My Boyfriend’s Bellybutton

My Boyfriend’s Bellybutton

A series of gay short stories about two guys with the same fetish

One

I have a beautiful boyfriend, lover, almost husband. His name is Ben.

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, approaching black. It’s in straight bangs, is toussled, and wavy, long enough to almost touch his shoulder. He has moderate eyebrows and often sports a light bit of facial hair — a bit of a mustache, a little covering the beard. His skin isn’t quite alabaster, but it’s pretty light — and is blemishless. On those traits alone, he’s my “type.”

I like pretty guys — a lot. I have always had a weakness for them. There is something about the face and hair of a pretty guy. It’s taken me years to realize that it’s kind of a femininity thing or, perhaps, the absence of the (toxically) masculine. A lot of guy-guys look macho, tough, dangerous. Even a male with visually appealing features, with a menacing vibe will cause me to draw back out of self-protection.

But there’s something else I love about him, something that bonds us in a unique way, and something that literally over 99 percent of humanity doesn’t and probably will never “get.” Both of us are navel fetishists. Both of us are sexually turned on by the sight of a bared bellybutton, a body part that the vast majority of people don’t think about, much less consider sexual on a guy. On females, from the halter top to the bikini, the bellybutton is generally thought of as patently female, but not so much on males.

I think this is a shame, and a bit lopsided. Both males and females have nipples, and some males even are lucky enough to have sensitive ones. Both males and females have stomachs. So why is it that we only ascribe sexuality to women’s navels, and not to men’s? I can only surmise it has to do with thousands of years of patriarchal conditioning and the male gaze and all that bullshit.

Thankfully, gay men have upended lots of that tradition. Guys are now allowed to be pretty — not just strong, calculating or dangerous. Ben certainly is pretty.

Especially when he sports what is now called a crop-top, what used to be called a half-shirt in my younger days. The term half-shirt fits — it’s a short-sleeved shirt, usually a T-shirt, and is cut in half horizontally, to reveal a few inches of a smooth, flat midriff area and, often in the middle of this or at the lower edge, the bellybutton.

My boyfriend’s bellybutton is beautiful. I get not a little bit lecherous saying that.

The very first time I saw it, he was completely shirtless. A lot of them are pretty boring on guys. They are “dots”– a little round hole — often choked with body hair or lint. They’re usually pretty small, too — less than half an inch long, so they’re unassuming — they don’t demand attention.

Ben was doing a physical task. I think it was carpentry in a shed somewhere. It was at some event I was attending, out in a rural area. He had been bent over, working on something.

I had asked him a question. He stood up. When I saw not just his attractive, simple upper body form, but that elongated dimple on the middle of his stomach, I’m sure an audible but mild gasp of delight escaped my mouth.

Ben’s bellybutton is my favorite kind. I’ve seen it called a “slit” online — it’s like a coin slot on a vending machine. It’s vertical, and thin, and is quite dark at its center. It has a sort of mystery about it. It almost seems to say “ooooooooh” to me, begging me for a playful kiss (or to mash my lips) on top of it.

There is no visible body hair at his midsection. A closer look might reveal some very, very fine hairs, but at a regular glance, it is flawlessly hairless. His stomach has no moles, no creases, no blemishes of any kind — it is smooth and lovely and beautiful.

And, consistent with other navels and stomachs, it is nakedly vulnerable. It is clearly soft, pliable. It is warm, inviting.

And navels being what they are, it’s just a little bit naughty, too. Bellybuttons have a way of daring you to look at them, to steal looks at them, when perhaps you shouldn’t. That’s the fun of an exposed one — it’s a touch defiant, a touch risky. The bearer wants to see if you’re going to look.

Ben caught me looking at his. There was a brief pause after I lobbed my question. He looked at me, then he looked down at his bellybutton. Almost imperceptibly, he spoke, softly, with a bit of a smile:

“You like my bellybutton?”

The question caught me off guard. Normally I try to shield what I call my stolen looks, thinking I’m clever enough not to be seen. But the situation we were in, this was almost literally in my face. Had I been kneeling it would have been.

I realized I’d been standing there, not answering his question. Then I managed to engage my brain, at last, and responded.

“Yes. Yes, it’s very pretty.”

He looked into my eyes, a gentle stare — not an unkind one, nor a menacing one. He looked down at his bellybutton, then looked at me again.

“Does it turn you on?”

Wow. What was I supposed to say here? Of course it did, but could I actually say that? Could I say that to this guy I’d never seen before? Was it a trick? Would someone else walk in on us?

“Um…” I stammered.

“It’s okay, it really is, if it does,” he reassured me gently.

I paused. Decided to throw the dice. May never get another opportunity like this again, ever.

“Yes, I am very turned on by your bellybutton,” I started. “Uh, you see… I have this thing where if I see a guy — a pretty guy, mind you — with his navel showing, I get…”

“Hard,” he finished for me.

“Yes, hard,” I admitted with a slight smile, almost thoroughly embarrassed.

He walked to the door of the shed, shut the door, and barred it, then walked back and stood before me for several moments.

“You have a navel fetish,” he half-said, half-asked, slowly. His gaze was lovely, loving, and kind. My eyes were darting between his face and his bared midriff.

“Yes. Yes I do,” I said softly.

His slight smile grew a little broader.

“So do I.”

I exhaled audibly with a bit of a laugh. He did a half grin-laugh also. Could this really be happening?, I thought to myself. What are the odds?

To explain, navel fetishists in the male gay community, let alone humanity, represent a teeny-tiny percentage of civilization. Most gay males are all about the cock, the pecs, the buttocks. Rippled abs are about as close as they get to the navel, and even then it’s an afterthought, moreso if it’s pierced or tattooed.

I had not had the good fortune to find another such fetishist, even using personals, online “dating” apps, or hookup apps. The closest I ever got was to someone into bared abs — not the same thing.

What seemed like an hour passed before he spoke again, but it really was only a few minutes. Time seemed to have stopped for me, in the presence of this incredible looker of a guy who I was very close to coming in front of, in spite of myself.

There was a light breeze outside. I could hear a few currents blowing through the corners of the shed. My breathing was heavier, but not louder than the wind.

“Wait here,” he said and stepped to another part of the shed out of my view. My mind played and replayed what I had just experienced. I had no explanation, but I loved it.

When he returned and stood squarely before me, he was wearing a black half-shirt — simple cotton — which was hemmed about two inches above his bellybutton. He kept studying my eyes, watching my reaction — almost like he was a scientist studying me. But clearly he was enjoying my gaze.

“It’s…it’s gorgeous,” I said, trying not to overdo the gratefulness I had for this incredibly erotic moment. “Your navel is just beautiful.”

He jerked his head in a brief aw-shucks kind of way. “Thanks,” he smiled. “I like it, too.”

Another short pause. He was the cautious one now.

“Um…would you like to kiss it? I promise I’m scrupulous about washing myself.”

I could have matched all six numbers in lotto, and it would not have made me feel what I felt that moment. I felt my dick stir with anticipation, my blood flow increase, my heart rate jump.

“May I?” I ventured.

He gave an earnest nod of the head to say yes.

“Please…place your hands on my sides first,” he gently asked.

“Sure,” I followed. “Can I ask what your zodiac sign is?”

“Cancer.”

I was a Pisces. Astrological blogs say a Cancer and a Pisces are highly compatible. We’re both water signs, meaning we’re intuitive and emotional. We’re both sensual and sexual in differing but sympathetic ways.

I placed my hands evenly on his waist, feeling the skin of his warm middle. I slowly knelt down on one knee, steadying myself, hypnotized by this vertical dash of a beauty mark in the middle of his abdomen. He was watching me. I was savoring every second. The air seemed to be very still. It was very nice.

His waist was now at face level with my face. I shot a glance upward to see if he was still looking — he was, with a gentle “go ahead” gaze drawing me on.

I slowly drew my lips closer to his stomach, to his navel. I felt the warmth of his form, the heat from his body. I smelled nothing, yet I was crazy horny now, which I can only chalk up to pheromones…or magic.

As my lips prepared to make contact with his bellybutton I stole another look towards his face. His head was back now, and he was breathing a bit harder also. It’s as if he was in a trance.

I felt the inside of my lips touch the warm skin of his bellybutton for the first time, pressing down firmly. He let out a little yelp and a couple of brief moans of pleasure. I pushed my lips down on the middle of his navel. My hands were grasped about his hips now.

I planted a flurry of short kisses, about a half-dozen or so, on his navel and stomach. I pressed down on the middle of his navel, and then did a circle of kisses in a clockwise path around it. His stomach rose and fell as I did. Clearly, he was enjoying this — it was something he wanted, too.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath.

“Please…please don’t stop,” he whispered, beginning to run his fingers lovingly through my hair and scalp.

The inside of my mouth moistened the internal texture of his bellybutton. The inner walls of it were firm but soft. My tongue came out to lick the vertical sides of his innie — a slow, down-to-up lapping motion. He moaned some more.

I kissed him there some more, continuing to hold his soft and warm sides in my hands, which themselves had gotten quite warm now. My cock was very hard now, and I began to feel precum bunching up near the crown of it.

His shaft had swollen also, through his faded denim pants. It wasn’t a huge bulge, but it was noticeable. I felt it occasionally and lightly bounce against my chin as I continued smooching his stomach.

I increased the pace of my kisses. His breathing increased as well. I was rapturously in another world, in another mindset now. It was all so magic.

Unable to handle the ecstasy of it all, my mouth completely on his navel, I felt a firm, warm rush of semen in my pants, then another, then another. I came harder than I can recall ever having come before, moaning deeply as I did.

Ben had been looking down at the top of my head at that very moment.

“Did you come?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered between breaths but still continuing to kiss.

And then I felt his bulge bobbing in my face, with spots of moisture beginning to appear in the crotch area of the pants, darkening as it got wetter and wetter. He let out a short cry.

He firmly held my face against his stomach. I had now switched from having my hands on his sides to embracing his full middle with my right arm. He was holding my head against his bellybutton with one hand, stroking my hair with his other hand.

For probably five minutes, the two of us just stood there, in that physically precarious embrace, me holding him at his middle, his navel thoroughly moistened with my lustful saliva.

Our breathing began to ease, gradually. He helped me, slowly, to my feet. And then he took me to his chest and hugged me firmly, emotionally, for several minutes.

When he released, I looked him in the face, his beautiful face. His eyes appeared to be tearing up a little.

“My name’s Ben,” he said.

I told him mine. “You’re not going to believe this,” I continued, “but I think I’m in love with you. I certainly don’t want this to be the last time we’re together.”

He pulled me to himself again, to hug me. We held each other for several minutes.

“Listen,” he said, pulling back slowly, “I put this on,” nodding down to his half-shirt, “because I figured it would turn you on, that you’d like it.”

I nodded.

“I love wearing shirts like this a lot. I…I love showing off my bellybutton. I don’t know why. And…and I’m turned on by playing with other guys’ bellybuttons, too. I guess I just never thought…”

He wiped a tear away from one eye.

“I guess I just never thought, in my wildest dreams, I would meet a soul mate over this.”

Now I was feeling deeply moved, myself. I knew what he meant.

I took his head in my hands.

“I didn’t, either. This was meant to be. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, and I certainly haven’t had a pretty boyfriend that shares my fetish, ever.”

I paused.

“I am so glad that you are here, Ben.”

And with that we drew our faces close to each others’, and locked lips.

Two

I had driven to the seawall to meet Ben. We’d been together a good bit of time now, and were actually “a thing.” He knew that I had a huge hard-on for his bellybutton and was more than happy to oblige in any way he could.

Today, he wanted to meet up along the coast, and just go for a walk. It was no longer tourist season, but it was still warm — warm enough to bare a midriff without catching cold. The gulf breezes were still mildly gusty and salty, as they typically are during September on the Texas coast.

It still being warm, while I waited for him, I let my eyes wander about, as I usually did. I’m not just a people watcher…I’m a navel gazer in the literal sense of the words. I am indeed introspective, but it’s about bellybuttons — how to see them, what they look like, why they turn me on, and lots more. I am quite sure I’m one in a million on the topic, although I’ve seen an increase in interest online with social media and sex webcam services.

Down on the beach, my eyes were drawn to another dark-haired guy, had to be 20 or 21. Shirtless, wearing dark swim trunks. He was playing around and gallivanting on the sands with a friend of his, kicking a beach ball around. I could see from my vantage point that he had an innie, and a nice-looking one. Not as slit-like as Ben’s, but lovely, still. His almost black hair hung in mop-top bangs on his head like he could have been a headbanger musician. Not bad.

Closer to me, another guy with more of a caramel brown hair color emerged up the steps from the sand to street level, accompanied by a chick about his age, probably 21 also. His hair was frizzy and his face and mildly soft features. Clad for swimming in the waters of the Gulf, he was wearing nothing but pale blue trunks.

I stole a look at his bellybutton and was visually arrested by it. It was oval, about the size of a half-dollar (a quarter at least). There was an “outie” part in the middle of it, but the walls forming the shape were firm. It’s the kind of contour that would occur if I stuck my index finger in a jar of creamy peanut button and dragged it toward me — creating a sort of “lip” around the edges and on the underside.

A lustful sigh escaped my mouth as he and his companion walked down the sidewalk. That was hot, I thought to myself.

A moment later, Ben’s car rolled up. He slowed and parked, waving hello to me with a smile. He cut the engine, opened and shut the door on the driver’s side, and emerged from behind the car.

“Hi, you!” he greeted me, his smile broadening, and walking toward me to hug me.

“HEL-LOOOO!” I said back in a “va-va-va-voom!” kind of tone of voice when someone is visually stunning.

Ben was wearing a black half-shirt (similar to the kind he had when I met him) — no pattern or design on the front, just an ordinary black, cotton crop-top. The bottom of the shirt stopped maybe two inches above his oval, deep, innie of a bellybutton, which I felt myself salivate for in my mouth. Complementing the outfit was a faded pair of denim jeans, no belt.

Ben’s midriff is slim, hairless, and undeveloped — just the way I like it. Some might say his midsection is a bit on the girly side — he doesn’t have body hair, rippled muscles, a tattoo, or a piercing, such as all have been the fashion of the day. He likes showing his navel off as it is.

We reached each other’s chests and drew close in a warm, snug embrace in the humid air.

“How are youuuuu?…” he cooed.

“Oh, I am so good right now,” I said, almost in a whisper. “That is absolutely the look for you.”

“I like a bit of daring,” he said with a touch of tartness and playfulness.

“I could absolutely never pull off what you do,” I responded, breathing just a little more deeply than I had been minutes before.

“Wait,” I continued, “I want a photo of this.”

I pulled my smartphone out and he stepped back a few steps with the seawall sidewalk in back of him, and the late summer sun beaming down on him. I raised my phone, framed him, and snapped off several pics, including one that was just a close-up of his stomach and bellybutton area.

The last pic of maybe a dozen or so I took, I offered him a look at the set while thinking to myself, I am the luckiest man in the world.

“Those are lovely,” he said.

“I will make sure I send you copies,” I replied. “Shall we walk?”

As we walked, I found myself thinking, I’m walking in a public place next to a guy with his bellybutton showing prominently. I found the thought both stirring and a tiny bit unnerving. After all, there’s a lot of homophobia still out there in this day and age, and living in a red state doesn’t help. Ben is pretty — again, my kind of guy — but he’s not “dangerous.” He doesn’t have bulging muscles, exploding biceps, or a face that says it’s going to kick your ass. Toxic males in the States are not fans of guys like Ben, nor this kind of navel-centering fashion sense.

“I so want to put my arm and hand around your waist,” I said as we strolled.

He looked at me with a smile.

“I understand,” he said gently.

A very loud pickup truck — with a bad muffler — roared by, making a sudden, huge noise. The passengers on board, all male, were carrying on and (from my estimation) probably drunk. Mercifully, they sped by without seeing us.

“Toxic masculinity, textbook example,” I muttered.

“Indeed.”

“I just don’t get guys like that. What’s the need to be loud, obnoxious, threatening?”

“They’re just animals,” Ben replied, and then giggled briefly.

Feeling a bit more daring, I poked his side with my index finger playfully.

He made a fake moan like it hurt. “Unnhhh!”

I laughed. Then I stole a couple more looks at his bared front.

“You’re gonna go blind if you keep doing that,” he quipped.

“I thought that was something else.”

“Well…that, too.” He giggled again.

“Do you ever feel…like people are staring at you?” I asked.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’re wearing something that’s arguably hot, but in some circles might be considered controversial for a guy — at least a guy who’s clearly not a muscle jock or football player. Do you ever catch anyone looking daggers at you?”

We continued strolling slowly as he thought for a moment.

“No,” he finally said. “I really can’t. I have, however, caught guys of various kinds here and there stealing looks at my navel. When I look back, they look away suddenly. I know they know they’ve been ‘caught.’ But nothing ever happens after that. I’m not sure if they’re curious from a fashion standpoint or if they’re closet cases.”