The stench of it. The holy ferocity and superiourness of it would beat him into a ping-pong ball for ever. But he was 32. And he was trying to get the chords right. Chords. Not cords. Not cords you can use to hang on drapes or cords you can use as tassels on lampshades. But cords you could use to kill yourself with. Your own private garrote. Your own private false fantasy world comes true. But the music he made, he had to keep that in mind. So he pressed the Chords. And he tried to think what he had said before. He tried to think the long silences were his chord strokes having an effect. Not that he particularly wanted to have an effect. It was just his way of saving face, of pretending the chord listener was not up in the belfry looking down like the Phantom of the Opera and seeing him for what he really was and for what he was really doing. And he was lying, but the chords said just get through it, you tried to explain, and explanations never get you anywhere, but stared at. You. You take my face in your hands and lift me up, to kiss me again. I undo my trousers and let them fall, you help me to unhook my pants over my rock hard penis, and then I feel your cool wet hand grasp me, and begin to rub up and down. I kiss you hard, and gently push you back to the wall again, pushing a hand between your thighs I finger you gently, to encourage you to open your legs to me. You turn and bend over, so that I can slide my hard cock in to your welcoming moistness. It feels glorious, smooth like silk, and so wet that my length glides in and out . My balls gently knock on your thighs, my belly slaps against your buttocks, I hold on to your hips, pulling back on them as I thrust forward, slowly at first, but with mounting passion on both our parts. I thrust harder, it is gorgeous and I can hardly contain my orgasm, I want so desperately to cum inside of you. Your moans and groans are an accompaniment to your more demanding thrusts and rotations of your hips. My penis.
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