Damn. What time is it?

A ray of morning sun was burning through a crack in the drawn drapes, directly striking my right eye.

I rolled to the left to avoid the piercing ray. This minimal movement traded one type of pain for another. It felt as if my temples were being squeezed between the jaws of a huge carpenter’s vise.

The throbbing headache, the dry mouth and furry tongue were enough to remind me. I’d tied one on the night before, sampling at least six craft beers. Worse, I had ended the evening by tossing back tequila shots, the number unclear with the current brain fog.

I wanted to stay in the warm embrace of my waterbed, but I had to pee like a racehorse. I begrudgingly rolled out of bed and headed to the john. I stood before the commode and waited and waited and waited. My morning wood was arresting my stream.

I’m a fairly modest guy, but when I looked down at Mr. Johnson, I had to admit, he was one fine-looking specimen of man meat. Poking out of my pajamas and hard as a rock was seven inches of thick cock. It wasn't one of those equine-looking shlongs with a big mushroom head; but rather a spear. My weapon was a good two inches wide at the base, tapering down to a smallish glans.

I had never experienced anal sex (actually I had had very little sex of any sort); but I figured, given the opportunity, penetrating a pucker might be easier with a smaller cockhead.

Back to my dilemma.

I knew I couldn’t drain the dragon through a boner and I also, understood there would be a significant delay, if I jerked off to remedy the hard-on and then tried to pee.

I decided the best approach was to use mind over matter. I sat down on the commode and began to think about anything and everything that had nothing to do with sex. I finally settled on my next week’s busy schedule, getting ready for my older sister Fran’s upcoming wedding.

By the time I got to contemplating Wednesday’s tux fitting, my dick was dangling down like a wet noodle and pee flowing like an open faucet.

The week came and went fairly quickly. I’d gotten the haircut my dad had demanded and I met the rest of the groomsmen for the tux fitting. I suggested we substitute powder blue high school prom tuxes with frilly Buckingham-style pink shirts, but was met with more than a little resistance. Ultimately, we settled for Fran’s boring Black tuxes, plain white shirts and black bow ties. Ugh.

The countdown began. It was Thursday morning and I was on the receiving end of a fifteen-minute lecture on wedding weekend etiquette. My mom concluded the tutorial with the directive, “Here’s my charge card. Head on down to Dillard's and pick out a blue blazer and some decent trousers, maybe a shirt or two.”

I finished breakfast, showered and donned my usual summer garb: a baggy white tee, Madras Bermuda shorts and topsiders.

The mall was pretty deserted. I guess that made sense, given that it was just 10 am. I stopped by Starbucks and grabbed a latte. The cute girl behind the counter asked what size. I couldn't remember the special hipster code words, so I settled on “medium.”

Dillard's was like a graveyard. I wandered through the dress shirts and ties, making a mental note to grab a couple of both after my blazer selection. That credit card was burning a hole in my pocket.

A salesman approached, “I'm Mr. Hoover. May I help you find something?”

Mr. Hoover was a well-dressed forty-something guy. He looked to be around four inches shorter than me, making him around 5’8” or so. He had a buzzed haircut and wore oversized clear plastic glasses. A pocket square matched a floral patterned tie.

I explained that I had several social events coming up in the near future and that I had a shopping list, starting with a four-season blue blazer.

“Follow me. Let’s get some measurements.”

He led me back through a curtain to an area of fitting rooms. He pointed to a low platform surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

“I’m guessing 41-Regular, 16” collar, 34” sleeve, 32” waist, 32” inseam.”

He pulled a cloth tape from his pocket and began measuring me from head to toe, as I watched in the mirrors.

He asked me to raise my arms. I could feel his chest press against my back as he circled the tape measure around my chest and then my waist. He seemed to linger after measuring the latter. We locked eyes momentarily in the mirror. He smiled and asked how my day was going.

I could smell his cologne, a warm sandalwood scent. Oddly, it made me draw in a deep breath.

Mr. Hoover asked me to rotate and face him. He dropped down on one knee and asked, “How do you wear your pants?”

I was confused and was tempted to respond, “Duh, I put them on one leg at a time, just like everybody else.”

He presumably sensed my confusion. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure he had asked young guys this question dozens of times and responded dozens of times, “You know. Which direction are you most comfortable placing your package? Most gentlemen prefer the left.”

Without waiting for a response, he ran the tape from my right ankle up to my crotch. I could feel the back of his hand displace my cock and balls as he stopped the tape at the lower pubis. He leaned his head in and said seemingly to himself, “Yes, 32 inches.”

I took in another deep breath of his cologne.

Mr. Hoover led me out into the store and toward a rack of blazers and sport coats. He helped me try on three or four, leaning around me to button each. I could feel his warm breath on my neck and right ear.

I involuntarily closed my eyes and wished him to tighten what was essentially a hug and pull me back against him.

“What?”

Mr. Hoover broke the spell for me. “This last one fits the best. Let's head back to the fitting rooms.”

He hung the blazer beside the mirrors and directed me into a changing room. As he shut the door, he added, “I’ll grab you some trousers. Slip off your shorts. I’ll be right back.”

Who was I to argue?

There was a tap on the door. Mr. Hoover stuck his head in, then entered with three pairs of trousers draped over his left forearm.

I was feeling a tad exposed standing in the middle of the changing room without my Bermudas. Mr. Hoover didn't seem to mind, appearing all business.

“Let’s try these gray wool slacks first. It’s a fabulous lighter-weight fabric that is also wrinkle resistant. Kick off those shoes. It’ll be easier if you remove your tee.”

I did as he requested. I developed full-body goose flesh and my nipples immediately hardened and elongated like the erasers on a number two pencil. Air conditioning, I figured; but there was an additional stimulus I couldn't explain at the time.

I could feel a stirring in my taint area and the beginning of an erection. I was confused.

“Let me help you.” He sat down on a small wooden bench affixed to the left wall and motioned for me to step into the pants as he held them open at ankle level.

I leaned forward and placed my left hand on the mirror above and behind him for balance. I looked at our reflections. Mr. Hoover’s torso was bent forward, his head obscuring the front of my boxers.

The scene was almost pornographic.

I could feel my erection growing.

I stepped one leg and then the other into the trousers, as Mr. Hoover brought them up and over my hips. He buttoned the waist, but left the zipper down.

I began to worry that my elongating snake might make its way through my boxer’s flap and out the barn door.

Mr. Hoover didn't seem to notice. He ran both hands up and down the front of each leg, as if ironing out wrinkles, lingering over the front pleats. Without any hesitation, he slid the fingers of his left hand through the fly.

“Let's see if you really wear your pants left. What's this, Big Boy?”

I felt him close his fingers around my Johnson, boxer cloth and all.

I had no idea I had been holding my breath. I released an involuntary pirate-like “Arrrggghhh,” as he began jacking my shaft. The fact this sex act was weirdly clandestine, his hand hidden behind my fly, was not lost on me and heightened the excitement.

Mr. Hoover withdrew his hand, much to my momentary chagrin.

He wasted no time, however, in unbuttoning the trousers and while leaning far forward, lowered them to the floor.

As he was rising, he leaned toward my left leg and began licking his way up the inner thigh toward my groin. He pushed up the leg of my boxers to the degree that my cock escaped its confines.

He tilted his face upward and without even using his hands, sucked my precum-dripping cockhead into his mouth.

I kicked off the trousers, one leg and then the other. I widened my stance and simply did what came naturally.

Mr. Hoover seemed to be following the same advice. He slid his left hand into the right leg of my boxers and cupped my ass cheek. I felt a subtle pull of my pelvis toward his face. I obliged by bucking my pelvis forward. I could feel my cock slide farther into his warm mouth.

Mr. Hoover slid his free hand up my left thigh, past his face and into my underwear. I felt him circle the base of my scrotum with what presumably were his thumb and index finger. He gently constricted my ball sack and pulled toward the floor. The sensation was both painful and erotic.

I rose up slightly on my toes, increasing the downward traction on my nuts. I brought the back of my right fist to my mouth and bit the knuckles.

I was conflicted. I wanted Mr. Hoover to release my balls. No, I wanted him to pull them harder, much harder.

I was panting, saliva running down my chin.

Without overthinking it, I placed my right hand on the back of his head. He received my nonverbal message loud and clear, drawing my cock even farther into his mouth. He began bobbing his head up and down the shaft, all the while making guttural satisfied-sounding noises.

I closed my eyes, knowing I was close to blowing a load.

I added my left hand to the back of his head and began face-fucking Mr. Hoover. He initially gagged, but did not stop polishing the last two or three inches of my knob. He released my ballsack and added his hand to my shaft.

Initially, my lover sucked and bobbed his mouth on the end of my meat and additionally jacked the base of its shaft. As I picked up the pace of my thrusts, his technique, however, changed.

Mr. Hoover released slightly the pressure of his grip and no longer jacked the shaft. Instead, he adjusted his fist away from my belly, holding it tightly against his mouth, his warm lips still encircling my sensitive cockhead. He had constructed a six-inch canal of pleasure.

I began to fuck him in earnest. With each thrust, Mr. Hoover applied pressure to my right ass cheek, encouraging me to hump him more aggressively.

My eyes remained tightly closed, I was panting. “Yeah, Baby. Suck my cock. Yeah, take my load.”

I fantasized I was bending the head cheerleader over the sideline drink table, her short, pleated shirt flapping up over her back. I held her small waist, slapped her ass cheeks and growled, “Yeah, Trish. Make me cum. Give me that ass.”

And then my fantasy abruptly changed.

The drum major’s white riding pants were bunched at his knees. He was leaning over the sideline table, his busby hat askew and knocking over cups of orange Gatorade. I was pumping his creamy-white ass.

“Yeah, Timmy. Give me that ass. Make me……”.

“Oh, fuck. I’m cumming.”

I shot rope after rope into Mr. Hoover’s warm and hungry mouth.