Regular Dudes

I’m sitting in the Mexican food joint, solo, three-quarters of the way through the burrito I’ve ordered for dinner, when he walks in. He’s wearing jeans from Neiman-Marcus, pressed to within an inch of their denimed life. A leather jacket the color of caramel, and softer than butter. And one of those plaid, J. Crew shirts that are the weekend uniform of married dads throughout this county of Connecticut. His hands are in his pockets.

The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen.

“I think so,” he says.

The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.”

I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter.

Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity.

I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over.

There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar.

My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray.

“Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?”

“I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly.

“She doesn’t ask where you’re going?”

I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?”

He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?”

“Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.”

The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart.

“All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.”

It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs.

When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch.

I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this.

“You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket.

His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly.

I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open.

“I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.”

“Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog.

“I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.”

“I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice.

“Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive.

I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand.

He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts.

I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft.

“It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.”

“Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice.

The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat.

When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says.

“Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already.

“Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.”

“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question.

“You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out.

“Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors.

I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!!

I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all.