March 2024
You walk like a New Yorke, someone recently told me. At the time, I chose to take it as a compliment. When I’m on the city streets, my pace is brisk, my stride sure and steady. I don’t weave. I don’t make sudden and unpredictable detours from my path. When some dumbass stumbles along, staring down at their phone as they step into the intersection to wander into my trajectory, I don’t veer wildly to accommodate them; I halt and stare until they glance up at the six-foot-three impediment blocking their path. They usually half-mumble a quarter-apology and move out of my way.
When I walk in the city, I do so with a destination in mind and a hustle in my step. But I still can’t keep up with the man with whom I’ve spent the last several hours. I’m power walking up Third Avenue like I’m being pursued by wolves—elderly wolves with a little stiffness in their hips, maybe, and who had a snack a little while ago so that they’re not ravenous—but my so-called chaperone is a solid two streets ahead. He’d been only a half-block in front when he’d dashed out into crosstown traffic at 119th, leaving me stranded at a Don’t Walk light. Not once has he looked over his shoulder to see if I’m still with him. Not even when he turns the corner onto 125th and vanishes does he glance behind.
I could jog to catch up, true. But it’s a nasty, windy March Saturday. When we’d left his apartment, three-quarters of a mile ago, the sky had only been spitting down droplets, but by now it’s a torrent of sideways rain. My left arm is soaked from the storm and sore from spearing the umbrella against the wind. Though I’ve avoided as many puddles as I can, my sneakers are sodden. I’m not about to collapse, by any means. The walk’s only the better part of a mile. But in this weather, wet as I am, I’m already hustling about as quickly as I care to go.
My watch reads 4:44 when I turn the corner. He’s still way ahead of me, plowing on toward the Metro North station, pausing only at a light before hopping only on the white lines of the crosswalk to the street’s north side. A train with red accents on its sides approaches from the south, its squealing brakes amplified by the cavernous dark space beneath the elevated tracks. That must be my train. Plainly, I’m not going to make it.
I see the back of Amir’s bald head as he yanks open the Harlem station door and disappears inside. You’d think he was the one trying to catch the 4:45, but no. I glance both ways as I race across the street, shake off my umbrella beneath the bridge, and follow him into the building. I wonder why I’m hurrying, as I make my way up both flights of stairs to the tracks above. I’m winded by the time I reach the top, but mostly I’m just grateful to be out of the rain.
Much to my surprise, the train still waits. Amir leans with his hands on the nearest of its closed doors as if willing them to open for me. I burst into laughter. “That’s not my train,” I tell him. When he stares at me in disbelief, shaking his head, I point to the legend of New Haven spelled out in red dots on the car’s signage. “That’s not my train,” I repeat.
The train jerks into motion and glides off. My friend gives it a benediction of shooing hands.
“It’s very sweet of you to escort me here,” I tell him, as I refrain from pointing out that I’d been pretty much on my own the last twelve blocks of the walk. “But you’ve got to meet your friend. I’ll be fine.”
“But I promised to get you to the train on time!” he says with genuine anguish.
“They come every half-hour,” I say in my gentlest voice. “That’s how the trains work. Go. You’re supposed to be heading to Queens, for dinner.”
My tone is amused, but he genuinely seems to think he’s failed me. A horn sounds to the south; one of the blue-striped Hudson Line trains approaches the station on the opposite track. “I am so sorry, handsome. I will wait with you.”
“I’m a big boy,” I remind him. “Another train will come. Go meet your friend.” He’s not going anywhere, though. His gallantry charms me, but it’s truly unnecessary. “Look,” I say, tugging at his cuff to pull him to the screen in the platform’s center. “My next train arrives in—” The bright display says 0 Minutes. As I process the information, another red-striped train squeals into the station. “Well. Now.”
Amir’s handsome bearded face lights up; his arms open wide. “I got you here in time, after all!”
“You did!” I tell him, grinning.
He grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a big hug, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. My soaked winter coat leaks water like a sodden sponge when he squeezes. Then I find myself being hustled onto the closest car, where I squelch my way to a seat and collapse on the unyielding plastic. It’s not two minutes later, when I’m speeding on my way to the next stop, that I get a text from Amir. Thank you for coming! You were super sexy in bed! I love how amazing at sex you are!, it reads, accompanied by a half-dozen heart-eyed emoji.
Now, that’s the mark of a true gentleman.
I’d connected with Amir on one of the apps, right at the coldest point of February, after I’d been away on vacation for a week. You’re very handsome, he’d written. I’d grimaced to see that he’d sent the message twelve days prior. The guy was going to think I hadn’t appreciated his compliment. I sent him a quick thank-you, an apology for the delayed reply, and an explanation that I’d been out of town. Almost immediately, he told me not to worry. You are probably still as good looking as you were week before last.
This silver-tongued devil charmed me, and I had to admit I found him handsome as well. His profile portrayed him as an older European fellow of Middle Eastern heritage—and I had to chide myself for thinking of him as older, when he was a full decade younger than I. In his photos, he’s flexing his big biceps in a tank top in front of the Parthenon, or standing shirtless, furry-chested, and muscular on a sunny beach. I’m most attracted, though, to the selfie in which he’s simply staring into the camera with liquid brown eyes and a big smile that creases his dark beard. Let’s spend Saturday together, making love, he wrote. I’ll meet you at the 125th Station and walk you to my place.
No one has ever offered to escort me home from the commuter train, before. I couldn’t help but think what a gentleman he was. But, because his profile described him as a top, I needed to be sure what we’d be doing. What would you be interested in getting into, with me?
I want you to breed me deep, he replied.
Okay, then. I was in.
The forecast on this Saturday is for rain, all afternoon. I’d spied only a few droplets on my windshield when driving to my local station, but now that my city-bound train is trundling over the Harlem River Lift Bridge, it’s a downpour. I unsheathe my umbrella. Sheets of water pour from the overhangs as I step onto the platform; the splatter onto the street below is so loud that it overpowers the sounds of the train’s normal operations. Ugh.
But the moment I’m down the stairs and out through the station doors onto the street, a taxi pulls up to the corner, cascading water near my feet. Its back window rolls down and a familiar handsome face peers out. “Get in!” says Amir, plainly delighted to see me. He bangs on the car’s door in emphasis. “It’s too wet to walk!”
I’ve never been so grateful to crawl into a cab in my life. Amir seizes my umbrella and whirls droplets from it out the taxi’s window as he gives the driver directions back to his place. What a fucking gentleman, I think to myself, as he wraps the strap around the umbrella’s exterior and fastens the velcro. Why does it have to be so difficult to meet a gentleman who’s both sexy and sane?
Amir keeps his hand on my knee the entirety of our short drive, squeezing it for punctuation as he makes small talk. Was my ride into the city smooth? Any delays? How long was my commute, usually? It was truly a pleasure to meet me, finally.
“Finally?” I query. “We swapped our first emails two days ago.”
He turns in his seat and takes my left hand between both of his own. Looking me in the eye, he says, “But it feels as if I’ve been waiting for this forever.”
I am suddenly a puddle of goo on the seat of a New York City yellow cab.
Awkward as it is around a couple of the tighter turns, we dash hand in hand up two flights of stairs in the tiny apartment building above a ground-level row of fast food restaurants and bodegas. His mouth is already on mine even as he’s struggling to fit the key in the door; I’m breathless when he shoves me against the wall, once inside, and presses himself against me. “You are so handsome,” he growls.
The praise sends a flush through my body. I’ve been erect since the cab. “The handsome one would be you.” I steal kisses between syllables.
“No, you.” He strips off my winter jacket and tosses it onto a hook. It misses and slides to the floor, but I don’t give a fuck. “I love how tall you are. Tall, beefy…” I feel his fingers tighten around the bulge in my trunks. “Hung.” His lips fasten on mine, hungry. I’m helpless to do anything more than welcome his probing tongue and allow him to untie the bow of my joggers. “Are you going to fuck me, this afternoon?” he wants to know.
“Anything you want.” I’m already panting. There’s a half-cocked grin on my lips. “Tell me,” I say, hoping he might be one of those bossy bottoms who gives me orders. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”
His right palm riffles across my short hair as his left pulls me closer. “I need you balls deep in me.” Our eyes lock as he makes the request. I nod. In a hushed voice, he continues. “I need you to plant your seed inside me. Make me yours. Knock me up.”
“I can do that,” I say, equally quiet, but no less intense.
“I want you to lube me, shove your fingers in my hole and get me ready for that fucking big cock.” While he speaks, he removes his own shoes, then reaches down to help me off with mine. My sneaker rapidly rotates heel over toe as it flies down the little hallway into the man’s kitchen. “Then I’m going to get on my knees and you’re going to drive it all the way inside.”
“You betcha,” I promise. My heavy breathing isn’t entirely from the flights I climbed to get here.
Our passions are already riding high. In the moment, I’m a bit infatuated with the man, bowled over by his compliments, his courteous behavior, the intensity of his attraction. How long has it been since anyone from online has been simply nice to me? For months—maybe years, it feels like—whenever I consider hunting for sex, I’m met with conversations that end after I reply that I don’t host. I’ve endured countless men who talk a heated game until I press them to have me over. I’ve had to tolerate jerks who make promises and then ghost or block me. Hooking up has never been a weak man’s game, sadly, but at some point in this post-pandemic world, much of its sweetness has evaporated, leaving behind a noxious slick of its most oily and rancid components.
How amazingly refreshing, I think, to encounter someone who desired to meet, and who facilitated its happening, within the space of a couple of days.
“I want you, baby,” he whispers. Eyes still fixed upon each other, we disrobe where we stand. Sorting out our individual garments will be a challenge, later on, but in the moment neither of us cares how our socks knot or where our shirts land. I’m wearing only my gray trunks; he’s undressed save for a pair of brightly-striped red boxer briefs. Our eyes dance over each other’s bodies. Then, taking my hands in his, he leads me away from the entryway into the apartment.
I only have eyes for him. I get an impression of his home as we pass through it, though—a small living room cramped with furniture to the right and a small kitchenette to the left. Space is at a premium, as it is with so many Manhattan apartments, so from the corners of my eyes I can see how the walls are stacked high with…well, stuff. Atop a jam-packed china cabinet might sit milk crates, mouths pointed to the room’s center, containing folded summer clothing. Atop those, a teetering pile of books, or a collection of plastic hangers, or boxes of Christmas ornaments. Towers of Babylon loom across every wall, haphazardly heaped to the tall ceilings, forsaking tidiness for expediency. Down a hallway crowded with framed photos and primitive oil paintings we waltz, still glowing and thinking only of the other.
And then into the bedroom, where only the centers of the window wells admit light, so high are the stacked piles on either side. I don’t care, though. The bed is clear, and that’s our destination. Even walking backward, he knows exactly when to jump back upon the mattress. As he bounces, he beckons me atop him. Now, at last, my aching cock is free to grind against the bulge in his shorts, as he clasps me in a rough embrace.
Our lips meet, still greedy for each other. I lift for a moment to allow Amir to skim the trunks from my hips; we roll from side to side to do the same for him. Now we truly are naked. Nothing conceals either of us. There’s nothing I want to conceal. Our hands roam the other’s body unhampered. Our cocks mash and grind, craving attention, requiring release. I go down on him first.
Amir has a fat beast of a hog, dark in color and hanging heavy with foreskin, even erect. It releases a salty goo upon the back of my tongue I devour it, inch by thick inch. I hear him sigh, above. Fingers restlessly explore over and around my skull, as if he’s a phrenologist determined to coax out the most obscure aspects of my personality. I admit his fleshy knob as far as it goes and savor the way it stretches the back of my throat. The smooth skin of his balls contracts at the base of my chin, tickled and scratched by my beard. With my thumb and index finger curved into a U shape, I press the heel of my hand against his perineum, cupping the nuts with the crook of my fingers while shoving hard on the taint. He moans audibly, and pushes down on the back of my head.
When the sensations prove too much, he pulls me up to his lips. I’m atop him once again. Grinding. Thrusting. My cock slips down the side of his leg to shove against his ass. “Yes,” he hisses, his head thrown back. “I can’t wait much longer, baby. I want you inside me.”
“You don’t have to wait at all,” I assure him. I make a show of looking him in the eye and spitting on my middle three fingers. I reach down and let them maneuver their way toward my target. The slickness, when it spreads over his exposed hole, causes him to squirm. “Not if you want it.”
“I want it,” he whispers, spreading wide his legs. His own hands grapple down his sides and underneath his ass, spreading the cheeks for me.
“Do you want lube?”
“Just spit.” I take him at his word, and fill two fingers with saliva—once to probe more deeply into the warm concavity I desire, then again to slather over the length of my dick. I raise my body so I can pull up his hips and legs, aim my cock at his hole, and begin burrowing in.
I love this position: two men face to face, maintaining eye contact, while one opens the other. At some point, after I’m more than halfway in, I lean forward and plant my hands beneath his armpits. He lifts his head to meet mine. Our lips convene again, old acquaintances by now. Their reunion erases the last of his resistances: I glide to the base. He lifts his hips and wraps his legs around my waist. His arms clutch my back, pulling me in. Not the slightest pocket of air lies between us, we’re so close. I drive inside him, again and again, punishing the man for making me wait so long.
Sweat beads on my forehead, my nose. My beard must be a mess. We cannot get enough of the other, though. Like feral wolves we fuck, caring only for the moment, blind to everything around us. I cannot hear the sounds of the avenue over his heartbeat; my rasps and grunts drown the quiet pleas spilling from his lips. Everything around us darkens and fades until we’re the only two humans left in a private universe; we are completely enveloped within a cocoon woven from mutual gratification. Like a jackhammer I pound him, extracting my enjoyment stroke by stroke. For long minutes we clutch and kiss and growl until he begs, “Let me ride you.”
My eyebrows rise. Have I pushed him too far? Is he uncomfortable in our current position? But no. “You shouldn’t do all the work,” he pants. “Let me pleasure you.”
I signal agreement with a nod. I shouldn’t be doing all the work. And yeah. I do like to be pleasured. Pleasure and I are more than passing acquaintances. In fact, I like pleasure a lot. He doesn’t want to lose the connection between us, though. We both grin and snort as we shift our mutual center of gravity, rolling first onto our sides, then flopping like salmon to right ourselves once again with him on top. My dick swells and makes him gasp, from time to time. He retaliates by pinching my nipples, hard, the way I like. It’s not an easy process, this one-eighty flip with my meat wedged deep in his hole, but neither of us wants cock and ass to part ways. So while our grins acknowledge the silliness of the choice we’ve made, my hands still clasp him hips and draw him into me. At last, his knees straddle my ribcage.
“Beautiful man,” he sighs, smoothing my beard with his palm. “I am so lucky to have you.”
“You’ve got all of me, baby,” I say, gazing into his eyes. “Every fucking inch.”
“I need poppers,” he mumbles. He spares me a smile before rising a bit and leaning toward one of his bedside tables. The flat of his hand presses on my chest as he balances himself. “Your dick is just so big.” I laugh a little as he rummages around in the top drawer. Then, “Oh, fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
All the time he’s been hunting for the poppers, I haven’t been lying there, lifeless. Oh, no. I’ve continued to thrust upward inside him, grinding my hips in a sinuous infinity sign, keeping his hole open and happy. But now he’s clambering off me. My cock slips out and slaps onto my belly with a wet and disappointed smack. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, giving me a quick kiss before, on his knees, he shuffles backward off the mattress. I observe how his muscular butt jiggles as he pads down the hallway. “I need a new bottle. Do you want anything to drink?”
Such a gentleman. “I’m good.” I settle back to contemplate my good luck, as from the kitchen I hear the sounds of the fridge opening and closing, followed by the clatter of ice cubes in a glass. This moment of solitude is the first chance I’ve had to take a look at Amir’s bedroom. Like the living area, it’s jam packed with stuff. Basic furniture at the ground level—the bed, a writing desk, a chest, a wardrobe. Then layers and layers more atop them, teetering upward in stacks toward the—how high are these ceilings, anyway? Ten feet? Maybe twelve?
That’s when I notice it, in the midst of my content reverie. A clown doll with a porcelain face, dressed in shabby orange and red clothing, ams outstretched, staring down at me from high stop a pile of books with its oversized, unblinking peepers. Fuck, that’s creepy. Then I observe that it sits next to a girl twin with flaxen hair and equally garish duds, fixing me with her unmoving eyes.
In fact, only now is it striking me that everywhere I look, the upper reaches of the bedroom are adorned with nothing but clown paraphernalia. I’d been too smitten to notice when we’d burst into the room in a blaze of sexual heat, then too preoccupied to look up when Amir had been beneath me. But now I’m on my back, alone, and not in a haze of pheromones. All I can do is gaze around the walls’ upper periphery in abject horror.
Dozens of clown dolls, each a glossy and inhuman mold of waxen perfection, stare down at me, a panopticon of carnival horror. They’re adorned in multi-colored wigs, pointed hats, in striped pantaloons and polka-dots. Some have oversized buttons on color-blocked jumpsuits; others have fussy frills and ruffled collars. Rosy faces congregate with neighbors bearing white-caked scowls. And these aren’t cute clowns, either. These are some freaky-ass, killer devil clowns from decades ago, when kids were apparently of heartier stock. Their smiles are uniformly maniacal; the pinpoints of their painted eyes laser-focused on my nakedness.
I’ve just sat up and am staring around the room, panicked by so many dolls fixed upon me, when Amir shuffles back into the room with a glass of ice water and a bottle of poppers. “Hey, beautiful man,” he whispers, as he pounces on me.
You can do this, I think to myself as I thrust. You’re not scared of clowns. Though, admittedly, this is a particularly menacing assembly of clowns. They’re toys. A perfectly innocent collection of old, antique, unsettling, eerie, macabre…no, stop. It’s just a collection of dolls. And not only dolls. There are some old Ringling Brothers posters with clowns up there, too, and a number of old LPs featuring red-nosed clowns on the cover. I saw a couple of incredibly gaudy jack-in-the-boxes, too, their spring-laden contents on display, bent by gravity. There’s even a miniature clown bus filled with miniature…shit,, I’m still thinking about clowns. What the fuck? I’ve got a hot guy on all fours for me, a position I’ve requested solely because it lets me look down at the bed instead of up at the brightly-colored collection of…is that a whole clown village, over there in the corner? Like, a Department 56 porcelain clown village? Has he actually strung extension cords so that it—yeah, it’s lit up, showing off a circus train car filled with clowns, a little bar where presumably tipsy clowns congregate, a clown town hall…good lord.
“Is something wrong, baby?” Amir asks, peeking under his armpit.
“No, everything’s good,” I fib. Jesus Christ. I need to get the job done, here. I try to keep any clown-related musing to a minimum while I pound away at his hole. He’s enjoying himself, at least. There comes a point where he navigates me onto my side, and then onto my back again, but the moment those dead-eyed dolls hove back into view, I toss him onto his stomach and finish the deed while laying atop him. Only then do I roll us onto our sides, my cock still in his ass, so that I can hold Amir and whisper filthy things into his ear as he finishes himself with both hands.
He pants heavily, gives my forehead a peck, and gives me a big squeeze. “Amazing,” he sighs.
I grumble in vague agreement. Then, after a spell, I clear my throat and ask in a perfectly normal tone—an utterly reasonable inflection laden with no hint of judgment—“So, um. You like clowns?’
His eyebrows raise. “Why do you say that?” For answer, I simply gesture in a circle, in the direction where walls meet ceiling, at the clowns that—my god, have they multiplied? Amir’s eyes follow my glance. “Oh. I suppose so,” he shrugs. “They’re not as fun as you.”
It’s a flirty gesture I would appreciate more if I’d not had scores of beady little circus eyes on me. “I should think about getting back to the station, soon,” I murmur, already thinking of my getaway.
“Not yet.” My friend grabs me by the hand and pulls me close, then kisses me. “The rain’s supposed to quiet down in an hour.” I feel his fingers tickle my sides, my belly, then tangle in my pubes. “I’ve got dinner plans with a friend in Queens. I’ll walk you to the station, then go meet my friend…I’m sure we can find something to do for another hour.”
Oh, man. He is so sweet. All those clown eyes, though. “I’m not…” His mouth moves down to my nipples, where he chews, gently. “I shouldn’t…” Now he’s kissing my belly, moving toward his destination, inch by inch. I glance at the room’s upper reaches. “I…” I gulp heavily, as he swallows me down, cleaning off his own juices from my hardening flesh.
“Just lie back,” he says. “Close your eyes. Let me take care of you, baby.”
Yeah, I think to myself, as I sink into the pillows. I can close my eyes. I do like being taken care of. In fact, I like being taken care of, a lot.
***
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