I thought about calling Jon's folks to get his number many times over the years. Several times, I even picked up the phone. I never dialed, though.
Eventually, long before I had any reason to suspect I might live in California, I did call his mom and asked how to reach him. She said he lived in Santa Monica and gave me a phone number. I didn't call.
Partly because of my professional skills but mainly due to fate, I supposed, I too was now living in SoCal. As soon as I settled in the company-owned condo I would temporarily call home, I suppressed all my dominant top pride and made the call I should have placed years ago to the only guy I ever gave my heart to unreservedly.
Even though ten years had passed since our break up, I wasn't sure how Jon would react to my call. I needn't have worried. After a hesitant beginning, our conversation was as relaxed and friendly as when our relationship began. The passage of time and our lack of communication seemed to obliterate for us both the agony of our hurtful, agonizing, nearly year-long breakup a decade earlier. He agreed quickly when I asked if he'd like to meet and suggested we do so for coffee late the next afternoon at a cafe in Westwood. There was no hint of him being aware of the date's significance.
Sitting on the cafe's terrace late on the warm mid-February afternoon, I couldn't help but smile as I watched Jon approach. He was as strikingly handsome as the first time I saw him through a dirty train window on another Valentine's Day nearly fifteen years earlier. He still moved with the same sensual cat-like grace.
That first Valentine's Day, I stood in the aisle of a train as it pulled into Suburban Station in Center City Philadelphia, perhaps fifth or sixth in line to exit. It may have been the white stripes around the cuffs of his Navy jumper or the light reflecting off his cornsilk blond hair that caught my eye. Something caused me to turn and look through a window. When I did, the tall blond, what, not a boy but too young to be considered a man, youth described him perfectly, wearing U.S. Navy Dress Blues held my gaze as he seemed to float rather than walk along the platform beside the train as it slid slowly to a stop.
I knew the sailor would board once I and the other passengers exited. I had only seconds to change his plans and could not care who heard what I said.
As I stepped off the train onto the platform, I smiled. He returned my smile. Without hesitation and with people looking on, I said, "If where you're going is within two hundred miles and you have until morning to be there, come with me, and I'll get you there on time."
During the five-block walk to my apartment, I learned that twenty-two-year-old Seaman Jon Walters, who had the most amazing blond hair and blue eyes, had to be at work at the Pentagon in Arlington, VA, at 7:00 a.m. the following day. He would make it with thirty minutes to spare. Before that, though, and before getting a couple hours of sleep followed by a high-speed race down I-95 to D.C., Jon would spend six hours that Valentine's Day Coming Out at my apartment and having his first gay sex.
At twenty-four, I was only two years Jon's senior, but my experience with men began when I was younger than he was. By the time Jon and I met, I was an experienced and capable dominant top with a refined taste for straight and mostly straight guys like Jon. I sensed that Jon was the sort of guy who, although he had not yet experienced gay sex, would find himself drawn to men like me.
Our play began tentatively. Jon, who said he didn't drink much, stood before a window holding a glass of Coke, looking out over the city. I watched him for a moment admiring his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and hips and the seductive way the cut of his Navy bellbottoms accentuated the curves of his small, tight, near-perfect butt. He flinched just a tiny bit as my arms encircled him, from surprise, I think, more than for any other reason.
I knew from his intake of breath when I popped the first of the thirteen buttons holding up his uniform trouser's front flap and the way he pushed his ass back that he knew what was coming. I thought I'd tell him anyway.
"That's right, sailor, I think we both know it's time to let that big piece of meat you've been hiding out to play," I whispered into Jon's right ear as I worked my way down the right side of the flap popping open one button after the other. And play we did.
I peeled Jon out of his uniform where he stood. After kissing and licking every secret previously hidden inch of his nearly hairless but sleekly muscled body, I gripped his long, almost beer can thick and beautifully cut cock firmly and led him to my bedroom.
I learned long before meeting Jon that nearly all straight guys, or those who think they are, fantasize about and imagine themselves doing one thing, sucking cock. Jon began asking to do that right away. I made him wait. I wanted him real cock hungry before I fed him my dick. When I finally did, I had to coach him a little. An eager newbie down on a big cock for the first time can do some real damage with his teeth if not talked through it. Jon settled down, and, in no time, I was fucking his throat.
But I had no intentions of cumming that way. When I felt Jon had developed good enough oral skills, I pulled him up off my dick and wrapped my arms around him. We had only just met, but I was developing feelings for Jon and wanted to make love to him. My face was pressed into his neck below his left ear when I first heard him say it. I wasn't sure I heard right, so I lifted up and looked down into his eyes.
His big blue eyes were open and looking back up into mine when he repeated his words, "Fuck me, Mike."
He may have tried to say more, I don't know, because hearing him, my lips descended upon his, and my mouth was ravenous. When I eventually let us both breathe again, I asked, "Have you ever been fucked?" Confident that I knew the answer.
"No, you'll be the first. I want you to be the first," Jon said, smiling slightly.
My lips back on his again, and then all over him was my response. Eventually, without lifting my mouth from his body, I blindly reached to open a drawer in the chest beside my bed to get a condom.
Sensing what I was doing, Jon rolled us over and rested his chin on my chest. "No need for that, I'm fine, I know that. Navy and all," he said with a grin, looking down into my eyes.
"Me too," I replied softly. "I had blood work done for my six-month physical two weeks ago. Besides, despite how it may seem, I'm not really a slut." I said, grinning.
That began it. When I was discovering my sexuality, I used to love to dive into a virgin asshole and feast as if my face was buried in a cherry pie. I hadn't done that for years. It's funny how old talents return quickly. As soon as I finished telling Jon I wasn't a slut, I rolled him back onto his shoulders, pushed his kneecaps to his shoulder caps, and fixed my eyes on his big blues. With his wide-spread, perfect ass positioned before my face, my right fist began to stroke his big cock, and my tongue corkscrewed his butthole for the next five minutes or so. As I did, I lubed up my cock.
When Jon was clawing at me, twerking his muscular little sailor boy bottom up and down against my face, trying to get my thrusting tongue deeper and deeper up his spit-wet but still clutching butthole, calling me names twenty-two-year-olds should never call other men and begging to be fucked, I did just that. Smiling down at Jon, I lowered his legs so the backs of his knees rested in the cradle of my elbows and my hard, thick, cut, nearly eight-inch-long cock pressed firmly against his taint with its big leaking head pressed up into his ballsack.
Smiling, I winked at Jon, leaned down, and kissed his lips. That movement caused my cock to slide down the length of Jon's taint, dragging its big precum-leaking head from behind his balls to his rest pressed against his soft, pouting, well-licked cherry butthole.
The look of desperation in Jon's eyes was driving me crazy. I wanted him so badly, more badly even than he so desperately wanted my cock inside him.
"Are you sure?" I asked. I wanted him to make a conscious decision.
"God, yes! Fuck me! Please, Mike!" Jon's eyes said it all, but his words sealed our pact.
My arms pulled his legs back to me, and my lips met his. As our tongues began to dance, employing all my self-control, I slowly parted the folds of Jon's asshole with the head of my cock and entered him. I was gentle. I stopped and waited when he gasped and yelped like a wounded puppy. His whispered urgings move my big cock forward deeper into him. Again, I stopped. Finally, after a last deep groan, the head of my dick punched his clock. Jon's ass became a living thing, and we fucked. I fucked Jon's brains out, and he would have had me dash them against the walls like the cum he shot all over me.
With breaks for hydration and cigarettes, I made sure Jon was well and truly fucked three times before we hit the shower for one last bent-over under the shower fuck for him to remember during the drive south. To be honest, for the next four days. By then, we knew Jon would be back next Friday afternoon.
I borrowed a car from a friend and got Jon back to D.C. as promised. He called twice that week and drove up Friday to stay the weekend. The following week was a repeat. We alternated weekends over the next two months, with him coming to Philadelphia and me going to D.C. Jon was sharing an apartment with two other sailors, so we shacked up in a hotel when I went down there. We lay in bed Friday night after having had incredible, exhausting sex when Jon told me he received orders that said he would be stationed in D.C. for the remaining three years of his enlistment.
I was so relieved. That the Navy might send him away worried me.
Before I could say anything, Jon rolled over onto me and rested his chin on crossed arms on my chest. Looking up at me with his big blue eyes, he said, "Mike, you mentioned completing work on your Masters next month and not having any plans after that. How about moving to Washington and us living together?"
That had been over fourteen years ago. We were together for a little over four years. Four Valentine's Days. Three of them were great. During our fourth year, our lives became too comfortable, and we became too comfortable with each other. We both cheated in unacceptable ways, and we caught each other at it. We knew that doing that was the end, but the end was slow and miserable.
Now, here we were a decade later, having coffee on another Valentine's Day in a cafe in West L.A. Any onlooker might think we're casual friends or co-workers. And more like long-time close friends who had been apart rather than lovers who suffered a hurtful, acrimonious breakup, our conversation was easy and warm.
When the hour grew late, I walked Jon to his car. When we met, as a twenty-two-year-old sailor, he was driving a truck. I wasn't surprised that now, at thirty-four in southern California, he had a bright red BMW convertible.
As we stood on Westwood Blvd. saying our goodbyes, neither of us acting eager to part, Jon asked if I would like to have dinner. I said I very much would. Jon lit up, gave me one of his big smiles that I remembered well and loved, and told me to follow him to a restaurant.
After dinner, I agreed to accompany Jon to his apartment. Doing so made me uneasy because I never go to another person's place for sex, and I was sure that is why I was going to Jon's. As I followed Jon down the hallway to his bedroom, I kept telling myself that us hopping into bed would be a disaster. Too much time and baggage.
In another switch of routines, Jon undressed me rather than me him. That's as far as things got. He did not yet have me naked before I pulled him into my arms, and casting pride and all self-respect aside proved to him how much I still loved and had missed him. His arms held me as tightly as mine did him as our tears mingled and our lips tried desperately to make up for all those lost years.
