Renewal of Passion

I had been down and just marking time ever since I'd left Beirut three years earlier. I hadn't really been able to write that whole time either; I was just floating on the royalties from my earlier novels, written in the passion of my youth—passion that I just couldn't find in me anymore. Perhaps it was having hit that deadly age of fifty; perhaps passion naturally dissipated from that point. But, again, perhaps it was the radical change in my lifestyle. I'd loved teaching at the American University of Beirut, but I'd been warned it was time to leave Lebanon—that it was just too dangerous there for Americans at that time—and I knew in my heart that this was a reasonable assessment—that placing myself in danger placed others around me in danger as well, people I cared deeply for. I'd loved—in every sense of the word—my young protege, Riyad Munif, now a celebrated novelist throughout the Arab world in his own right.

Three long years later now, and I hadn't had anyone since that last, memorable evening in Riyad's arms before I boarded my last flight out of Lebanon. The glorious memory of possessing him, my cock churning around inside him, and him moaning and sighing for me in that beautiful melodic voice of his—just a slowly receding memory. Now all I had was dry dust: mornings as an occasional guest lecturer at a creative writing class over at the university and afternoons and evenings sitting in front the blank, blinking window of my computer, spent of both words and passion.

It was on a cold, dreary morning in one of those creative writing classes that my Palestinian came into my life and thawed my frozen heart. He was bright eyed, hanging on my every word and nuance. And he was beautiful, all dark and steamy good looks. I was lost to men of the Levant; that, quite frankly was why I had landed in Beirut to begin with. In my youth, all you had to do is troop a young Arab beauty by me, and my cock would flip up to attention. But as beautiful as this young Palestinian student, Samir, was, my cock was just nestled there, limply down my right pant leg on this morning. I was feeling so old. So useless and empty.

But these feeling apparently didn't convey to Samir. As class was breaking up, he asked me if he could show me the manuscript he was working on, that he was blocked on how to proceed and really could use some help. I hesitated a few moments, knowing full well that I didn't have anything else to do that day—or the next day—or the day after that. He looked so eager and stroked my ego so hard with comments on the effect my novels had had on him, that I relented and took him back to my home with me that day.

While I sat in my wing chair, scanning through passages from his manuscript, Samir stretched out on my sofa, his eyes glued to mine, looking for any evidence of response, negative or positive to his writing.

Samir's style was vaguely failure and was getting more and more familiar as I continued. His phrasing was elegant and sparse and the content was warming my blood, as I was pulled into the tale of a young student's love affair with his professor—his male professor. The character of the professor had such familiarity to it; it was almost as if I already knew this person. And Samir himself obviously was the narrator of the tale, the young student of the manuscript. I felt a stirring inside me that I hadn't felt for three years.

I looked up sharply at Samir. He was favoring me with a sensuous-lipped smile. I was a little shocked and confused. This was strongly homosexual material. Wonderfully written, but leaving little to the imagination. I'd never written anything but the most mainstream novels. Yet, this student was sitting here, watching me read his explicit prose without the least bit of embarrassment about how I might be reacting to the material.

"Excellent work, Samir," I said. "But these characters . . . some of this phrasing. They seem so familiar. Is this all your work? I can't place it, but . . ."

"Perhaps it is because of who I . . . studied . . . under."

I was confused. Why the hesitation? And why that languid grin?

"Riyad Munif." Samir explained as he gracefully unwound himself from a semisuppine position on the couch and sat up on the edge, very close to me now. "My undergraduate work was at the American University of Beirut—under Professor Riyad Munif. And I mean under professor Munif in more ways than one. Professor Munif told me about you when he learned I was coming to the States to study."

I sat there, dumbfounded, not able to say a thing. Old memories and emotions stirring. A sign of spring returning for the first time in three years.

Samir stood and took my hand in his and simply said, "Would you mind terribly if I took you into your bedroom and made love to you? It would mean so much to me and to my writing."

Shock. A complete lose for words or action. I dumbly rose as he squeezed my hand and followed him to my bedroom, where he slowly undressed me with his hands, covering me with his gliding and searching hands and mouth as he did so. When I was naked, he pushed me down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and started working my cock with a soft and searching mouth. My fingers went to his head, wandering through his black, curly hair, and holding him to my crotch. I was having trouble breathing and gave him quite an audible show with my groans and moans as he brought me back to life after so many months and years of dormancy.

He pulled away only long enough to murmur, "Riyad was so right. He said you were huge and so thick. He was right. You don't know how I've dreamed about this cock." And then he was swallowing me again, deep-throating me, making me hold my breath to the point of blacking out. I shuddered and came down his throat in several spouting fountains of long-unsummoned semen.

The young, vigorous Samir popped right up, quickly stripped off his clothes, revealing a perfectly shaped body, lovingly built and maintained, and jumped up on the bed on his knees. Pulling me with him, he positioned us on the center of the bed and devoured me with kisses. His hands were everywhere, exploring my every curve and cavity, entering even my ass deep enough to reach my prostate and make my cock, so recently drained, harden up again and begin to burble precum. All the time he was telling me how wonderful my body was, sweet words of a fifty-year-old has been, even if untrue. Whatever the truth of the matter, his words and attention were having a marvelous effect. I felt the passion of arousal coursing through me again, after a long, long absence.

He lips and teeth were at my nipples now, ravaging them, making me crazy with lust.

"Riyad told me you loved nipple work," he was whispering. "And you have such large, brown aureoles. I can hardly get them in my mouth—but I will try." And try and succeed he did, and Riyad had been very right about my nipples as an erogenous zone, and I screamed out in ecstasy for him and writhed under my young attacker.

He had me on my back now and was below me, attacking my cock, balls, and asshole equally with his lips, tongue, teeth. My hips were bouncing up and down on the surface of the bed, in an ever-more-rapid rhythm. I was fucking his mouth again now with the rhythm of my hips and, at the same time, fucking myself on the three stiff fingers he had up my ass.

A flash of regret as my mind focused now on what was surely to happen next. Samir was going to fuck me. He was going to bury that lovely young dick up my ass and pump me hard. It had been so long since I'd had sex that I almost welcomed this. But I remember something I had frequently said when I, myself, was a young stud. "Young top turns into old bottom," I've always said. Samir had brought me back to life when I thought that sex was finally dead to me, but there was slight regret that I was to become a fulfillment of my old mocking declaration. It's the old man who gets fucked—if he's lucky.

Samir slid up my body, covering mine with his. "Fuck me now. Will you fuck me now?" he asked plaintively. "Riyad said you were a master cocksman. Can you side split me? Riyad said you were the best at that."

I was flooded with gratefulness and a new wave of passion that brought with it strength and confidence I hadn't experienced since I'd gotten on the plane in Beirut.

I turned on my side, and Samir nestled his body within mine, his butt cuddled into my crotch. As I lifted Samir's right leg up and away from his body with my hand, he reached down and guided my erect cock to and just inside his asshole, and then I started to assert control.

"Wait a minute," Samir suddenly said and bounced away from me and off the bed. "Do you mind if I tilt this dresser mirror so we both can see what you're doing? I want to watch your cock as it moves in and out of me."

He took the deep growling of overflowing passion at the back of my throat as assent, and he turned the mirror and was quickly back within my trembling arms. Old memories and capabilities and techniques and control and vigor returning to me, as my cock plowed up Samir's ass and I pumped him. With added fascination, I watched my thick cock stroking back and forth in his impossibly tight, sweet hole as the movement was reflected in the mirror. I turned my eyes on Samir's and saw him watching the movement with wide-eyed wonder. He groaned and whispered in a breathy small, voice.

"God, that's hot. Watching you enter and pump me. Can you take it all out and stuff it back in again? Ahhh. Yes. And again, harder, deeper? Yessss! It's so Bi— Ahhhhhh, Yessss!" He was whimpering now, lost in the combined effect of sight and sensation.

Our lips met and devoured each other, both at the height of passion and lust.

At full power, I pulled him up onto his knees and held his hips in strong hands, rocking him back and forth as I continued to pump my cock inside him for long minutes. He screamed and cried and groaned and grunted, leaving no question of my virility and ability to grab him deep and pull all of the energy and passion out of him that he had to give. This old man mastering and exhausting the younger man writhing below me.

Leaving a satisfied Palestinian youth collapsed on my bed, moaning and whimpering his full satisfaction, I rose and moved to my computer and started to fill those empty screens with an elegant, bold story of passion and renewed power. Old no more in any dimension that counted.