in bed, he has no end of women coming back to him only to find someone else had taken their place. He always tells them he was that way the first night, when they were just mesmerized by his blue eyes and blonde hair and shiny white teeth. Looks like a movie star seemed to convince them he was something more real than he was... The only time he feels alive is when he’s wasted and getting laid. He was out there every night in the college bars, driven like an addict cruising for a fix . . . he almost always came home with something… by closing time, he wasn’t picky at all.
1988 finds him faithful to a woman he wants to marry, a young man already full of regrets. He has done what was done to him. Took the women and used them like sex-toys, ignoring their feelings, not caring what he had to say, who he had to be... They may as well have had their faces covered with a pillow, like he was during the blow job... which had not turned out to be the last one Assolips slurped. He had refused to touch back, otherwise he just let it happen, like he did back then, when he was sure nothing could affect him that he could put out of his mind.
1997 he is in therapy, trying to sort out the whys, how he can change. The therapist has some imaginary person in mind that he can morph into, someone who doesn't drink, doesn't hate themselves, quits smoking, is faithful to his wife, and loves teaching. They talk like anytime he is not that person, he is sick. He finds a place then for what happened with his brother-in-law, calls the man what he is -- a pervert who took something from him, and drove him out to prove to the world he was not something every one around him seemed to hate and make fun of...
The books he reads convince him that he became the abuser, in his way... using people's loneliness to lure them into a bed to be just a part of his nightly adventure, forgotten the next day -- or, even worse, the next month, after he has lavished them with attention, took them to the realms of pure lust and held them trembling afterwards . . . until the next drunk found him with someone else and another Niagara of tears came on.
His therapist wants him to forgive himself. He isn't sure that people should forgive themselves, somehow thinks the pain is deserved; a sentry trying to stop him from repeating his more twisted life patterns -- the self-hate made him, as he lays down and seeks sleep, create pacts with himself that the problems swirling through his mind will be shut off when he kills himself; that he will do it the next day... He calms himself with elaborate plans of how he will do it... thinks of retching on Drano... holding his wrists in ice water to dull the cut of the razor slicing up his forearm... taking an overdose and getting on a blow up raft and rowing out deep into Lake Michigan, far from the lights and lives of the city, where when the pills start to hit, he will prick the raft and let it slowly empty his unconscious body into the swirling waves.
In 2046 he's undeniably, irrevocably, OLD. He spends weeks contemplating the reality of his coming death, and his legacy, such as it was.... sits down and decides to write an apology to the hundreds of women he took as if they were empty vessels. He isn't sure what he will do with the document? He decides to write his own obituary, calls the Tribune and finds out how much it would cost to prepare for the premium obituary package, with his picture and the words he would write. The process seems easier than he could of hoped, and with one phone call, he was assured that the last impression people had of his tired flesh was an apology for the times he didn't act up to his own ethics, the times he did just what his thoughts criticized other people for... He also added how people become their worst fears, and sort of get over them, in time.
They wouldn’t take it in the end. Told him he had to give his information to one of their writers. They suggested he just take out an ad. He could tell from the Tribune guy’s voice that they all thought he was crazy and then he decided that, yes, maybe it is a little crazy. He tells himself it is better that way, that there’s no use bringing up old hurts in the women who were still alive. Still, he hates that his memory is cursed in some minds.
2052 bewilderes him. The technology is beyond him. He can barely run the Halo program in his room, has to get help whenever he changed the scenes, which he likes to do. Some days he sits in forests and watched deer quietly grazing, squirrels running through trees and making miraculous jumps from branch to branch, raccoons meticulously cleaning apples in a creek... He could go to the Serengeti and watch cheetahs run after their prey -- which they could never catch thanks to a series of miraculous escapes generated by the No Kill setting.
2053 finds him in a hospice waiting to die. The days seem longer than ever before in his life, then at night they seemed to have gone by bewilderingly fast. He's spent the evening ensconced on Juno, one of Jupiter's moons; vacationing aboard the Space Station and the moon were among his fondest Recalls. The Halo put him right there, in the midst of his memory. The freedom of Information act let him pull up all government surveillance footage of the period, and since everything in public places was taped, he has quite a good library of his last twenty years. That was one thing about the present age that he would not want to live without, like so many things that he didn't even know about in his youth -- weren't even conceived of by mankind.His last wife was still alive then, and he liked to see her walking through his room hand and hand with him. He had proven to be a good man in the end, even by the unrealistic standards drilled into him when he was young... learned all his lessons from his whoring youth and the first two fated marriages -- which confusion and well meaning mistakes and bad habits destroyed after a few short years of lusty bliss.
In the Halo's, he sees himself being tender to Mary Ann, kissing her hand, stroking her hair. He knows she felt loved by him, trusted that his gaze saw into her heart, where her beauty refused to decay. She was one of the few who felt his strength even when he was at his weakest. Watching himself standing beside her with their arms around each others waists, he marvels at how Normal Rockwell it all became in the end... standing on the shores of Lake Michigan, watching a flock of green and red ducks from the concrete pier on Loyola Beach, where they'd had a condo for their last years. Without the Halo's going, he could barely remember her without seeing images of himself putting the hypo in the bottle... She had chosen to have him inject her with a morphine overdose, couldn't bear the pains of the cancer eating through her abdomen. He had wanted to argue with her, knew he could have pleaded for her to stay and changed her mind, made her feel like she had to hang on for him... she could have stayed in her body another month or two. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything in his life... but he knew that was just the selfish side of him -- a part that he would not listen to anymore. He had kissed her soft forehead, said, "Goodbye, my love," and with trembling fingers that could barely obey his orders, he slid the needle into the IV, pushed down the plunger... injected the clear fluid. As the warmth of the dose spread through her body she smiled again, that same smile that had made him fall in love with her years and years before... and then he closed her eyes.
In 2054, he sleeps soundly for two hours and then sits straight up Bed-On-Fire-Awake. His heart smashes oddly around inside his chest. Beats frantic. Flutters. Slows downs. Becomes erratic. He tries to count the heart-beats. Thinks, 'Is something wrong?' He's just too tired to give a damn... unsure why he woke up for a second? Drifting back into a deep sleep, he's happy that none of the usual demons were bitching at him. . . keeping him awake. . . they couldn't fuck with him when he was this tired. He’s grateful for the reprieve, turns over on his side and whispers, "No insomnia tonight.”
"