A man who loves men
nudebeat:

amateursfromeverywhere4

nudebeat:

amateursfromeverywhere4

aiwantcoffee:

Underwear’s for boys.

aiwantcoffee:

Underwear’s for boys.

butchnmanly:

butchnmanly.tumblr.com/archive

undercub01:

👅👅👅

undercub01:

👅👅👅

damnhugecock:

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captionstojerkby:

When he opens the door, my first thought is that he’s high. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and he keeps sniffing; it’s only when his voice cracks as he says hello that I realize it’s that he’s been—and is, and will be—crying.
"Karen?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, giving a weak smile and letting me in. "Must seem pretty pathetic, huh?"
"No." I don’t want to try to make a joke about it, don’t want to make it all about me, don’t want to either change the subject unless he wants to or pry if he doesn’t, so that’s all I say.
He strips off his shorts and sits down at his computer. I get down on my knees next to him, kiss his thigh gently, rubbing my hand up and down the back of his calf, waiting for the vid to start. It doesn’t though, so I look up at him. He’s hasn’t even turned on the laptop; he’s just staring blankly at the blank screen—or staring through it, past it, as his eyes fill.
I want to tell him that it’ll be okay. 
I want to tell him I know exactly—and I do mean exactly—what he’s going through. 
I want, above all else, to tell him that I love him.
But, for a whole host of reasons, that’s the one thing I can’t tell him, the one thing that’s barred from passing between us, whatever else we may do. But friends—especially friends where it goes unspoken that one will spend every Friday night sucking the other off, friends where it goes unspoken that one will spend every moment of his waking life longing for the other—don’t say “I love you,” not without following it up with a “bud” or a “man” or a “bro.” And that isn’t how I love him.
But I can’t tell him that, so I don’t. I don’t say it, at least. I do lean in further, and my kisses move up the inside of his thigh until my face is right up next to his cock; I use my nose to nudge it out of the way so I can kiss his sack, nuzzle it, lick it softly. I can feel the blood moving into his dick, feel it plumping and stretching against my cheek, and I press my nose into him, close my eyes, take a deep—I make damn sure he can hear it—whiff of him, of his scent, of his uniqueness. I pull back, my eyes meeting his dick, now hard, and I put every bit of adoration I can muster into my gaze. I reach up with my hand, my fingers curling so, so gently around its length; I pull his foreskin back, look at it like I’m just seeing it for the first time, like I’m uncovering him for the first time. There’s a tear of precum at the tip, and my tongue moves to catch it, to slide and twist up from the bottom of the head over the top, and I take as much of him into my mouth as I can.
That’s the first time he reacts. I hear one big shuddering breath above me, and then another, and his hands are in my hair, holding me, and I keep sucking, and I don’t stop, and I don’t stop, and I love him.

captionstojerkby:

When he opens the door, my first thought is that he’s high. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and he keeps sniffing; it’s only when his voice cracks as he says hello that I realize it’s that he’s been—and is, and will be—crying.

"Karen?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, giving a weak smile and letting me in. "Must seem pretty pathetic, huh?"

"No." I don’t want to try to make a joke about it, don’t want to make it all about me, don’t want to either change the subject unless he wants to or pry if he doesn’t, so that’s all I say.

He strips off his shorts and sits down at his computer. I get down on my knees next to him, kiss his thigh gently, rubbing my hand up and down the back of his calf, waiting for the vid to start. It doesn’t though, so I look up at him. He’s hasn’t even turned on the laptop; he’s just staring blankly at the blank screen—or staring through it, past it, as his eyes fill.

I want to tell him that it’ll be okay.

I want to tell him I know exactly—and I do mean exactly—what he’s going through.

I want, above all else, to tell him that I love him.

But, for a whole host of reasons, that’s the one thing I can’t tell him, the one thing that’s barred from passing between us, whatever else we may do. But friends—especially friends where it goes unspoken that one will spend every Friday night sucking the other off, friends where it goes unspoken that one will spend every moment of his waking life longing for the other—don’t say “I love you,” not without following it up with a “bud” or a “man” or a “bro.” And that isn’t how I love him.

But I can’t tell him that, so I don’t. I don’t say it, at least. I do lean in further, and my kisses move up the inside of his thigh until my face is right up next to his cock; I use my nose to nudge it out of the way so I can kiss his sack, nuzzle it, lick it softly. I can feel the blood moving into his dick, feel it plumping and stretching against my cheek, and I press my nose into him, close my eyes, take a deep—I make damn sure he can hear it—whiff of him, of his scent, of his uniqueness. I pull back, my eyes meeting his dick, now hard, and I put every bit of adoration I can muster into my gaze. I reach up with my hand, my fingers curling so, so gently around its length; I pull his foreskin back, look at it like I’m just seeing it for the first time, like I’m uncovering him for the first time. There’s a tear of precum at the tip, and my tongue moves to catch it, to slide and twist up from the bottom of the head over the top, and I take as much of him into my mouth as I can.

That’s the first time he reacts. I hear one big shuddering breath above me, and then another, and his hands are in my hair, holding me, and I keep sucking, and I don’t stop, and I don’t stop, and I love him.