Daddy Tim's Gangbang

I’ve known Daddy Tim longer than I’ve known just about any other sex buddies online. We met on gay.com over a decade ago, back in the service’s good years. We hit it off immediately. I’d travel out to Ann Arbor, where his executive’s salary afforded him a beautiful house on a double lot near one of the city’s more extensive parks. I’d enter through the rear porch. Then I’d jaunt down into his basement bedroom, where I’d find the latest boys he had to share. Sometimes they were tied up. Sometimes they were just lying there in the dark, waiting. Once in a while, there’d be two or three of them.

Daddy Tim has a way of attracting college boys. He lives in one of the state’s largest college towns, after all, and every year there’s a new crop of freshmen, free for the first time from their family and old friends, and anxious to learn from a mature top. And sometimes the top’s buddies. That’s where I come in. I’ve always been the buddy who gets to sample the holes after Daddy Tim’s trained them. Then I get to give a blunt evaluation. Something like, “Yeah, he’s good all right.” Or maybe, “Damn, you’ve trained this boy well.” Once it was, “This one needs a little more breaking in before you let the real rodeo cowboys ride.” That went over well.

Daddy Tim is a good fifteen years older than I. He’s actually a granddad, several times over. I think even he’d agree that he’s not the most typically handsome guy in the world, but in Ann Arbor, he’s like two hundred pounds of ground round thrown into the tiger cage. The young cats are all over that shit. Tuesday he messaged me in the middle of the morning to ask if I wanted to come over to his place:

daddytim: cum and fuck the trainer today with me and my buddy bill...the trainer wants lots of cock...its been 2.5 weeks since he was fucked

The trainer is his nickname for his latest obsession. That’s the guy’s profession; he’s a personal trainer for one of the larger and pricier gyms in the area. Daddy Tim has turned the guy from a total top to a whore bottom in the space of less than a year, ever since last July when he first convinced the guy to give up his hole. All I knew about the trainer is that he was supposedly gorgeous, built, and totally insatiable when it comes to getting fucked. He’d also never been shared, so getting an invitation made me sit up at attention:

thebreeder: what time?
daddytim: 12:30
he would have no idea another guy was showing up.....
he is obsessed with getting cock today
and u would like to be around my other buddy he is 60....very hot....and sexy...i know u lke older men....
this is the trainer’s email to me...10 seconds ago
I'm beside myself with lust that I'd probably almost fall into the "menace to society" category.  Like I said-good thing you've arranged backup for today.  Insatiable doesn't even begin to cover it.  I hope Bill doesn't feel rushed.  I want to walk out of there completely filled up with cum, and your friend satisfied with my performance that he wonders when the next time will be.
thebreeder: 12:30 is good with me.
daddytim: now i will be presenting him as my pussy boy
so just call him fuckboy or pussyboy or anything with boy in it
he wants to be fucked silly
his last email to me:
I need an uninterrupted, complete dicking that only you can provide.  I'm telling you, when I leave there I want to be so worked over that I can't even complete a simple sentence
he doesn’t know I’ve invited you
you will be the star of the show
you have the biggest dick
I want you just to walk in and surprise him with how big your dick is, ok?
thebreeder: Can do, man. It’s a date.

The drive to Ann Arbor is nearly an hour for me, but the meeting was early enough in the day that I could slip away without much hassle. After I parked in Daddy Tim’s driveway, I let myself in the porch door, kicked off my shoes, and made my way downstairs. It took a minute for me to blink the sunlight from my eyes and adjust to the darkness below, but when finally my vision cleared, I could see enough to remove my clothes and join the party in the bedroom next door.

When I walked in, I saw that Daddy Tim had managed to round up a fourth top—a skinny younger guy I recognized from online but whom I’d never actually encountered in the flesh. The kid was finishing up as I stepped into the bedroom, pulling his condom-covered dick out of the bottom’s ass. I couldn’t tell much about the trainer from his position, and how crowded it was around him. All I could really tell is that he had a narrow waist, broad shoulders, and a perfectly round, muscular ass. Daddy Tim stood at the bed’s far in, plugging the trainer’s mouth, while another man referred to as Daddy Bill was taking the place that the skinny guy had just vacated. The skinny guy yanked the rubber off his little dick, threw it in a waste can, and scampered out as if he had somewhere to be. So much for meeting him.

“Oh look,” said Tim when I started stroking myself to hardness. “Your other daddy’s here. Daddy Mike.” I’m still not sure why Tim was introducing me with a name that wasn’t my own, but for a shot at that muscular ass, I was willing to go along with it. “Daddy Mike’s got a big dick for you. Bigger than you’ve ever had,” he said. All the trainer could do was grunt and choke on Tim’s cock.

Bill turned around to look at the eight inches I was stroking. His eyes widened. Like Daddy Tim had said, even at sixty-one or sixty-two he was a handsome fucker; he had a furry chest and a body that was still muscular and athletic. As he slid back and forth in the trainer’s hole, his head tilted and leaned to mine. I met his mouth in a kiss. The guy kissed well. Well enough, in fact, to distract me from the fucking at hand for a few moments. I ground my hard dick against his thigh, and ran my hand up and down his ass and back. He thrust back and forth while we made out, then abruptly yanked himself out.

From the bedside table, Bill grabbed at a container of lube. He squirted some onto his hand and then slapped it onto my dick, rubbing the cold good up and down my inches. “Your turn,” he said at last, nodding at me to take his position.

Daddy Tim had been keeping up a running commentary while he fed the trainer his dick. “You should see your daddies making out while they use your little boyhole,” he growled. “Yeah, they’re all turned on and shit while they’re fucking you. Now it’s Daddy Mike’s turn.”

I’d forgotten that my name was supposed to be Daddy Mike, frankly, and I’m afraid I actually paused and looked at the other guy. Then I remembered. “Yeah,” I said, trying not to laugh at myself. “Daddy Mike’s ready to fuck this hot boyhole you’ve been telling me about.” I crouched slightly to get at the right height, and slid inside.

For someone who was a total top nine months ago, the trainer was remarkably loose. Then again, he’d already had three tops inside him by the time I got there. He felt slick and hot and great around my meat, though. For the first time I was able to get a good look at the guy’s body—it was fucking fantastic. He couldn’t have been any taller than five-foot-five or so. He was a compact, tiny-waisted fucker with shoulders so broad that he looked like he’d stepped out of a Tom of Finland cartoon. Though his chest was relatively smooth, his legs and enormous calves were bristling with thick dark hair. When he turned his head back and forth on Daddy Tim’s dick, I got the impression he had a short goatee.

That was then I felt the coldness in my crack.

While I’d been accustoming myself to the trainer’s ass, Daddy Bill had squirted more lube into his hand and began rubbing it into my hole. He kissed my neck and shoulders, which is always something guaranteed to reduce me to a puddle of Jello. His bearded lips traveled up to my left ear. He growled, “You are so damned sexy, boy.” I murmured thanks, still fucking as he worked a finger into me. “Maybe it’s your hole I should be fucking.”

I had two thoughts at that moment. One was panic, because I wasn’t at all prepared to be fucked. Not mentally, and certainly not from a standpoint of cleanliness—at least not beyond the depth of an inch. The other was a flattered pleasure in having a handsome and unfamiliar daddy growl obscenities in my ear about how fuckable he found me. I let him continue to explore until he had his index finger up to the second joint. It was at that point, with him creating sensations I hadn’t felt in a very long time, along with the gentle nibbles he made at my earlobe and neck, combined with the sensations of my dick slipping and sliding in and out of a very wet and cummy ass, that I lost it.

“Fuck!” I said. My hips shot forward, carried by my orgasm. I plunged all the way in to my nuts, shuddered and shook, and shot my load as deeply into that muscular butt as I could.

When I was done quivering, Daddy Bill removed his finger, pulled me out, and pushed me over to Daddy Tim. “Make that pussyboy clean your dick,” he said. “My turn now.”

Tim stepped out of the way so I could feed the trainer my dick. Even though it had been in his ass only seconds before, he gobbled down with a hunger that astounded me. Meanwhile, at the trainer’s other end, Daddy Bill was fucking in the load I’d just left. His eyes were half-closed as he slipped in and out. “He’s a good boy, isn’t he, Mike?” asked Tim.

Once again, I didn’t remember my fake name at first. “Oh yeah,” I said eventually, once recognition set in. “He is one good pussyboy. You’ve trained this one right.”

The trainer grunted and groaned at the praise. His back arched and he thrust his butt higher in the air. Bill couldn’t contain himself any more. When he shot, it was with a spasm so powerful that he pushed the trainer onto his stomach. I pulled my dick out before he could chomp down on it. Then Daddy Bill fell atop the trainer and writhed around like a freshly-landed fish, as he finished coming. “Jesus,” he whispered, at last.

“I told you,” said Tim, smirking. “This boy is good.”

While I relaxed on the mattress and stroked myself, Tim took the trainer to the foot of the bed’s frame and made him clutch the curved iron railings. He bent him over and began fucking. “Jeez, boy,” he snarled. “You’re nothing but a little cum whore.”

“Yessir,” mumbled the trainer. His eyes were shut tight. “Daddy’s little cum whore.”

It was the first time I had a direct look at the trainer’s face. He was a handsome, handsome man. His chin had a cleft with a dimple. His nose was so blunt and flat at its end that he looked like an Art Deco Mercury, or the Leyendecker Arrow Shirt man. I already knew he was older than most of the twinks that Daddy Tim usually attracted, but now I could tell that he was no older than thirty-five at most. He could have had any man he wanted, but at that moment all he wanted were the cocks that his Daddy Tim gave to him—and he was willing to take them all without question. Daddy Bill got onto his knees and began twisting the trainer’s nipples to make him cry out. “Look at your Daddy Mike,” said Tim, as he slammed in and out of his hole. “He’s hard again. Did you like your Daddy Mike’s dick? You want more of it?” The trainer nodded his head.

“Make him sit on it,” I declared.

Tim withdrew from the hole and guided the trainer over to me. Obediently the muscle man hopped up onto the bed and straddled me. His head jerked back and he let out a moan as he lowered himself on me. “Come on,” I urged. “You know you want it. Take it all the way.” We both gasped as he sat all the way down. I noticed for the first time that the trainer’s dick was rock-hard, and dripping all over my stomach. “Yeah. Take it.” I let my head sink into the pillows.

Daddy Bill wrenched my legs apart, and pushed the trainer’s torso down. He was trying to enter him with me, I realized. He wasn’t hard enough, or big enough, to accomplish the deed. So after a couple of minutes of trying, he settled on jamming his thumb up my ass as deeply as he could, while maintaining eye contact with me beneath the trainer’s armpit. “Goddamn,” said Tim. “I was hoping to get my fuckboy opened wide with two dicks at once. It's his final frontier. Right, boy?”

"Final frontier," echoed the trainer in dazed agreement.

“Yeah?” I asked. I pushed the trainer up and off my dick, and rolled out from underneath him. “Then make Bill lie down.” My hole was getting a little sore from the unexpected invasion, I had to admit. Even in the days I was an avid bottom, decades ago, I never liked fingers very much. “I’ll double penetrate the little bitch.”

Bill immediately hopped into the hollow in the mattress I’d just vacated. His dick wasn’t big, that’s for certain. The trainer sat down on it and jerked around as if it were a foot long, though. I pushed his V-shaped torso down, spat on my dick to reactivate the lube and cum drying on it, and began to fuck it in. To make sure that Bill and I were both in the hole, I held onto his dick with my fingers, and kept my thumb atop my own as I poked at the hole. First I stabbed with my head. When I felt the ass open to take in with Bill, I thrust in another inch, and then another. Three inches was about all I was going to be able to get in, I could tell, but it was enough, both for my pleasure and for the trainer to know he'd been double-penetrated. “Yeah, boy,” I growled in the muscle bottom’s ear. “You’ve got two dicks in you at once. That boyhole's been DP’ed. How’s it feel?”

The trainer was in heaven. He couldn’t believe how slutty I’d made him. “It’s . . . my final frontier,” he finally said.

“You love being a little bitch for strange dick, don’t you?” The trainer nodded at my question. “You want another load?” This time, a nod wasn’t good enough for me. “You want another load? Tell me.”

“I want another load,” he whispered. “I want another load.”

“What'd he say?” I said to Daddy Tim in a regular voice, “I can’t hear your boy.”

“I want another load,” said the trainer, more loudly.

“Still can’t hear you!” I snapped.

“I want another load!” he shouted, filling the basement with a bass roar. “I want your fucking load, daddy!”

“I didn’t hear you say please.”

He began yelling at the top of his frenzied lungs. “Please! Please give me another load! Please gift your cuntboy with another load! Please! Please! Just fucking breed my hole, please!” Over and over he repeated his pleas, until I couldn’t take it any more. Bill’s dick slipped out when I shoved mine all the way in. I unloaded again with grunts and shoves so hard that the trainer’s head banged against the iron headboard.

There was a moment of silence in which I clung to the trainer's waist. Daddy Bill sat up and stared me in the eyes. His hand reached out, and then pushed the hair back from my face. Very tenderly, he stroked his fingers through my hair.

I was still panting when I nodded at him, turned on by that simple gesture. My vision hadn't even completely cleared. “Now what?” I said to the trainer. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“What was that?” I asked, raising my voice.

“Thank you sir!” he yelled.

I pulled out, wiped the still-leaking tip of my dick on his butt, and got to my feet. I rendered my verdict. “Yeah. You’ve trained this one pretty well.”

I had to wash up before I left. Daddy Tim followed me to the bathroom, grinning at me. “You always put on a good show,” he said. He wasn’t far wrong. I didn’t need any of that shouting stuff for my pleasure, but I knew it would excite the trainer. And keeping a hole excited is sometimes what it’s all about, especially when it’s being fucked by multiple men. “What’d you think?”

“He’s good,” I admitted. “Very good.”

“You’ll come back again for him another round?”

“Anytime,” I promised, as I finished washing off my dick and hands. “You know you can count on your buddy Mark.”

“Mike,” he corrected, leaving me once again to wonder why he’d picked a doofy alias for me to begin with.

It wasn’t until I got home and had been relaxing for an hour that I realized when I’d dressed again in the dark, that I’d accidentally come home wearing someone else’s sock. Ah well. A small price to pay for a hot piece of muscle ass.

Keeping your mouth shut

I’ve had a guy from across state hitting me up on BBRTS for the last I don’t know how long. Months, at least. Probably more like a year and a half. He’s a top guy, but he’s told me over and over that he wanted to give up his hole. In several graphic mails he’d told me exactly what he wanted me to do with it—and inevitably all the scenarios would have left his ass gaping, swollen, and cummy.

My response was always the same. Sounds fun. Let me know when you get over to my side of the state, I’d tell him. Then we’ll set it up.

Earlier last week the guy wrote and said that he was actually planning to visit my area, and that he’d be staying at a hotel ten minutes from my house and would be available all Sunday morning for some play. Great, I told him. Here’s my email and my phone. I’m available from eight-thirty until one, Sunday morning. Text or call me and I’ll come over.

I’m not really a big fan of too much talk about what I plan to do with a guy, before a hookup. There are certain basics I like to cover, sure, but my main aim is not to provide the bottom with material to whack off to as he thinks about what a bad boy he could be. No, I want him in my bed, or me in his. Once I’m there, we’ll talk about sex. And do it. Until that point, I can be short to the point of curtness. This guy, however, contacted me on Saturday to ask if we were still on. I said sure, as long as he texted or called me the next morning to give me the particulars. What are you going to do to me? he asked. I told him that I was finally going to give him the topping he wanted. Well I think you should know up front I don’t get fucked, he wrote back.

For one thing, guys, it’s not really ‘up front’ when you’ve led a top on for a year and a half and tell him twelve hours before you’re due to meet that you don’t intend to let him in your ass. I asked the guy exactly what in hell he envisioned us doing. Some j/o, he replied. Maybe some oral if I feel comfortable.

Oral? Double you tee eff, I wanted to know. Why in the world had he told me all the nasty shit he wanted me to do to him, and then suddenly decided that all we were going to do was touch each other’s peepees like seven-year-olds playing doctor? Sometimes I just say stuff I don’t mean, he told me. I get horny and it just comes out.

I read the guy the quick and dirty version of the riot act and signed off.

Luckily I found someone serious who was willing to meet, Sunday morning. Another BBRTS fellow messaged me early in the morning and said he wanted to get pounded. Was I free? Hell yes I was. Twenty minutes later, Brant was pulling up in front of my house. I met him at the door. The guy was pretty much as advertised—around thirty, a shaved head, a light hand’s-wipe of facial hair, and an introvert’s smile. I pulled him to me the minute the door was closed and kissed. The softness of his lips against mine and the slow, wet way he made out convinced me we’d be having a good time.

Upstairs we went to the bedroom, where he instantly began stripping. “God, it’s so hard to get a fucking in this town!” he said. His body was large and well-padded, we’ll say, but not at all unattractive. His chest was covered with fur. I asked him how long it had been since he’d been fucked. “Months!” he said. “Literally months.”

“Are you going to be able to handle what I’ve got?” I asked him. He’d brought a knapsack with him. At my question he lunged over the bed’s side to open it. From the depths he withdrew a buttplug that looked like black rubber artichoke perched on a thick, heavy base. “All right then,” I said, impressed.

We made out for a while. I grabbed his hand and put it on my hard dick, which hung like a lead pipe down the left leg of my jeans. “That’s daddy dick, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, you’ve made a kid with it?” I nodded. “Fuck,” he said, in awe. “That’s hot.”

“Wanna see it?” I unzipped. Immediately he dove for my meat and took it in his mouth. The blowjob he gave wasn’t as expert as some, but it served to get my cock wet and slick. He helped me off with my pants and left me in my T-shirt and socks. “Let me see your ass,” I told him.

I turned him over. He lifted his left leg to his chest to give me access. Now it was my turn to dive below his waist. The guy had the largest ass I’ve had in a couple of weeks, but it was sparkling clean and wasn’t prelubed (like most of the guys I’ve met in the last two weeks). Both were good things. He groaned when I started munching around his hole. “You’re gonna fuckin’ give me that daddy dick?” he asked. “Gonna give me some daddy dick and daddy sperm?”

“You know it,” I growled. “As much as you can handle.”

“I fucking love dad sperm,” he said between gasps. “Love it when a daddy breeder breeds me. Daddy sperm is the best.”

“Why is that?” I elicited a groan from him when I slapped his ass.

“Because it works,” he said.

It was good enough for me. I spit on my dick, planning to rub it on his hole while I dirty-talked him some more. I was surprised when he maneuvered his hips back to meet my pole, however, so that it slid right in. There was no resistance, no struggle to find the entrance—just a smooth glide in. Pretty impressive for someone who hadn’t been fucked in months. “Oh Jesus Christ, daddy!” he said, barking out the words. “It feels so damned good!”

“You feel good too, boy,” I growled. Loose as he was, he was a sweet and smooth fuck. My cock head parted his hole so easily that it was easy to pick up the pace without having to wait for him to get used to me.

“I want you to piss in my ass,” he said. “Will you do that, daddy?”

“I’d do it anywhere but in my bed,” I told him. “Not having you slop my piss around in my house.”

“I want it.” He pulled the corner of a pillow into his mouth. “I want you to do that to me sometime. Fuck, tell me you’ll meet me again.”

“Squeeze,” I told him. “Make it tight for daddy.”

He wasn’t able to clamp down on it like some bottoms can, but I would’ve given him an A for effort. He grunted, and squeezed, and made an obvious attempt to make his hole as tight as possible. We swapped positions so that I was banging him with his legs over my shoulders, while his pierced dick flopped loudly against his belly. “Fuck me,” he started to say, over and over again. “Just fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” He was in no hurry to get done. He was in some zone of pleasure in which every one of my strokes reduced him to near-wordlessness. “Fuck me. Daddy, please fuck your boy.”

It didn’t take me long to cum. When I did, I shot deep in Brant’s hole as he shook and shuddered and shot a load on his stomach. His cum spewed everywhere. “Oh god,” he said before the last drop had started to cool. “I got it on your pillow.”

“Not an issue,” I said, laughing. I swabbed it away with my hand and fed it to him. He sucked it off my fingertips gladly.

I’d barely pulled out before he blurted out, “I lost weight, but then I gained it all back. I’m fat.”

I’d not said a word about his weight, nor did I think he was fat, nor did I believe I’d acted in a way that would imply he disgusted me or anything. “Why are you apologizing?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Your body is fine. Honestly.”

He looked even more embarrassed than he had been moments before. “I just opened my mouth and that came out.”

“Word of advice,” I said, meaning it kindly. “Don’t open your mouth after sex, if you’re thinking that kind of thing. Or before sex,” I added, reconsidering the events of the night before.

He looked as if he was going to say something to rebut, but at the last minute he shut his mouth and swallowed the words. “Good boy,” I told him.

Sunday Morning Questions

While I spend the last couple of days of Easter break with the family, I'm going to post a few more of my responses to the formspring.me questions you've been asking. As always, I'll be happy to answer any other questions you guys might have, either privately through email or on that site.

Don't worry. There'll be a real post tomorrow!

Toys: For? Against?
Who could be against toys? While I am wary of anyone who must have toys to have sex (like I am with anyone who requires anything to have sex, whether it be leather, or substances, or props), they can be fun. I'm fond of cock rings. I like using butt plugs and dildos on bottoms.

I would really, really, really like to try a Fleshlight, though. If anyone out there has one they'd let me fuck, I'd be a grateful man. Heck, buy me one for my birthday. Please!

Have you had sex with any Michigan elected official belonging to the Democratic Party?
Thank you for giving me a question that made me laugh and laugh. I appreciate your confidence in me. Not to my knowledge, no.

How often do you take it (and by "it" I'm referring to raw cock and loads of cum!)?
Depending on my mood, my answer is either 'not very often,' or 'not often enough.'

I was a big old bottom during my teens before someone showed me what I was missing as a top at about 21. I've only bottomed for a handful of men since. The last time was 6 years ago. There are times when I crave it, however. Ideally I'd enjoy being topped on a semi-regular basis by someone I find attractive and can trust.

Every time during the last half-dozen years I've gone out to find someone to do it for me, though, the same thing happens again and again: we get naked, they see my dick, I end up topping them, they shoot during it, and pffft. There go my chances.

When I am fucked, I prefer to take the dick raw and to have the load shot in me. Republican or Democrat.

What's the strangest thing someone has requested during sex?
Despite every depraved place I've stuck my dick, the absolute weirdest thing anyone ever asked me to do during sex was to get my hair soaking wet and to give him a blowjob while he shampooed me. In a bathhouse. For about ten minutes I got a soapy head massage until he delivered a load down my throat.

It was actually pretty sensual.

What's your favorite way to cum?
While fucking. In an ass. Hands down.

In the past, shooting while being fucked used to give me some pretty body-shaking orgasms as well.

What are your thoughts on rimming - do you like? dislike? give? receive?
I am a rim hound. Give me a clean, hot hole and I will be burying my furry face in that cleft for hours. I've had several guys shoot from my rim jobs. I tend to be very aggressive about it, too.

I also enjoy being on the receiving end, but I'm shy about asking guys to do it. When getting rimmed, I enjoy from sweet and gentle to rough biting and everything in between.

Watch any porn? Have any favorites?
I watch porn, but I don't consider it a masturbation staple. I tend to prefer bareback films. I'll watch anything Treasure Island puts out.

My favorite porn performers are Christian and Jesse O'Toole. I think Logan McCree is damned fine, as is Leo Giamani.

What do you want for your birthday?
For my last birthday I got a sweater. I really would rather have had a Fleshlight.

Saturday Morning Questions

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The Italian

I noticed the guy when I walked into the bar. In his gray, trimly-cut suit and shiny shoes, he stood out from the crowd of loose-topped women and gay guys of a certain age slathered with tanner and Abercrombie logos. His hair was longish, and curly, and silver at the temples; his nose was an enormous beak. With his dark eyes and sharp features, the overall effect was of a whippet-thin handsome Italian who’d just gotten off work and was slugging back a few drinks before his drive home.

And he was staring at me as I walked in.

His gaze continued to fix upon me as I sat down with my group of friends. Wednesday night I’d arranged for a couple of hours out at a gay bar that’s only a mile from my home, with a bunch of buddies I’ve known a long, long time. The bar itself is modern and updated and aspires for trendiness. It tends to attract a mixed crowd of gay men, straight women, and a handful of straight guys. The Italian was not at all straight, I was guessing as he craned his neck to continue staring at me. It’s not as if I was particularly dressed up. I wore a nice dress shirt and a pair of jeans and the ubiquitous sneakers, but I’d had to run in to the bar through the pouring rain and I felt bedraggled and soaked through. Perhaps, I thought, I looked worse than I suspected, and that he was staring at me like he might a train wreck.

But no. The man was definitely staring at me. How could I tell? Well, other than the fact that his eyes bore down on me without respite, I was pretty sure I was getting the come-on when I looked over and began to rub himself through his trousers. His thumb and forefinger squeezed a lump that ran down his right leg, lasciviously kneading it while his glittering black eyes stared down mine. Then he took the heel of his hand and dug in, rubbing it against the spot where his dick lay. And in case I didn’t get the message, his fingers eased beneath the flap of his fly and moved slowly up and down.

I blinked, then returned his stare. Where I grew up in the South, such kind of cruising is pretty common. It’s not seen much in the land of the Yankees, where men can’t even look at each other in the eye, much less maintain a steady and almost unnerving stare with the object of their interest. My immediate instinct was to rise from my seat, jerk my head at him, and let him follow me to the bathroom, so he could suck me off.

I almost did it, too, but instead I turned my attention back to my friends. There were four of them around our little table. One was investigating his iPhone. Another was looking at one of the local gay rags. And the last two were regarding me with raised eyebrows and knowing smirks. “What?” I asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“I think you have a new boyfriend,” said one.

“Oh do I?” I tried to look casual. By now the Italian was rubbing his beer bottle up and down the side of his dick. The brown glass left a slick wet spot where it traced.

“Why does this kind of thing happen only to you?” asked the other, dryly.

I narrowed my eyes. “Because I’m tall and handsome?” I asked, hoping it might be taken as rhetorical.

“And easy,” my second friend retorted. Well. I couldn’t really argue with it, so I let it go. “He probably recognizes you from one of your sex profiles.”

That could have been as well. As I looked back at the Italian, I noticed he’d moved further up the bar to display his wares from another angle. He lifted the beer bottle in my direction, took a swig, and then proceeded to fellate the neck.

My two friends burst out in laughter. I couldn’t really blame them. After a solid five minutes or more of his single-minded come-on, the guy was seeming a little bit desperate. Plus it was obvious by now that handsome or not, he was more than a little drunk. I’d already made up my mind that no matter what my dick wanted to do, I wasn’t going to have a restroom assignation with the Italian. Not that night, not under the watchful eyes of my friends. I didn’t want to have to hear about remember that night you did that creepy guy in the bathroom? for the next several months. Again.

My friend Terrence came in to the bar, then. Terrence is a older black guy, one of those social butterflies who makes it his objective to learn the life stories of every single person in every single bar he frequents—and he frequents them all. Immediately he came over and planted his hands on my shoulder on the friend next to mine, greeting us all. Almost immediately, the Italian made a beeline for Terrence. I wasn’t at all surprised that Terrence knew him. Over the bar’s clamor they talked for a moment. Finally, after the Italian shouted a request in his ear, Terrence turned to the table and started introducing people, one by one. I was last. Terrence introduced me by name. “I’ve known him since he was knee-high to a drag queen,” he said.

“Hello,” said the Italian. He actually had an accent. “I am Giorgio.” Though he’d only nodded at the other guys at my table, he reached out and shook my hand. Hard. I mean, bone-crushingly hard. Then he didn’t let go.

“Hi, Giorgio,” I said. Then I repeated his name. He stared meaningfully in my eyes, still squeezing my hand. I didn’t think he was ever going to let it go. After way, way too long, I had to withdraw it with force, and even then he continued to clutch at my fingertips. My friends snickered.

The bar was doing karaoke, Wednesday night, and I had put my name in for a turn. Luckily the hostess called me up right then, so I had a good excuse to scoot away. I sang, received drunken applause from the audience, and then started to sidle through the crowd to return to my seat.

Giorgio was blocking my way, at the end of the aisle. His beer bottle was planted squarely east to his dick. “You sing very well,” he said. I thanked him and tried to push past. “I bet you do other things very well, too.”

“Ah,” I said, caught between laughter and horniness. “Perhaps.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me in close so he could talk directly in my ear. “I have had a bad day.”

“I’m sorry!” I said, politely as possible.

“I don’t want to have a bad night, too.” When he spoke, his breath was laden with alcohol and his speech was slurred. “I don’t want to have to masturbate. Alone.”

“I’m with friends,” I said, pointing in their direction. “I came with them. I can’t just leave.”

His lips brushed my earlobe. “You are sssssso sssssssexy.” I felt a hand grab my crotch and squeeze, hard. I yelped, and jumped back at the unexpected grope, knocking into the nearly-naked shots boy wandering behind me.

I didn’t spill any of his test tubes filled with candy-colored alcohol, but it was a near thing. I did manage to squeeze past and return to my table, however, where by now all my friends had watched me leap a foot backward in the air. They all smirked as I sat down. “Just don’t say it,” I begged.

Save for staring at me soulfully from across the bar for the rest of the time I was there, Giorgio didn’t say anything to me again. Not until I was pulling on my coat and preparing to head out into the bad weather again, anyway. At that point he rushed over. “Goodbye,” he said, calling me by name. He reached out for my hand and covered it with his own. “I hope we are friends now.”

“Um, sure,” I replied.

"Good friends, you and I.”

“Of course.” Because you know, under any other circumstances. . . .

When Giorgio pulled me forward and shoved his tongue between my lips to give me a long, sloppy, and beery kiss goodbye, he and I were the only persons in our vicinity not chortling in laughter. When he was finished, he smacked his lips, pointed his finger at my face, and then winked at me before stumbling off.

“I didn’t realize he was so drunk,” said one of my friends.

“That explains it,” said another.

“Fuck you all,” was my grumpy response.

My Boy Scruffy

I got a text message from Scruffy, Wednesday morning. What are you up to today, handsome? I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get right back to him. A couple of minutes later he sent another: I’ve really missed you and hope you’re free to get together. Text me? My dick was hard in my jeans when I punched out a message back: My bed is yours. Come over.

I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that.

I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple.

Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me.

He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.”

We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him.

He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said.

I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.”

Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it.

It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper.

Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants.

Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole.

For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket.

When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape.

When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.”

I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.”

He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.”

“Really?” I said, hopefully.

“Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out.

Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.”

“I know,” he said. “I want it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want your seed in me.”

“What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.”

Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.”

I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips.

“You feel good,” I whispered.

His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.”

"You need it, don't you?"

His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day."

I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.”

“Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry.

“Who are you when you’re here?”

“Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .”

Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms.

It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either.

I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?”

“Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.”

“You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it.

He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him.

“I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel.

“I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me.

We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.”

“You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek.

“Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.”

He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.”

I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.”

“Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.”

“My beautiful boy,” I echoed.

“Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded.

I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.”

“Promise me,” I said.

“I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.”

He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll.

We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out.

He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.”

My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy.

Brothers on the sofa

This will be my last installment on the pig party from last Saturday. I was there for so long, and the evening had several moods. It was difficult to roll them all into one entry.

There was a moment before the sex started, though, when all of us were down in the basement and outside of the dungeon door, removing our clothes. I was talking to Chaz, whom I’d very much enjoyed at the first of Hardy’s pig parties. When we weren’t fucking that first night, we’d spent a lot of time on Hardy’s sofa, talking about concerts we’d both attended and musical groups we admired. We were kind of catching up, Saturday night, as we removed our clothing at the bottom of the stairs, when out of the blue he asked, “So does Mike ever come with you to these things?”

“Mmmmike?” I repeated, not really understanding. Hardy’s friend, out-of-town Mike, was standing across the room. “He’s from Ohio. He’s Hardy’s friend, not mine.”

“Not that Mike,” said Chaz, gesturing with his head to the guy near us. “Your Mike. Mikey.”

I blinked several times, and realized exactly who he was talking about. I also realized that Chaz was letting me in on the fact he knew what Mikey was to me. “Oh. Mike. Well, I’m sure he would, but he and Hardy don’t know each other.”

Hardy was walking down the stairs, carrying bowls with the snacks I’d brought. “Who is this?” he asked, overhearing.

I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know exactly what I planned to say. Chaz stepped in and smoothly announced, “One of his friends.” There was a certain flatness to the word ‘friends’ that let me know, if I’d had any lingering doubts, that Chaz had talked to Mikey at some point.

It wasn’t until later in the evening, after I’d fucked everybody there and fisted both out-of-town Mike and Hardy, that Chaz and I got a chance to talk again. We sat on the sofa, naked. Our limbs were intertwined together. He reached up and rubbed the back of my neck, hard, making me purr like a kitten. Hardy had laid down a towel on the cushions on my other side, and was leaning against me. “So I’m the only person who didn’t get to be in a sling tonight,” I said, after a moment.

The Silver Fox and out-of-town Mike were still playing with each other across the room. We watched them idly. “Did you want to be in a sling?” asked Chaz.

I kind of did, actually. If someone had offered to give me a really good rim job in one, I would’ve hopped right up. I would’ve tried the deceptively simple wrist restraints, and put my feet in the straps. No one asked, though, and I worried slightly about what would have happened after that, so I kept my mouth shut on the topic. “I got in my first sling at the age of fifteen,” I told them.

“No way,” said Chaz.

“Get out,” said Hardy. I nodded. It was the truth. “How old were you when you started messing around with guys?”

“Twelve,” I told them. “Started getting fucked at twelve, started whoring at fourteen, first sling at fifteen.”

They seemed both delighted and appalled by the confession. “I had a friend who put himself through school with money he made whoring himself,” he said. “He got me into it for two weeks because he told me it was easy cash. I didn’t like it, though. I wasn’t cut out for it.”

I grinned. “In my mid-twenties I actually made the down-payment on my first house with money I earned from selling myself in my teens.”

“Oh my god. You.” Hardy hopped to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and wandered off. I could tell he didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

Chaz ruffled my hair. “Was Mikey your first sling?”

I laughed. “No. Hardly.” Since we were alone, I decided to ask. “You know that Mike’s more than my friend, right?”

“He told me. We talked.” His hand reached down to my dick and began to stroke. After about four hours of non-stop action I was a little worn down, but I had enough oomph in me to get hard again.

“Okay. As long as you aren’t freaked by it?”

“I was surprised, but not really surprised,” he admitted. “My brother and I were active with each other when we were kids.”

“Younger or older?”

“He was older. So you and I are both younger brothers. Cool. Yeah, we played around for about four years, then he went totally straight. He’s married now, two kids. I try talking to him, but there’s always something left unsaid between us. I know he’s got to think about it. We just never talk in that direction.” When I let my hand drift down to between his legs, I discovered that Chaz was rock hard again as well. “So when Mike told me that you two . . . well, I kind of gathered you still do stuff.” I inclined my head to agree. “It’s hot.”

“Guys either find it totally hot, or totally repellant,” I admitted.

“I think my brother worries, when he looks at me. When he looks at me. . . .”

“. . . You think he’s worrying that he made you what you are? I think Mikey worries about that a lot.”

I’d spoken too soon, and wrongly. “No, I think he worries I might come on to him,” said Chaz. He thought about it a minute. “Maybe I should. Maybe I should just grab him and bone him. Bone the shit out of him.”

His voice was kidding, but his dick was not. “Mikey tends to be very competitive with me. We . . . compare notes,” I said. “Talk about things. Guys. After I tell him I’ve been with a man, three days later I’ll find out he’s sweet-talked his way there too.”

“Hilarious,” said Chaz, squeezing me. He kissed me. “And hot.”

“Mark my words. By Tuesday you’ll be writing me an email to say he’s been over to your place. It’ll happen.”

Hardy wandered back then with a drink, so we changed the topic to other, more general things. The Fox and out-of-town Mike finished up their fuck, and collapsed on the floor near us. The party was due to break up soon. We all could sense it, but we sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit until our heads had cleared enough to dress and go on our ways. “Say hi to Mike for me,” said Chaz as we parted.

“Who’s this other Mike person you guys keep talking about?” Hardy asked.

This time, both Chaz and I spoke simultaneously. “A friend.”

“Three days,” I told him, as I waved goodbye and walked off down the dark suburban street where I’d parked my car. “Mark my words.”

I got an email from Chaz, Monday night. It only took two, he wrote.