Leftovers

There’s a certain group of guys that mentally I refer to as my leftovers. Even as I type it out, I cringe at the word—it seems to denote a second class of citizen. A lower tier of lesser men. And that’s not that I mean to imply at all. Heck, I make extra servings of dinners at home because I like leftovers for lunch.

No, I’m really talking about guys with whom I could never get the timing right. They’re guys I’ve intended to meet for months (or in some cases, a year or more), but couldn’t because they were only available on the evenings on which I can’t get away, or on Saturdays, which are always bad for me. They might have been close to my metropolitan area, but far enough away that it made more sense to grab someone closer to home than to hop in the car and drive for an hour. There are all kinds of reasons that a handful of men and I never seem to get to connect. Perhaps leftovers isn’t the best term, but it’s the one my brain settled upon for them, and I never meant for it to be derogatory.

Last Thursday night, when I had the place to myself, I decided to enjoy some leftovers. I hadn’t intended to have two helpings, but that’s simply how it happened.

One man with whom I’d been trying to connect for a year contacted me and asked how I was doing; I responded that I had my place to myself and wondered if he wanted to come over. I was happy to hear that he did. Simple and seamless, right? It’s the kind of start to an evening that I always look for. He arrived quickly, and once he stepped through the door I was pleased to see that he was as good looking as his photos had implied. When we kissed, it was soft and sweet. His hands felt good on my shoulders, my arms, the back of my head. And when I took him upstairs to my bed and felt him ease his body atop mine, I knew it was going to be good.

We undressed. He knelt down to suck my cock. “Fuck, I have wanted to sit on this for a long time,” he said, after filling his throat with it. “Can I? Can I sit on it?”

“Hell yes!” I choked out. I scrabbled in the bedside table for the lube and a towel. He slapped a handful of the cold goo on my hot meat, then used his fingers to slather it on his own ass crack. The next thing I know, I felt a tight gripping sensation on my dick, and pressure as he lowered himself down. There was a resistance, and then the smooth relief as his warmth surrounded my dick. He was down at the base, taking it all inside, and wriggling around in happiness.

He sighed, and lifted his head to the ceiling. Then, without warning, I felt globs of wet jelly splattering my chest and neck. He’d shot his load, just like that, barely touching himself. He came so much that it seemed as if he hadn’t shot in weeks. I was still blinking from the unexpectedness of it all when he rose to his knees and hopped off the bed. “That was great,” he said, pulling on his T-shirt, then his shorts. His feet went into his flip-flops. “We’ve got to do it again sometime!”

“Um, sure,” I said, uncertainly, but I was saying it into the empty dusk. He’d already vanished.

I was so unsatisfied by that encounter that I went online to look for more. It baffles me, really, how guys can be so selfish, or skittish, or whatever quality it is that has them scampering for the door once the flush of orgasm is over.

I didn’t have long to wait. Another of my leftovers messaged me on Manhunt. It was someone I’ve known for a decade, though only from afar—he’d been a friend of friends, long ago, and I’d had something of a little crush on him long ago. He’s not a traditionally handsome guy. In truth, I think a lot of men would find him a little bit like an overweight frat boy, out of shape with a beer belly, and with something of a bad complexion, but I’ve always thought he was a cute little Polish guy and thought he looked fun in bed. Was he available? I asked. He was, and he’d driven over within a half hour.

He’d always told me he was wild about kissing, and he did it well enough, though his wildness wore off after a few seconds. We stripped. He groaned and writhed when I rimmed him, and sucked fairly well. Promising enough. I lubed him up after a few minutes, and slowly entered him.

Something was wrong with the fuck, though. He held his ass too high, or I was too tall, or he was too tight, or I wasn’t going at it the right way. Something. I kept slipping out, over and over again. When I tried it on our side, I couldn’t get it into his hole at all. At last I positioned him on the side of the bed and fucked myself in. That seemed to work. He arched his back and stretched out his arms and groaned as finally I started to stroke in and out. . . .

. . . and then he shot all over the blanket, loud and copiously. I swore to myself under my breath, but at least he didn’t pull himself off me. For a few more seconds I continued to fuck, until he spoke up in a normal voice and said, “Can you shoot quick? I don’t know if I can take it any more.”

I smiled wryly, though he couldn’t see it in the night, and simply pulled out. “That was fun,” I told him. Then I helped him find his clothing in the darkness, and saw him out.

It was fun. They were both fun, in a certain limited manner. Nice guys. Sexy guys, in their own ways. Not leftovers in any derogatory sense.

But, like leftovers sometimes are, they weren’t a meal unto themselves.