Authors: Nick Pageant
Beauty and the Bookworm
4 Nick Pageant
The Tongue Boner
. This is the part of the story where you get to know me and start to root for the little underdog that I am, hoping and praying for my inevitable triumph,
, you decide you can’t stand me and just close down your electronic reading device in disgust after sentencing me to exile in the recycle bin with all the other stories you were too good for. I know I sound a little passive-aggressive, but you can put up with that for a few pages. We both know you’ve done far worse for much longer periods of time (remember that guy you used to date and the filthy things you let him do to you? You know the one I’m talking about, so don’t act all innocent.) Anyway, it’s not like this is your last chance at reading.
The Brothers Karamazov
isn’t going anywhere and you were never really going to read it. How do I know you were never going to read it? I
read it and unless you are currently being held at gunpoint by a literature professor you are not going to read the damned thing. Besides, this story,
story, is a lot more interesting than some dried up old Russians. Why? This story has dicks, lots and lots of dicks. Oh, so now you’re interested? I should have put
in the first line.
So… exposition… My name is Mason Leery and I’m a 28 year-old librarian. Sorry, I know that’s not sexy enough for you so… big, fat, t
hrobbing dicks. I’ll just keep sprinkling in that sort of imagery every now and then to keep you going. Maybe sprinkling is the wrong word, hmmm… I won’t sprinkle any dicks into the story; I’ll shove a dick in every few pages with a powerful thrust. And, for all you total tops out there (
the lady doth protest too much
) I’ll try my best to mention tight buttholes once or twice.
Now, back to me. I am an actual c
ardigan-wearing, gay as a daisy, librarian. I know you were hoping I’d be a deep-in-the-closet cop who was about to tell you how I met and fell for another deep-in-the-closet cop. You know, we’d both be alpha-males who, after a few hundred pages of denying the fact that we give each other ten-inch boners, would embark on an epic, cum-drenched love affair while simultaneously solving the disappearances of gay teens who have been forced into selling their nubile young flesh by a cruel world.
We’d both be real renaissance men, the kind of guys who can
hold another guy’s dick in one hand and fire a semiautomatic pistol with the other. The kind of muscle-bound guys who look not just masculine, but downright heroic, while being spit-roasted by equally muscle-bound guys.
Sorry, I really am, for both of us. I’d love to be spit-roasted by muscle-bound guys, but that’s not going to happen
and if it did, I wouldn’t look masculine, I’d just look really surprised, sort of like I’d been spit-roasted by ambush. You know, I’m naked in the woods, two manly men pounce on me from the bushes and give it to me from both ends. Sounds great, but highly unlikely. I’m probably not going to look all that heroic either. I might look generous a few times, maybe even selfless, but mostly I’m going to look like a guy in a cardigan who reads way too much for his own good and thinks he’s smarter than he actually is.
So, let’s talk about books. I am a bookworm, always have been. I started reading at age three and I haven’t stopped since. I read on the bus to work, I read while checking out books to patrons at the library, I read on my lunch break, I read on the bus ride home, and I read for an hour or two after climbing into bed at night.
I’ll read anything since I’m something of a book slut. I like sci-fi, historical fiction, gay romance, popular fiction, any and every magazine that crosses my path, anything. When it comes to reading, I’m the girl in the short skirt at the end of the bar just around closing time. Slide a good, or bad, book in front of me, and my eyes pop open quicker than that lonely girl’s thighs. When this tale begins, I was on a kick of reading nothing but gay romance because I was in a bit of a sexual slump, unless you count reading one handed, if you do, I was having lots and lots of sex.
Something we’re going to figure out together is that there’s a problem with reading too much, at least there was for me. Somewhere along the way, I stopped living in the real world. I expected life to be like my books. I expected happily ever after out of every situation and when I didn’t get it, I
’d just read another book. I finally decided, somewhere along the way, that people are disappointing. It’s true, people suck, especially if you never give them a chance.
I don’t want to imply I don’t have any actual living people in my life, because I do. I have an awesome grandma (next chapter, you’re going to love her)
who I live with and a really judgmental best friend. What I didn’t have, and didn’t think I needed, was somebody to love and okay, yes, have sex with. When this story takes off, I will have been celibate for eight months, 24 days, and eleven hours. But, who’s counting?
I guess you’re wondering what I look like, right? Okay, here goes – I
’m five feet five inches tall and I weigh 122 lbs. I have brown hair which I keep buzzed because I have a tendency to forget to comb it and end up looking like I just got back from that island in
The Lord of the Flies.
I have nice blue eyes and a button nose that old ladies love to comment on when they’re asking me where I go to school. In short, if you dressed me in red and green, I would look like I should be making toys for Santa. I know this because I wore a Christmas sweater (thanks, Mom) two years ago and a small child commented that I was very tall for an elf.
What about without my clothes? I did promise dicks, didn’t I? Fine, I’m just the right side of waifish. I have, for some reason, decent, if a little small, muscles hiding under my cardigan.
I think it’s from carrying stacks of books at the library. I have a little hair on my chest, but none, thankfully, on my butt. As for the dick, sorry, nothing to write home about. It’s perfectly average, but looks great since it’s attached to an undersized body. These things are all about proportion. Anyway, average all the way, which means, although I would like to get screams of ecstasy from those generous souls who let me stick it in them, I usually end up getting moans of contentment (could be boredom, but let’s go with contentment.)
So, there’s a little exposition about me. You’ll figure out the rest along the way. You’re going to meet some great people and some not so great people, but mostly great. There’s going to be just a teeny bit of angst (this is a romance book) and then there’s going to be a Happily Ever After. And, oh yes, dicks and butts, lots of dicks and butts. Seriously, keep a wet wipe handy, there’s some really hot stuff in here. Now, let’s see how
I learned to put down my book, look around at the real world, and fall in love.
It was a great day to get outside in Portland, Oregon. It was Sunday and Gran had kicked me out of the house because she had a bunch of people over to help her get ready for a motorcycle rally she was attending that night (that will make sense in the next chapter.) I tried not to huff because I hadn’t been bothering anyone by sitting on the couch and reading. Gran made a derogatory comment about my skin color and told me to get lost and find some sun, so I headed to Laurelhurst Park.
Laurelhurst is one of the most popular parks in Portland and that’s saying a lot. You can’t walk more than a few blocks in The Rose City without bumping into a park. People here love it and I guess I do too. Parks are nice places to read. Laurelhurst is big and full of walking/jogging trails, meadows to let your doggie run free, and tree after tree after tree. I like trees, they will someday be books. In the center of the park is a fair-sized lake that is somewhere between mud-brown and duck-shit-green. It’s that color because it’s home to hundreds of ducks. The lake itself is one part spring water and three parts duck shit.
The park was full of joggers that day, I managed to weave my way through them and found a bench along the jogging trail that looked fairly secluded, if a little too close to the duck shit. I plopped myself down and fired up my e-reader to get lost in
. It’s a story about a bunny rabbit shifter who meets a chicken shifter. They come together, fall in love, and then, tragically, discover they’re both submissive bottoms. They try bumping butts for a while (great scene with a double-headed dildo) and then they meet a dominant wolf shifter who’s into leather and bossing people around. He buggers them both mercilessly and everyone ends up happy. Five stars. The scene where the wolf shifts in a church parking lot right after Easter services and gives the other two a good licking makes it worth a download all by itself.
I’d been reading for about fifteen minutes when IT happened. I didn’t realize
needed to be capitalized at the time, even though it did seem pretty damned exciting, at least as far as my day-to-day life was concerned. The bench I was sitting on was shouldered by two lilac bushes that hid it from the view of joggers until they were passing it. Most of them probably still didn’t see the bench because they would have had to look to the side to see the bench and joggers pretty much keep their eyes on the pavement. It was a lucky thing one particular shirtless jogger was keeping his eyes on the trail that day because he noticed, just in time, that my feet were sticking out enough to trip him.
The man had amazing reflexes, but no luck. He jumped into the air and cleared my penny-loafers by at least four feet, making contact with a low-hanging branch above him. He did a midair somersault and
found his feet with grace that would have made your average pussycat green with envy. He landed with his back to me and, unfortunately for him, didn’t realize right away that his shorts had gotten hooked up on the branch above him. They weren’t ripped or anything, they were just pulled down enough to give me a great view of his ass. An ass that, even though it was muscular and pert already, was made even more pert by a hunter-green jockstrap that perfectly matched his hunter-green running shorts.
Can we all agree that the sexiest thing in the world is a nice ass in a jockstrap? Is there anything better in creation? I think not. If there had been jockstraps back in Michelangelo’s day, then
his boy toy David would be wearing a marble one right now. Anyway, back to the man’s ass; it looked like it belonged on a lean racehorse. It was tan and muscled and honest-to-God glistened in the sunlight thanks to the sheen of sweat the man had acquired from running. Things just got better when he realized his shorts were down because he bent forward to pull them up and gave me just a teasing shot of the pink between those beautiful cheeks. That’s when the second IT happened. That’s when my tongue got an erection.
You think I’m kidding? Trust me, tongue erections are a medical reality. My tongue hardened and lengthened enough that the tip was sticking out between my lips when the man turned around to face me.
I figured he was about to cuss me out for sticking my loafered feet out onto the jogging trail, but I didn’t care. Whatever this guy was about to dish out, I was prepared to respond with, “Thank you, sir, and, may I have another?”
He was tall, at least sex, I mean
feet tall. He was built like runners would be built if they spent all their time running around porno sets; long, lean, muscular legs, abs for days, big, but not too big (gross) pecs, and arms that would be great at pinning a person to a mattress or flexing seductively during a good old-fashioned spit-roast. His chest held a sprinkling of hair that narrowed into a goody trail leading down, down, down… Can I borrow that wet wipe?
He had a beautiful tan and his face belonged on a national monument to homosexuality. He was pretty and lantern-jawed handsome at the same time. He had wavy black hair and eyes as green as grass. I just stared at him, my tongue literally sticking out of my mouth,
until, finally, he spoke, “Are you okay?”
What? Was I okay? I honestly didn’t have a response and couldn’t give one anyway because of my tongue erection. I’d expected him to be pissed, but he actually looked concerned for the guy who’d nearly sent him sprawling into a few
million gallons of duck shit. I pulled my horny tongue back into my mouth and said, “I’m… what do you mean?”
He smiled. Great, merciful Jesus, those teeth! “I mean I almost stepped on your feet. Are you okay?”
“Sure, I’m good. Are you okay?”
He took a furtive look around. “Yeah, thank God no one was around to see my ass hanging out.”
“I saw it.” Why did I say that?
I figured… sorry.”
“I don’t mind.” Why did I say
The man’s eyebrows curled into question marks. I wanted to explain myself, but I couldn’t think fast enough. I wanted to tell him all about my Tourette’s or my traumatic brain injury or my missing chromosome that made my tongue stick out when I wasn’t saying inappropriate things. I just wanted to make him comfortable with the situation. I finally spit out, “It’s not like you were naked. You’re wearing a hunter-green jockstrap. It matches your shorts. Bet you had a rough time finding that color.”
Shocking I know, but that did
make him more comfortable. “Uh, yeah… tough to find hunter-green jockstraps. If you’re okay, I’m going to finish my run. Have a good one.”