Nasty Boys

My watch read 10:35. I was five minutes early, but hoped it wouldn’t matter. I can be there at about 10:40, I’d written earlier.

don’t care when you get here, he’d written back. just get the fuck over here now and do me rough, big guy.

The man’s house was expensive—a mid-century ranch in one of the area’s most exclusive neighborhoods. It had enough unique lines and personality to look as if it had been designed by a Name, or at least carefully copied from some distinguished architect’s style. The lawn was more elaborately manicured than the typical golf course; the arrangements of fall flowers surrounding the leaded glass front door could have appeared in a Martha Stewart feature. I didn’t get a chance to admire, however, because the glass rectangles of the door flashed in the sun as the door opened. “Get in here,” a deep voice growled.

My eyes were still sun-blind as I stepped over the threshold. I felt a thick hand cup the back of my head and pull my face to his. A pair of lips surrounded mine, kissing me ferociously. He was a good kisser; his mouth tasted of coffee. “Nice,” I said, when I could breathe again.

The nude man looked exactly like the photos he’d sent me: shaved head, bearded, muscular thighs and arms, and a deep chest covered with a carpet of dark brown fur. As my eyes traveled down the length and bulk of his body, his hands suddenly covered his private parts. “I’m shy,” he whispered, coy and insincere. “Shy about being naked in front of the man who’s going to turn me into his fucking bitch.”

I grinned at that, and kicked off my sneakers. “Oh yeah? That's what I'm gonna do, huh?”

“Fuck yeah,” he said, “I can tell you’re a nasty boy. Just like me. FUCK yeah. Two NASTY BOYS. Doing NASTY SHIT together!” His voice was rising in volume with every syllable, until at last he was yelling the words. They reverberated across the cavernous living room, bounced off the glass coffee table and echoed in the elegant kitchen. “NASTY SHIT, MAN! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO!”

“Nice,” I said, pulling off my cotton sweater. He had begun to lead me to the bedroom in the house’s back, so I let it drop to the ground. The floor looked cleaner than the sweater itself, honestly. “I like the way you think.”

“You ain’t seen NOTHIN’ YET, FUCKER!” he thundered, hopping onto the bed. “Get those fuckin' pants fuckin' OFF!”

I obliged, unzipping and letting my jeans drop. “This what you wanted?” I asked, brandishing my erection. "Huh? This what you wanted?"

“GOD DAMN! THAT THING IS SO FUCKIN’ BIG!” he yelled, as if I were actually skewering him with it. “GOD DAMN, THE NASTY SHIT YOU ARE GONNA DO TO ME WITH THAT JIZZ-LOADED HOG!” I approached the bed, and he began pulling at his own penis in a frenzy. His tool was not, I noted, very large. In fact, I might even be generous in saying that it was tiny—perhaps all of three and a half inches, erect. But I’m not all that concerned with size, generally, so I didn’t care. I just knew I was turned on. “That’s a FUCKING MONSTER!” he yelled, lunging forward to suck it. Barely did he take the head between his lips than he started to gag. “FUCK! I CAN’T BARELY GET THAT MONSTER MEAT IN MY LITTLE BOY-MOUTH!”

Okay, I thought to myself. It's not quite that big. But I was willing to play along. “Oh, yes you can,” I said, shoving it in. Almost immediately he gagged again, but I kept a firm hold on the back of his head and eased myself in. “Yeah,” I growled. “That’s what you wanted.”

“FUCK!” I released the back of his head and he caromed back, landing on the mattress with a bounce. “You are gonna RIP ME UP when you SHOVE THAT MONSTER FUCKSTICK up my HUNGRY FUCKIN' MANFUCKHOLE!”

“Damn right I am,” I grinned, kicking off my jeans. I only had on a T-shirt and a smile at that point, and pretty soon, only the smile was left. Scarcely had I put a knee on the bed than he flipped over and thrust his ass into the air, grinding his hips to invite me. “Nice,” I hissed. My hands reached for his cheeks. I pulled them apart and let the tip of my tongue tease the hole.

“GOD DAMN!” he yelled, groping in a drawer beside the bed. “I AM SO READY FOR THAT MONSTER COCK! MAKE ME YOUR FUCKIN’ BITCH! NASTY BOYS DOING WHAT NASTY BOYS DO, FUCKERMAN!” He grabbed a bottle of poppers from its depth, then unscrewed it. I whiffed the acrid scent of the liquid within, from several feet away. With my thumb working itself in and out of his butt, I got to my knees again.

It was then, as I positioned myself behind him, that I noticed the painting over the bed. It was of my nasty boy himself—four Warhol-ized portraits in a grid of bright, psychedelic colors of the man posing at work. And when I say work, it was perfectly obvious what he did professionally, and it was one of the most typically stereotypical gay careers there is. Which was fine. I didn’t care what he did for a living. But I was kind of slightly taken aback at the notion that someone would hang a four foot by four foot monster painting of themselves right over their own bed. I had to drag my attention away from it back to his ass, which he still was waggling in the air. “You ready?” I asked.

“FUCK YEAH!” he barked.

I nodded to myself, and then positioned the tip of my cock at the slick hole, and began to slide forward.

“Oh, I don’t get fucked,” he said, in his normal voice. “Sorry.”

It felt like my head was spinning. “What?”

“I don’t get fucked,” he said, quite conversationally, as if we'd been talking about the weather ever since I'd stepped through the door.

I didn’t quite understand. Hadn’t he moments before begged me to make him my bitch? Didn’t he want me to shove my monster fuckstick up his manfuckhole? Which part, exactly, had I misunderstood?

“Yeah, I’d have to have a couple of drinks and know you pretty well to do that. I mean, you can rub it on the outside, or fuck between my legs, or jerk off and cum on my butt, but I don’t take it in the hole.” I was still blinking when he suddenly flipped onto his back and furiously began jerking off again.

His hand flew up and down over his tiny penis as he banged his head repeatedly onto the expensive sheets with the high thread count. “God DAMN you got A BIG DICK, FUCKER! SO! FUCKIN’! BIG! MAKIN’ ME DO NASTY SHIT WITH YOU, I'M A FUCKING NASTY BOY! YEAH! YEAH!” A pillow fell off the bed as his body clenched. The tiniest dribble of semen pulsed from the slit of his dick onto his furry belly, dripping down with all the urgency of name-brand ketchup. “FUCK YEAH!”

I had been motionless and slack-jawed for several moments. I knew my cue, though. “Okee-dokee, then!” I announced. Then I climbed from the bed, turned my back on the large portrait, collected my T-shirt, my jeans, and my sweater, and dressed.

I looked at my watch when I let myself out. It was 10:42.