Midnight Pour

It’s a beautiful summer night on this narrow strip of beach that only the locals know how to reach. The fire has dwindled to a flickering flame. Stephen’s guitar lies awkwardly in his lap. His fingers barely touch the strings and the notes drift aimlessly. He’s wearing the striped, worn-out swimming trunks I’ve seen him in since college. Me? I’m not wearing anything.

I didn’t start out this way. But we’ve been out here for a while now. The beer is warm, the night is what more refined people call balmy, and the wind barely touches me now. When I took off my swimming trunks an hour ago, Stephen didn’t say a word. He just looked at me, smiled, and kept right on playing.

“Do you ever feel like if you died right now everything would be all right?” I stare up at the stars and take another swig of beer. “Like you’re in some sort of peak happiness where everything is absolutely perfect.”

He plays a small chord and squints his eyes at the stars.

“I think you’ve had one too many beers.” He laughs.

I nod, not because I agree, but because it seems like something I should do. I haven’t had any more to drink than I usually do. I take a short sip, then a long one.

He looks at me as I stand up, my feet digging a little into the wet sand. Not even knowing why, I tilt the beer bottle forward slowly and let the first splash of the warm liquid hit my collarbone. It then runs down my chest, leaving trails that make my nipples tingle and my cock twitch.

I pour more as the small river runs down my stomach and stops at my belly button before continuing down. By the time it reaches my pubic hair, I’m already half hard and the stream runs down my shaft, falling directly off the tip of my cock. I feel like a human faucet.

“Fuck,” Stefan whispers and the guitar goes silent.

He approaches without a word, his gaze fixed on the head of my cock as the beer falls. He kneels in the sand and opens his mouth as I tilt the bottle more deliberately now, directing it, watching his tongue catch the dripping liquid as if he were drinking from some sacred fountain. His lips press against my tip, hot and eager, and I feel the movement in his throat as he swallows.