Work Text:
Home
By Akablonded
akablonded@aol.com
He's losing his hair. I can see more scalp these days than I could when we first met. Of course, way back then, you wouldn't have found Jim Ellison between my legs to actually be able to examine the top of his head at close quarters.
He's wearing it in a buzz cut again after having tried for a less severe look. "Sandburg, you're pretty much kidding yourself if you think 'longish' will cover up the bald spot."
So, the soft brown hair is in a crew modality, and the crew seems to be baling out faster and faster these days.
But, considering my dick has been doing the great slalom ride down my folliclely-challenged lover's throat in the past several months more often than George Bush can say 'compassionate conservatism,' it doesn't seem so important anymore.
God, I love Jim in this position, with 'where I live' in his mouth, and 'who I am' in his heart.
I have to say that Ellison's really good at multi-tasking. In other words, he can blow me with the best of them, fondle my balls with one hand, and shove a couple of talented fingers from the other up my ass to get me really rocking and rolling with the best of them.
And as he finishes me off, by 'humming' around my throbbing cock, and driving me as crazy as Bedlam's finest, I'm struck with how amazing this all is. On one side of the ledger, I love this titan of a man without reservation. On the other, he returns the favor. In spades.
You know how good Major Crimes Detective Jim Ellison looks right now, as he lifts his face away from my groin, with those blue eyes flashing joy and happiness, and a small trickle of my spunk running down from the corner of his mouth? I don't mean to gross you out. I guess if you're not actively involved, it sounds really crude. Like a sonnet written on a graffitied, bathroom wall.
It's anything but. Having the big guy hold you, and touch you, and caress you, and love you to distraction is one of the most creative things that the deity ever thought of. I say prayers every day, and light candles every night to whichever higher power put me on the 'Luckiest S.O.B.s Ever' list, and let us find one another.
Oh, man, hang on. I'm ... just a little ... too close ... what's he doing ... he's ... Jesus H., his tongue is pushing into my ...
"Christ on a cross, Jim! Don't stop. Tongue-fuck me, baby!"
Good boy, good Sentinel. Make your Guide explode like Krakatao, East of Java. I didn't need all of that body fluid and all of those brain cells anyway.
***
Sorry I had to leave you hanging there. We need to be a little quiet here, because Jim is snoring away. Well, maybe we don't. Emergency broadcast testing signals aren't this loud. He and his five heightened senses were used quite creatively, if I do say so myself, when I took charge of this evening's entertainment. Kind of like an NC-17 dinner theater. All you can eat with a pretty amazing performance thrown in for the price of admission. The price? My lover has to ask. But I'm pretty flexible with the policy. Flexible is my middle name. (I bet you thought it was Jacob, right?) And the house management aims to please.
Jim can ask with a smoky look, a feather-light touch, a passionate whisper, and sometimes with a bird-dog sniff. Honest to God. His nostrils flare, as he starts to inhale all around me. It's like a big old hound catching the scent of prey that he'd like to play with before eating. For my part, my pheromones, the body's "On leave, soldier? Want some company?" chemicals, wash over him, as I offer magnanimously to scratch his itch -- no matter how big it is or where it's settled this time.
When any or all of the above happens, well, Mr. Ellison is immediately taken to a table for one up close to -- make that on -- the stage. Then, the show gets rolling. Acrobats, aerialists, and contortionists need not apply. Man, he's got some truly astonishing natural ability going on there. And I'm the grateful recipient of it all.
I don't like to think that Jim was as good with anybody else. He couldn't have been. Not possible. Because he didn't love them.
But it still makes me as jealous at all get out to think of those hands touching anybody else, that body pressing against anybody else, that mouth kissing anybody else ... and that heart opening up for anybody else. Hell, I even lose it when I think about other people seeing him nude. Or looking at him as though they'd like to see him nude.
I know, I know. It's so juvenile, and beneath what my lover and I have together. But, see, no matter what you've heard, I have some issues, not the least of which is problems with self-confidence, especially where my Jim is concerned. In my soul, I know he's mine, and I'm his. Now, if I could just stencil that on his forehead, and his butt, I'd feel a whole lot better.
Hang on. I have to move my 200 lb. semi-comatose, drooling pillow over a bit, if I ever want the feeling in my left arm to return.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. 'Mine.' Let me clarify that. I don't mean it as in "I own you." It's more like the feeling you get when you say "home," the place where the rest of the world is the B part of the big, cosmic plan.
The A part is us, Jim and me, Sentinel and Guide, new/forever lovers, best friends, and partners in all things. Wherever we are, it's 'home.' Christ, I sound like I'm channeling Hallmark, but, fuck it. It's how I feel. Same with my sleeping Adonis. And he'd tell you so himself, if he'd just come back to the land of the living from his two-hour powernap.
My fault. I did him hard and long (I was both) and made the big man scream my name. I can only hope the neighbors think I'm deaf, and my roommate is just trying to get my attention. Sure. It's possible. What did he say earlier this evening? "Fuck me raw, Sandburg! Let me feel you up my ass! Make me remember it every time I sit down!"
Yeah, that's how I'd call Grandpa to the table for dinner.
I can only imagine what it's going to be like when Jim's really the 'old man' in his 80s, and I'm a 'kid' of 70 plus. I bet he'll still be the handsomest man I've ever met. I, on the other hand, will look like Albert Einstein on a bad hair day. A retired cop-slash-anthropologist-slash-writer-slash-lecturer-slash-former boytoy, naked, except for orthopedic shoes and a Velcroed jock strap. And as willing to make love to James Joseph Ellison at the drop of a hat as the gods and a truckload of Viagra allow.
Maybe I'm prejudiced, but I think that Ellison and Sandburg will still be the best couple around. Because we'll always know where 'home' is. It's in one another's arms.
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