Adonis Arises

"Mr. Barbaro," the sign read at the end of the gangway.

Paul hobbled slowly off the plane, white knuckling his eagle-headed cane. Each step sent a pain across his upper buttocks, an electric shock that traveled down his right leg. A living anachronism, his gym-built frame hunched over the cane. The red eye flight across the span of the United States had taken its toll on Paul, causing his inflammatory arthritis to flare up without mercy.

Paul felt helpless before the onslaught of his genetic condition. He felt old and worn.

"Mr. Paul Barbaro?" the service attendant asked as Paul hobbled up to the wheelchair. "I am here to get you. I was told you might need assistance to baggage."

Paul turned and tentatively sat down, balancing his cane on the armrests. "Thank you!," he responded, glad that he had reserved assistance the day before. "I really appreciate this."

 The attendant wheeled Paul to the terminal and past the other passengers. A couple that had sat in front of Paul shook their heads as if to doubt Paul's need. And who could blame them. Paul sat upright, his muscular thighs bulging through his tight, black jeans, his arms filling out his black leather jacket,  his well-defined pecs still lifted with pride.

The service attendant wheeled Paul quickly through the maze of hallways to the baggage claim. "Welcome to Newark Liberty International Airport," Paul read as he lowered his cane and stood slowly, looking around. He knew his friend would be on time. His friend was always on time, always reliable. They had been friends for almost twenty years, and they had always been there for each other. Brothers.

Carefully grabbing his case off the carousel, Paul heard a voice call as if on cue. "What the Hell happened to you? You look like you have been through a damned war. The last two years haven't been kind to you," his friend exclaimed with brutal honesty.

Paul turned to see his friend, arms stretched out to welcome Paul back to the East Coast. Paul grabbed hold of his friend in a tight embrace, and did not let go for almost five minutes. "Hey, Joe. It is so good to see you. I have missed you so much. How is your handsome husband?"

For the next few days that followed, Paul recounted the events of the last two years, spewing forth a stream of consciousness account of his relationship, the delusion that had been Paul's marriage. The view from the Jersey side of the River seemed unchanging as he confessed his follies to his friend, Joe He felt both penitent and foolish. Paul was a dominant man by nature. How could he have been so gullible as to believe in the empty, public proclamations of his spouse. For the first time, Paul shared with Joe the cycle of unbridled anger, followed always by a suffocating silence. Month after month, this cycle continued until Paul felt trapped by the wrath of his boy. "I don't know why my boy is so angry," Paul said. "I don't understand where it all went so wrong." And Paul felt ashamed, ashamed to admit that he had been rendered helpless, so blinded by his deep love for his boy, unable to see what had to be done to repair his damaged relationship. Love demands commitment against all costs, Paul reasoned with his friend. "How could I abandon my boy?" Paul posed the question without expecting an answer. Paul felt weak, totally dependent on Joe.

Joe simply sat and listened, extending his arms in comfort every now and then. "You are going to be OK," Joe assured Paul every once in a while. "You are strong, and I am here for you; both my husband and I are here to help."

For the first time in years, Paul felt safe.

Finally, after two days of confession, Paul fell asleep.

On the third morning, Paul arose from the sofa bed in the sitting room and wandered to the window. Joe and his husband had already left for work. He was alone with his thoughts. He looked out at the city and realized that he had not left the apartment all weekend. He gazed at the Hudson River below, shimmering in the spring sunlight, and thought of another time many years ago when the water of San Francisco beckoned silently below the Golden Gate. Paul had stood that day, seeing nothing but a bleak future ahead. On that day many years ago, he had found himself in a similar bleak situation. Paul had been the trusting boy then, trapped in a bond that left him helpless to move forward. Sadly, he realized that, in spite of being the dominant in the current relationship, he was exactly where he had been twenty years before.

The distinctly hollow sound from his cell roused him out of his self-pity. Paul had not answered his messages since his arrival on the East Coast. "Come fuck me," the message read. Looking at his texts, Paul noticed a long list of messages, invitations to fuck, to play, to participate in a local bator group in midtown.

"I am still alive," Paul thought. "I may be numb, but I am still alive and desirable. What the fuck am I doing wallowing in this shit?"

Paul looked at his reflection in the window. His unshaven face graced a defined, muscular body that denied his sixty years. He sensed his man smell, an acrid aroma following three days of neglecting the shower. He felt his aching body, sore from the days absent from the gym since the overnight flight from Seattle to Newark. And he felt his cock stir as a reminder that he was still hot, the quintessential Daddy, the object of fantasy for so many horny Leatherboys.

"Yes, time to see the city," Paul said aloud. "Time to clean up, catch the bus, and rejoin the living. It's time!"

Paul reached down and slid his hand into his pants. He felt his cock grow hard, its ample size pushing against the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. On cue, blood rushed upward to his pecs, causing his nipples to protrude against his t-shirt. Paul reached further down his pants. Beginning at his taint, Paul slowly traced the outline of his member with his hand, fingering the engorged head of his penis before returning again to the base of his scrotum. He stroked himself again and again, slowly at first, and then building steam. Finally, he yanked his pants to his knees and thrust his hips forward, presenting his cock to the outline of the City, a proud masturbator.

Paul edged for an hour, bringing himself over and over again to the point of cumming. He felt a warmth descend upon him, the dopamine rush of sexual excitement gradually taking over his brain, his body, until he felt unable to control himself. "Fuck! I need this" Paul said aloud. At the same time, Paul's physical discomfort caused by his arthritis melted away, responding to the dopamine and the adrenaline in his aroused body. "Penis! Penis! Penis" he chanted over and over again in tandem with the uncontrollable rhythm of his masturbation. "Fuck, yeah! I need this" he exclaimed. "Time to fuck! I need to fuck! I need a hot, firm ass to breed. I need a firm, hot ass."

Twenty minutes later Paul sat on the bus to Midtown, feeling his swollen cock in his jeans. He dropped his hand to his crotch discretely every now and then, when he knew no one was looking to feel the engorged shape of penis. He threw his head back against the seat, and his eyes rolled back in his head. "I am not dead," he mumbled. "I am horny as fuck, and I am going to be OK."

Paul smiled broadly. "I am going to be OK," he repeated to himself over and over again.