Architectural Digest

The apartment building in Stamford is pretty unassuming from the outside. The chalky white stucco exterior has either chipped away on its own through the years to reveal the red brick wall underneath, or else it’s been artistically distressed to make it look as if it has. I can’t tell, either way. I text the number I’ve been given. It’s only a couple of minutes before he emerges from one of the doors in the lowest level, beneath the fragile-looking black iron fire escapes that hang onto the building tenuously, like fallen eyelashes cling to a cheek.

He’s not as young as his photos, I notice with a little dismay, and he’s probably shaved a decade for his online age. It’s the fib that niggles at me, not his looks. He’s a handsome guy. He’s got a strong jawline, and blue eyes for which a movie star would kill. It’s not his age that bugs me, either, though he has to be pushing sixty. He and I are definitely not the exact same age, though, despite what he would have the world think.

He’s wearing a hoodie and a pair of loose and flowing basketball shorts. When I hop out of my car, his mouth spreads into a wide grin. He puts his hand on his narrow hips. I can see from the crown of his head loosely traced in his shorts that he’s wearing no underwear. “I like what I see,” he says, once I’m within earshot.

Those teeth of his are pearly white. I’m almost blinded by their brilliance. “That’s a good greeting,” I tell him, smiling. I offer my hand. We shake. His skin is leathery, but warm.

“Oh, I haven’t greeted you yet,” he chuckles to himself, as he swings open the apartment building door.
It seems a good promise to me.

We walk over cheap linoleum floors and up to the second landing. The difference between the hallway and the apartment’s interior couldn’t be greater. It’s obviously this guy has invested a fortune in upgrading his home. The floors are a shiny hardwood, the furniture polished and gleaming. There’s a collection of expensive crockery in a glass cupboard in the kitchen where we’re standing, and a gleaming countertop of pink stone. An aluminum hood covers the extra-wide six-element professional cooktop; the backsplash is a colorful mural of tomatoes and eggplants and a bowl of pasta. It’s a spread from Architectural Digest.

He’s got hold of my hand again, and gives it a squeeze. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” he says, “but you look way way better than your photographs.” At my raised eyebrows and parted lips, he hastily adds, “Not that your pics look bad or anything. You’re just . . . way sexier in person.”

“I’m not going to put up an argument, I tell him.” I pull him close to me. Our lips meet. He’s not a great kisser. He’s one of those men who feels that all he needs to do is press his lips against mine and open his jaw. There’s no spark, no push or pull, no greedy tongue or devouring mouth. I’m not going to be the one to teach him, either.

The kiss is aborted when I hear a click-clack against the floor. An Italian greyhound skitters into the room. Its legs are toothpicks, and its tail vibrates back and forth faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

“Hey there,” I coo, and kneel to greet the man’s pet.

“Let me put her in the bedroom,” he says, scooping up the little dog and making away with her. “She’ll be all into our business if I don’t.” I look around while he’s gone and wonder where he intends for us to fuck, if he’s ceding his pet the bedroom. It seems as if every bit of the apartment is unsuitable for sloppy lovemaking. Surely he’s not intending us to screw on the fine leather sofas of his living room, or for me to throw him down upon the spindly-looking, ornately-carved dining table. The sheer amount of wax alone would make one of us slide off of it. But he’s back, and guiding me from the kitchen by the hand into the living room, past the designer stereo system and the delicate bookcase filled with art and photography books, around the glass-topped coffee table.

He stops there, and lets go of his pants. They fall to the floor and pool around his ankles. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, displaying his butt.

It’s a handsome ass. Like the rest of his body, it’s nicely muscled. It’s obvious he spends time in the gym, working on it. I nod, and lick my lips. My dick starts to stir when he unbuttons my jeans and lets them fall to my ankles, but he makes no move to remove my shoes or shirt. “Oh yeah,” he breathes, when he’s got my cock in his hand. He kisses the head. “I like it.”

“Suck it, then,” I whisper.

He goes to work. Long, swift strokes, more lips than tongue, no teeth. His eyes cross as he tries to look at the enormous dick he’s sucking, then return to normal as he looks up at me. I nod at him, letting him know he’s doing a good job.

I can’t really move much. He’s placed me between tightly-arranged furniture, so that I have a white leather sofa behind me, grazing my calves. There’s the big coffee table banging against my right shin. He’s crouched down between a leather arm chair, his chest extending over the coffee table’s glass top. I don’t want to flop down, not on the leather, not without his say-so. I stand there and let him do the work.

Then he’s up on his feet, licking his fingers, wetting his hole. He turns around and bends over. That muscular ass parts, exposing the pink hole hidden by the cheeks. My dick is still slick from his spit, but I add to it, and pull his hips back until we’re aligned.

I’m in, slowly, an inch at a time. I can feel that tight ass parting with every pound of pressure I put against it. He’s shaking. His hips are buckling. He’s got his jaw dropped, and a sound is emanating from deep within, wordless, without syllables, but I know every nuance of what he’s telling me. I continue to press in until I’ve reached the bottom of his shaft, and then I push forward a little more. “You’ve got it all, now,” I tell him.

He nods. He knows. Trust me, his body knows exactly how much of my dick it holds inside him.

The fucking is awkward. I can’t really move my feet any further apart than they already are; the table and sofa prevent that. I have visions of him losing his balance and crashing onto the table. His feet are firmly planted on the hardwood floor, though, and my hard wood seems to be keeping him firmly in place. My dick swells from branch to log as I begin to slide in and out of that slick wetness.

I can’t move, but he can. He grinds his hips and fucks himself onto me, tentatively at first, but then with increasing vigor. My hipbones begin rebounding from his thrusts. His hands clutch behind, at first to pull wide his ass cheeks, and then to grapple with my hips, to pull me in deeper, harder. The man’s eyes are closed. He’s lost in a world of sensation, adrift and blindly navigating. He knows the geography well, though. Every one of his thrusts is making me gasp and grunt, even as my shinbone knocks audibly against the table.

He comes first. I don’t even know it’s arriving until he lets out a mighty roar and I look down to see semen spattering the floor. There’s a hefty glob of it swinging from the head of his dick. On one of his thrusts—he doesn’t stop thrusting, not even as his ass is clenching onto my meat for dear life—it swings back and briefly clings to my nuts.

I shoot not long after that. My hands grab at him and hold him still, my dick plunged deep inside. He can’t be comfortable, but he holds the position until the tenseness eases. Then he pulls forward so that I slop out of him.

He’s running to get towels, and is back quickly, dabbing at my dick, rubbing at his own ass. He’s on the floor wiping up his own load, so that it doesn’t leave a mark. Then he’s checking the table, making sure there’s no trace of fluid.

I don’t have much to do to get dressed—just pull up my pants and go, really. “Next time I want to see if I can get two loads out of you,” he tells me.

“Next time,” I tell him, “we’re using the bed.”