D is for Docking

Docking is a form of masturbation. The foreskin of one partner is pulled back and the other's foreskin is stretched over the tip of his penis. The two penises after being locked into place, are then stroked so that the skin is moved back and forth over the two glans. - The Encyclopedia of Unusual Sexual Practices by Brenda Love

One of the few regrets I have when it comes to my sexual adventures is that I rarely sighted a foreskin. Perhaps this explains a part of my current fascination with men who are younger than I am. I think about their penises and the foreskin is particular. I wonder how it was that in a career spanning so many penises there was a drought of foreskins. It is difficult then to picture the act of Docking or to imagine the push-me pull-you kind of action that would occur.

My one foreskinned-partner came too early in my sexual explorations. I was polite, too careful with him. He used to wince and back away if I lost myself in any kind of passion. I nuzzled up to this part of him as you would a bird, all fragile bone and down and wing. I rarely played with the thing when it was not errect. It was errect so often. I dream sometimes of a foreskin. Something that comes with the furtive sexual longings that so often plague me. I dream of nestling into his lap and it will be flaccid and coy in it's little hood of flesh. I will slip my tongue under the skin, a rolling back and forth motion, soft and gentle but with the possibility of teeth. I will explore the potential stretch of it, the plasticity, the way the thing shrinks back to no thing at all when the blood has rushed into the organ.

If I had ever had two lovers both with foreskins, I would have set them together in this delicate wrestle. There is nothing polite about my bedroom etiquette these days. Self consciousnesss falls to the floor with my clothing. In dreams I drag the two most recent infatuations out of their cowering crouch in my subconscious. They both have foreskins. One I know for sure, the other, I asume, all boys are left with this arresting abundance of skin these days and these men are boys comparatively. I kneel where the view is best and I ease their hips together. Two men, one point of contact. And how they would hate me if they knew the things the three of us would do.