Beef Boy

When I first moved to the midwest I didn’t have much luck in the dating department. I didn’t have a car right away, for one thing, which limited my options to guys who either lived on the campus where I was studying, or who were willing to travel.

One of the first guys I started seeing on a repeat basis was a chubby middle-aged fellow who may or may not have been married; I couldn’t really tell because he wouldn’t talk about his private life at all. The guy never gave his phone number, however, and had a tendency to show up out of the blue at the oddest times of day, as if that was when he could get away from the wife and kids. He loved for me to suck him and I would have been happy to, if he hadn’t smelled so awful down there.

His genitals were clean enough. If I buried my face in his balls, they carried the scent of nothing but soap. He didn’t have any cheese beneath his crown. It was simply that his midsection smelled like rotten meat, or death, to the point that I would gag and have to hold my breath as I bobbed my head back and forth over his average-sized dick. The smell alone was enough to convince me to stop seeing him a month after we started meeting. It wasn’t until years later that I figured out, when I met someone else with a similar problem, that it arose from a perpetually unwashed navel. (So if you want to get sucked, scrub that thing out on a regular basis, would you?)

Shortly after I started seeing a guy I’d met in a mall restroom. A hairdresser. A very effeminate hairdresser from whose lips spilled purses, stiletto pumps, and Barbie dolls when he spoke, and who dressed a little bit like Rip Taylor on a public service announcement for National Silk Pajama Day. These days I wouldn’t really give a flying fuck about what other people would think to see me in the company of such a flaming stereotype, but twenty-seven years ago I was a little more sensitive about it. I would walk tall with my shoulders back, whispering to myself You are secure in your masculinity, you are secure in your masculinity like some kind of mantra, while my friend would be swishing along beside until he’d stop to plant his hands on his hips, stare at some passing guy, and exclaim, “Damn, did you see the package on her?”

I had a lot of growing to do.

I met my most serious boyfriend of several months in a restroom on campus. He was masturbating at the urinals when I walked in, and I was so taken by the intensity in his expression that I strolled up beside him without breaking eye contact, pulled out my dick, and started stroking right alongside the guy.

The guy was short, balding, and easily twice my age, but one could tell he’d had killer looks in his youth that were still serving him well. His eyes were enormous pools of the darkest brown surrounded by perfect whites, surrounded by the olive complexion of his face. He was whippet-thin, and his striped dress shirt hugged a fit frame. He stared at my hard dick, then into my eyes once more. “You are so beautiful,” he said, as he pushed me down onto my knees to suck and swallow his dick and load.

So he was near-sighted. I could live with that, because the few words he’d spoken betrayed an accent that was both exotic and alluring. Raul was originally from Spain, I found out later—he’d lived in Seville for most of his life until he’d moved to Michigan a decade before. He worked in a department store and lived in a northern suburb close to where I now reside. And Raul found me so attractive that he had no problems with picking me up in my downtown apartment and driving me thirteen miles to his home for overnight stays.

On my first overnighter I though I know how it would go down—I expected sex, and lots of it. I was actually pretty far from the mark. Raul picked me up and took me out to dinner (at a Ruby Tuesday’s, if I recall correctly). Then we retired to his bungalow and went into the darkened den, where he joined me on the sofa. When I opened my mouth and legs to get things started, he turned on the television and suggested we play along with Pat and Vanna at Wheel of Fortune, and then alongside Alex Trebek at Jeopardy.

When television palled, we looked at picture albums of him in his youth, when he outshone all his dark-skinned Iberian friends in photo after photo. Then we played Scrabble. And finally it was time for bed. Oh goody, I thought to myself, stripping down and slipping beneath the sheets with a hard dick and throbbing hole. Time for dick.

That was about the time when Raul grabbed my head between his hands, kissed me squarely on the forehead, wished me a good night in Spanish, and then flipped out the lights and immediately began to snore.

All righty, then. I followed suit, disappointed and figuring that maybe Raul simply wasn’t that interested in me.

I’d been sleeping for several hours when I woke up, confused and in pain. My mouth was full of something—a wadded-up portion of the sheets, I found out later. I was perpendicular to the mattress, exposed to the cold night air, and the lower half of my body was sprawled over Raul’s legs. I woke up fully when I realized that he was spanking the hell out of my ass. His small hand would rise into the air and then descend with full force onto one of my buttocks, and then the other. It hurt. It didn’t hurt to the point that I was trying to get away from him, but it was right at the threshold where pleasure had turned to pain and threatened to get out of control.

My cheeks flushed and burned as he spanked me with increasing roughness, not seeming to care that by that point I was half off the bed and supporting myself with my palms on the wood floor. I wasn’t even entirely certain that he was fully awake. I could tell he was hard, though; he kept pressing his erection into my leg as he continued to wale away at my ass.

Raul was mumbling something in Spanish the entire time he spanked me. Despite a high-school command of the language, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. His body language spoke for him when at last he yanked my ass into the air and positioned himself behind me. I felt him spit onto my hole; he shoved himself into me with one fierce shove.

And then he came. There was no in-and-out, no humping, no jackrabbit thrusting. Simply one shove to get his dick in, and then it started to spurt. My ass felt like it was on fire. The buzzing and tingling of it bothered and aroused me more than the blows had themselves, and seemed to cry out for more wallops to make the tingling go away. Raul held me until he’d finished buckling and squirting. Then he pulled out, yanked the sheets over his shoulders, and fell back asleep, if he’d ever been awake to begin with.

I looked at the clock as I pulled myself back into bed. It was four in the morning.

Raul drove me home the next morning without a word about the early morning beating he’d given me. I was surprised when later that night I heard a knock at my apartment door. When I opened it, Raul stood outside. He carried a large Styrofoam cooler that he carried into my tiny kitchen. “This is for you,” he said, opening the cooler’s lid to display twenty pounds of frozen steaks. I was a graduate student who had lived primarily (and sometimes exclusively) on peanut butter sandwiches, ramen noodles, and baked potatoes. Raul was giving me more meat than I’d eaten in months, and I was so grateful, it was all I could do to keep from grabbing one of the flanks and sucking on it like a meatsicle.

Well, I thought to myself. I could get used to this.

And that’s pretty much how my relationship with Raul worked for a good few months. He’d pick me up and take me out to dinner, which we’d follow up with innocent diversions at his place. Sometime between three and six in the morning he’d half-awaken from his sleep to spank the hell out of me and shove his dick up my hole to deposit his load, and then fall back asleep again. It even got to the point I wouldn’t fully wake up for the proceedings at hand. He’d take me home before he had to go to work, and then that night he’d show up with a gift for me. The second time it happened he gave me a microwave oven—my very first. Sometimes it was more steak. Once it was oranges, but usually it was meat. Frozen hamburgers or chicken breasts or enormous CostCo-sized packages of bacon or even once a pair of frozen turkeys. Without fail, I’d get a spanking, he’d get a fuck, and then twelve hours later I’d get a delivery from the traveling Black Angus delivery man.

Years later I shared this story with certain friends of mine. It was a mistake. Whenever I’d happen to go shopping with them in the butcher’s section of a supermarket, they’d make smart-ass remarks. “Bringing back any memories, beef boy?”, the clever pusses would say as we passed the prepackaged steaks or the huge mounds of ground meat. Or once, when I went to the state fair with a number of friends and we visited a livestock exhibition, one of them commented, “Makes you want to spread your legs?” to great approbation. A regular Oscar Wilde, that guy.

But oh, Raul. We might not have had the most regular of relationships, but he certainly knew how to fulfill a couple of my appetites.