Men I Might Have Known. Brad Saunders

current rushing from his body into mine as it jump-started my own climax.

      Just as Peter’s breathing was starting to normalize and his cock seized up for the last time, I could feel the rush of my own load of sperm working its way out of my cock. I gave my dick one last, forceful yank and then just held on as my load worked its way down my shaft and out my piss hole.

      My jizz shot high up into the air—higher than I’d ever seen it go. One spurt hit me in the chin, and the rest arced over Peter’s torso and drizzled down on his face and neck as I shot wave after wave of creamy juice in his direction. Peter was smiling again and I could see his tongue darting around his mouth and chin, licking at the stray drops of my cum that were drenching his face.

      After nine or ten rounds, my muscles stopped contracting and I gingerly slid off of Peter’s softening cock. I could feel the stream of his still-warm jizz dripping out of my fuck hole as I got fully free of him, and I squatted for a moment to get it all out before I collapsed on top of Peter.

      There we were, in the middle of a steamy Parisian summer night, covered in each other’s sweat and jizz, reeking of perspiration, sex, bad cooking, wine and city smog—it was heaven.

      We spent a few moments just lying there as our heartbeats slowed to normal and our breathing became regular and synchronized. Peter was the first to speak.

      “I can’t believe we had to fly across the ocean and live in Paris to meet each other.”

      “But would this have been nearly as good if it had happened in any other way, at any other time, in any other place?” I wondered aloud.

      He gathered me up in his arms and sweetly turned my chin upward so that I was facing him. “No, probably not,” he conceded, “but I bet it’ll still be pretty good when we get back to school.”

      I laughed and kissed him before inviting him to share a cold dousing in my cramped, ancient, little shower.

      We cooled off together, but only for a short time, because we were soon at it again. And we kept at it all summer—in his apartment or mine, in train sleeping compartments on overnight journeys through Europe, at the cottage by the beach we borrowed from a coworker of mine, and once even in a secluded restroom at the Louvre. We were young and full of excitement and romance and energy—among other things. We were Americans in Paris.

      And Peter was right that night. It was good when we got back to school—but only for a little while. We soon drifted apart and found new romantic partners. But one thing we’ll always have together is that long, hot summer in Paris.