Mister Steeeeeeeed

At least the sex was good. Right?

Right?

As I stumble out into the rain and orient myself, I repeat the question again and again. Not willing to linger on the man’s doorstep, I merge into the throng of rush-hour pedestrians strolling with purpose, while I contemplate how to cleanse myself. A quick dinner? A stiff drink? Should I just head home? My brain feels dirty. It needs a scouring.

But at least the sex was good. Maybe. I suppose. Or could I be merely suffering from post-nut melancholia?

After this encounter, I don’t know what to think any more.

It had started in the man’s fourth story walk-up Hell’s Kitchen apartment, where he’d prostrated himself the moment the door closed behind us. “Ssssssteeeeeeed,” he’d murmured from the floor, as he’d nuzzled my boots. Snow boots, that is. Not the usual objects of fetishization. “What big feet you have, Mister Steeeeeeeed.” Throughout the afternoon, he’ll drawl out my screen name with deliberation. I’m never quite certain whether or not he’s somehow mocking me. “Please allow me.”

So I sit in a rickety kitchen chair in the man’s cramped two-room home and allow him to remove my boots and socks. While he’s engaged with that, I look around the abode. Even with a big window overlooking the street, it’s a dark space; he’s painted the walls black and covered them with framed photographs and the kind of mid-century amateur oil paintings one might find in the tag or estate sale of an advanced senior citizen. “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

He’s rubbing my right sole over the bristles of his chin. “Fifty years this month,” he tells me. Between broad licks, he tells me a tale of how he’d moved to New York City from Buttfuck, Indiana and stumbled into this place his first week, thanks to a classifieds ad. I’m trying to relax and ruminate about whether or not today’s children even know what a classifieds ad might be, when it strikes me: this dude and I are supposed to be the same age. Would he seriously have me believe he moved to the Big Apple and rented his first digs as a ten-year-old?

Admittedly, he might pass as my age. I guess. Kind of. In a dim and forgiving light. He’s a short and hairy fellow, his arms covered with tattoos that once might have been finely etched, though the decades have caused the ink to bleed out and blur. Good shape. But that face, if it’s supposed to be my age, is rough. Handsome, but it’s not a face worn by any but the most haggard of my contemporaries.

Fine. Whatever. I don’t mind men older than myself, but I resent the dishonesty. I’m out there, throwing myself to the wolves with my real age on display. Seems to me that other men could pay me the same courtesy. But sure. My feet feel good on the guy’s face, and while he works he’s reaching up to grope the bulge of my crotch. Yeah, so he told a white lie. It’s not going to propel me out the door.

“I want to get you naked, Mister Steed,” he whispers, clambering to his feet and extending his hand. He’s all of five-six, this furry little devil. I tower over him when I follow him through a door into a bedroom. “Gotta get you undressed,” he says, tugging at my tee. I’d already shed my winter jacket and flannel shirt in the other room; he makes short work of divesting my jeans and shorts, until I’m standing there naked, erection bobbing. Then he shoves me onto the bed, and watches me squeeze my cock while he sheds his clothing like a snake its skin. “Damn, Mister Steed. Looking good.”

I’ve told this guy my name, I’m one hundred percent convinced. I mean, I’m pretty certain. Didn’t I? No, I absolutely did, because he’d reciprocated with his, after. He’s probably forgotten it. Unless he has a fetish for calling men by their screen names. Should I remind him, or would that be too embarrassing? Should I reciprocate in kind? Nah, I’m surely not planning to call him Mister HKbubblebutt.

I’d told him in advance he could gobble on my knob as long as he liked—and he does. His technique isn’t exceptional, but it’s getting the job done, especially after I convince him not to grip it like it’s his last handhold before he falls into a bottomless canyon, and to slow down on the friction. After a while we settle into a mutually pleasurable rhythm, as he slobbers up and down my length and I reach down to savage his nipples with my fingertips. It’s a nice little positive feedback loop we’ve got going, as he reinforce each other’s good stuff by twisting or slurping in the way the other likes.

“Gotta get you in my hole, bud,” he hisses when at last he comes up for air. Saliva drips down his face; his eyes stream tears. I nod. Sniffing deeply, he climbs up and straddles me, hanging for dear life to the top of the bed frame. For the first time I notice the four-poster on which we’ve been wrestling. It’s built to survive a bombing, this bed. Hewn out of solid wood. Thing must weigh a literal ton. Old pull handles, the kind that graced the old screen door in the house where I grew up, have been spaced every twelve inches around the inner perimeter of the upper frame. Hand grips, all of them. On the posts above my head are spaced several hooks at different heights—presumably for hogtying a willing submissive.

All right, HK. Kinky little shit, I see.

I don’t get an opportunity to ask about the setup. Already he’s impaled himself on me; he’s using the handles to winch himself up and down. “Damn, Mister Steed,” he breathes. “I can see how you got your name. Hung like a horse.” That’s not how I got my name, but given the circumstances, I’m not going to commence a lecture about the UK TV spy shows I grew up on.

By this point, the whole Mister Steed business is starting to wear a little. I’m so sure I’ve told this guy how I prefer to be addressed. “You feel good, Harold,” I grunt. The timing of one of his thrusts makes me emphasize his name a little more than I intended, but hopefully it gets the point across.

“Big ol’ Mister Steed.” Nope, I guess not. “Mister Steed is gonna make babies up this pussy. Fucking me with that big ol’ Steed dick. That’s right, Mister Steed. Just lay back and let me take care of everything, Mister Steed.”

He’s really ramping up the Mister Steed thing to ridiculous proportions, but hey. How am I supposed to protest when the shit he’s doing feels great? “Is that what you want?” I growl. “You want me to knock you up good?”

“Fuck yeah.” The button I’ve pushed sends him into turbo mode. He grabs my wrists and pins them to the mattress, leaning into me and weighing me down. My dick swells to what feels like twice its usual size. I love this shit, and he notices. “Oh, damn yes. You know what I oughta do? Tie up Mister Steed to this bed. It’s built for it, you know. Get Mister Steed roped up and hog-tied down so he can’t move, while I climb on top of Li’l Steed and ride and ride and ride. Just use Mister Steed as a human dildo. Fuck. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

All I can do is nod rapidly. I’d like that very, very much. Being restrained and used that way is, in fact, the one frontier I’ve never explored, much as I’ve fantasized about it. For years I’ve been publicly opining that someone should volunteer to fulfill my fantasy—just getting it out into the universe to see if it manifests, you know? Yet, nothing. I’ve had guys tell me they’ll set it up for me, as a treat, but it’s never happened.

So yes, I’d like it very, very much. I’d love two (or more) bottoms competing to use me in a helpless state, but I’ll take a solo adventurer, no question. “Please.” I test how firmly he’s gripping me by struggling a little. Small a man as he is, he’s got a firm grasp on my wrists. Even this modicum of hindrance arouses me. The harder he presses me into the mattress, the closer I get.

“Just fuckin’ using you.” He’s in his own world now, eyes clenched shut, his cock slapping on my belly. “For my own pleasure. Big ol’ Steed dick up my guts. Digging me out. Riding Steed like a stallion.”

“Crap,” I say loudly. His fantasy aligns so directly with mine that I can’t help but get carried away. “Make that dick belong to you.”

“Mister Steed’s dick is my dick. Mine to ride. Mine to use. Mine to control.” I’m dangerously close. “I’m gonna fuckin’ own Mister Steed and his Steed meat. You coming, buddy? Come on. Shoot it in me.”

I can’t help but obey. While he pins me down, I buck and thrash and growl and let out a series of feral moans. He hasn’t exactly fulfilled my fantasy—not yet, anyway—but it’s close enough that I shudder and shake. And still the rock solid bed frame doesn’t give an inch. Is it bolted to the floor or something?

Harold lifts himself off me using a couple of the handles at the top of the frame. My cock slips out with a squelch. “All right,” he says in a matter-of-fact manner, as if we’d merely been watching TV. “Time to meet the pooch.” I’d known he’d locked away his dog, one of those smallish hybrids with a breed name that ends in -doodle, so that it wouldn’t bother us during sex. “He’s going to bark and bark, but he’s a good boy.”

I’m a little stiff and my wrists ache, but I pull myself onto one of the pillows. I can’t quite sit up yet, not after that orgasm. “Nah. Dogs like me. He won’t bark.”

My prediction is correct. Dogs adore me. The -doodle races up a little ramp I hadn’t seen before at the bed’s side, wags his tail in delight at the sight of me, then flops down, buries his nose in my armpit, and cuddles up as if we’ve been buddies for years.

Harold says, “Well, would you look at that,” and flops down on my other side.

Dog under one arm and furry man under the other, I breathe deeply and relax. That had been some wild sex. Somehow I’d completely flipped my watch around, stretchy strap and all, so that the glass face is lying against my wrist and the sensors are exposed to the air. I fix it and listen to my host make small talk.

Which is my big mistake.

Without preamble, he launches into a diatribe about the sorry state of the nation, overrun by right wing extremists. Which—fine. I don’t disagree. When you’re raised by a mom, though, who always reminded you that complaining about shit, no matter how loudly, isn’t the same as trying to fix shit, and who backed it up with grassroots organizing and running for offices and founding nonprofits, you start to recognize that griping is just useless hot air. You tune it out. So, at first, I play with the dog’s floppy ears and let Harold have his say, only half listening in my exhaustion.

But it takes a turn, because next he’s complaining about the Democratic Party. How they don’t have their shit together. How they don’t recognize the real talent in their ranks. How they keep trying to put unelectable minorities up for the Presidency, instead of good candidates. He says that no one is going to elect, and I quote, “the Blacks.”

Hackles up, I venture, “But you know, Obama was elected for two consecutive…”

Nah. He’s already on to his next topic, which has to do with a play he wrote about a Narcotics Anonymous group and its inner dynamics, and how at a read-through he received feedback that it seemed unlikely that all the members of any NA group would consist entirely of white males…which leads to a screed about the current production of Gypsy and how the casting of Black actors as actual historical figures who were white has made the show unwatchable.

I’m still game to put my money where my mouth is, though. “I saw the current production and thought it was stunning. Audra McDonald is a four-time Tony winner, and we are at enough of a cultural remove from the historical Gypsy Rose Lee figure that Gypsy, the show, can exist as its own self-contained…”

Nope. He’s already built up steam and won’t be stopping his momentum anytime soon. I start sitting up and searching for my clothes while he rants about Hamilton and how none of the Founding Fathers were people of color. I pull on my socks and undies while having to hear about how rap music is an abomination and should never have been allowed south of 125th Street. I hoist on my snow boots and coat while he’s still going on about Lin Manuel Miranda getting opportunities at the expense of people who are actually talented and good at what they do. Even when I’m letting myself out, he’s leaning against a pillar in the kitchen and beginning to froth at the mouth about Abbott Elementary being over-represented during awards season. I tug at the locks on his door and let myself out, feeling dirty and defeated.

I could have stayed. I could have stood my ground. But this old asshole didn’t want debate. He didn’t have opinions that were mildly contrarian, that he wanted to toss around with a potential friend.

No, this idiot wanted to harangue. He wanted an audience while he shouted at clouds. Maybe he wanted someone who’d nod and silently agree and occasionally throw in something like, “Yes, Audra is a talentless hack.” But you know, that someone isn’t going to be me.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m thinking, as I stomp my way down the creaky staircase, if you’ve got some opinions that sound an awful lot like those of our oppressors—like hey, genocide’s great! or LGB without the T!—or maybe if you’re just a run-of-the-mill racist old bastard, maybe consider keeping those opinions to yourself? Perhaps don’t spill them willy-nilly to the guy you’ve been riding like a rodeo clown for the past couple of hours? Maybe don’t tease a guy by stumbling upon his one unfulfilled fantasy, then dash all hopes by revealing yourself as a supervillain.

Christ.

On the other hand, maybe I’ve had a lucky break. Best to get it all out in the open, right up front, more or less. Now I don’t have to set aside time for future visits. I’ll save on transit fares. What if I’d made friends with this guy, only to find out later the ugly bigot lurking within? What if I’d invited him to drinks with friends, and he’d started spewing to them the foulness corroding his brain? I’d had a close call, but at least at this point it's easy to cut ties. I don't ever have to see the idiot again.

I’m halfway down when from above, I hear, “Hey!” I look up to see Harold hanging over the banister, staring down the well. He gives me a hearty wave and a smile, as if he hadn't noticed the huff in which I'd left. “Come back soon, _____!”

Asshole knew my name the whole time, after all.

Motherfucker.

***

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