I don’t know how I got invited to this thing. I think it was because of an off-handed comment I made to someone in jest, right before the last performance of the high school drama club’s production of The Secret Garden. I barely even remember it. All I know is that I was standing backstage, arms crossed, watching the proceedings and looking like one of the proud stage dads or something, trying not to get trampled as the fifty (!) high-school kids of the chorus came rushing by me in their Victoriana, smelling like sweaty horses, in a stampede to get off the stage so the two juniors playing ten-year-olds could have their duet. One of the mothers asked if I was sticking around for the party after.
And I remember saying plainly, in my smart-assed way, Oh, anywhere there’s a prospect of free food, there’ll you find me.
Well, the mother had something to do with this shebang—it’s the soft opening of a lounge bar attached to an upscale hotel in town, and the drinks are flowing freely. Wait staff circulate among us bearing cocktail glasses filled with potent concoctions that look more like the colorful results of chemistry lab experiments than they do potables; I’m not much of a drinker, so I nurse the strawberry-red vodka creation that’s coating the back of my throat like a sickly-sweet cough syrup.
There’s food, thankfully. That’s why I was invited, right? I can’t disappoint my host. I take a roasted mushroom cap from a tray and pitch it down the bottomless pit that is my stomach, where it settles in with the multiple olives, the beef carpaccio on a rye cracker, and the crab cream puffs that have been circulating through the crowded room. I don’t know anyone there. I know hardly anyone in this town, even after a year. I’m approachable, though. So far I’ve made light conversation with some kind of kitchen remodeler (who’s given me his card, despite the fact I don’t own my home and aren’t planning to have my kitchen redone), a vaguely creepy guy older than me with a comb-over who complained that there weren’t enough ‘young hotties’ around, and a hilarious older woman who’s clued me in that she brought her own whiskey sours to the party and has been drinking them in the women’s room—“when she can get past those other bitches with no bladder control to get to it.”
Then there’s this kid. He keeps looking at me from one of the oversized, uncomfortable-looking armchairs in a trendy fabric, on the other side of the bar. He’s Latin. Of course he’s Latin. All the boys who stare at me in this town are Latin. I’d guess him to be twenty-four, twenty-five. His eyebrows are perfect commas, his broad pink lips like nestled parentheses. He’s not even bothering to conceal that he’s staring at me, but it’s almost as if he’s abstracted. Lost in thought.
My stare back, over a crowd of passing thirty-somethings trying some variation of a Cosmopolitan, startles him. He blinks as he realizes our eyes have met. He blinks rapidly, clearing whatever haze of fantasy has been before his eyes. I watch him laugh to himself a little, look away, and then glance back at me.
I’m still looking.
It's been a while since I've been cruised this blatantly in public, but I know the signs. He’s young enough that he doesn’t do a very good job of concealing his self-awareness. He wants to seem cool, but he’s over thinking every movement—the way he crosses his legs, the way he sips his drink, the way he looks around the room when what he really wants is to be looking in my direction. He wants to see if I’m still observing him.
And I am. I observe enough to know he’s alone. If he’s waiting on a girlfriend—or boyfriend—he’s been ditched for the long term. No one comes to speak to him. He doesn’t make a move to socialize. So I stand there by the bar, taking the occasional canapé, until the chair next to his clears. Then I stride over and sit down. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask him.
He’s taken his focus away from me long enough that to find me in the seat opposite genuinely startles him. He almost chokes on his drink. “I’m sorry,” he says.
His voice isn’t feminine, but there’s a certain softness to it. I find it appealing. He has an accent as well. “Know someone here?” I ask. He stutters, and spits, and eventually manages to stammer out that he did some of the graphic work on the promotional materials the lounge has been sending out. I take it in, and nod. “So no one would notice if you disappeared for a few minutes?”
His response is to flush. It’s a very visible flush. He has nothing to say in response.
I know there’s a men’s room at the back of the bar. There’s also one in the lobby of the chi-chi hotel; I’d passed it coming in. I leave behind my sweet drink and smile at the kid, as I adjust my sports coat and leave the bar.
The men’s room is quiet, deserted, and best of all, about ten degrees cooler than the lounge had been. It’s only about thirty seconds before the kid joins me. He’s not a tall guy—he comes up to maybe my shoulders. His hair is dark and long, and in the florescent glow of the bulbs I can see a trace of beard on his chin, a touch of mustache above his lips.
They’re pretty, those lips. I want them.
He stands next to me at the other urinal. Goes through the pretense of unzipping and making believe he’s going to pee. I’ve already got my dick out—but I’m not crowding the porcelain as if to unleash a stream of hot piss. I’m stroking, and pulling back for him to look. I know he’s going to. And he does.
I don’t even pretend that I’m going to let him put up resistance. I’m steering him and his open fly to the handicapped stall at the end. My mouth is on his. His eyes are closed as we make out, furiously pressing our mouths against each other. His hands grapple for his belt, his button; they fly apart as he thrusts them down. I push him by the shoulders to the toilet, so that he’s sitting. Then for the first time I show him the full length of my cock.
“Papi,” he breathes, staring at it.
He doesn’t waste time, this one. He’s on my dick like a starved dog, wolfing it down to the root between those extended, grasping lips. His hands clutch at mine. Our fingers intertwine. I feel him holding onto them for dear life as, eyes still closed, he takes as much of my dick into his throat as he can. He gags slightly, backs off, and then finally looks up to me as my spit-slick dick slides in and out of his gullet.
There’s worship in those eyes. He needs this. He was dreaming of this.
Nothing turns me on more.
There’s noise from outside as some revelers leave the event, but they don’t invade our privacy. My hands in his, I continue to fuck his face. His own uncut dick jerks and drips and begs for release, but like a good boy, he doesn’t touch himself. I fuck his face like I fuck pussy, stretching the hole, driving in, pulling out, letting him feel every inch. At some point I pry my fingers from his and grasp his head like a melon, my fingers nearly encircling all the way around. I skull-fuck him. I treat his head like so much fuckmeat, angling it for my pleasure and plunging in as I see fit.
His cock is leaving trails of precum all over the front of his neatly-pressed dress shirt. He’s got rivulets of drool running down his chin; his mouth is so wet and sloppy that he’s gagging on his own saliva, and I can’t tell the fucking difference between his mouth and an ass after several loads. The juice he’s producing is driving me crazy. I add my own precum to the mix as I piston in harder and faster.
He’s whimpering and pushed past the point of endurance, but still he services on. This is what he wanted. What he needed. When I release my load into his mouth, he grunts in surprise, and shock, and then redoubles his efforts. My dick disappears deep into his mouth as he sucks down every drop. Then he holds it there in his throat, nursing out the last traces. For a long, long time we remain coupled like this, dick to mouth, man to man, stranger to stranger. Then he starts to gag, and I pull out. The air chills where his spit covers me. I back off, and pull up my pants.
His hands fly to his cock. “Good boy,” I whisper.
“Papi,” he whispers again, looking at me through slitted lids. He comes, spraying his load up and over the edge of the toilet seat and onto the floor.
“Very good boy,” I repeat, giving his chin a stroke. Then I let myself out.
I see my stage mom friend shortly before I leave a few minutes later. Or she sees me, rather; I don’t think I would’ve recognized her if she hadn’t come up to me. “I’m so glad you came!” she enthuses, as she’s probably said to everyone else here. “It’s awesome that you came out for this!”
“Great place,” I tell her. “One of the best soft openings ever.”
But I’m not talking about the restaurant.