I hold Richie’s photo in my paw.
I find the photos as I’m rooting through my storage unit. A bunch of Polaroids I took my junior year of college in 2002. 23 years ago. I was really looking for some old bedding I packed away, something to make the sleeper cabin of my semi a little more comfortable for the upcoming months, but instead I find these photos. Here I am, 43 years old, sitting on the floor of my storage unit in the Florida heat, staring at all these old memories.
The bulk of the photos are me and my old drinking buddies, probably taken over the course of a couple of days before I forgot I owned the camera. There are some guys I still call sometimes, some guys I haven’t thought about in years. I stare at each photo, hold them up to the light, remember all-nighters and great conversations and real happiness.
Then I pull the photo of Richie with his dick out and I drop it right there on the concrete. It’s him. A brown and white border collie sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at the camera and sticking his tongue out. He is completely nude, his dick half-erect. You can tell he’s shaking off a night’s sleep in the photo. Written in Sharpie in my old handwriting, large block letters, are the words “Richie ‘02.”
I can’t say I don’t smile at it. Beneath that are more photos we took that day, Richie flexing, Richie with his paw wrapped around his dick, us having sex. I used to be so fit. All of the photos have a pink tinge. All of them are blurry.
The overhead Florida sun is getting to me. Plus, I’ve popped a pretty nasty erection looking at these photos. I grab the stack of photos and take it to my truck. I sit in my bed (still no bedding, because I didn’t think to grab it), blast the AC, and stare at the photos.
It’s Richie. I haven’t seen his face in years, not even a photo. The last time we spoke must have been at his wedding ages ago. We got into some stupid blowout fight about nothing shortly after college and then we went our separate ways, but he was the most important person in the world to me. We were best friends and roommates all four years of college with lots of intermittent messing around when neither of us had girlfriends, and that was the early 2000s. I know I’m gay now, but there’s no way in hell either of us would have ever considered it gay or told another soul then. I’m sure if it was now, we would have dated. It might have turned out differently.
I start rubbing my bulge through my shorts as I look at the photos. There are some great pictures in here. We look so young, so happy. We’re just guys having fun.
I go back to that first photo of him sitting on the bed and lower my shorts. I start stroking my dick to it. That is a guy in his fucking prime. Big pecs, big muscles, leaning back on the bed so casually. I remember he had just woken up when I took that, that we had a weekend with nothing to do and no parties to go to and so we decided to fuck and take a bunch of photos.
I lean back in my bed and imagine I’m there. Imagine we’re 20 again getting back to our apartment after a night listening to the Deftones with our girlfriends in low-waisted jeans, and all there is left to do is fuck. I remember his toned body, his big dick, his smile. I moan his name under my breath.
It doesn’t take me long to finish all over my tank top. I drop the photo back into the stack and collapse back onto my bed. It’s freezing in here. A little bit of sunlight peaks through the blinds but it’s mostly dark too.
I hope he’s okay.
I know we left it weirdly, I know he’s married, I know I just got a little bit of cum on an old Polaroid of him, but I really sincerely hope he’s okay.
One last time, I look through the photos. Other than dating them with the year, none of them have any writing on them. That is until I get back to the first photo and flip it over, where with some stroke of luck I’ve written his phone number down. The chance that he’s still at that number is so low, but I give him a text anyway.
Hey, Rich. This is Jaime. My route’s taking me through Arizona in a few weeks. I figure if you’re still around there, we could meet up for lunch sometime. Your call. – Jaime
It’s formal, so formal for someone I knew so intimately, but I don’t know what else to say. I hesitate before sending it, then I put my phone down and return to the dark cabin. I grab a fast food napkin and wipe all the cum off my tank top, then roll it off and throw it in my laundry bin. I’m going to seriously regret that masturbation session if it turns out something awful happened to him.
As I’m putting the photos away, my phone lights up. I look over.
It’s him.
Jaime! I can’t believe it!
Yes, come have dinner with me and the family. I’d love it.