"Wait" I say, "stand with me and feel the energy."
We're on a concrete footbridge astride the huge expressway, watching a torrent of cars bursting under us in the dark. People are rushing homeward from the city at the end of the day. Cars moving at full speed now that the evening rush hour is over, their headlights arcing through the crystal cold as we cross the old bridge on our homeward path.
Our lakeshore walk held a special sweetness this winter night for Rick and me. It's exactly six months since my surgery and I've just received the all clear on my PSA test. No detectable cancer remaining. Yes, they took my prostate along with the cancer, and a lot more with it, including my erection and the cum that had always been so abundant, rich and slippery and -- I thought -- an endlessly renewable resource.
But Rick and I still have each other. He stuck with me through all of this. I just turned 63, he's 61. My heart lurches, trying to hold just how big this is for me: being loved through cancer, loved through treatment, loved through the terror of post-surgery testing -- wondering if the cancer has gone.
Being loved in my new and softer body. Being loved even when all my love and desire doesn't make my cock hard. Being loved through my loss and my grief.
Yet I'm determined that I can still love, too. Right now I love to feel the force of all that humanity in their cars barrelling under the bridge, powering under us, through us, filling us up. Perhaps this big, anonymous love is easier, less intimate. Just the force of nature as it manifests in human beings. The life force that is still alive in me even though my limp cock seems not to have received the memo.
There's something about this night that holds me, tunes me into both life and loss. The bare lakeside trees, their last leaves rustling under our feet. The icy cold sucking life out of all that's around us. And the steely stars not giving a shit, watching these ebbs and flows with a far-off indifference. So much loss.
Maybe that is why I wanted us to stop on the footbridge over the expressway, between the lakeshore and the city, in the cold dark of the winter's night, bundled up and hearts pounding after our evening walk.
And when I say "wait, stand with me," something in him hears my urgency to stop, to wait, to feel this precious crystal night. I slip an arm out of my puffer jacket and sneak it under his leather shell. I revel in his strong back rippling under my fingers. Even through his thick woolen shirt, my fingers know they are caressing his rich chocolate skin. Celebrating his solid breadth and depth. I want more of him. As always.
I feel his entire body expand. Literally widening his hug, pulling me in closer, engulfing me in his mountain presence. Expanding even more as our hearts connect. So grateful to be alive. Together for this moment.
I feel his weight shift. "On the road down there, they all want to go home. Come on, let's go home," he says in a very practical voice. His firm arm pulls me away from the roar and the cold. The image of our apartment flashes up: warm lights welcoming us into our cosy nest, our refuge, our place of peace. I want to go with him. But I am not ready yet.
"No -- stay" says a voice from deep inside me. "Feel the essence. Feel the throb of this human flood, fucking its way right through us. It's the rhythm of life and it passes right between our legs." I turn to face the flow of humanity down on the highway below us, my legs apart. Swing my shoulder bag in front of me, leaning in so it softens the rough concrete of the balustrade against my belly.
He gets it. Disentangles our arms, shifts behind me, let those pecs press against my back, thighs behind mine. Warmth and comfort. Literally backing me.
"Like you have done this whole year," I tilt my head and murmur into his ear. I don't need to say more. We both know he has held me through my eviscerating loss as well as my brush with death. That warm, solid presence, standing by me. Accepting me, soft cock and all. Able to take his own loss -- who wants a limp dick? - without blaming me for what I can no longer do for him. Loving me as I am.
A tear rolls down my face, quickly turning icy. He kisses it away. I feel complete. His arms wrapped around me, his warmth behind me. Below us, the thick flood of humanity wrapped in the metal of speeding cars, energetically bursting through me as they roar under our concrete bridge. Ten lanes of traffic reminding me I'm alive. Each one of their desires a thread running through me.
Until I feel another, closer pulse of desire. Unmistakable, even through his thick sweatpants and mine. He's swelling against me.
"Uuuuh" the groan comes from deep within me. Feeling him swell against my ass. No longer trying to drag me home. Present with me, here on the bridge. Wanting me.
Without any asking, my back begins to arch, my ass pressing against him. I feel his lovely cock growing. Sweet yearning in me. Pressing back, willing him to rise.
Deeper down, my passage clenching, wanting to suck him in.
"You're tangled up in blue" I say and match action to my words to set free his bulging cock from his deep, royal blue boxers. I reach down behind my ass, slipping my fingers easily down against his heavenly smooth belly. Down, sliding easy under the waistband of his sweatpants, fingertips pressing inwards to get past the tighter band of his boxers.
Down, into his lovely curly bush, the one he specially doesn't shave for me, the bush I know so well. My nostrils flare at the scent so deeply imprinted in my absolute knowing. Even as I am breathing the chill winter night air, my soul is inhaling his hot manly essence, the muskiness I know is twirling and swirling around those luxurious pubes.
Down go my fingers, spreading over his fat, swollen, warm, beloved cock. I just want to hold it but no, now it is really straining to get up, no time for gentle cupping. Energy flaring up like a wildfire. Time for that deft flip, turning it upwards, freeing that magic wand to grow. The flip I know so well from myself, all those years of bursting out of my boxers, until last year. I'd be bulging in my pants, whipping my hand down and freeing myself to bounce up and harden ...
