Wealth and Muscles

Two things intimidate me: wealth and muscles. This man had both.

His apartment building at a good, recognizable address had an actual doorman—a stout, bearded fellow who, when I supplied a first name and an apartment number, nodded me on my way to the elevator. The eighteenth-floor lobby of the older building contained a lacquered table that sported out-of-season flowers exotic enough that I didn’t recognize them. I rubbed their cold and rubbery petals between my fingers to see if they might be real. They were.

I always feel outclassed by displays of wealth because, frankly, I don’t make that kind of money myself. Nor, in my professional capacity as a working artist, am I likely to. Whether it’s displayed as real estate or tasteful and expensive decor, or whether as a flashy car or tailored clothing, money always throws into sharp relief my imagined shortcomings. When I walked down that hallway, with its plaster carvings along the walls, trimmed in gold enamel, I could feel myself shrinking inch by inch.

I respond similarly to men with muscles and looks. When they approach me online, as this one had, my initial reaction is always a confused, Why? In the harsh exposure of ripped pecs and defined abs, what self-confidence I have withers like a night-blooming flower in the sun. A man with the beauty of a model, when he asks if I’d be interested in having sex with him, doesn’t validate me; he makes me want to cringe and beg off with timid excuses, and makes me hope that any passing—probably drunk and/or hallucinogenic-inspired—interest he might have in me evaporates.

It’s stupid, I know. Even as I have those initial reactions, I’m already telling myself the same things I’ve told myself time after time, for years now. People with money need dick just as badly as the rest of us. And guys with porn star looks can sometimes be attracted to me. I can’t always prevent my instinctual, knee-jerk reactions, but I can mitigate the extent to which I let them rule my thoughts and behavior. So as I walked down that hallway and pushed open the cracked doorway, I threw back my shoulders, held my posture high, and regained the height I’d seemed to have lost in that long walk down the expensive runner.

I almost lost that stature the moment I stepped into the room, though. The door awkwardly bounced for a moment against the long latch that had held it open. As I slid it shut, the first thing I could see what his ass. That beautiful ass, rounded by hours of squats, pointed directly at the door. The man’s living room was lit only by candles and the lights of Manhattan filtering through the gauzy blinds of the many windows. It was enough for me to see him clearly, however, bent over the low-backed, richly-upholstered sofa. He knelt on the parquet floor, knees separated to expose his hole to the air, thick thighs spread, narrow waist bent. The elaborate tattoos running down one side of his back ran parallel to the ceiling above. His hands and head rested on a chenille spread he’d thrown down to protect the sofa’s fabric. Four of his fingers sported rings. All gold. All heavy. All studded with precious stones.

He was a stunning sight.

He looked back over his prone shoulder to look at me through the darkness. I took off my jacket and let it slide to the floor. In my jeans and Converse and my cheap Old Navy zip-up sweater with the racing stripes, I felt decidedly low-rent. Yet when he said “I want you, buddy. I wanted you since I saw that dick of yours,” his voice betrayed his need. At that moment, he didn’t give a shit how many gold cards I carried in my wallet, or what I drove, or how often I worked out. He knew what he wanted. I had it.

All I had to do was deliver.

I kicked off my sneakers as at the same time I unzipped the sweater and let it fall into a heap. I shimmied out of my jeans and shorts. By the time I reached him, I was naked. My dick was three-quarters hard, squeezed and full by the chrome cock ring in which I’d stuffed my junk. He eyed it hungrily. “Fuck,” he said. Then he repeated the word. “Fuck. That’s gonna be in me?”

I nodded.

“Fuck.” Without hesitation he swiveled from his spread-eagled kneeling position over the sofa to face me. I’d thought he’d intended to gobble down my dick, but instead his brawny forearm reached up and a massive hand curled around the back of my head as easily as a grapefruit. He pulled my face down to his, and drowned me in a deep, sloppy kiss. I’m a man of six feet and three inches. Although this man lacked a full half-foot on me, he outweighed me by a good four pounds of sheer muscle and looked as if he could bench-press a bus. He made me feel tiny. No small feat.

When his enormous lips finally released mine, I had to resist the impulse to wipe my face with the back of my arm. His dark eyes glittered in the night as he stared at me. His face was as handsome as it had been in the photographs—even more so, perhaps. His body was perfect. Sculpted in a way achieved only by men who make their looks their life’s mission. He’d poured a huge chunk of his life into creating that body. Soon he’d be giving it to me.

“You kiss good,” he growled. “Damned good.” I thanked him. “You fuck as good as you kiss?”

I inclined my head to the side and nodded. My dick had been hard the moment our mouths connected. I spread some spit on it and let it slide through my fingers with a slow, overhand stroke.

“Show me.”

I positioned myself behind him, both of us on our knees. I’d already discovered during our make-out session that his hole was pre-lubed so heavily that two of my fingers slid in without resistance. I knew I wasn’t going to have any problem entering, but he clutched the back of the sofa with such grit and determination that one would’ve thought he was bracing himself for a Civil War battlefield amputation without benefit of anesthetic. He certainly made enough noise as the tip of my meat pressed against his hole and drove home. On my side it felt like slipping between warm, wet curtains. He made it sound as if I was popping his virgin cherry.

He grunted, and groaned; he dug the top of his head into the cushions and let out a roar into the seat. I felt him adjust his legs and spread his knees further apart. I didn’t bother going slowly at first. He didn’t need it. I fucked with a deep and steady rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out and then plunging back in again. I let him feel the ridge of my cock’s head stretch and rip at his ass lips with every stroke. The repeated sensation made him tense his shoulders. His back muscles flexed, rigid and defined.

Absolutely stunning.

I picked up the pace and fucked him more vigorously. My nuts slapped against his skin until he reached down between his legs and grabbed them, manhandling them as if trying to coax out the load. With another deep, chest-vibrating grunt, he lunged off me and landed on his back on the throw. He lifted his tree-trunk legs into the air, inviting me to continue, and urging me to do it quickly. I thrust myself back into the warmth, the wet depth of him, and felt his heels dick into my shoulder. He slapped his pecs and pinched the dark smudges that were his nipples as he stared into my eyes. The man wasn’t just porn-star quality. He acted like a porn star, the porn star of his own apartment, his own film currently shooting in his mind. He bit down on his lower lip and clamped down me.

From time to time he muttered the word fuck to himself, his eyes half-shuttered and his face increasingly taut. Mostly, though, he communicated in growls and grunts and with an insistent bucking of his hips. If he’d not been still grabbing onto the sofa’s back as if fearful of falling, and if he’d had an extra pair of hands, I know he would’ve pulled me in deeper and deeper still.

He hadn’t touched his dick the entire time we’d been playing. It wasn’t the biggest dick. It didn’t need to be. It was a good five inches of thick meat that slapped against his flat belly as I fucked. And just as I began rounding the corner and getting close to shooting, it began to unload. My eyebrows rose as it began to spew out rope after rope of sticky fluid that decorated his sculpted chest. He watched first his dick with a smirk of satisfaction, and then my face as as watched his cock jump and spit. His tongue darted out obscenely, as if trying to snatch some of the sperm on his pecs. He then licked his lips and urged me on.

I didn’t need much urging. The sight of him shooting without touching was stimulus enough. I grabbed hold of the marble pillars that were his thighs, and attempted to yank myself deeper into him. My cock shuddered and twitched. I unloaded into him, feeling his prostate nudge against my head with every shot.

“Fucker,” he growled, still running his fingertips over his nipples. “You fuckin’ fucker. You know how to fuck, don’t you? Yeah. You do.”

I nodded, trying to gather breath and senses alike. I knew how to fuck even wealth and muscles like him.

When I exited the building another load and forty-five minutes later, the doorman’s fingers brushed the front of his cap as I smiled and nodded in his direction. I stepped out into the city street and for a moment didn’t notice its clamor at all. Then I turned and walked in the direction of the train, feeling three inches higher.