“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”
“What? Mmmmf. Mmmmmf. Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.”
“C’mon, babe. Don’t you want your Valentine’s present?”
The woman glares at the camera. Rolls her eyes. Opens her mouth. His cock slides between her lips.
The Landscaper and I are in the back of his van. It’s a fucking cold day, but he’s been running the engine so that we’re not freezing. Still, I’ve got my jeans pulled down below my butt, and my rock-hard meat exposed. My fist is clutching my dick as I stroke to the video he’s showing me on his smartphone.
“That feels great, honey. Keep going.” First I hear his voice, tinny and hollow on the little speaker. Next I hear the live thing in my ear, deep and masculine. “She’s hot, huh? She can really suck.”
I nod. She really can suck. It’s pretty obvious the wife is doing a good job on the Landscaper’s cock. He’s nowhere as big as I. In fact, I can’t really see much of it on the little display except when she pulls out to the base of the head. Most of the time, he’s grinding his blond pubes against his wife’s chin and pulling her face down on him. The Landscaper and I have this agreement, when we meet, that I’m totally straight. I wouldn’t want to see his dick. So he makes sure she’s the one in plain view.
I can’t deny how hard his domestic scene is making me. He can see my arousal in the red tautness of my head, in the precum that’s flowing from the tip. “She’s hot, huh?” he repeats.
I nod, mesmerized by the footage he’s showing me. She’s all right, in that early-thirties Lululemon-wearing suburban mommy kind of way.
I think this is the closest we’ve ever been. When we meet, we’ve lately got our act down to a relentless routine. He gives me notice a week before asking if I’m available. We set a date. We meet in his van, in a strip mall parking lot off the freeway not far from home. He gives me cash. I stroke while he watches from between my legs. Sometimes—sometimes—I let him put his lips on my nuts when I’m close to coming. More accurately, I pretend not to notice when he sucks on my nuts as I’m ramping up to blow my load. Of course I wouldn’t let a dude lick my nuts. That’s fag stuff.
Today though. He sent me some kind of joke text in the early morning with a big ol’ photo of a vagina and a corny punchline—Cun’t wait to wish you a happy Valentine’s, or some subtle crap like that. Begged to see me that very afternoon, at lunchtime. He’d toss in an extra fifty if I’d make the time, even take me to lunch after if I wanted. And now we’re both sitting next to each other, our back against the driver’s side seat. His chest is pressed against the back of my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his body against my right side. When he breathes, it tickles my cheek. I’ve never let him get this intimate with me. But he’s got to be there to show me the movie, see. It’s only because he’s showing me the movie.
“I like watching movies where the chick really knows how to suck, you know?” he says to me, all hearty and bluff and masculine. This is the way dudes talk to each other when they’re alone, in his head. “I mean, lookit how mine does it. She sticks those lips out so she can reach all the way to the base, you know? That way she’s taking it all. Feels real good when someone takes it all, right?”
You don’t have to be a genius to know that he wants to be the ‘someone’ taking all my dick. But you know. Real dudes just don’t think that way. I grunt, keep my eyes on the little screen, keep my hand on my knob.
“Let me show you this,” he said. He pulls the phone away for a second so he can look through his videos. His body is still close to mine, though. He rests his chin on my shoulder as he browses. I honestly don’t know whether he’s deliberately taking the liberty, or whether he’s just unaware he’s doing it. “Okay, this one. I took it just for you.”
When he sticks out the phone this time, he’s fucking pussy. She’s at a strange angle—on her back, legs lifted, I think—and he’s moving the camera around so rapidly it’s almost impossible to get a look at the fucking. But then the camera rights itself and he’s sliding in and out of that sweet pussy like a pro. Then abruptly, it cuts off.
“Too short,” he complains, then starts it over again. I get twenty seconds of crazy camera, then one good shot of his dick gliding in then out, then it stops once more. “You want to fuck her?”
“I’d fuck her,” I tell him. “I’d fuck her hard.”
“You’d fuck her with that big cock of yours?” He’s turned off the phone, now. But he’s still leaning against me, totally unselfconscious about how close we are. “That’s a fucking pussy wrecker. A hell of a lot bigger than mine.”
“Fuck, I’d fuck her real good,” I say, sticking to the limited vocabulary of my trade persona.
“She’d never want me to fuck her again after you were done fucking her,” he says. “Fuck.”
Personally, I’m wondering how many more times we can use the word ‘fuck’ in the conversation. It’s been repeated so many times at this point it’s beginning to sound like a nonsense syllable. But I can’t help adding, “Fuck yeah.”
My entire right side goes suddenly cold when the little landscaping devil over my shoulder moves to his usual spot between my legs. I re-settle myself into my usual position. “Stroke it,” he whispers, watching up close. “God damn.” I close my eyes. Lift my knees and spread my thighs a little. Soon he’ll be putting his mouth on my balls when he thinks I won’t notice.
But that moist touch on my nuts doesn’t come. I hear him rasp out instead, “Let me suck you.”
I open my eyes. Stop stroking. A real straight guy would be offended at the suggestion. My expression is leaden, but my dick is concrete and growing harder. I open my mouth as if to say no.
“Let me suck your big dick,” he pleads. “Come on. I’ll do it like she does. All the way down.”
“Dude,” I complain.
“It’ll be okay,” he says. I can tell he’s genuinely worried about offending me with the gay stuff. “It doesn’t mean shit.”
“I don’t think—“
“Just the head.” There’s a whine to his voice, a deep-seated need. I’ve known for months—years—that we’d get around to this point. To be honest, I’m getting off on his urgency, feeding from it like a vampire on someone’s essential life force. Making him want it this badly. Protracting it. Making it laaaaast. That’s what keeps me coming back, time after time.
If I’d shoved my dick down this wanna-be cocksucker’s throat the first time we’d met, I would’ve never seen his handsome mug again. It would’ve been too much, too fast. He would’ve been overwhelmed. Instead I’ve taunted him with what he wants. I’m made him think about it. Obsess about it. At the same time I’ve kept it one step out of reach. Thinking maybe next time is what keeps him coming back, time after time.
“You won’t tell,” I say. It’s more demand than question. He looks at me with surprise. Pauses. He can’t fucking believe it.
“I won’t tell, dude. Just between us.”
“Just the head,” I say, trying to sound reluctant.
“Just the head. You don’t like it, I’ll stop. Promise.” When I don’t answer right away, he wheedles some more. “Seriously. I’m just helping you out.”
He waits to see if I take the bait. After a long minute, I wrap my fist around my dick. The head is poking out of the circle made by my thumb and forefinger. It’s scarlet in hue, engorged. I point it at him.
He goes at it greedily, worshiping the bare inch of flesh. The taste of my precum must surprise him, because he almost backs right off. But he manages to swallow it down. I feel his tongue slathering the crown, trying to map every contour. My straight married dad of a Landscaper isn’t a wanna-be anymore. He’s officially a cocksucker.
I don’t last long. “Dude, move back,” I warn him, right before I shoot. The orgasm is explosive. One of those that feels less like shivery pleasure and more like an angry explosion of lava from my nuts. He’s not ready to swallow. Not yet. But I’m pumping streams of the stuff all over his face. I’m painting his mouth and lips with the sticky goo, getting it on his eyebrow and cheekbone.
He doesn’t seem to mind at all. He doesn’t even wipe it away. Then he rests the side of his head on my thigh, being careful not to get the juice on my denim.
I say nothing for a moment. It’d be pointless to deny I enjoyed it. He knows I’ve never come that hard for him. My dick’s still hard, even though it’s leaking cum still. I hold it in my hand for a minute, then pull up my shorts and stuff it in the pouch. “You promised,” I remind him.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “We’re good.”
He’s good, at least. His eyes are shining. He’s still aroused, still breathing heavily. My sperm’s still decorating his face. While I’m yanking on my jacket from the passenger seat, I can hear him playing with his phone again.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”
“What? Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.”
I know that the second I step out of that vehicle, he’ll be frantically wrestling off his pants on the van floor and masturbating to a fast climax. He’ll probably be whacking off to the memory of tasting his first dick for the next six months. Maybe by that time I’ll let him go all the way down.
“Later,” I mumble with feigned embarrassment, as I stuff my shirt back into my jeans and maneuver myself back up to the front seats.
“You want to catch some lunch?” he calls.
I decline, this time. One of us has already eaten.
Showing posts with label the landscaper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the landscaper. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Monday, November 26, 2012
Our Secret
I’ve known something is up. He’s asked to see me four times in the last month—three times during Thanksgiving week. Meet me, he texted on Monday. Then, on Tuesday, Free tonight?
I had to put him off both times.
Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today?
It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people.
Sneak out late tonight, lol.
I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping.
Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing.
Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash.
I don’t disabuse him of the notion. I say precious little to him, in fact, and let him construct his own fantasies around me. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude.
Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting.
But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before.
So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other.
I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there.
Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?”
The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say.
“I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?”
I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious.
“Stuff.”
“Stuff like . . . ?”
“Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.”
I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know.
“Do you kiss your wife?” he asks.
I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say.
“She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I shrug.
He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?”
“No.” I try not to sound too scornful.
“You like to kiss though?”
“Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?”
“Fuck no.”
“Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .”
I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed.
“You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .”
There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .”
I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened.
Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?”
Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.”
Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb.
The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness.
By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more.
“You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim.
After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard.
He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests.
I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.”
I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting.
“I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.”
I shrug like I don’t care. But I know.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice.
Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet.
“Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.”
I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.”
“Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again.
I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.”
I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest.
“When?” I ask.
It only takes one word to make his face light up.
His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises.
There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto.
For the next three and a half weeks, anyway.
I had to put him off both times.
Dude, I’ve gotta see that dick again, he messaged on Thanksgiving day itself. Can you get away today?
It’s Thanksgiving, I texted him back. I’m surrounded by people.
Sneak out late tonight, lol.
I relented. Hit me up Friday, I told him. I’m not planning on doing any shopping.
Yesssss, he sent back. Let the wives do the shopping while the husbands do their thing.
Over the course of the last year, The Landscaper has contacted me roughly once a month. His interest in mansex seems to ebb and flow over a three-and-a-half-week cycle. He’ll hit me up over a weekend, typically, and we’ll set a date to connect sometime during that week. We’ll meet in a local parking lot somewhere, and I’ll climb into his van. Then I’ll masturbate for him. My pants never descend below my ankles, my shoes rarely come off, my shirt stays on. He’s still under the illusion that I’m one-hundred-percent straight trade that can be bought with his cash.
I don’t disabuse him of the notion. I say precious little to him, in fact, and let him construct his own fantasies around me. When we meet, I wear my most beat-up athletic shoes, my most faded Levis, a baseball cap. I let him watch me jack. I pretend not to notice when he laps at my nuts as I get closer to orgasm. But I don’t do any of that so-called gay shit with him. Nuh-uh. No way, dude.
Our meetings top out at a half hour at most. When we’re done, he’s satisfied for a while. I might get a rushed thanks later that day or the next, but then it’ll be radio silence. I release the internal sexual pressure for him for the better part of a month. Then the steam and the fantasy builds up and he’s texting me again for a meeting.
But three times during Thanksgiving week? Unheard of, from him. Particularly since we’d just met for a session two weeks before.
So we’re in his van after lunch, Friday, parked in a strip mall lot. It’s chilly outside, but he’s blasted the heaters until I arrived, so that the residual warmth lingers. I unbutton the plaid jacket I’m wearing, sit on it. Spread my legs. Kind of rest my hand on my crotch. I don’t like to seem too eager to get going. He likes to think he’s talking me into it. “How you been? You good?” he asks, in that verbless way men do when they’re trying to be bluff and butch with each other.
I nod. Look at him. Look away. He gets more excited when he thinks I don’t entirely want to be there.
Usually at this point he says something sexual. Asks how my big dick has been doing. Asks if I’ve fucked any pussy lately. This time, though, he just blurts out, “You ever . . . talk to a guy?”
The question catches me off-guard, a little. We don’t usually go off-script like this. “I talk to guys all the time,” I say.
“I mean . . . would you ever consider just talking to me a little?”
I look him in the eyes. There’s hope there. He’s more nervous than usual. I’m wondering what’s up. “What about,” I say. The words come out flat, incurious.
“Stuff.”
“Stuff like . . . ?”
“Close your eyes,” he says. I look at him, eyes wide open. “Please? It’ll be easier to talk if your eyes are shut. I won’t do anything weird. I promise.”
I hesitate, then shut my eyes. “Stuff like what,” I want to know.
“Do you kiss your wife?” he asks.
I’m sitting there with my back against the driver’s seat, knees up, forearms resting there. I feel him shift to a spot beside me. “Sure,” I say.
“She’s a hot little bitch? Your wife?” The Landscaper has a vision of my home life in his head that he’s generated out of my wedding band and precious little input from me. I let him have his fantasy. “You make out with her?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I shrug.
He clears his throat. “You ever made out with a guy?”
“No.” I try not to sound too scornful.
“You like to kiss though?”
“Yeah, sure.” I want to open my eyes and see what he’s doing, how he’s reacting. This corner of the parking lot is quiet, though, and the van is cooling. I’m comfortable where I am. I like the sensation I’m getting up and down my left side, where he sits, as if his proximity is setting the nerves to tingling. So I keep my eyes shut. “It’s cool to make out during a hot fuck. Feels good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment. “My wife says I was a lousy kisser when I met her. She says she taught me everything.” I hear him laugh. “Funny that I didn’t get any complaints before I knew her though.” I don’t say anything. I don’t really know where this is going. “But you never kissed a guy before?”
“Fuck no.”
“Me neither,” he says. “I mean, my dad or an uncle or something, but not. . . .”
I believe him. There’s a note in his voice, though, that clues me in. “Why are you asking me this,” I growl. But I keep my eyes closed.
“You don’t gotta say yes,” he says, shifting his weight beside me. I can feel his sweatshirt against the back of my arm. “I thought maybe . . . .”
There’s such a long silence that it grows awkward. I’m not going to help him out by finishing that sentence, though. It’s a long moment before he continues. “If you thought about your hot wife, or thought about my wife, if you’d let me. . . . You can pretend. . . .”
I sit there motionless. Maybe he thinks I’m considering it. Maybe he thinks I’m stunned. Either way, I’m not too surprised when I feel his warm breath on my skin, and the lightest of touches on my neck. It’s a butterfly of a kiss, the merest graze. In fact, for a moment I’m not even entirely sure it really happened.
Only I am. There’s another light touch, a little higher. Then I feel his lips and breath against my jawline. I want to sink into it. I want to connect to him eagerly, to let our mouths wander where they will. But instead, I turn my head so that my mouth is facing away from him, forcing him to breathe a trail to my ear.”I bet she’s real sexy in bed,” he whispers. “You thinking about her? Thinking about her kissing you?”
Then I feel his nose, his cheek, against my beard. He’s resting his face there. I feel one of his hands between my thighs, where he’s balancing himself. It’s trembling hard. He’s shaking like a leaf. This is the closest we’ve ever been to each other. He might have his own landscaping company, might cultivate a Mike Rowe kind of image, but he smells expensive. Groomed. “Dude,” I say, protesting weakly. “I can’t. . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says. I’m surprised that he’s the one reassuring me. “Nothing freaky’s going to happen.”
Nothing freaky does. By my usual sexual adventuring standards, what he does for the next couple of minutes is damned tame. He pushes down my leg so that he can straddle it. I keep my face turned away from his, but I let his lips travel up and down along the length of my jaw, from one side to another. He plants kiss after delicate kiss along the bone. They’re sweet kisses. Surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly soft. For a couple of minutes I simply enjoy the pleasure of him touching me with his warm lips, the sensation of them lingering on my skin, the shiver he elicits as his nostrils breathe in and out and create goosebumps. I let him maneuver my head back and forth. I let him touch my own lips with his thumb.
The ball of that digit rests there for a moment. If I wanted, I could lick out and taste its saltiness.
By my standards, it’s nothing. By his . . . it’s a stretch that means everything, then a whole mile more.
“You’re hard?” he asks. I feel him poke with a fingertip at the bulge in my denim.
After a moment, I shrug. Yeah. I’m rock hard.
He moves off me. I open my eyes, look at him. His own jeans are practically tenting. “Show me?” he suggests.
I avoid looking at him as I shuck down the denim, pull down the shorts. I’m sticky and drooling, though. I can’t hide that excitement. I wrap my hand around my meat and beat at it.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says to me as he watches me stroke. “Letting a dude kiss you. I mean, it wasn't real kisses, not really.”
I say nothing. I beat harder. I’m close to shooting.
“I liked it,” he breathes. “My first time, seriously. Fuck, that dick is amazing, dude. That’s a porn star dick. You should be in porn. You don’t know how amazing that dick is.”
I shrug like I don’t care. But I know.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. I can hear the need in his voice.
Yeah. I am gonna cum. It oozes out of the slit and down my dick’s underside, cascades over my clenched fingers, drips from the knuckles to the floor. It’s a fat gush of fluid, a flood of sperm that baptizes his van’s carpet.
“Fuck,” he whispers as I shake and shudder. “Fuuuuuck. So fucking hot. Looks like you needed that, buddy.”
I sit there for a minute, letting my head clear. Then I shake the cum from my hand. It flops onto the carpet. I wipe the rest on my jeans. “Shit,” I say. “I’d better go.”
“Can I do that again?” he already wants to know. “Next time? Can I do it again?” When I don’t answer, and yank up my jeans around my hips, he hastens to assure me, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret, dude. Nobody’s got to know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. But I do. Yeah. I’ll be letting him plant those little-boy butterfly kisses on me again.
I think he knows it too. He watches as I gather my jacket, check for my keys and wallet and phone, my cash. “It’s okay. I’ll text you soon buddy,” he says. When he speaks the words, it’s not in the intimate, soft voice he’s been using for the previous few minutes. It’s not in his sex voice, that voice of need and yearning and intimacy. It’s in the bluff, masculine, hearty way that dudes speak to dudes. Impersonal. Clipped. The voice men use between themselves when they know someone might overhear. Then, in a lower voice, closer to the one he’d been using during our time together, he adds, “If you want.”
I think he’s almost expecting me to disappoint him. I turn in his direction after I’ve climbed between the seats into the front, my knee deep in the passenger-side cushion as I look at him over the headrest.
“When?” I ask.
It only takes one word to make his face light up.
His voice is hoarse with surprise. “Soon,” he promises.
There’s something in the way he says the word that connects with me. I’ve given him a lifeline to cling onto.
For the next three and a half weeks, anyway.
Friday, July 6, 2012
What He Needs
“Which one?” he asks. “That one?”
He’s pointing to the waitress, a woman of about forty who’s trying to shave fifteen years off her appearance by wearing about five pounds of hair extensions, and nearly as much makeup. She’s got on a flimsy camisole top and skimpy short shorts. As a forty-year-old in normal clothing, she’d probably look fairly attractive. Dressed up like an extra in a Katy Perry video, it’s comic that anyone would think so.
I watch the waitress balance two large plates of mussels on her forearms, while her hands clutch a pair of lobster rolls. These aren’t the cheap-ass kind of lobster rolls they serve in lesser dives, with mayonnaise. No, the lobster’s steeped in melted butter, here, and are served with little bowls with even more butter, ready to be slopped on. I didn’t know a thing about lobster rolls until I moved to this state. It’s all the locals talk about, sometimes—and I’d gotten an extensive talk about them from the tattooed and muscled bartender, on an earlier visit. The Landscaper is watching me watch her get her payload to the table of rowdy, beer-drinking locals. “You like her?”
I roll my eyes. Get serious, the look says.
“Which one, then?”
He and I are sitting side by side at the bar, our backs against the railing. He’s got a gin and tonic in his hand. I’ve been nursing a beer for a while. I don’t like beer, but he’d ordered it for me when he’d seen me walk in. It’s the same bar where we’ve met a couple of times before. I think he gets off on the idea of being seen in public with me; he probably goes home and masturbates furiously at the notion of being out in public with a pussyhound like me. On one level it’s ridiculous. The Landscaper is a handsome man on his own merits—far better-looking than I am. If he were so inclined, he could attract just about any woman he wanted.
At the same time, I know that the reality of the situation isn’t so much what matters here. It’s the story he’s told himself, over and over again, in his fantasies. He’s told himself that I’m some big-time player, a straight guy fallen on slightly hard times who’s allowing the Landscaper the smallest of sexual favors in exchange for cash. He’s told himself I only do that stuff because I really need the dough. He’s made himself believe that he’s lucky that I’m willing to hang out with him once in a while.
And you know, it’s odd, but when I hang out with the Landscaper at this dive, this little restaurant/bar that skulks on the Saugatuck river beneath the shadow of an I-95 overpass, I really kind of am a pussy magnet. While I ponder his question, one of the married women sitting at a nearby table pauses to talk to me as she stumbles on her way to the restroom. She’s blond and pretty, though her skin is coarse from the sun. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the loud music coming from the bar’s far end, “I love your singing.”
“What?” I ask. I could hear her perfectly, but I cocked my head as if I couldn’t.
The woman moves in closer, as I thought she would. She touches me on the shoulder with her right hand. Her other hand drops; her fingertips touch the top of my leg three inches above the knee. She’s standing between my god-damned legs, a detail that’s not lost on the Landscaper. “I love your singing,” she said. “I love Duran Duran.”
I always sing Duran Duran on karaoke nights at this place. It reduces all the cougars to their fifteen-year-old selves. I touch her on the arm. “Thanks!” I say. And that’s all I’ve got to say. She wavers for a minute, undocks from the port between my thighs, and sails away, a little unsteadily.
“Fuck,” says the Landscaper as he watches her go. “You could’ve had her. She was hot for you!”
I shrug. I don’t point out that she was also extremely inebriated and smelled like a distillery.
“You could’ve been all up in that. You want to finger her? You want to lick her out?” He’s actually pretty loud, but he can’t be heard over the singing and the noise by anyone but me. Maybe by the bartender standing nearby, but he’s probably heard it all at this point. “You could get that killer dick of yours up in her, man. She’d ride you like a fucking bitch. Fuck. I bet some nights you go home smelling like strange pussy.”
I shrug again, and smile, and act like I’m flattered and not in disagreement with him. And I think to myself, is this really the way straight guys talk to each other?
We sit there for a while. “That one?” he’ll ask, every time a pretty woman comes into the bar.
“Eh,” I’ll say. Every time I’ll have an excuse. Too old. The tits are too big. The tits aren’t big enough. Too nasty. Too uptight. Sometimes he provides the answer for me: Too skanky. Too damned skinny. Too fucking fat.
He likes this routine of sitting in this bar and checking out the chicks, before we do anything together. It gives him a sense of security. We’d been there about an hour when he’s had enough gin and tonics to ask, “How about me?”
“What about you,” I grunt back. My eyes are half-closed.
“How about me?” he asks again. “You want me?”
I snort. “You’re a guy.”
“Come out to the van,” he says. “Did I tell you how much I like your short hair? It looks amazing.” I look at my second beer, appearing embarrassed to be given a compliment by a dude. “Come out to the van.” This time it’s a plea. There’s a note of neediness in his voice.
I sit there, and say nothing. I sit there, and let him wonder if I heard him. I sit there, and I look at the waitress, who’s cleaning up all the mussel shells and a huge amount of wadded-up paper napkins covered in dried butter, and I let him wait for the answer.
Then I stand up, adjust the hang of my jeans, and walk out of the place. He’s only two steps behind me.
He’s parked in the commuter lot of the train station, in a dark corner. There are other cars around, but they’re all there for the Westport nightlife, such as it is. We don’t even bother to pretend to get in through the front doors; he unlocks the back and we crawl onto the carpet.
He’s grabbing for the button on my jeans even before I’m settled against the back of the seats. “Whoa, whoa!” I tell him, sounding alarmed. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry, man. Just got a little excited.” When I’m with the Landscaper, I’m good at looking disgusted at the notion some dude would put his hands on another dude. Exploitative sure. But you know what? It’s what he wants from me. I give him what he wants in a way no one else has. That’s why he keeps seeing me.
“You know—“
“I know, I know,” he says. He’s trying to placate me in the dramatic, overacted way that the inebriated assume. “Ssshhh. Besides, we should take care of this, right?”
He reaches into his back pocket. He’s already got some fifties ready for me. Six of them, rolled up and squashed into a long rectangle from having been sat on. I count them out, nod, and stick them into my shirt pocket. “All right,” I say.
“Can I take them off?” he asks, crouching over me. His fingers want to go back to my jeans button.
This is the concession I’ve made for him in the last couple of months; I let him take off my pants. “Shoes first,” I order.
Lovingly, he removes my sneakers. He places them side by side at the van’s edge. Then my ankle-high socks. Those he folds and puts into the mouths of my shoes. Grudgingly I lift my hips up as he undoes the jeans and pulls them off. I’m deliberately not wearing shorts. He’s staring at my erect dick as he folds my jeans leg over leg, then in half, then in quarters, and lays them atop my shoes.
“Can I?”
I pause for a moment. I like to let him think there’s a doubt. Then I spread my legs so that he can position himself between them.
He lies on his belly. I can feel his breath on my nuts as I begin to stroke. He wants to do more. He’s asked to do more. He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times. Each time he’s proposed the deal, I’ve let him see me wrestle with the offer. I think he can tell the money’s attractive—and six hundred bucks just to get head? Fuck yes it is. But part of me—the sadistic part of me—enjoys fucking with him more than I’d enjoy the flow.
On some level, I know he’d respect me less if I’d accepted right away. That’s why we haven’t gone there.
This part of the transaction is pretty straightforward. I stroke myself, putting on a show for him while I make a big pretense of him not being present. I jerk with both hands, I tug at my nuts. I double-fist the shaft so that the head and a good two inches are sticking out at the top. I play with the precum, though I don’t eat it, the way I might in my own private masturbation sessions.
He’s going crazy the entire time. “Yeah,” he’s whispering. “You’re thinking about pile-drivin’ that pussy, aren’t you. Getting that big dick all up inside that whore and fucking her until she’s got a pussyful of seed. Banging the shit out of her, man.” Crap like that.
He thinks it’s exciting me to think about fucking some housewife out on a Monday-night spree, and doesn’t realize I’m getting my pleasure from dragging him down into the depths of his own private world. He’s showing me the parts of himself that his wife and kiddy never glimpse, the parts that none of his bluff and hearty buddies ever guess, the parts that he might not even want to admit to himself. That’s the payload for me.
And for him, the payload’s when I shoot. He always gets his mouth on my nuts right before I come—I allow that, and pretend it’s not happening, though the hot and wet slide of his tongue over my smooth sac is what really gets me off in the end. Then there’s cum jetting out of my slit, and down the shaft.
My eyes are totally closed as I let him clean it up. My hands are around my meat, protecting it from the man’s touch, but he licks it off my fingers, off my wrist where it’s flown. He’d fucking lick it off the van carpet if I shot it there.
Some day I might.
When he’s stopped and it’s safe for me to open my eyes without seeing some dude on my seed, I do so. “Gotta jet,” I say, reaching for my pants.
He watches me dress again. I look like a mess, but my car’s not too far away. “Gonna fuck the wife?” he asks. He sounds hopeful. “Gonna give it to her?”
I shrug. “Later, dude,” I tell him.
“Gonna give her what she needs? I bet you give her what she really needs,” he says, as he opens the van doors. There’s a distinct and pronounced bulge in his pants that I’m sure he’ll be taking care of, the moment he’s alone. “I bet you do. I bet you always give all your fucks what they need, huh?”
I smile. That’s a bet he should know he’d definitely win.
He’s pointing to the waitress, a woman of about forty who’s trying to shave fifteen years off her appearance by wearing about five pounds of hair extensions, and nearly as much makeup. She’s got on a flimsy camisole top and skimpy short shorts. As a forty-year-old in normal clothing, she’d probably look fairly attractive. Dressed up like an extra in a Katy Perry video, it’s comic that anyone would think so.
I watch the waitress balance two large plates of mussels on her forearms, while her hands clutch a pair of lobster rolls. These aren’t the cheap-ass kind of lobster rolls they serve in lesser dives, with mayonnaise. No, the lobster’s steeped in melted butter, here, and are served with little bowls with even more butter, ready to be slopped on. I didn’t know a thing about lobster rolls until I moved to this state. It’s all the locals talk about, sometimes—and I’d gotten an extensive talk about them from the tattooed and muscled bartender, on an earlier visit. The Landscaper is watching me watch her get her payload to the table of rowdy, beer-drinking locals. “You like her?”
I roll my eyes. Get serious, the look says.
“Which one, then?”
He and I are sitting side by side at the bar, our backs against the railing. He’s got a gin and tonic in his hand. I’ve been nursing a beer for a while. I don’t like beer, but he’d ordered it for me when he’d seen me walk in. It’s the same bar where we’ve met a couple of times before. I think he gets off on the idea of being seen in public with me; he probably goes home and masturbates furiously at the notion of being out in public with a pussyhound like me. On one level it’s ridiculous. The Landscaper is a handsome man on his own merits—far better-looking than I am. If he were so inclined, he could attract just about any woman he wanted.
At the same time, I know that the reality of the situation isn’t so much what matters here. It’s the story he’s told himself, over and over again, in his fantasies. He’s told himself that I’m some big-time player, a straight guy fallen on slightly hard times who’s allowing the Landscaper the smallest of sexual favors in exchange for cash. He’s told himself I only do that stuff because I really need the dough. He’s made himself believe that he’s lucky that I’m willing to hang out with him once in a while.
And you know, it’s odd, but when I hang out with the Landscaper at this dive, this little restaurant/bar that skulks on the Saugatuck river beneath the shadow of an I-95 overpass, I really kind of am a pussy magnet. While I ponder his question, one of the married women sitting at a nearby table pauses to talk to me as she stumbles on her way to the restroom. She’s blond and pretty, though her skin is coarse from the sun. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the loud music coming from the bar’s far end, “I love your singing.”
“What?” I ask. I could hear her perfectly, but I cocked my head as if I couldn’t.
The woman moves in closer, as I thought she would. She touches me on the shoulder with her right hand. Her other hand drops; her fingertips touch the top of my leg three inches above the knee. She’s standing between my god-damned legs, a detail that’s not lost on the Landscaper. “I love your singing,” she said. “I love Duran Duran.”
I always sing Duran Duran on karaoke nights at this place. It reduces all the cougars to their fifteen-year-old selves. I touch her on the arm. “Thanks!” I say. And that’s all I’ve got to say. She wavers for a minute, undocks from the port between my thighs, and sails away, a little unsteadily.
“Fuck,” says the Landscaper as he watches her go. “You could’ve had her. She was hot for you!”
I shrug. I don’t point out that she was also extremely inebriated and smelled like a distillery.
“You could’ve been all up in that. You want to finger her? You want to lick her out?” He’s actually pretty loud, but he can’t be heard over the singing and the noise by anyone but me. Maybe by the bartender standing nearby, but he’s probably heard it all at this point. “You could get that killer dick of yours up in her, man. She’d ride you like a fucking bitch. Fuck. I bet some nights you go home smelling like strange pussy.”
I shrug again, and smile, and act like I’m flattered and not in disagreement with him. And I think to myself, is this really the way straight guys talk to each other?
We sit there for a while. “That one?” he’ll ask, every time a pretty woman comes into the bar.
“Eh,” I’ll say. Every time I’ll have an excuse. Too old. The tits are too big. The tits aren’t big enough. Too nasty. Too uptight. Sometimes he provides the answer for me: Too skanky. Too damned skinny. Too fucking fat.
He likes this routine of sitting in this bar and checking out the chicks, before we do anything together. It gives him a sense of security. We’d been there about an hour when he’s had enough gin and tonics to ask, “How about me?”
“What about you,” I grunt back. My eyes are half-closed.
“How about me?” he asks again. “You want me?”
I snort. “You’re a guy.”
“Come out to the van,” he says. “Did I tell you how much I like your short hair? It looks amazing.” I look at my second beer, appearing embarrassed to be given a compliment by a dude. “Come out to the van.” This time it’s a plea. There’s a note of neediness in his voice.
I sit there, and say nothing. I sit there, and let him wonder if I heard him. I sit there, and I look at the waitress, who’s cleaning up all the mussel shells and a huge amount of wadded-up paper napkins covered in dried butter, and I let him wait for the answer.
Then I stand up, adjust the hang of my jeans, and walk out of the place. He’s only two steps behind me.
He’s parked in the commuter lot of the train station, in a dark corner. There are other cars around, but they’re all there for the Westport nightlife, such as it is. We don’t even bother to pretend to get in through the front doors; he unlocks the back and we crawl onto the carpet.
He’s grabbing for the button on my jeans even before I’m settled against the back of the seats. “Whoa, whoa!” I tell him, sounding alarmed. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “Sorry, man. Just got a little excited.” When I’m with the Landscaper, I’m good at looking disgusted at the notion some dude would put his hands on another dude. Exploitative sure. But you know what? It’s what he wants from me. I give him what he wants in a way no one else has. That’s why he keeps seeing me.
“You know—“
“I know, I know,” he says. He’s trying to placate me in the dramatic, overacted way that the inebriated assume. “Ssshhh. Besides, we should take care of this, right?”
He reaches into his back pocket. He’s already got some fifties ready for me. Six of them, rolled up and squashed into a long rectangle from having been sat on. I count them out, nod, and stick them into my shirt pocket. “All right,” I say.
“Can I take them off?” he asks, crouching over me. His fingers want to go back to my jeans button.
This is the concession I’ve made for him in the last couple of months; I let him take off my pants. “Shoes first,” I order.
Lovingly, he removes my sneakers. He places them side by side at the van’s edge. Then my ankle-high socks. Those he folds and puts into the mouths of my shoes. Grudgingly I lift my hips up as he undoes the jeans and pulls them off. I’m deliberately not wearing shorts. He’s staring at my erect dick as he folds my jeans leg over leg, then in half, then in quarters, and lays them atop my shoes.
“Can I?”
I pause for a moment. I like to let him think there’s a doubt. Then I spread my legs so that he can position himself between them.
He lies on his belly. I can feel his breath on my nuts as I begin to stroke. He wants to do more. He’s asked to do more. He’s offered me double my going rate just to suck me off, the last couple of times. Each time he’s proposed the deal, I’ve let him see me wrestle with the offer. I think he can tell the money’s attractive—and six hundred bucks just to get head? Fuck yes it is. But part of me—the sadistic part of me—enjoys fucking with him more than I’d enjoy the flow.
On some level, I know he’d respect me less if I’d accepted right away. That’s why we haven’t gone there.
This part of the transaction is pretty straightforward. I stroke myself, putting on a show for him while I make a big pretense of him not being present. I jerk with both hands, I tug at my nuts. I double-fist the shaft so that the head and a good two inches are sticking out at the top. I play with the precum, though I don’t eat it, the way I might in my own private masturbation sessions.
He’s going crazy the entire time. “Yeah,” he’s whispering. “You’re thinking about pile-drivin’ that pussy, aren’t you. Getting that big dick all up inside that whore and fucking her until she’s got a pussyful of seed. Banging the shit out of her, man.” Crap like that.
He thinks it’s exciting me to think about fucking some housewife out on a Monday-night spree, and doesn’t realize I’m getting my pleasure from dragging him down into the depths of his own private world. He’s showing me the parts of himself that his wife and kiddy never glimpse, the parts that none of his bluff and hearty buddies ever guess, the parts that he might not even want to admit to himself. That’s the payload for me.
And for him, the payload’s when I shoot. He always gets his mouth on my nuts right before I come—I allow that, and pretend it’s not happening, though the hot and wet slide of his tongue over my smooth sac is what really gets me off in the end. Then there’s cum jetting out of my slit, and down the shaft.
My eyes are totally closed as I let him clean it up. My hands are around my meat, protecting it from the man’s touch, but he licks it off my fingers, off my wrist where it’s flown. He’d fucking lick it off the van carpet if I shot it there.
Some day I might.
When he’s stopped and it’s safe for me to open my eyes without seeing some dude on my seed, I do so. “Gotta jet,” I say, reaching for my pants.
He watches me dress again. I look like a mess, but my car’s not too far away. “Gonna fuck the wife?” he asks. He sounds hopeful. “Gonna give it to her?”
I shrug. “Later, dude,” I tell him.
“Gonna give her what she needs? I bet you give her what she really needs,” he says, as he opens the van doors. There’s a distinct and pronounced bulge in his pants that I’m sure he’ll be taking care of, the moment he’s alone. “I bet you do. I bet you always give all your fucks what they need, huh?”
I smile. That’s a bet he should know he’d definitely win.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Good Buddies
He’s showing me a video on his iPhone. It’s tough to tell what’s going on. It’s as if he’s walking with the video recording. I catch glimpses of a carpet, of a frilly bed skirt, of a lamp on a bedside table. The sudden light causes the screen to flare and bleach, before it adjusts again. Then I can see a pair of feminine legs, lying on pretty floral sheets.
Then there’s a dick, red and engorged. It’s one of those fat, almost flat dicks, wider than it is thick. The head is enormous. As the camera focuses, I can see it flare. I wince, and pull my expression into one of disturbed disgust. “Why are you showing me cock?” I ask.
The Landscaper is watching my expression intently, I notice. We’re in the front seat of his van, parked in the usual lot of the local strip mall. From the Starbucks he’s brought two cardboard cups of coffee, one black and one what he calls ‘regular,’ which means with cream and sugar. (“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of each,” he told me, proffering both, like a shy boy with an apple for the teacher.) I’ve got the regular between my legs, warming my thighs. The roll of bills he’s given me makes a lump in my jeans pocket, to the right. My dick is bulging to the left.
“It’s mine,” he says, unnecessarily. I look away from the screen to his groin. His faded designer jeans are tight in the crotch. He’s managed to sidle over the gap in the seats and insinuate himself close to me. His shoulder’s only a hair away from my own, but we’re not touching.
I curl my lip. The Landscaper likes thinking I’m the straightest of straight men, the married guy he’s managed to talk into showing off his dick for cash when we meet. “So why are you showing me your cock?” I ask, like he’s some kind of sick bastard.
He gets off on my tone. “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see something you like better.”
I can feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me watching. I get the impression he’s actually trying to smell me. I hold my attention on the jittering screen in front of me. Through the little speakers pressing against his palm I hear voices, his own and a woman’s. I’m assuming his wife’s. I can’t tell what they’re saying, though. The woman’s legs appear again. Then I see the Landscaper’s big, meaty hands lifting up the hem of some kind of oversized T-shirt or night shirt. Her hands swat him away for a minute, but then he’s thrusting two of his fingers in her slit, none too gently.
“You like her pussy?” he asks, over her mild and somewhat amused protests. “Sweet one, huh?”
I have to clear my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur. On the phone, he’s moving the camera back and forth between his own dick, which is throbbing and pulsing, to his wife’s pussy.
His shoulder touches mine. I can feel him freeze. He desperately wants to be there, touching me, and he’s hoping I don’t notice. It’s an intimacy I shouldn’t allow. A real straight guy would pull back from it. I pretend to be too absorbed in the video to care much. He’s using his left hand to pull apart her pussy lips, to show her off to me. She’s laughing and trying to swat him away, the entire time. “You like that, huh? I did it for you, buddy. I figured you’d want to see her.” I grunt, deeply, sexually. I’m turned on that he made this video with me in mind. “You should see her when she shaves,” he says. “Like a fucking teen. You want me to make her shave? I’ll tell her to do it. Make another video. For you, dude. I’ll do it for you.”
I’m not one of those guys who really gives a crap whether a few square inches of skin are shaved or not. But I’m turned on at the idea of him shaving his wife at my say-so. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I want her shaved.”
“Dude, I’ll do it!” he says, thrilled beyond measure that we’re conspiring together. “Fuck, I’ll do it tonight.” His dick appears again at the bottom of the screen. He’s having issues getting both it and his wife’s pussy in the camera at the same time. In a moment, the camera tilts, confusing the view. Then it shuts off. He pockets the camera. “You turned on?” he asks. I nod. “Maybe you should get in the back and let me take care of that for you,” he whispers.
“What do you mean, take care of it,” I ask, wary.
He licks his lips unconsciously. “I’ll suck it.” He’s aware instantly he’s asked too much. I’m opening my mouth to warn him I don’t do that fag shit, when he overrides me. “Let me stroke it off for you, buddy. Just two guys. Kids do it for each other. Nothing wrong with it.”
I puff my cheeks and blow out air. He’s overstepped the line, and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how much I enjoy putting him through the wringer, every time he tries to inch his way a little further into full-on man sex. I get off on knowing he wants it so desperately, that he wants me. Obsesses about me. Makes videos for me. I could just feed him my dick and get it over with, but I like prolonging his agony. I’m a cruel bastard that way.
I’m really considering how far I’ll let him go this time, but he seems to think I might just step out of the truck. “Sorry, sorry man,” he says. “I know you’re not gay. I’m not either, honest. Just something about you, you know. Makes me get a little crazy.” In a husky voice, he asks, very politely, “Please let me taste it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I look toward the back of the van, where we’ve played before. I shake my head.
“Let me lick your nuts,” he pleads. “You’ve let me do that before. You liked that, right?” I shrug, like I’m trying not to remember it happening, or like I was just doing him a favor and it hadn’t really done a thing for me. “Get in the back,” he suggests. “Just get in the back and let me watch you. Okay buddy?”
There’s such a note of yearning in his voice that I’m aroused even more than before. It hurts, that need. I can tell by the catch in his tone, the raspy grating at the back of his throat. His breathing is heavy. He wants me badly. Without a word, I climb into the back of the van and take off my leather jacket. He’s ramped up the heat over the last few minutes. The floor is cold when I settle on it, though.
He follows and takes his place between my sneakers. He pulls down my jeans. We wrestle for a moment with exactly how far I’ll let them descend. He wants them above my knees; I want to keep them just below the nuts. I let him win. He’s a handsome man, this married daddy, this well-off professional, this boss of a dozens. He’s an eye-catcher, a prize. And he looks fucking ridiculous, prone on the floor of his work van, thrall to my erection. He rests the side of his head on my leg above the knee, gazing at my hard dick like he’s in love with it. I allow it.
“Let me suck it,” he pleads. I make a show of thinking about it, like I’m a straight guy who could use a mouth, any mouth, even a dude’s mouth, no matter how dirty I’d feel afterward. I give it a moment before I curl my lip and shake my head. “Let me lick those nuts then,” he begs. “Please. Please.”
I wait another moment while I stroke. I seem totally absorbed in my own meat. My fist grips it tightly, making the head red and shiny. Precum starts oozing out. After a while, I grudgingly nod.
Then he’s up there, right between my legs. His breath is hot on my sac for a moment, and then I feel the warmth of his tongue, the pressure of his chin. His eyes stare up at my meat, then into my eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, as if he’s half-asleep, or having the best dream in the world.
His hands hold my thighs as I jerk. They’re strong, and the grip is relentless. From time to him his mouth starts to travel up; his tongue licks out at the base of my shaft, as he tries to get a taste. I let my face wrinkle with disgust whenever he does, and then get him back on my nuts by adjusting the angle of my hips. I don’t touch his head. Touching is something he does, not me.
“You want her pussy, don’t you?” he asks after a while. “You want that shaved pussy?”
“You want to see me fuck her?” I grunt. My own eyes are shut now. I’m getting closer, and he can tell.
“I want to see you bang the shit out of that bitch!” He’s turned on at my excitement. It’s okay for a straight guy to shoot at the thought of fucking a buddy’s wife. Normal, even. “You wouldn’t tell her our arrangement, would you?”
I’m assuming he means the money, or maybe the nut-licking, or perhaps both. “Fuck no!” I spit, as if I’d never tell anyone about that perverted shit.
“Fuck her,” he says, urging me on. “Fuck that cunt! Would you watch a movie of me fucking her if I take it?”
I’m real close now. My fist pounds over my shaft rapidly. “Yeah,” I grunt.
I’m shooting. It’s a thick load that slides out of my slit like lava from a volcano, just as hot, burning a trail down the back of my knuckles. He’s mesmerized at the sight. My dick lets loose glob after glob as he watches. For a minute I think he wants to lick it off my hand, but he’s not got the courage to ask.
Instead, he pulls a canister of baby wipes from a bag lying against the van’s wall. Softly, almost tenderly, he swaps away the goo. In a couple of moments my hand is clean and smelling of shea butter. “You are so fucking hot,” he whispers with reverence. Then, with a note of longing, he asks, “Do you like my lips on there?”
It’s time to throw him a bone. The pup’s worked hard enough for it. “Yeah,” I say in my normal voice. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”
The light that shines from his face is worth all the acting I’ve had to do. He’s so fucking happy at the back-handed praise. The pride is palpable. I can still feel it emanating from the van as I gather my jacket and get back into my own car.
I’m pulling into my own parking space at home when I get his text a few minutes later. i think we got a good thing going here, right buddy? It says.
Yeah, I text back. It’s cool to have a good buddy like you.
Then there’s a dick, red and engorged. It’s one of those fat, almost flat dicks, wider than it is thick. The head is enormous. As the camera focuses, I can see it flare. I wince, and pull my expression into one of disturbed disgust. “Why are you showing me cock?” I ask.
The Landscaper is watching my expression intently, I notice. We’re in the front seat of his van, parked in the usual lot of the local strip mall. From the Starbucks he’s brought two cardboard cups of coffee, one black and one what he calls ‘regular,’ which means with cream and sugar. (“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of each,” he told me, proffering both, like a shy boy with an apple for the teacher.) I’ve got the regular between my legs, warming my thighs. The roll of bills he’s given me makes a lump in my jeans pocket, to the right. My dick is bulging to the left.
“It’s mine,” he says, unnecessarily. I look away from the screen to his groin. His faded designer jeans are tight in the crotch. He’s managed to sidle over the gap in the seats and insinuate himself close to me. His shoulder’s only a hair away from my own, but we’re not touching.
I curl my lip. The Landscaper likes thinking I’m the straightest of straight men, the married guy he’s managed to talk into showing off his dick for cash when we meet. “So why are you showing me your cock?” I ask, like he’s some kind of sick bastard.
He gets off on my tone. “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see something you like better.”
I can feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me watching. I get the impression he’s actually trying to smell me. I hold my attention on the jittering screen in front of me. Through the little speakers pressing against his palm I hear voices, his own and a woman’s. I’m assuming his wife’s. I can’t tell what they’re saying, though. The woman’s legs appear again. Then I see the Landscaper’s big, meaty hands lifting up the hem of some kind of oversized T-shirt or night shirt. Her hands swat him away for a minute, but then he’s thrusting two of his fingers in her slit, none too gently.
“You like her pussy?” he asks, over her mild and somewhat amused protests. “Sweet one, huh?”
I have to clear my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur. On the phone, he’s moving the camera back and forth between his own dick, which is throbbing and pulsing, to his wife’s pussy.
His shoulder touches mine. I can feel him freeze. He desperately wants to be there, touching me, and he’s hoping I don’t notice. It’s an intimacy I shouldn’t allow. A real straight guy would pull back from it. I pretend to be too absorbed in the video to care much. He’s using his left hand to pull apart her pussy lips, to show her off to me. She’s laughing and trying to swat him away, the entire time. “You like that, huh? I did it for you, buddy. I figured you’d want to see her.” I grunt, deeply, sexually. I’m turned on that he made this video with me in mind. “You should see her when she shaves,” he says. “Like a fucking teen. You want me to make her shave? I’ll tell her to do it. Make another video. For you, dude. I’ll do it for you.”
I’m not one of those guys who really gives a crap whether a few square inches of skin are shaved or not. But I’m turned on at the idea of him shaving his wife at my say-so. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I want her shaved.”
“Dude, I’ll do it!” he says, thrilled beyond measure that we’re conspiring together. “Fuck, I’ll do it tonight.” His dick appears again at the bottom of the screen. He’s having issues getting both it and his wife’s pussy in the camera at the same time. In a moment, the camera tilts, confusing the view. Then it shuts off. He pockets the camera. “You turned on?” he asks. I nod. “Maybe you should get in the back and let me take care of that for you,” he whispers.
“What do you mean, take care of it,” I ask, wary.
He licks his lips unconsciously. “I’ll suck it.” He’s aware instantly he’s asked too much. I’m opening my mouth to warn him I don’t do that fag shit, when he overrides me. “Let me stroke it off for you, buddy. Just two guys. Kids do it for each other. Nothing wrong with it.”
I puff my cheeks and blow out air. He’s overstepped the line, and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how much I enjoy putting him through the wringer, every time he tries to inch his way a little further into full-on man sex. I get off on knowing he wants it so desperately, that he wants me. Obsesses about me. Makes videos for me. I could just feed him my dick and get it over with, but I like prolonging his agony. I’m a cruel bastard that way.
I’m really considering how far I’ll let him go this time, but he seems to think I might just step out of the truck. “Sorry, sorry man,” he says. “I know you’re not gay. I’m not either, honest. Just something about you, you know. Makes me get a little crazy.” In a husky voice, he asks, very politely, “Please let me taste it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I look toward the back of the van, where we’ve played before. I shake my head.
“Let me lick your nuts,” he pleads. “You’ve let me do that before. You liked that, right?” I shrug, like I’m trying not to remember it happening, or like I was just doing him a favor and it hadn’t really done a thing for me. “Get in the back,” he suggests. “Just get in the back and let me watch you. Okay buddy?”
There’s such a note of yearning in his voice that I’m aroused even more than before. It hurts, that need. I can tell by the catch in his tone, the raspy grating at the back of his throat. His breathing is heavy. He wants me badly. Without a word, I climb into the back of the van and take off my leather jacket. He’s ramped up the heat over the last few minutes. The floor is cold when I settle on it, though.
He follows and takes his place between my sneakers. He pulls down my jeans. We wrestle for a moment with exactly how far I’ll let them descend. He wants them above my knees; I want to keep them just below the nuts. I let him win. He’s a handsome man, this married daddy, this well-off professional, this boss of a dozens. He’s an eye-catcher, a prize. And he looks fucking ridiculous, prone on the floor of his work van, thrall to my erection. He rests the side of his head on my leg above the knee, gazing at my hard dick like he’s in love with it. I allow it.
“Let me suck it,” he pleads. I make a show of thinking about it, like I’m a straight guy who could use a mouth, any mouth, even a dude’s mouth, no matter how dirty I’d feel afterward. I give it a moment before I curl my lip and shake my head. “Let me lick those nuts then,” he begs. “Please. Please.”
I wait another moment while I stroke. I seem totally absorbed in my own meat. My fist grips it tightly, making the head red and shiny. Precum starts oozing out. After a while, I grudgingly nod.
Then he’s up there, right between my legs. His breath is hot on my sac for a moment, and then I feel the warmth of his tongue, the pressure of his chin. His eyes stare up at my meat, then into my eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, as if he’s half-asleep, or having the best dream in the world.
His hands hold my thighs as I jerk. They’re strong, and the grip is relentless. From time to him his mouth starts to travel up; his tongue licks out at the base of my shaft, as he tries to get a taste. I let my face wrinkle with disgust whenever he does, and then get him back on my nuts by adjusting the angle of my hips. I don’t touch his head. Touching is something he does, not me.
“You want her pussy, don’t you?” he asks after a while. “You want that shaved pussy?”
“You want to see me fuck her?” I grunt. My own eyes are shut now. I’m getting closer, and he can tell.
“I want to see you bang the shit out of that bitch!” He’s turned on at my excitement. It’s okay for a straight guy to shoot at the thought of fucking a buddy’s wife. Normal, even. “You wouldn’t tell her our arrangement, would you?”
I’m assuming he means the money, or maybe the nut-licking, or perhaps both. “Fuck no!” I spit, as if I’d never tell anyone about that perverted shit.
“Fuck her,” he says, urging me on. “Fuck that cunt! Would you watch a movie of me fucking her if I take it?”
I’m real close now. My fist pounds over my shaft rapidly. “Yeah,” I grunt.
I’m shooting. It’s a thick load that slides out of my slit like lava from a volcano, just as hot, burning a trail down the back of my knuckles. He’s mesmerized at the sight. My dick lets loose glob after glob as he watches. For a minute I think he wants to lick it off my hand, but he’s not got the courage to ask.
Instead, he pulls a canister of baby wipes from a bag lying against the van’s wall. Softly, almost tenderly, he swaps away the goo. In a couple of moments my hand is clean and smelling of shea butter. “You are so fucking hot,” he whispers with reverence. Then, with a note of longing, he asks, “Do you like my lips on there?”
It’s time to throw him a bone. The pup’s worked hard enough for it. “Yeah,” I say in my normal voice. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”
The light that shines from his face is worth all the acting I’ve had to do. He’s so fucking happy at the back-handed praise. The pride is palpable. I can still feel it emanating from the van as I gather my jacket and get back into my own car.
I’m pulling into my own parking space at home when I get his text a few minutes later. i think we got a good thing going here, right buddy? It says.
Yeah, I text back. It’s cool to have a good buddy like you.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Hot Off the iPhone
Text messages from the landscaper I've received in the past week.
Tuesday
HIM: what r u wearing toddy
ME: Toddy? Who the fuck is Toddy?
HIM: today lol
ME: Jeans. A dress shirt. Boots.
HIM: you dress really well
ME: I never notice what I put on.
(Note: That's a whopper.)
Wednesday
HIM: so what are you wearing today
ME: Who are you, Michael Kors or something?
HIM: what?
ME: You're always asking me what I'm wearing.
HIM: because I like thinking about you taking it off
HIM: does it turn you on knowing that a straight man cant get his mind off you
HIM: ??
ME: Guys don't really do anything for me. (Note: Another whopper.)
HIM: me neither
HIM: except you 4 some reason
Thursday
HIM: promise not 2 ask what youre wearing
HIM: but i bet it looks good
HIM: no answer huh
HIM: so does that mean youve got nothing on? lol
Friday
HIM: sorry if i bugged u yesterday
ME: I had stuff to do in the city.
HIM: how many times did u fuck ur woman this week
ME: Is that really your business, dude?
HIM: i like thinking about where ur dicks been
HIM: i like thinking about ur dick
HIM: is that queer?
ME: That's pretty much what queer is.
Saturday
HIM: so have u ever let a guy suck you off
ME: Are you a cocksucker??
HIM: no no no
HIM: never done it
HIM: like never, 4 real
HIM: yours makes me want to
HIM: hope that doesn't sound sick
ME: Guys don't turn me on the same way that chicks do.
HIM: no i totally get that dude
HIM: kinda guess thats one of the things that makes me want it with u
HIM: just a suggestion
Sunday
HIM: did u think about it?
HIM: i'll give u extra
HIM: it doesnt make us gay if we do it for $$
ME: That's what you think, huh?
HIM: it doesnt
HIM: really
Monday
HIM: $100
HIM: extra
HIM: all u gotta do is kick back and let me
ME: What if I don't get hard for a guy that way?
HIM: so u r interested then
HIM: i got x videos on dvd and a portable player
HIM: i even got some of me and the wife, think that could turn u on
ME: I don't know.
HIM: i like that u only do it for $$
HIM: more manly
Tuesday
HIM: did u think about it?
HIM: its just one dude helpin another out
HIM: and giving him a lil gas money lol
ME: I don't know.
HIM: sounds gay but i gotta taste that dick
HIM: all u gotta type is ok and i will be the happiest dude
HIM: if not i promise 2 leave u alone
ME (several hours later): Ok.
HIM: yippee!
Wednesday
HIM: wait yesterday when u said ok did u mean ok i can suck u or ok i should leave u alone?
HIM: im a confused dude!
Tuesday
HIM: what r u wearing toddy
ME: Toddy? Who the fuck is Toddy?
HIM: today lol
ME: Jeans. A dress shirt. Boots.
HIM: you dress really well
ME: I never notice what I put on.
(Note: That's a whopper.)
Wednesday
HIM: so what are you wearing today
ME: Who are you, Michael Kors or something?
HIM: what?
ME: You're always asking me what I'm wearing.
HIM: because I like thinking about you taking it off
HIM: does it turn you on knowing that a straight man cant get his mind off you
HIM: ??
ME: Guys don't really do anything for me. (Note: Another whopper.)
HIM: me neither
HIM: except you 4 some reason
Thursday
HIM: promise not 2 ask what youre wearing
HIM: but i bet it looks good
HIM: no answer huh
HIM: so does that mean youve got nothing on? lol
Friday
HIM: sorry if i bugged u yesterday
ME: I had stuff to do in the city.
HIM: how many times did u fuck ur woman this week
ME: Is that really your business, dude?
HIM: i like thinking about where ur dicks been
HIM: i like thinking about ur dick
HIM: is that queer?
ME: That's pretty much what queer is.
Saturday
HIM: so have u ever let a guy suck you off
ME: Are you a cocksucker??
HIM: no no no
HIM: never done it
HIM: like never, 4 real
HIM: yours makes me want to
HIM: hope that doesn't sound sick
ME: Guys don't turn me on the same way that chicks do.
HIM: no i totally get that dude
HIM: kinda guess thats one of the things that makes me want it with u
HIM: just a suggestion
Sunday
HIM: did u think about it?
HIM: i'll give u extra
HIM: it doesnt make us gay if we do it for $$
ME: That's what you think, huh?
HIM: it doesnt
HIM: really
Monday
HIM: $100
HIM: extra
HIM: all u gotta do is kick back and let me
ME: What if I don't get hard for a guy that way?
HIM: so u r interested then
HIM: i got x videos on dvd and a portable player
HIM: i even got some of me and the wife, think that could turn u on
ME: I don't know.
HIM: i like that u only do it for $$
HIM: more manly
Tuesday
HIM: did u think about it?
HIM: its just one dude helpin another out
HIM: and giving him a lil gas money lol
ME: I don't know.
HIM: sounds gay but i gotta taste that dick
HIM: all u gotta type is ok and i will be the happiest dude
HIM: if not i promise 2 leave u alone
ME (several hours later): Ok.
HIM: yippee!
Wednesday
HIM: wait yesterday when u said ok did u mean ok i can suck u or ok i should leave u alone?
HIM: im a confused dude!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Under the Bridge
I've chosen the bar because I know it. I know how to drive there, I know where to park. It's a dive where I've hung out on Monday nights to drink and sing and eat greasy French fries served by a bartender with twin sleeves of ink that cover his arms like a tight-fitting shirt. It's a little place on on a river, right under the freeway, built from an ancient barge. It's dark and humid inside, and always smells of the steamed clams they serve on large, mismatched plates, accompanied by jugs of drawn butter.
I like the place because it's unpretentious. The karaoke singers there are not that great, so my own modest talent of staying vaguely on pitch while bellowing loudly when it's my turn for the mic makes me seem like a fucking rock star. But mostly I like the people watching. It's a spot the likes of which I didn't know existed, where straight people meet for drinks when they're meeting for the first time. I've eavesdropped on a married man and a woman who was definitely not his wife meet there after she answered his Craigslist ad; they had a couple of vodka-and-tonics and left for a motel shortly after. It's a place where drunken former frat boys down beers and shots and park their foreheads on the shoulders of pretty girls, to get an eyeful of cleavage. It's a straight drive pickup bar, pretty basically, and for my purposes this night, it suits me just fine.
He's waiting at the bar for me—the landscaper, the man who pays me cash to jack off for him. He's dressed in a pair of super-tight designer jeans and, despite the fact that it's a nippy night outside, a blinding white polo shirt embroidered with his company's name. In that shirt he would have been visible in any crowd, , but he stands up to stare at me, anxious for me to notice him. He's so clean-cut. With that physique, those slight laugh lines around his eyes, his square jaw, his stern forehead, he looks like a model from a J.C. Penney's father's day catalog.
I'm wearing a pair of dark jeans, a dress shirt open two buttons, a casual blazer. The heels of my boots hook on the stool's lowest rung when I slide into the seat he's been saving for me. "I'm glad you came," he says. There's a nervous energy to him that I'm getting used to. He doesn't crack smiles easily, this one. "You have any problems getting away from home?"
He's stuck out his right hand. I proffer mine in return. When we separate, I find he's left a flattened roll of bills in my palm. Smooth. I don't count them. I'm fairly confident that he wouldn't try to cheat me. Instead I put my payment into my inside blazer pocket. "Nah," I say, looking for the bartender.
I order a beer. I don't like beer. I don't drink it willingly. But beer's what he's ordered. It's a man's drink. A married daddy's drink. He slips the bartender a five when it arrives, and nods him off. "You been here before?" he asks.
"Couple of times." I'm curious why the small talk, why he wanted to meet in a public place at all. Twice already I've been in the back of his van with my pants unzipped, letting him stare at my dick and put his mouth on my nuts. Meeting in a bar for a drink seems like a definite step backwards.
He doesn't leave me long to wonder, though. "So I just kinda wanted to get to know you," he said. "Wanted to know what makes you. You know. Tick." I take a swig of the beer and swallow while I stare at him, saying nothing. "Actually I was kind of worried I might've pissed you off or something." I raised my eyebrows. "Because of last time."
I shook my head. "Last time?"
The noise in the bar is actually pretty considerable. The restaurant half of the little barge is full up. Even the larger tables have laughing parties around them, and are clogged with steamers and empty bottles and glasses. He leaned in close. "I said you were good looking."
"Oh yeah," I said, taking another swing of beer and shrugging, like that was no big deal. "We're good on that."
"Okay, cool, cool. Just wanted to make sure."
We're interrupted then, by one of the women working her way up and down the bar. I'd seen her there on Monday nights. She's one of the cougar-types who swoons whenever I sing Duran Duran—a forty-something Kardashian wannabe with denim painted over her ample rear end and dark hair cascading down her shoulders. "Oh my god, are you singing tonight?" she asks, when she sees me. "Wait, it's not karaoke night. If I was blond I'd be a dumb blonde," she laughed, putting a flirtatious hand on my wrist and batting her eyes at my friend.
He's watching me closely. I know he likes the illusion that I'm totally straight, save with him, or with any man who offers me enough money to show my junk. He needs that illusion to do the things he wants to do. This woman, this chick, is helping me out tonight. I smirk at her. "I'll be here next week," I promise. "Whatever you want, I'll sing for you."
"Whatever I want?" She's drunk, unsurprisingly. She leans in closer to me. "I like the sound of that. I might pick out something wicked hard."
"Well, show me next Monday how wicked you get," I said, grinning. I added, "See you then."
She leaves, trailing perfume and stray hairs behind. The landscaper's jaw is twitching. "You fucked her?"
I try adopting a Mona Lisa smile, a half-answer that would acknowledge nothing yet imply volumes. It might have worked. "How often you fuck your wife with that thing?" he says in my ear. The odd buzzing of his breath, the movement of his lips against my lobe, is the most intimate we've been yet—and it's happening here, in a bar full of people. "Did she get it in the last week?"
I nod. It's a lie, all of it. But I nod, because it's what he wants to believe.
"Last night? Wednesday? Tuesday?" I'm thinking he's going to work his way back through all seven days, but when he says, "This morning? This afternoon?" I nod again. "Fuck. This afternoon? You still got her pussy juices on you?"
I barely move my head, but I nod. I'm like a sphinx. A beer-drinking, lying sphinx. I hadn't fucked that afternoon. But it's not what he wants to hear.
"Fuck," he says again. He spits out the word several times, shifting on his stool. "Fuck. That's hot. That's hot. I would give you two hundred more dollars right now if you let me put my hand down those pants of yours and get a hold of that baby-making tool."
I hate this beer, but it gives me an excuse not to meet his eyes. I'm hard in my pants. If our glances locked, I'd lose my resolve not to invite him back to his van right there and then. "You got the two hundred?" I ask, as if it's the money and the money alone that interests me.
"I gave you what I had, except for some drink money."
"Oh well," I said, implying he was going to miss out. The money he'd given me had been only for my time spent meeting him for drinks. Not for any favors. And for this kind of guy, the kind of man who needed a cash exchange to justify his man-to-man encounters, I wasn't giving a freebie.
"You need to get off? You building up another load in there?" I don't respond to his question. I'm acting as if now I know he's out of big bills, I had better things to do with my time. I'm eyeing the MILF who'd talked to me earlier. He's watching me, connecting the direction of my gaze with that cheap mass of hair and scent. "You like her, don't you."
It's not a question. It's a statement. It's a statement I don't answer. I've made the landscaper jealous. I wonder if he feels it like a flame in his chest, inextinguishable, impossible to overlook or ignore. If so, I'm doing what I need to do. "Come on," I tell him putting my half-finished brew onto the bar. I stand up and jerk my head. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest of his mug until there's little left than suds.
Past the waitresses and the bar crowd waiting for our seats we push, through the front door and out into the packed parking lot. We're just two guys who've met for drinks and were seeming to head back to our cars, then to our homes and families. Instead, I take him to where the bar's lot adjoins the larger, empty lot where in the daytime commuters park their cars to take the train into Manhattan. We step over the metal railing, over the weeds growing in the cracked asphalt, and head into the shadows.
This lot's beneath the 95 overpass. There's a secluded spot at its far end, beneath the mighty pillars supporting the highway far overhead where two men who've had a few too many beers might reasonably go to pee. Sheltered by concrete on one side and overhead, and by the water on the other, it's almost quiet out there. Quieter than the bar, certainly.
I unzip. I've got on no underwear; I have to dig out my dick from the denim, it's so hard. When he rushes to touch it, I turn away, step aside slightly. He hasn't paid for that. I stand there with my legs separated, dick in my right hand, left thumb protecting my nuts from the bite of my zipper. And I stroke.
I can hear his breathing as he watches me in the near-darkness. There's enough light from the bar's lot to see what's going on, but barely. "I bet it smells like her," he says. "Can I smell your fingers?"
I allow it. His hands are surprisingly warm around mine as he pulls them to his nose.
"Fuck, I can smell her," he says.
Which just goes to show the power of a vivid imagination.
I retrieve my hand and curl it around my hard meat again. This man arouses me. I like showing off for him. He's standing close enough to me that I can smell the beer on his breath, and feel his body heat against my right shoulder, my side, behind me. But he doesn't touch me again. Instead, he stands there silently while I beat myself. It's too dark to show off well, but I can grunt. And I can sigh. And I can murmur Oh yeah and Fuck from time to time.
"I'm gonna come," I tell him. Then I make good on the warning. Several ropes of cum fly and twist from my dick, landing on the invisible ground below. I've got sperm all over the back of my hand when I'm done. I make a show of trying to flick it off. "Shouldn't have done that," is all I say when I'm zipping myself up again.
"Fuck, no, I'm glad you did! That was hot!"
He tries to follow me back to my car, which is parked nearby, but I tell him to wait a minute until I've pulled away before emerging from the shadows. He instantly understands. There's really no one around to question why two men might be in the parking lot's far end together, but thinking we're sharing a secret excites him. I'm about eight feet away when he says, in an exaggerated whisper, "Hey buddy. She's real lucky."
Does he mean the cougar in the bar? Or the picture he has in his head of an apple-cheeked, freshly-fucked wife? In the end, I don't need to know. I pause, acknowledge the compliment with a semi-salute, and head back to my car.
I like the place because it's unpretentious. The karaoke singers there are not that great, so my own modest talent of staying vaguely on pitch while bellowing loudly when it's my turn for the mic makes me seem like a fucking rock star. But mostly I like the people watching. It's a spot the likes of which I didn't know existed, where straight people meet for drinks when they're meeting for the first time. I've eavesdropped on a married man and a woman who was definitely not his wife meet there after she answered his Craigslist ad; they had a couple of vodka-and-tonics and left for a motel shortly after. It's a place where drunken former frat boys down beers and shots and park their foreheads on the shoulders of pretty girls, to get an eyeful of cleavage. It's a straight drive pickup bar, pretty basically, and for my purposes this night, it suits me just fine.
He's waiting at the bar for me—the landscaper, the man who pays me cash to jack off for him. He's dressed in a pair of super-tight designer jeans and, despite the fact that it's a nippy night outside, a blinding white polo shirt embroidered with his company's name. In that shirt he would have been visible in any crowd, , but he stands up to stare at me, anxious for me to notice him. He's so clean-cut. With that physique, those slight laugh lines around his eyes, his square jaw, his stern forehead, he looks like a model from a J.C. Penney's father's day catalog.
I'm wearing a pair of dark jeans, a dress shirt open two buttons, a casual blazer. The heels of my boots hook on the stool's lowest rung when I slide into the seat he's been saving for me. "I'm glad you came," he says. There's a nervous energy to him that I'm getting used to. He doesn't crack smiles easily, this one. "You have any problems getting away from home?"
He's stuck out his right hand. I proffer mine in return. When we separate, I find he's left a flattened roll of bills in my palm. Smooth. I don't count them. I'm fairly confident that he wouldn't try to cheat me. Instead I put my payment into my inside blazer pocket. "Nah," I say, looking for the bartender.
I order a beer. I don't like beer. I don't drink it willingly. But beer's what he's ordered. It's a man's drink. A married daddy's drink. He slips the bartender a five when it arrives, and nods him off. "You been here before?" he asks.
"Couple of times." I'm curious why the small talk, why he wanted to meet in a public place at all. Twice already I've been in the back of his van with my pants unzipped, letting him stare at my dick and put his mouth on my nuts. Meeting in a bar for a drink seems like a definite step backwards.
He doesn't leave me long to wonder, though. "So I just kinda wanted to get to know you," he said. "Wanted to know what makes you. You know. Tick." I take a swig of the beer and swallow while I stare at him, saying nothing. "Actually I was kind of worried I might've pissed you off or something." I raised my eyebrows. "Because of last time."
I shook my head. "Last time?"
The noise in the bar is actually pretty considerable. The restaurant half of the little barge is full up. Even the larger tables have laughing parties around them, and are clogged with steamers and empty bottles and glasses. He leaned in close. "I said you were good looking."
"Oh yeah," I said, taking another swing of beer and shrugging, like that was no big deal. "We're good on that."
"Okay, cool, cool. Just wanted to make sure."
We're interrupted then, by one of the women working her way up and down the bar. I'd seen her there on Monday nights. She's one of the cougar-types who swoons whenever I sing Duran Duran—a forty-something Kardashian wannabe with denim painted over her ample rear end and dark hair cascading down her shoulders. "Oh my god, are you singing tonight?" she asks, when she sees me. "Wait, it's not karaoke night. If I was blond I'd be a dumb blonde," she laughed, putting a flirtatious hand on my wrist and batting her eyes at my friend.
He's watching me closely. I know he likes the illusion that I'm totally straight, save with him, or with any man who offers me enough money to show my junk. He needs that illusion to do the things he wants to do. This woman, this chick, is helping me out tonight. I smirk at her. "I'll be here next week," I promise. "Whatever you want, I'll sing for you."
"Whatever I want?" She's drunk, unsurprisingly. She leans in closer to me. "I like the sound of that. I might pick out something wicked hard."
"Well, show me next Monday how wicked you get," I said, grinning. I added, "See you then."
She leaves, trailing perfume and stray hairs behind. The landscaper's jaw is twitching. "You fucked her?"
I try adopting a Mona Lisa smile, a half-answer that would acknowledge nothing yet imply volumes. It might have worked. "How often you fuck your wife with that thing?" he says in my ear. The odd buzzing of his breath, the movement of his lips against my lobe, is the most intimate we've been yet—and it's happening here, in a bar full of people. "Did she get it in the last week?"
I nod. It's a lie, all of it. But I nod, because it's what he wants to believe.
"Last night? Wednesday? Tuesday?" I'm thinking he's going to work his way back through all seven days, but when he says, "This morning? This afternoon?" I nod again. "Fuck. This afternoon? You still got her pussy juices on you?"
I barely move my head, but I nod. I'm like a sphinx. A beer-drinking, lying sphinx. I hadn't fucked that afternoon. But it's not what he wants to hear.
"Fuck," he says again. He spits out the word several times, shifting on his stool. "Fuck. That's hot. That's hot. I would give you two hundred more dollars right now if you let me put my hand down those pants of yours and get a hold of that baby-making tool."
I hate this beer, but it gives me an excuse not to meet his eyes. I'm hard in my pants. If our glances locked, I'd lose my resolve not to invite him back to his van right there and then. "You got the two hundred?" I ask, as if it's the money and the money alone that interests me.
"I gave you what I had, except for some drink money."
"Oh well," I said, implying he was going to miss out. The money he'd given me had been only for my time spent meeting him for drinks. Not for any favors. And for this kind of guy, the kind of man who needed a cash exchange to justify his man-to-man encounters, I wasn't giving a freebie.
"You need to get off? You building up another load in there?" I don't respond to his question. I'm acting as if now I know he's out of big bills, I had better things to do with my time. I'm eyeing the MILF who'd talked to me earlier. He's watching me, connecting the direction of my gaze with that cheap mass of hair and scent. "You like her, don't you."
It's not a question. It's a statement. It's a statement I don't answer. I've made the landscaper jealous. I wonder if he feels it like a flame in his chest, inextinguishable, impossible to overlook or ignore. If so, I'm doing what I need to do. "Come on," I tell him putting my half-finished brew onto the bar. I stand up and jerk my head. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest of his mug until there's little left than suds.
Past the waitresses and the bar crowd waiting for our seats we push, through the front door and out into the packed parking lot. We're just two guys who've met for drinks and were seeming to head back to our cars, then to our homes and families. Instead, I take him to where the bar's lot adjoins the larger, empty lot where in the daytime commuters park their cars to take the train into Manhattan. We step over the metal railing, over the weeds growing in the cracked asphalt, and head into the shadows.
This lot's beneath the 95 overpass. There's a secluded spot at its far end, beneath the mighty pillars supporting the highway far overhead where two men who've had a few too many beers might reasonably go to pee. Sheltered by concrete on one side and overhead, and by the water on the other, it's almost quiet out there. Quieter than the bar, certainly.
I unzip. I've got on no underwear; I have to dig out my dick from the denim, it's so hard. When he rushes to touch it, I turn away, step aside slightly. He hasn't paid for that. I stand there with my legs separated, dick in my right hand, left thumb protecting my nuts from the bite of my zipper. And I stroke.
I can hear his breathing as he watches me in the near-darkness. There's enough light from the bar's lot to see what's going on, but barely. "I bet it smells like her," he says. "Can I smell your fingers?"
I allow it. His hands are surprisingly warm around mine as he pulls them to his nose.
"Fuck, I can smell her," he says.
Which just goes to show the power of a vivid imagination.
I retrieve my hand and curl it around my hard meat again. This man arouses me. I like showing off for him. He's standing close enough to me that I can smell the beer on his breath, and feel his body heat against my right shoulder, my side, behind me. But he doesn't touch me again. Instead, he stands there silently while I beat myself. It's too dark to show off well, but I can grunt. And I can sigh. And I can murmur Oh yeah and Fuck from time to time.
"I'm gonna come," I tell him. Then I make good on the warning. Several ropes of cum fly and twist from my dick, landing on the invisible ground below. I've got sperm all over the back of my hand when I'm done. I make a show of trying to flick it off. "Shouldn't have done that," is all I say when I'm zipping myself up again.
"Fuck, no, I'm glad you did! That was hot!"
He tries to follow me back to my car, which is parked nearby, but I tell him to wait a minute until I've pulled away before emerging from the shadows. He instantly understands. There's really no one around to question why two men might be in the parking lot's far end together, but thinking we're sharing a secret excites him. I'm about eight feet away when he says, in an exaggerated whisper, "Hey buddy. She's real lucky."
Does he mean the cougar in the bar? Or the picture he has in his head of an apple-cheeked, freshly-fucked wife? In the end, I don't need to know. I pause, acknowledge the compliment with a semi-salute, and head back to my car.
Monday, August 29, 2011
More Trade
"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?"
I shrugged.
"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.
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?"
I shrugged.
"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.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Trade
He was leaning against the back of his truck when I pulled into the parking lot near my new home, hands deep in his pockets. The setting sun left golden auras around everything basking in its rays, in a late benediction before it would set for the day, ten minutes later. The man was already golden enough—an Apollo of sun-bleached hair on his tousled head, on his thick forearms, and covering the sun-tanned legs sticking from out of his shorts. His shoulders were broad and muscular; his face model-handsome. He could easily have had any man he wanted.
He’d wanted me.
I nodded as I pulled in. Over the air conditioning and through the window I heard him cough nervously and straighten. He checked me out when I stepped out—feet stuffed into my size eleven sneakers, the deep V-neck of my T-shirt sloping down my chest, my camo shorts hugging my legs. Then our eyes locked. This was a wealthy man, I realized, once I saw that face up close. He might have been driving a landscaper’s truck, but it wasn’t the truck of a laborer, or a day-to-day contractor. It was the owner’s truck, a truck that had nary a scratch or sign of use. That truck had never carried a tool, or a bag of cement, or a load of slates for the large homes in the area. His clothes were casual, but expensive. His face was well-cared-for, and his haircut pricey. I know the signs of Connecticut wealth.
“Hey,” I said, holding out my hand. He started to offer me his left. I noticed the gold band on his ring finger. He switched at the last moment to his right, in a handshake that was firm, but sweaty.
He wanted to say something. His lips worked in a way that betrayed his nervousness. “You look like your photos,” he said in a deep voice.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” I asked. He shrugged. Man, he was a wreck. It was obvious he didn’t do this often, if he’d done it before at all. I wondered what it had taken for him to summon the nerve to meet me here. An easy lie to the wife and the cost of a quart of milk for the trip home? A Valium? A shot or two? “You wanna—?” I jerked my head at the back doors of his van.
“Oh, yeah.” For so fluidly muscular a man, his motions were jerky and abrupt as he yanked open the doors. He gestured for me to enter.
I was right, I realized when I slipped inside. No matter how butch it looked from without, inside it was luxury. The floor was carpeted; leather upholstery covered the seats. The interior was clean, and shampooed, and save for a small box of baby toys behind one of the rear seats, surprisingly devoid of anything personal. There was enough room in the back for a couple of men to stretch out, as he’d promised. I sat on my haunches until he’d climbed in and shut the doors behind him. Then I sat down and spread my legs, letting my hands rest on my crotch.
He sucked in his lips so that they disappeared for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I . . . what do we do now?”
He couldn’t have been more than thirty-six or thirty-seven. His own furry legs scissored in and out. “Well,” I said, not betraying any emotion. “I think we’d agreed upon something.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill clip, round and fat enough to look like a prop from some episode of The Sopranos. He skimmed through a couple of the larger denominations to a series of twenties, then counted out bills in three sequences of five. Once he was done, he handed them over, then stuffed the remainder in his pocket. I took the curled bills, without breaking eye contact, and stuffed them into one of my pockets. “Is that okay?” he asked.
It wasn’t the rhetorical question it could have been. He was genuinely worried, and craved approval. He wasn’t talking about the money, either—fifty percent more than I made the last time I whored myself out in the back of a van. “Sit back,” I told him. “You wanted to watch. So watch.”
Once he’d leaned against the opposite side of the van I unbuttoned my camo shorts. I let the zipper sound as I pulled it down. It wasn’t especially hot outside at this time of day, and there was enough of a remnant of air conditioning that I wasn’t breaking a sweat, but in the quiet I could hear the rasp of his breathing. His legs jerked involuntarily when I lifted my hips and pulled down my shorts, exposing the erection underneath.
I sat on the shorts, then wrapped my hand around my cock. The wad of cash bulged against my butt. Slowly, up and down, I worked the shaft. I squeezed my fingers until the head was purple and engorged. The slightest dome of pre-cum formed over the slit.
His rasp turned into a rattle as his breath caught in his throat. “How big?” he whispered.
I shrugged, like it was nothing. “Eight.”
“Fuck,” he said.
“It gets the job done,” I replied, staring at him. I could tell he was imagining right then, and vividly, exactly what job.
The arrangement had been only for him to watch while I masturbated in the back of his van. Plain and simple. He hadn’t told me whether he had any experience with men, but it was easy enough to guess that he hadn’t. The man stared at my dick like he’d never seen one before, or never seen one erect. Maybe not even his own. It was easy enough for me to picture him playing with his own tool only in the dark, or keeping his eyes closed as he dutifully made love to his wife. Many men don’t look at themselves; they don’t really know what their dicks look like. Or what they’re for.
He couldn’t remove his gaze from mine, though. I showed off for him in a lewd way, slapping my meat against the palm of my hand so that the noise resounded through the tiny enclosure. I toyed with the slit, drawing long strings of precum that would snap. Then I would eat the remaining clear pearl from my fingertip, all while staring him in the eye. For long minutes I stroked and showed off, growling and grunting when appropriate, and twisting my face alternately into scowls and then heavy-lidded ecstasy.
When I looked in his direction, instead of at my big dick, I could tell he had a bulge in his shorts. With his knuckles he kneaded it from time to time, but he made no gesture to bring it out. From time to time, he licked his lips. “Can I touch it?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. I like being touched, but somehow it seemed nastier not to let him. “That wasn’t in the price,” I said.
“Fuck.” He swallowed again, hard. “May I lick your nuts, then?”
Not can. May. I shrugged, as if somehow nut-licking was less invasive than his fingers around my dick. Immediately he lunged onto his stomach and lay down between my outstretched legs. I felt his hot breath on my balls for a moment or two, and then the tentative tip of his tongue on the skin. That wasn’t going to do. I reached down and grabbed my nuts in a clenched fist and roughly shoved them against his face, letting him smell them. His mouth opened, and I popped them in.
He licked on them and sucked the pair avidly while I continued to stroke. “Fuckin’ cocksucker,” I grunted. The words brought a whimper from him. “Don’t think you’re getting your mouth on my meat, either. Not at that price.”
“Please,” he breathed, taking a break from my balls.
I shoved the back of his head down onto the shaved sac again. “Fuck that please shit. Lick.”
I recognized the mingled humiliation and gratitude in his eyes. I’ve seen it before in the faces of hundreds of boys of all ages. And every time, it makes my cum begin to boil. I breathed out heavy streams of air as I grew closer and closer. I lifted up my hips and ground my balls into the man’s face. His eyes closed as my butt hit his chin.
“Yeah. Fuck yeah!” I said the words in my piggiest bass, just before I unloaded.
My sperm oozed out of the tip in a thick stream that dropped onto his face. He reacted with shock at the sudden wetness coursing down the inside of his nose, but I kept my hand on the back of his head to keep licking. His eyes were wide open as he watched more of my load cascade onto his face. When I was done, I wiped the tip of my dick in his hair. Then I sat back, took my shorts, and began pulling them back on.
He watched in silence, my sperm still baptizing him. Only when I was buttoned and zipped did he speak. “I want to call you again,” he said.
I shrugged, like it was no big thing.
“I’ll be discreet,” he said. “I won’t ever bug you.”
I pulled out my phone and looked at the time.
“Maybe I can suck you next time. You’ve got a big dick. A real big dick. I’ll pay.”
“I’ve gotta jet,” I said, jerking my head at the doors once more. He unlatched them from the inside. The sun had set, leaving the parking lot growing dimmer by the moment. “You know how to reach me.”
“Dude.” He was afraid to stick his head out of the van, and rightly so. It was still covered in a rivulet of sperm that had reached his chin. “That was hot.”
I only said one word more: “Good.”
Then I walked away, while he still wanted more.
He’d wanted me.
I nodded as I pulled in. Over the air conditioning and through the window I heard him cough nervously and straighten. He checked me out when I stepped out—feet stuffed into my size eleven sneakers, the deep V-neck of my T-shirt sloping down my chest, my camo shorts hugging my legs. Then our eyes locked. This was a wealthy man, I realized, once I saw that face up close. He might have been driving a landscaper’s truck, but it wasn’t the truck of a laborer, or a day-to-day contractor. It was the owner’s truck, a truck that had nary a scratch or sign of use. That truck had never carried a tool, or a bag of cement, or a load of slates for the large homes in the area. His clothes were casual, but expensive. His face was well-cared-for, and his haircut pricey. I know the signs of Connecticut wealth.
“Hey,” I said, holding out my hand. He started to offer me his left. I noticed the gold band on his ring finger. He switched at the last moment to his right, in a handshake that was firm, but sweaty.
He wanted to say something. His lips worked in a way that betrayed his nervousness. “You look like your photos,” he said in a deep voice.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” I asked. He shrugged. Man, he was a wreck. It was obvious he didn’t do this often, if he’d done it before at all. I wondered what it had taken for him to summon the nerve to meet me here. An easy lie to the wife and the cost of a quart of milk for the trip home? A Valium? A shot or two? “You wanna—?” I jerked my head at the back doors of his van.
“Oh, yeah.” For so fluidly muscular a man, his motions were jerky and abrupt as he yanked open the doors. He gestured for me to enter.
I was right, I realized when I slipped inside. No matter how butch it looked from without, inside it was luxury. The floor was carpeted; leather upholstery covered the seats. The interior was clean, and shampooed, and save for a small box of baby toys behind one of the rear seats, surprisingly devoid of anything personal. There was enough room in the back for a couple of men to stretch out, as he’d promised. I sat on my haunches until he’d climbed in and shut the doors behind him. Then I sat down and spread my legs, letting my hands rest on my crotch.
He sucked in his lips so that they disappeared for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I . . . what do we do now?”
He couldn’t have been more than thirty-six or thirty-seven. His own furry legs scissored in and out. “Well,” I said, not betraying any emotion. “I think we’d agreed upon something.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill clip, round and fat enough to look like a prop from some episode of The Sopranos. He skimmed through a couple of the larger denominations to a series of twenties, then counted out bills in three sequences of five. Once he was done, he handed them over, then stuffed the remainder in his pocket. I took the curled bills, without breaking eye contact, and stuffed them into one of my pockets. “Is that okay?” he asked.
It wasn’t the rhetorical question it could have been. He was genuinely worried, and craved approval. He wasn’t talking about the money, either—fifty percent more than I made the last time I whored myself out in the back of a van. “Sit back,” I told him. “You wanted to watch. So watch.”
Once he’d leaned against the opposite side of the van I unbuttoned my camo shorts. I let the zipper sound as I pulled it down. It wasn’t especially hot outside at this time of day, and there was enough of a remnant of air conditioning that I wasn’t breaking a sweat, but in the quiet I could hear the rasp of his breathing. His legs jerked involuntarily when I lifted my hips and pulled down my shorts, exposing the erection underneath.
I sat on the shorts, then wrapped my hand around my cock. The wad of cash bulged against my butt. Slowly, up and down, I worked the shaft. I squeezed my fingers until the head was purple and engorged. The slightest dome of pre-cum formed over the slit.
His rasp turned into a rattle as his breath caught in his throat. “How big?” he whispered.
I shrugged, like it was nothing. “Eight.”
“Fuck,” he said.
“It gets the job done,” I replied, staring at him. I could tell he was imagining right then, and vividly, exactly what job.
The arrangement had been only for him to watch while I masturbated in the back of his van. Plain and simple. He hadn’t told me whether he had any experience with men, but it was easy enough to guess that he hadn’t. The man stared at my dick like he’d never seen one before, or never seen one erect. Maybe not even his own. It was easy enough for me to picture him playing with his own tool only in the dark, or keeping his eyes closed as he dutifully made love to his wife. Many men don’t look at themselves; they don’t really know what their dicks look like. Or what they’re for.
He couldn’t remove his gaze from mine, though. I showed off for him in a lewd way, slapping my meat against the palm of my hand so that the noise resounded through the tiny enclosure. I toyed with the slit, drawing long strings of precum that would snap. Then I would eat the remaining clear pearl from my fingertip, all while staring him in the eye. For long minutes I stroked and showed off, growling and grunting when appropriate, and twisting my face alternately into scowls and then heavy-lidded ecstasy.
When I looked in his direction, instead of at my big dick, I could tell he had a bulge in his shorts. With his knuckles he kneaded it from time to time, but he made no gesture to bring it out. From time to time, he licked his lips. “Can I touch it?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. I like being touched, but somehow it seemed nastier not to let him. “That wasn’t in the price,” I said.
“Fuck.” He swallowed again, hard. “May I lick your nuts, then?”
Not can. May. I shrugged, as if somehow nut-licking was less invasive than his fingers around my dick. Immediately he lunged onto his stomach and lay down between my outstretched legs. I felt his hot breath on my balls for a moment or two, and then the tentative tip of his tongue on the skin. That wasn’t going to do. I reached down and grabbed my nuts in a clenched fist and roughly shoved them against his face, letting him smell them. His mouth opened, and I popped them in.
He licked on them and sucked the pair avidly while I continued to stroke. “Fuckin’ cocksucker,” I grunted. The words brought a whimper from him. “Don’t think you’re getting your mouth on my meat, either. Not at that price.”
“Please,” he breathed, taking a break from my balls.
I shoved the back of his head down onto the shaved sac again. “Fuck that please shit. Lick.”
I recognized the mingled humiliation and gratitude in his eyes. I’ve seen it before in the faces of hundreds of boys of all ages. And every time, it makes my cum begin to boil. I breathed out heavy streams of air as I grew closer and closer. I lifted up my hips and ground my balls into the man’s face. His eyes closed as my butt hit his chin.
“Yeah. Fuck yeah!” I said the words in my piggiest bass, just before I unloaded.
My sperm oozed out of the tip in a thick stream that dropped onto his face. He reacted with shock at the sudden wetness coursing down the inside of his nose, but I kept my hand on the back of his head to keep licking. His eyes were wide open as he watched more of my load cascade onto his face. When I was done, I wiped the tip of my dick in his hair. Then I sat back, took my shorts, and began pulling them back on.
He watched in silence, my sperm still baptizing him. Only when I was buttoned and zipped did he speak. “I want to call you again,” he said.
I shrugged, like it was no big thing.
“I’ll be discreet,” he said. “I won’t ever bug you.”
I pulled out my phone and looked at the time.
“Maybe I can suck you next time. You’ve got a big dick. A real big dick. I’ll pay.”
“I’ve gotta jet,” I said, jerking my head at the doors once more. He unlatched them from the inside. The sun had set, leaving the parking lot growing dimmer by the moment. “You know how to reach me.”
“Dude.” He was afraid to stick his head out of the van, and rightly so. It was still covered in a rivulet of sperm that had reached his chin. “That was hot.”
I only said one word more: “Good.”
Then I walked away, while he still wanted more.
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