I don't know what kept pulling me back to his picture. He wasn't posing naked or near naked as many of the other men on the Internet senior dating service were. But he looked just so attractive to me—and he set my imagination going. Standing against a concrete wall plastered with graffiti in blue lettering, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over a red and blue checked shirt, hands casually stuffed in old blue denim jeans. A friendly, comfortable smile in a handsome, angular, roughly shaved face. A brown short-cropped flattop haircut with blond highlights in front. Tall and lanky. He was more sexy to me than if he had been undressed. I kept returning to look at the long lean lines on him—and the so-friendly, comfortable smile—and I undressed him in my mind, imagining that his cock would be equally long and lean—that it would feel so good in my mouth and my channel.
His site nickname was Blauenaugen—Blue eyes. I looked in vain for signs that his eyes, indeed, were blue, but they were shadowed in the photograph. The whole photo had a predominance of blue about it, though, so the name certainly became him. He came from Köln, in Germany—a quarter world away from me on the East Coast of the United States. No chance we'd ever meet.
Still, I was drawn to his profile on the Web site over and over again. I fantasized about what he did for a living. I couldn't see his hands in the photo, so I couldn't see if they were callused like a construction worker's or long-fingered like a musician's. The profile just said "employee." I liked to think of him as both a musician and a construction worker. Good, honest professions. He had some university, though, so he was probably as intelligent as he looked to be. And in my imagination, I placed him both as a musician—sensitive; attentive; long, sensuous fingers promising a long, lean cock that could reach nearly to my heart—and as a construction worker—well-muscled, vigorous, long-lasting, and exuberant while fucking me. Even though he was long and lean in the photograph, his profile set him at 175 to 180 pounds, which promised solid muscle. Power behind the thrusts.
He was coy about the size of his cock in the profile, just saying he preferred not to say. This only deepened my curiosity and my imagining. He posted that he wasn't cut. I thought of Egen, the lover I had had in my thirties, uncut and long and lean of cock. Fucking me in those days before we realized that condoms were needed—letting my lips push the foreskin down off his glans as I took him inside me in foreplay and then the loose feel of the skin inside me as he fucked me deep with that long, lean, hard cock of his. I sat, Blauenaugen's photo before me on my laptop, and masturbated while I imagined him being as vigorous and as rough and as intense in the fuck as Egen had been.
Ah, all of those years ago. I was sixty now—but I'd been a male model and had done everything I could to stay in shape. Blauenaugen said he was thirty-nine. Still young enough to fuck hard. I wondered what he would think of taking someone sixty. I checked the profile again. He posted that he preferred a man between fifty and sixty-five. My hands trembled as I wavered over the message button on his profile. But he was in Köln and I was across the Atlantic. Nothing could become of it. Sigh.
But then he messaged me, having noticed how often I'd clicked on his profile. Although he understood only a little English, and I was able to resurface only a little German from my school studies, we managed to cyber chat a few times over the next couple of weeks. He was as open and friendly in his chatting as his photo suggested he would be. We didn't get into any sexy talk, although I told him over and over again how attracted I was to his photo and profile. I wanted to tell him I wanted to open my legs to him and pull his hard cock deep inside me—even though there was nothing that could come of that. There was this barrier of distance that just wouldn't go away. The ache of the barrier sat heavily on me, and I left off chatting. He was persistent for a while in sending me virtual flowers and kisses, and I sent them back—not wanting to lose contact, but having no farther we could go.
Then, months later, I signed up for a Rhine river cruise that went from Nürnberg to Amsterdam. I wasn't even thinking of Blauenaugen nor had I focused on the fact that one of the stops on the river was at Köln. I really had no idea in my mind where in Germany Köln was. The trip had attracted me because I had lived in Frankfurt am Main as a child when my father was in the U.S. Army and had fond memories of roaming around Bavaria. My plane would land in München several days before the river cruise started, and I would be able to explore King Ludwig's Bavarian castles again.
Unexpectedly, I received a "missing you" message from Blauenaugen at the senior dating site. I brought up that photograph of him and melted once more in imagining moaning underneath him as his long, lean cock sank ever deeper into the quick of me.
I went directly to the atlas and looked Köln up. Hand trembling then, I pulled up my trip itinerary on the Internet, and my heart stopped when I realized I would be in Köln for a full day during my cruise.
Blauenaugen didn't hesitate when I messaged him. He'd meet me on the steps of Köln cathedral in Dom Platz at 10 AM the day we docked very close by. He wondered how we'd know each other—I'd always refused to send him my photo. I was a rather well-known author in the United States, but was thought to be straight, so I didn't want my photo floating in the ether in any other context.
"Could you wear just what you are wearing in your photo at the senior dating service site?" I asked, striving to connect my imaginings with reality.
"Ja, sehr gut," was his reply.
There he was, at 9:45 already, possibly as anxious as I was to meet, although he was looking as relaxed and devil-may-care as he did in his photos, languidly leaning against the wall of the cathedral at the top of a flight of stairs, hands in his pockets—the same pose as in the photo. My heart skipped a beat or two.
His eyes sparkled, baby blue and arresting, as we met. So far so good. He seemed pleased at the sight of me. I didn't disappoint, or, if I did, he covered it up well. He wasn't that tall—not quite as tall as he appeared in the photograph, but he was maybe two inches taller than I was—and he was as lean and wiry as the photo depicted him. That friendly smile, and he was extending a hand. Long, sensuous fingers, but callused as well. Still a combination musician and construction worker in my mind. The feel of the long fingers made me immediately think of the possibilities farther down his body. I looked at his crotch, but I couldn't tell. But as he held my hand in his, I did notice some movement, some awakening down there. I felt myself going hard.
He led me to a nearby café, just off the Dom Platz, and took me inside to a small booth near the back, even though the sun was shining and most of the patrons were lounging out on the sidewalk table. To my surprise he didn't sit across from me, but slid in beside me, sitting close to me as I scrunched up against the wall.
We did our best to make small talk, him in broken English and me in more broken German, while we drank the sweet coffee. He told me his name was Rene, and I worked that over several times until I got it just right. He seemed pleased that I took the effort and didn't seem all that displeased when I still insisted on personal anonymity for myself. His was a nice name; it seemed to fit perfectly.
I was so worried I was a disappointment to him. I kept apologizing for not meeting him earlier in life and telling him how much effort I put into keeping myself in shape.
He just clucked at each of my nervous mutterings and told me I was better than he had thought I would be and, finally, to shut me up on that topic, he took my hand and pulled it under the table and placed it on his cock through the denim of his jeans and asked me if what I felt made me think he was disappointed.
I sucked in air and nearly melted on the spot. His cock went on forever, and it was hard as a rock. I needed no more assurances. I turned my face to his and he brought his lips to mine. His mouth was sensuous, and I was staring into those baby blue eyes of his. I was lost to him. He was slowly opening my lips with his. A sensitive, deep kiss. He tasted of honey and spice. Then, quite suddenly, his tongue plunged into my mouth cavity, fully possessing in, pushing deep in and retracting and then deep in again. I almost gagged and my breath stopped. Perfect—both the sensitive musician and an edge of the rough construction worker.
I didn't ask what he did for a living. I wanted him to remain as I imagined him. I knew that, wherever this was going, it wasn't going far. He would be in Köln and I would be in the United States.
I flinched as we were kissing and his hand went to my belly over my thin T-shirt. I was fully aware of the heat of his hand. His other arm had been draped loosely around my shoulders along the top of the booth and now pulled me in closer. I moved forward into the edge of the table as his arm went behind me. The hand of that arm snaked under my armpit, and those long, sensuous fingers were picking out my nipple through the T-shirt. My nipple had puffed up in the attention he'd given to my lips, and he rolled it around with his thumb and forefinger. The sensation was maddeningly arousing.
I moaned deep in my throat. An animal sound of pleasure and building lust.
