What Goes Around, Comes...

by William Maltese

My hand-fisted dick spews soupy parabolas of creamy spunk to gravity drop - plop! Plop! PLOP! - randomly between Joey's red Mohawk and his concave stomach.

He writhes in sperm-bath ecstasy, rolls this way and that beneath my standing straddle and opens his mouth to claim and swallow the last copious squirt of my raining cum. His hands slide his chest and belly, smearing my discharge into a slick gloss across his prominent ribs and hipbones.

My guts seem so thoroughly shot through my dick, along with the last of my spunk, I wonder if I experience excruciating pleasure or excruciating pain. Definitely both! The former, though, is paramount (lucky me!).

I step free of Joey, throw my arms outward, and fall backward on my bed. Steel springs sing protest as they give beneath my weight, rebound slightly, and vibrate to stillness beneath me.

"Jesus, fucking Christ, shit!" All I can say.

Joey adds his weight to mine. He rolls to his side, throws one arm across my sweaty chest, one leg across my sweaty left leg. He nuzzles his handsome face into the crease of my neck at my shoulder. His Mohawk scratches my face, his lips butterfly-kiss. He says, "I have to shower and get my ass to work."

I wouldn't let him shower if I hadn't just creamed a second time, because he exudes my favorite masculine smells: sweaty underarms, funky pubic hair, spermy flesh, cheesy dick, musky pubic hair, pungent asscrack. Two erections on my part, on any given evening, though, is my limit - sad but true.

He gives me a smack of his cummy lips and pushes away. The metronome-weave of his still-stiff dick tells me he could easily go another round.

Sweet kid: Joey! He could be with just about anyone he wants, but he's come home with me.

Jacking off in the shower, his voice cracks during orgasm while he's singing Desmond Dekker's You Can Get It If You Really Want.

He comes back into the bedroom and manhandles his still-hard but now more-than-ever-red dick into his baggy shorts. He pulls on his Drub T-shirt (I want one), his sweaty (smell-lovely!) black/white/grey argyle socks, and his (I have a pair) Converse lowtops.

He's on his way out the door when I call after, "What do you want for your birthday?"

"Surprise me!" The door shuts behind his sexy ass.

I haven't a clue what to get him. I'm thinking a heavy custom-sandblasted Torqring by Kerry, when - while ringing up the sale of the Time Again The Stories Are True CD - I get this epiphany. It shows, because Jeremy Jellumum, who likes his cockring only around his big balls, takes his purchase and says, "What?"

"Your parents are from Nigeria, Africa, right?"

"Actually Niger, but you got Africa right."

"That friend of yours, Tim-whatever, is Chinese?"

"Korean."

"You know anyone from South America?"

"Where are you going with this, Lyle?" he asks, and I can't blame him. I'm coming across as someone who didn't pay all that much attention in geography class (blame the lame teachers!).

"You know Joey Windland?" I ask.

"Studly little Joey who tends bar at Boards and Booze?"

"You know why he became a bartender?"

"Something to do with my parents being from Niger, and Tim Kim being Korean? Or, something to do with his cuteness getting him lots of tips?"

"Someone told him that a bartender can travel the world over and always get a job."

"Well, Jettison Myler - remember him? - was tending bar in Zurich last I heard."

"Joey wants to experience a cum-bath on every continent."

"You purposely out to give me a boner, Lyle?"

"Joey's birthday is in a couple of weeks, and I'd like you to represent Africa in a simultaneous seven-continent circle-jerk cum-bath. It won't be the same as his being there, but, hey..."

"Paul Whitnor told me once that he's part Cherokee."

"Tell me you, also, know a cum-bulged scrotum from Australia."

"I only know someone who knows someone who may know of a couple large nuts presently available and hanging from the crotch of an Aussie exchange student."

This is how I end up dressed as a King Penguin, a costume of my own design and making. Antarctica the only continent with no indigenous human population.

I face the full-length mirror. Just the knobby head of my blond pecker peeks through the white feathers of my lower belly. I make my cockhead disappear, reappear, and confirm that I need a tighter fit.

I'm not so good at sewing that I look forward to alterations. Can I make this work by jacking myself to near orgasm inside the costume, pushing my primed dick on through to the outside, and stringing Joey with "penguin" cum that way?

I pull my right arm from the right-wing sleeve, fist my dick inside my feathery cocoon. When my nuts are ready, I give one final hand-stroke, aim my pecker for the hole in the front of my costume, and - Goddamn it! - miss.

"Jesus, fuck!" My belly and chest are quickly damp and messy with the cummy discharge now clinging the inside of my bird-suit. Perspiration runs my shaved head to sting my eyes. My blond goatee drips moisture like a mineral-yellowed stalactite drips wet from the roof of some dark-dank cavern.

Cum two, as usual, takes longer. My dick pokes through on schedule, though (practice makes perfect) and spews cum (as planned) onto the mirror-substituting as Joey.

Then - BLOODY FUCKING HELL! - the costume's zipper gets caught, and I can't shed my increasingly super-heated plumage.

The doorbell rings. I've invited the remaining six continents for drinks and a first-time meet - someone obviously [thank God(dess) arriving can-give-me-a-hand-with-the-recalcitrant-zipper early].

It's not North or South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, or Australia. It's Jim Petersborough, old trick, old friend, old neighbor from just down the hall.

"Whoa, man!" he says. "I didn't know a Ôchick' lived here. I came to borrow a dirty pair of soccer socks from my old pal, dude Lyle."

"I'm not a chick but an Antarctican adult penguin, you ignorant shit." My voice is muffled through my beaked head piece. "Now, help me out of this thing."

Which is easier said than done. In fact, we're soon joined in the seemingly more and more impossible chore by Africa and Australia, then by Europe, Asia, North America (love his spiked dyed-blond Mohawk), and South America. Finally, by mutual decision, we forget the zipper and rip a seam.

I emerge baby-wet from my Caesarean-breached womb. My legs have as much strength as a newborn and collapse me to my knees. My feathery cocoon gets tossed to one side, like a suddenly useless clipped foreskin, as all six continents and Jim gather round.

"Sweet, Jesus, Lyle you are into kinky, these days," says Africa. "You okay?"

"Just give me a minute."

He starts to shed his clothes and says, "Hey, everybody, since Lyle's naked, let's all get naked! It's his birthday."

"It's not my birthday!" I object.

"Whatever, I suggest a dry run to make sure we're all Ôup'..." He smiles at his double-entendre. "... for Joey's birthday?"

"Isn't going to be dry, in my case," says Australia; I love his accent; I love his cockshaft cockring; I love his socks (light blue with a dark blue stripe across their toes, yellow stripes round their ankles), which are just like a favorite pair I own (although mine are permanently stiff from my solidified cum).

Jim, who can't have a clue what's going on but is always quick to take advantage, strips as fast as anyone. No mistaking his trademark steel ring looped through his cock's deep-slit meatus.

It's not everyday a guy, kneeling or not, gets such a thrilling look-see at seven big cocks aimed in his direction (North America's with a bulky foreskin that covers its cockhead even when dick is stiff), each fisted and being pumped toward possible orgasm. In truth, I only have a good look at five (South and North America, Jim, Australia, Africa); Asia is only barely spotted out of the corner of my right eye. Sexily blond Europe is completely to my rear.

A dirty-sock smell suddenly fills the air. This lover of dirty socks and dirty shoes and dirty feet prefers the deeply funky smells of the originals, but I can still appreciate amyl or Foot Locker substitutions. So can Asia, who's first to cream. I feel, rather than see, his large wet-warm splat onto the right side of my bald pate. Africa shoots a white-wet frosting for the left side of my blond mustache. Europe deposits his load to the left side of my head and to the outside of my left eyebrow; he works his cock back and forth in the mess, atop my bald dome, like a luge getting ready for take-off. South America squirts a loop that bridges the bridge of my nose, another wad splatters my right cheek. Australia blasts the right side of my lower lip, then puddles my tongue which I've made available via my exuberantly singing - "Happy Birthday to meeeee!" - open mouth.

I extend my arms outward and upward between the open legs of South America and Africa. Their furry balls sexily caress the inside bends of my elbows.

For the first time ever, I have a third boner in one evening. I can't believe my real birthday can ever be any cum-drenched better than this is.