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A third pic arrives, this time of a skinny white ass. It’s early evening but still bright out, but the kid’s got his privacy blind drawn and all the lights off. He grinds back on the crotch of my jeans, the heat of his crack warming my dick beneath a layer of denim and the cotton of my shorts. My fingers rub against his hole, trace up his crack, circle his buns.
I can feel his hipbones jutting beneath his skin as I assume my place behind him. For response, he reaches above his head to clutch the headboard.
But we have no unifying principle, no definite aim; in fact, no philosophy of education.
As a stream can rise no higher than its source, so it is probable that no educational effort can rise above the whole scheme of thought which gives it birth; and perhaps this is the reason of all the' fallings from us, vanishings,' failures, and disappointments which mark our educational records.
I don’t know what else he needs to do for it at this point; he’s already got a stranger’s raw dick up his butt in a motel. “I don’t always get as lucky as I did with you.” I’m close to shooting. I shove all the way to the base while the last drops dribble out. “Hope I see you again, sir,” he said, an edge of pleading coloring the statement.
The married guy’s eyes roll up so that I only see the whites of his eyes. “I’ve got a fuck god’s sperm inside my lucky faggot cunt, sir. I’ve got my shorts back on by now; my shirt didn’t even come off. I am definitely, one hundred percent, positively going to have to stay in this hotel again.
What I really loved, though, was the exotic, soothing dessert I was always allowed to order: a dish of orange sherbet, speared with a vanilla cookie.
My dick flips up from under the waistband and wedges itself into the boy’s crack. But the ginger twink had a gape that could accommodate a Boeing; this boy’s pucker is tough to get into. Finally I guide the head to the entry point and start pushing. Now that I’m actually in him, he starts to open up. He sends me back a pic of his own, of a lean, lightly-muscled body sporting a pert and round little ass. The next photo he sends shows him manspreading in a coffee shop somewhere, handsome, smiling, looking like a lumberjack with a latte. I’m upstairs knocking on the dude’s door within five minutes. He must like what he sees, because the door’s barely latched behind us than he’s yanked my basketball shorts on the floor and gobbled my knob down his throat. The hotel was a Howard Johnson’s fifty years ago, when my parents first moved from a cramped apartment to their first and only house. The couple of minutes is just so I can quickly brush my teeth. I can still see the luminous white of his skin on top of the bed. When I reach under to tweak his nipples, even his chest is smooth as a boy’s. On Friday nights in good weather we’d walk three blocks down our sleepy street and see it through the bowers of trees—an orange-roofed and turquoise oasis sitting across from the freeway entrance. After I check my phone one last time to make sure he’s not changed his mind, I leave it on the room’s desk before I tuck the card key in my pocket and walk out into the hallway. I can’t squeeze my six-foot-three frame into a twin bed quite as easily. There’s someone 35 feet away from me—the photo is of a scrawny 20-year-old torso, hairless, his chin the only part of his face showing.
But between its nadir and now, the hotel’s been renovated and refreshed to become part of a middle-tier chain. He can tell I’m shooting; he clutches at the sheets and says “Yes . I stay in there a moment, grinding the seed in with my dick. He’s a tiny thing, like the white boy the day before. Finally I take pity on him and pull myself up and stand by the bedside. I spit on my hand, then sheerly by groping my way there, I spread the moisture on his hole. I’m loud when I shoot; I’m hoping his neighbors in the adjacent rooms aren’t sleeping. “Maybe we can do this again.” “Supposed to check out this morning, but now I’m thinking it over,” he says softly, as he rolls over to check his phone. I’d like more of that ass.” “Fuck yeah.” I let myself out. Unlike every other profile I maintain, my Grindr information doesn’t specify any positional preference. The guy has turned off his geolocation, so I have no idea how far he is.