"You want to see a picture of my wife?"
His question's timing was odd. I was in the back of his van with my pants around my ankles, dick in my left hand, a roll of his twenty-dollar bills still clutched in my right. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his madras shorts and pulled out his iPhone. A couple of clicks and a riffs of the finger later and he was thrusting the little screen in my face.
"Pretty, huh?" The wife was attractive in that white-bread, bland, Talbots-catalog way I've come to associate with the women of this community. Her skin was pale, her hair a carefully-tinted blond, her clothes expensive, but little more than loose-fitting yoga-to-coffee-shop gear in pastels. "We've been married twelve years." He flipped past a couple of more photos to show more shots of the pretty female in front of what I assumed was their house. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. "How long have you been married?"
I'd stuffed the money into my jeans. My hand was curled around my dick. Despite the decidedly unsexy talk, I cocked my head and looked down at my own rigidity, calling attention to it by the slump of my spine against the seat back behind me, the spread of my legs, the fingers toying with my balls. A long, quiet time passed before I answered. I could hear the sound of I-95 on the other side of the road, and of the strip mall traffic around us. "Twenty-two years."
His eyes had been on my dick until I spoke. "You got kids? You've made kids with that?" I didn't say anything. This was our second meeting, here in the back of this man's van. This father of two, this owner of a landscaping company, this blond-headed model from a Land's End catalog in plaid and a tight yellow polo shirt that managed to accentuate and conform to his substantial chest muscles. His hair legs jutted out of a pair of deck shoes, the knees pointing at opposite sides of the van. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably between them. "Twenty-two years. Damn. That's a long—" His thought trailed off. "Can I touch it?"
I was playing it reluctant. He didn't want me too eager. "I don't know," I drawled, looking around. As if anyone could see us, in the artificial dusk of that van. "We didn't talk about that shit, man."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out that rounded wad of bills once more. It sprang into shape when he unclipped it and peeled off three more twenties. He didn't toss them at me with contempt, or hold them out to me as if trying to tempt me. No, he leaned forward with the money in both his hands, offering it to me in supplication. He wanted to touch me, this time. He was willing to shell out for it. I took the sixty bucks and added it to the three hundred he'd already given me, and shrugged.
He didn't need to know I let men touch it for free.
The last time we'd met I hadn't let him close to it at all. This time, though, I opened my legs wide enough to allow his body between them. My jeans were tangled around my ankles and I still had on my college T-shirt and an orange baseball cap slouched on my head. His abdomen rested on my ankles. It was flat and hard. His hand curled around my shaft, touching it gingerly, as if he were for the first time picking up something small, delicate, and breakable.
Fuck that shit. "Squeeze it," I commanded. His blue eyes flicked up at mine, then back to my meat, mesmerized. His fingers curled, hard, harder. "Yeah," I grunted, thrusting up. "Harder. C'mon. Yeah."
He touched my dick like he'd never held one before. Not even his own. His joints squeezed the skin, and dug in at the wrong angles. I pried his hand away and reconnected it in a better, superior place. His face was dead serious as he explored the length of my shaft. He played with the head, and pulled apart the tip of my urethra to make it pucker like a fish. He ran the back of his knuckles along the length, and toyed with my furry balls. I even left his fingers wander down my taint, and to brush ever-so-softly against the outside of my hole.
"Let me suck it," he suggested.
I attempted to look horrified. "Fuck, no."
"Just a taste." He was begging, but I shook my head. "Let me rub my cheek on it. That's all."
His mouth was only inches away. He could've just lunged and I wouldn't have been able to stop him, pinned against the seat as I was. "Nuh-uh," I growled, taking my dick back. I let him know with a knit brow what I thought of that dirty fag stuff.
"Let me touch it again."
I stroked for him while he played with my nuts and ran his fingertips up and down the outside of my shaft. I think he thought he was doing something both erotic and exotic as his light touch fluttered on my skin, but in reality the best I can say is that at least he managed not to distract me too much.
After a while I took one of his hands and wrapped it around my balls, silently instructing him to tug and squeeze gently. He took the instruction well; the added sensation made my dick bulge and turn a deeper shade. He learned pretty quickly to tell how I responded to a certain kind of tug over another. By the time I was leaking pre-cum, he seemed pretty pleased with himself. "Let me suck it," he said.
I looked pained.
"You can show me how."
I shook my head and looked vaguely disgusted. "Nah, I don't think so."
"If I practice, will you let me next time? Not on a dick. On a banana." When I didn't say anything, he improvised wildly on this theme. "I'll suck on a banana so I learn not to gag. Fuck. I want to learn to suck a cock. Teach me?"
"I don't know," I lied.
"I'll give you extra for it." At that, I didn't say anything. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he thought he had me, there. That little extra green incentive, he seemed to realize, was all that he needed to lure me from the near-straight-and-narrow to the dark side.
What he didn't know was that I'm the one who was having him on. I didn't need that extra cash. But I sure liked seeing him grovel.
It was the sight of those wide eyes, that certainty that he could throw money at me to make me do things I wouldn't ordinarily, that pushed me over the edge. I shot in a geyser that arrived announced only by my hastened breathing and the arch of my back. It splashed up and forward; he jerked his hand away at the last moment as if I were spewing hot lava. I came in grunts and snorts, a married man's orgasm, brusque and brutish. Then I panted for a moment.
He was studiously mopping up the puddle I'd left with a baby wipe from a tray. I lay down on my back so that I could hoist up my hips and pull up my pants. When I was fastening the button, he suddenly hovered over me. His head was directly above mine; he looked into my eyes. For an astonished moment I thought he might actually kiss me.
"Hey," he said. "Does your wife tell you you're handsome?"
"Because you are. You're sexy. For a guy. You're sexy."
"Thanks, dude," I said.
His hand brushed my crazy hair from my forehead. I could feel its calluses. "You're hot," he said. "Think about the sucking."
"Yeah." I made it sound like that wouldn't be happening.
"I'll practice. You'll like it, I promise."
I didn't agree, but I didn't say no. I knew we'd get there, sooner or later.