Tim

“Put it in me,” he whispers. My arms are underneath his armpits; I’ve got myself propped up on my palms. My cock’s head is nudging against his hole. His chute is already wet and sloppy from the half-hour’s worth of eating I’ve already given it. I could shove it in right now, but I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Fifteen stories below, down in the streets there’s the sound of a siren blaring. He breaks the silence with a needy whine. “Please. Put it in me. I want to see if it feels like I remember. Please.”

“Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps.

“All those years ago?”

I nod.

“I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.”

“I was invited.”

He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.”

“Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?”

He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.”

His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells.

“Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.”

—

1997. I met them in a chat room I frequented then, long extinct now. I was driving from Michigan to Chicago the following week; they were in Indiana. I agreed to drive an extra hour out of my way to hook up with them for a few hours.

The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before.

I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth.

He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—shorter than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?”

I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.”

“I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed.

“Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!”

I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.”

I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole.

He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’

“Tim,” he whispered.

“Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?”

The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.”

All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips.

—

“You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.”

“That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him.

“You loved being fucked.”

“I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.”

We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?”

“Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.”

“Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?”

He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.”

“You still see him?”

“Once in a while.”

“Because he turned you into what you are.”

“A hole,” he says, agreeing.

“A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?”

“You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.”

“What, Butch used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear.

He touches the back of my head with a hand and pulls my own ear down to his lips. “I have hoped for this for so long,” he whispers.

—

Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you?

I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you?

Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night.

That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked.

His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times?

I was happy to oblige.

—

“Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load.

I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology.

He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.”

“I’m surprised you recognized me.”

“You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?”

There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes.

Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.”

He smiles, happy again.

It’s a pledge I definitely can keep.