Friday, December 02, 2005

Gay Abe

When your name is “Jefferson,” you develop an interest in presidential trivia.

A while ago, I was having lunch with a friend of mine, a photography curator, when he posed an interesting question:

Who was the most handsome president, while in office?

I put down my fork and pondered this. First, I had to break down the question.

My friend specified that only sitting presidents were to be judged. While Eisenhower and Ford were handsome as young men, neither had been particularly good looking while in office, so they would not be among the contenders.

Knowing the questioner also eliminated some possibilities. My friend was fond of asserting that all history prior to the invention of photography was irrelevant. So while my namesake Jefferson was by all accounts quite a looker, I could be sure that my friend was not considering anyone in office prior to 1839.

I also knew my friend would not be seeking an obvious answer. My first thought might be Kennedy, but there was no way he was considering a modern president. I could eliminate everyone after, say, Franklin Roosevelt.

Finally, he had not phrased the question to ask who, in my opinion, was the most handsome president. My friend had a correct answer in mind; my opinion did not come into play.

I chewed my salad and flipped through mental images of all presidents circa 1839 through circa 1939.

“Well,” I ventured, “I’ve seen a photograph of Wilson seated at his desk that suggests he was hung like a horse. But you are no size queen.”

He shook his head.

I took another bite.

The preponderance of dated nineteenth-century facial hair would seem to discount many contenders, particularly Arthur with his ludicrous muttonchops.

And Lincoln, while blessed with genius, grace and beauty, was never anyone’s idea of handsome.

Cleveland and Taft were too portly . . . Hoover too staid . . . Theodore Roosevelt too obnoxious . . .

I chewed it over.

“I’m going to venture a guess,” I offered. “Cool-as-a-cucumber Coolidge.”

“Nope,” he replied. “You won’t guess it. Ready?”


“Franklin Pierce.”

“No shit, he was all that?”

“Yes he was, and I’ll prove it when we get back to my archives.”

After lunch, I followed my friend back to his office. He rummaged through a flat file and produced a print, based on a daguerreotype portrait of our fourteenth president.

I whistled.

“Hot damn, that is one fine looking president.”

“Handsome, right?”

“I’ll say. He must’ve been some lady killer.”

“I don’t know about that,” the curator replied, returning the print to its folder. “But I’d do him.”

I thought about that, and decided that while there is no question that Pierce was a pretty boy, he did not top my list of presidents I would most like to fuck.

That honor still goes to homely Honest Abe.

Lincoln stole my heart many Februarys ago, as his sweet cardboard face stared down from above the cursive alphabet crowning the blackboard of Mrs. Huey’s classroom.

His partner, Washington, stared away, reserved and haughty.

Lincoln looked me right in the eye, his mouth almost smiling.

I’m sure my Confederate ancestors would roll in their red-dirt graves to think that I can imagine hot sweaty sex with the Northern Aggressor.

Maybe my desire is helped along by the long-standing notion, expressed most recently in C. A. Tripp’s The Intimate World of Abraham Lincoln, that he was physically drawn to men, in that prelapsarian era when men could still hold hands and profess love for one another.

Maybe I recognize that we would find some common ground as we compared notes about our crazy wives.

Or maybe my lust for Lincoln is wrapped up in my feelings about freedom after my recent emancipation , and my subsequent longing for honesty.

I don’t examine it too much. All I know is, every now and then I pull out a five spot and think, “Baby, you had me at four score and seven.”

Alas, the man of my dreams was laid to rest a century before my birth, my lust stillborn to the midwife of cruel fate.

If there is a heaven, I will find Mister Lincoln—yes, long before I search out Jim Morrison or Kiki de Montparnasse—and I will kiss every inch of his long lanky frame.

To my great astonishment, I recently got as close to this nirvana as I am likely to be while on this mortal plain.

Jimmy showed up just ahead of the first guests at the monthly male party we co-host.

We talked in the kitchen as we do, but he was a bit frantic with organizing his list and dealing with guests. I poured myself a bourbon and retired to the couch to watch as things progressed.

A regular soon joined me. He was nude, as Jimmy insists that all attendees check their clothing. I was fully dressed, as I must be ready to answer the door at the party’s beginning.

The regular and I chatted and nodded at the nude men on their way to cruise the bedrooms, until two new arrivals caught our eyes.

They were each very tall, so tall that they instinctively ducked as they entered my doorway.

“Looks like basketball practice let out early tonight,” my pal noted.

“Gee, they are six five, easy.”

“At least. Well, that’s a novel twist.”

Jimmy sat the boys at my table and asked them to fill out the form that all partygoers must have on file. (Jimmy uses this data to organize parties so that there are a balanced number of tops to bottoms, and so on.)

The dark-haired boy was seated with his back to me, but I could see the other very clearly. He was handsome, with wavy sandy blonde hair and nice full lips. As he undressed to check his clothes, his smooth and naturally muscled body came to view.

As did his long thick cock.

“Man, he is all right,” I whispered.

“And I’m sure he knows it,” my acquaintance replied.

While the dark-haired boy rose to speak with Jimmy in the kitchen, the handsome boy walked past to the bedrooms. He nodded to us in silent greeting.

“I think I’ll just check out the bedrooms,” my friend said, standing.

“Right behind you,” I smiled.

By the time I ditched my clothes and found them, the handsome boy was standing near a bed, his cock deep in my friend’s mouth.

I watched as the boy looked down to his cock, vanishing and reappearing from this man’s mouth.

I saw that he caressed his own nipples when he was focused on the blowjob, then lost his focus as his eyes scanned the room, presumably reassuring himself he was getting the best available sex.

I thought I might be able to help the boy with his nipples.

I approached and nodded, hand reaching to his torso.

He nodded, and I made contact.

I touched his belly and chest, holding him from behind, moving ever closer to the prize.

He jumped slightly as my fingers grazed his nipples, each timed to hit as the other found its target.

It was a very pleasant reaction. I lightly touched my cheek to his spine, and gently kissed a shoulder blade.

I stepped aside to face him. His eyes were intent on his blowjob, aware that others were gathering to watch him.

I circled my fingers around his nipples then moved my mouth toward him. He moved his arm to allow access to me.

I look a nipple in my mouth.

I was standing at full height, my lips just reaching his chest.

In time, he turned away to deliver his cock to another mouth. I took this moment to scout out the party’s progress.

When I found him again, he was laying back in bed as yet another mouth swallowed his cock. His fingers continued to work his nipples.

I leaned over his body, once more aiming to suck his tits. He shook his head, as my doing so would obscure his view of the blowjob.

I smiled and pulled away, running my fingers through his hair as I did so.

He shook his hair roughly, as if annoyed that it had been mussed.

I can take a hint. You don’t want me on your tits, you worry I’ll wreck your hair . . . well, you know where to find me.

I sat back on chair to watch the action.

The room was very active by this time.

“I saw what you were doing to that guy in the other room,” a voice whispered. “It looked nice.”

“Thanks.” I looked up. It was the other tall fellow, the dark-haired one.

“I’m Jerome,” he said, holding out a hand.

“I’m Jefferson. Welcome; it’s my place.”

“Nice place,” he said, looking around. “You must read a lot.”

“Yeah, but not enough to hurt me none.”

“Same,” Jerome grinned, his eyes settling on the men piled on my bed. After a moment, he looked down to me. “So, you wanna fuck me?”

“I think I might like that.”


He reached over me to pick up some lube. I took a condom and snuck my first long look at him. He caught my eye and smiled.

Jerome was handsome, and well built, no question, but I would have fucked him for that smile alone.

“How do you want me?” he asked.

“Face up, sweet, I want to look at that face of yours.”

Another smile. I was hard for that smile.

There was something instantly familiar about him, something I couldn’t place.

Jerome lay back on a recently vacated corner of the bed. He lifted his legs.

He held out a palm moist with lube and took my cock in his hand. I watch his large strong hand work me, then lead me to his hole.

I leaned slightly, entering him.

His eyes were on mine. He nodded, smiling.

As long as you smile, I thought, I will fuck you right.

Once we established a good rhythm, I moved up the speed, and varied motions. He kept looking at me, and kept smiling.

I caressed his long torso, enjoying the light sensation of hair on my fingers.

My hands found their way to his cheek, and his dark Amish beard. He leaned in to my touch.

That’s when it struck me:


Now, I was really hot for the boy.

I fucked him until he came.

We washed up together in the bathroom, chatting amiably, at ease in our skin.

Our conversation continued at the couch. I learned he had recently moved to the city to attend graduate school at my alma mater, studying a field related to my own.

I also discovered that I liked his voice. It was easily measured and throaty, with abundant emphasis on consonants.

(Growing up in the south, I came to treasure the exoticism of consonants. I reckon my family was just too poor to afford them.)

Something about his voice struck me as similar to Celia’s. I hadn’t thought of her in a while. She was from Maine, I thought, or Massachusetts. I asked; he’s from Southern California.

No regional connection. They grew up as far apart as possible within the contiguous forty eight. Maybe it’s just my ears that hear the smiliarities.

As his voice washed over me, so did his hands. He leaned into me, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me when he felt like it.

I could get used to this, and fast.

As we talked, the party thinned out. Jimmy was closing up shop in the kitchen.

“Jefferson, can you spare your boyfriend?” Jimmy teased. “I need him for a few photos.”

Jimmy shoots porn and dirty pictures on the side. Jerome had indicated an interest in modeling.

“Do I need to do anything?” Jerome asked, peeling himself off me.

“No, nothing fancy, these are just snapshots so I can remember what you look like.”

“Cool.” Jerome stood to follow. He turned and grabbed a wedge of my chest. “C’mon, I may need a fluffer.”

That was all the invitation I needed.

Jimmy posed Jerome near a mirror, and used his cell phone to take a few photos of his face and body.

Jerome glowered at the lens.

Jimmy lowered the camera and pursed his lips.

“Now, come on doll, you know I am only interested in you for that smile.”

Jerome laughed.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked happy.

My fluffing services were not required during the shoot, nor after, so I went to send Jimmy on his way.

Jerome fell into conversation with John, the only other person remaining. John is also at my alma mater.

We were three naked boys talking after an orgy when there was a knock at the door.

Shelby was home.

Banished from the male orgy, she had visited Todd for Chinese take out and a high definition screening of “Finding Nemo.”

Once a month, her nights at my place overlap with the boy orgy.

I try to have the boys out before she arrives. But she was fine about this instance; she likes John, and she was amused by how into this new guy we were.

Even so, I hurried the boys off.

They retrieved their clothes. I put on pajama bottoms.

Jerome gave me his contact information. “Be in touch,” he said.

I gave him mine. “Count on it.”

I kissed him goodnight, long and wet.

I had to stand on my toes.

He waved goodbye at the door.

John followed, turning back to kiss me good night.

“He’s so hot,” he mouthed, rolling his eyes.

“I know.” I mouthed back before kissing him.

I locked the door and smiled to Shelby.

“Now that you got rid of the bodies, man,” she smirked. “You ready to watch some movies?”


Dacia said...

This is a damn fine piece of writing.

Viviane said...

Testify, sister!

Shelby said...

I was wondering why you suddenly had a fixation on the dead presidents. This sure explains it.

Now, get back on your knees and oggle them some more :P

Carrie said...

A very good piece of writing. I wish you all the best and I love reading what you have to write :)

ThreeOliveMartini said...

hmm i fancy... TJ!

David said...



I always leave this blog feeling like i was there...and needing a personal moment...

Anonymous said...

Thank heavens you're back. I read your blog for you, not for fan fiction about what they want to do to you. You're even better than the real thing. While I'm sure her writing tickled your fancy (and perhaps a few other things) put it behind a cut or something. Please.

Sorry if this is too harsh.

Anonymous said...

I second that anon.

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Perfekt Dad said...

This is why I keep coming back. You can go from intellectual to getting me off in the same post.