Monday, February 13, 2012

Regular Dudes

I’m sitting in the Mexican food joint, solo, three-quarters of the way through the burrito I’ve ordered for dinner, when he walks in. He’s wearing jeans from Neiman-Marcus, pressed to within an inch of their denimed life. A leather jacket the color of caramel, and softer than butter. And one of those plaid, J. Crew shirts that are the weekend uniform of married dads throughout this county of Connecticut. His hands are in his pockets.

The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen.

“I think so,” he says.

The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.”

I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter.

Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity.

I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over.

There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar.

My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray.

“Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?”

“I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly.

“She doesn’t ask where you’re going?”

I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?”

He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?”

“Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.”

The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart.

“All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.”

It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs.

When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch.

I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this.

“You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket.

His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly.

I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open.

“I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.”

“Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog.

“I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.”

“I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice.

“Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive.

I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand.

He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts.

I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft.

“It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.”

“Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice.

The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat.

When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says.

“Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already.

“Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.”

“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question.

“You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out.

“Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors.

I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!!

I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all.


  1. Not bad at all, my friend, though I think you're pretty damn hot myself. I'm glad to see you a the landscaper are still having fun with each other. I don't know why, but there is something so human about the way he needs that fantasy. I think that is why I like reading about it so much.


    1. Thanks, Ace. The last time I wrote about the Landscaper, I got a lecture about manipulating his homophobia for sex and cash. That kind of crap doesn't stop me from having the encounters. But it does stop me from writing about them.

    2. Some people just don't get that you aren't manipulating him, but indulging his need for this. It has been clear to me from the start that if you let him go fast or you didn't take the cash from him, that he would drop you and look for someone else to help his fantasy come true. He is much better off with you, in my opinion.

    3. Don't let it stop you from writing about the Landscaper, I love reading the progression. HOT!

    4. Some straight guys want to pay for it so in their mind it's nothing more then buying milk and bread at the store. Getting something for there money and not them having sex with another man. If they can't do a business transaction, then they won't do it, so the 'deal' is very important to them.

  2. I'm confused, having not read the landscaper's previous exploits, but is he actually that desperately scared or is it role playing you two do? Either way it's deliciously hot. I say damn the torpedoes. Write about it!

    Matthew Darringer

    1. Matthew, the 'The landscaper' tag at the bottom of the entry will take you to the other entries I've written about him.

      He's a very deeply closeted guy who has never been with any other guy than me, who pays me basically to jack off for him while he watches. He assumes I am the pinnacle of straight man-dom who has never been with another dude before. (I KNOW!) I indulge him in the fantasy.

      So for him it's deadly earnest. For me, it's just acting.

  3. """""“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question."""""

    That line just screams 'I'm a man and your not'. I wonder if he got that message?

    Since he didn't expect getting your load on his face, I think next time you should make sure he knows he's going to get you hot load on his face.

  4. Definitely a hot read. My favorite part is the "mine's bigger" statement you make at the end.

  5. Well written and very hot. You make him pay on every level for his guilt driven need.

  6. I love the way you talk and behave to the lusty guy. Are you feeling any urge to touch him too and feel his body?
    Thank you again for sharing your life so beautifully with us

  7. Definitely a hot fantasy that you sell him. Hot to read and you tell the story well. A few typos though. Recently came upon your blog and have read some of your recent posts and a few of your first ones. I do appreciate your sharing your experiences with us, your readers.

  8. Rob,
    You are just the best my dear friend. That post is just amazing from start to finish. How can anybody be arouse reading this. My tool is standing up in attention, it will tear down my underwear. I love reading these post when you are with that men, i don't know why, maybe i imagine what you are doing with him or it is just a fantasy of mine but let me tell you, i love this and the way you said this is just awesome and mindblowing. You may be fourty-eight years old but you are still a very sexy man, don't ever forget that. Thank you again for this incredible post.


  9. I read your blog because I love 'real life' sex stories. I miss STH and the old gay sex zines that were always my favourite forms of porn. I know from reading your blog that you are very adept at parrying any criticism of what you do/what you write about (not necessarily to be confused or conflated). However, here, in terms of both the real and in terms of fantasy, I think what you're up to is questionable. I get that there are lots of closeted straight guys out there (many of whom read this blog and cheerlead your conquests) and that the ethics and politics of actually having sex are murky, difficult to parse--at best. However, you sit in an extremely privileged position--you have some sort of heterosexual marriage and you have recourse to regular homosex. You seem comfortable with both positions. This guy, however, clearly is not. And the way in which this thread is developing/unravelling is unsettling to this reader. Your playacting reinforces all of the socialized homophobia that this guy is clearly struggling with. Would he be happier if he had a (homo)sex partner who maybe encouraged him to confront the bullshit he's bought into, or is be better off meeting you in his van, elaborating the fantasy that he's straight, when, clearly, he isn't? What are the stakes for him and his family if he continues to act in this manner? What riskier forms of behaviour might be decide to pursue as a result of what you two do? Somehow, I fear that your encounters must leave this guy more alone, more desperate, fucked up and confused than he would be otherwise. You could argue that if it weren't you fucking with his head, it'd be somebody else, or that his psychic life isn't your responsibility, that he is as much an agent as you, etc. You might be 'right', but I don't think you would be good in finding yourself right in this instance. Your experience, knowledge, and self-knowledge so outweigh this poor sod's that I can't help but feel sorry for him and slightly contemptuous of you. I hesitate to write this because I know that your default responses tend toward the indignant and the exculpatory, but I think this note of dissent is as much of an engaged response to your blog as the responses of your more uncritically enthusiastic readers.

    1. About a year ago this month I wrote an entire blog post about how predictably irritating I find it when readers attempt to manage my response to their negative comments. This is a case in point.

      By attempting to limit my responses here—apparently you believe it's unacceptable for me to be indignant, and you imply I'm being slick when I 'parry' criticism—you're attempting to maneuver yourself into a win-win situation. If I become indignant, you get to say 'I told you so.' If I'm meek and concede you're correct, you get to bask in showing me the light.

      Frankly, you're being as manipulative as of what you're accusing me—and much more offensive. You're being offensive to me, and to my readers by accusing them of being uncritical, a word you're using in an academic context. And as I wrote a year ago, coming to my blog, going on the offensive, and expecting me not to defend myself or to be indignant about it, is guileful and naive behavior.

      I write my entries about the landscaper in the present tense as a conscious choice; I'm describing what happens with him, moment by moment, without excessive commentary about the reasons behind it. I'm not speculating about his motivations, as you are. I'm not projecting some bullshit psychodrama, as you are. I'm not pretending to be superior, or omnipotent, as you want to be with every put-down and condescension.

      My default responses to people assuming that I make up most of my blog tend toward the exasperated, but frankly, there's more fiction and pot-boiler material in this one comment than there is in all of everything I've written in the nearly two years I've been doing this journal. You have no idea what's going on in this guy's life. Your projections might be spot-on, but they could also be (and probably are) entirely off. Your assessment of my so-called privileged position is based on assumptions to which I have not directly spoken in this journal at all. Making up grim stuff off the top of your head and passing it off as fact does not make it gospel.

      I believe—and I'm the one who actually has met this man, not you—that I am compassionate enough to give this man exactly what he needs and is able to handle at this stage of his life. He's coping with whatever issues he has in his own way. He's doing so with a guy who's not condescending to him, who's not judging him, who's not an asshole to him, and who doesn't lecture him. I take him as he is, and assume he's a big boy who's managed to start and run his own company, have a family, and manage his affairs like an adult.

      Obviously this series of entries is pushing your buttons in a way that you're finding difficult to handle. I suggest that perhaps you not read this particular series any more, or limit your visits to my blog if it causes you such distress.

    2. Who's to say that the landscaper isn't an out gay man living a fantasy with straight trade?

    3. Anonymous--

      Yep. It's a possibility. We just don't know, do we?

  10. I hope you don't let it cut you, Rob. The extent to which you and the landscaper are fooling each other and yourselves is nobody's business but yours. You're incredibly generous to share not only these glimpses of your life, but of your inner self at the same time, and no-one who is not being equally honest about themselves has anything valuable to add.

    To quote that fisherman guy, "let he among you who is without sin cast the first stone."

    1. To be totally honest, Kevin, I'm not convinced I'll be sharing future details about the landscaper in this forum. I'm glad that someone recognizes the generosity that in part prompts me to keep this frank record of my sex life (a healthy exhibitionist streak is another part, of course), but when someone appoints himself the morality monitor and shits here, it doesn't exactly encourage me to keep going, in that particular vein.

    2. That would be a great loss. The list of men willing to _frankly_ discuss their sexual experiences with other men is a short one, and your interactions with the Landscaper are a special class of interesting.

      That's setting aside the fact that they are pretty damn hot.

    3. Kevin, I suppose I should find it ironic that someone would start off claiming they like 'real life' sex stories, and then in the next breath complain about the real-life encounters I have. On a rational level I know I'll keep doing what I'm doing, which is to write about my sexual encounters as they happen and not really give a damn what anyone thinks.

      If readers want more frank and honest sex blogs to read, taking shots at the authors isn't the way to encourage others to follow in their footsteps.

  11. Rob, This was another incredibly hot post. Well worth reading and it left me with a hard cock leaking precum. I sincerely hope that you won't allow the judgmental tripe written by Anonymous (@ 1:34 am) stop you from sharing your future encounters with the landscaper. I'm can only imagine that your other faithful readers feel the same way. It's so unfortunate when someone, like that person who wrote the comment, has such personal issues and hangups that they chose to be ruthlessly judgmental of others while assuming that they have the only answers and are most likely projecting their issues / hangups. Again, as a faithful reader who finds great enjoyment in all that you write and chose to share with us, I sincerely hope that you will continue to do the same, inspire of criticisms. Happy Valentine's Day, Jayh

    1. Jayh, I appreciate your support. I do think there's quite a lot of projection going around these comments, and it's nice to know that someone else sees it as well.

  12. Out of curiosity, was the "whoring" out of necessity, pocket money, or just because you could?

    1. For this guy? Because he wants to pay for it.

      Historically throughout my life? Just because I can, and because I get a kick out of it. The only time I sold sex out of necessity was when I putting myself through grad school and had no money.

    2. The first time I got offered money was a few days after my 18th birthday at a gay bar. The guy was probably 20 years older than me, and I was interested before he offered. I was borderline on taking it, since I had just started a job that paid pretty well, then he said it would have to be a cheque. Out of the whole thing, age, money and all, the thing that turned me off was that he wanted me to take a cheque for sex.

    3. Kevin, there is no way I would ever have accepted a check, unless it was were for an outrageously large amount. (If anyone out there wants to test this theory, let's give it a whirl.)

  13. Anonymous @1:34 did us all a favor. He put a spotlight on a discomfort some feel about your apparent cruel streak but it revealed to us that by receiving money you are fulfilling this nice guy's fantasy in a way no one else possibly could. You are a Sexual Artist and consummate performer who molds yourself to your partner's needs, sort of a Guy Geisha. I applaud you and thank you for the hours and hours of pleasure you give me while I catch up on your adventures. I cannot wait for the next encounter with the handsome Landscaper. There is a guy at my gym locker room who tries to steal glances at my package and when I catch him at it, he turns away and runs. He just wants to pretend and fantasize, so I understand Landscaper."Hey, I'm not gay...." Grandpa Thickie

    1. Thanks, Grandpa. I don't really expect everyone to agree with everything I do with my life—any more than I would agree with every aspect of anyone else's. I kind of do expect, however, that when I'm being completely open and honest about certain aspects of my life, that people not use their moral judgments to lob insults at both myself and my readers, however. If certain entries cause someone discomfort, he or she should skip over them. Or avoid my blog altogether.

      Maybe I'll change my journal's name to 'Memoirs of a Guy Geisha,' though. I like that one.

  14. to be blunt..fuck Anonymous,keep it coming.we all love this thread and you.

  15. Youre a stud, man! Damn!


  16. Rob, I recently started reading your blog and have been thoroughly enjoying it, and thankfully am no longer having technical problems with leaving comments. This entry made me recall a previous blog I had years ago and a scathing, out of the blue comment one of my online friends left me that I felt was very inappropriate. I feel that even though it is public, a blog is a writers personal sacred space and if you don't have anything constructive to add as a reader then keep it to yourself. Any deeply personal comments that could be taken as criticism should be left to the readers that are particularly close to the writer and not left as a public comments. Obviously leaving a comment anonymously only shows that the person is not willing to stand up for what he is saying. I think you should should continue writing about the landscaper because it is YOUR blog and other people don't have the right to limit what you do with it. P.s. I also loved the "mine's bigger" line.