The Realest Real

February 2023

“Yes. Please. Like that.”

The kid skims along the twin mattress with serpentine motion, back arched, lean hips raised. Scant fuzz below his navel grazes the rumpled sheets. In this artificial twilight born of blackout shades and drapes drawn tight, his pale skin gives off its own faint luminescence, like foxfire on a summer’s evening. My outstretched fingers, long and thin, wrench apart the globes of his ass as I thrust inside. His hole is tight. So damned tight. It grips my shaft as I slide, back and forth.

“Make it swell, daddy.” I clamp down on my pelvic floor. The alteration in girth makes him groan. His head lolls back; a shaggy fringe of dark, straight hair tickles the top of his shoulders. Inside him I thrust deep. Another squeeze, to force more blood into the shaft. His chest collapses onto the bed, alarming the already creaking bedsprings. “Oh god.” The light tenor of his voice is muffled by pillows and bedclothes. “I’m gonna shoot, dad. Can I shoot? Please let me shoot, daddy.”

I reach down and swat away his greedy hand from his cock. This is dad’s job. Dad’s privilege, even. I spit in my hand and wrap it around the boy’s meat from behind. His shaved balls mount and surround my wrist as I spread the slick fluid up and down the shaft. His howls of pleasure redouble in the confines of the tiny room.

“I love you, dad.” As he convulses, his eyes open to look into mine. “I love you so much.” I nod at him, unblinking, connected by our locked stare. His face softens, overcome with emotion. “Oh god. I love you. I love you.” It doesn’t take long before he’s contorting at my grip. A few twists of the wrist, a few vigorous strokes, and he’s spraying his load. Anchored by my dick deep in his butt and my hand at the base of his spine, he buckles and thrashes as shot after shot of warm, sticky stuff cascades into my scooped fingers. The kid is loud. It’s a good thing no one else is home, or they’d be battering down the bedroom door.

At long last, he subsides. It seems a shame to wipe his semen onto the sheets, and more of a pity to let it go to waste. So I pull out and slap the goo onto my engorged cock. The sound echos with a wet smack. Then I shove it back in. He knows what I’m doing; his hips shove back to meet me as I drill his hole. I fuck like I’m holding a grudge, like I want to punish instead of praise. I fuck like I don’t care what bruises I raise upon either of us. It’s not long before I, too, fill his little room with a roar.

Afterward, we’re both drowsing in the dark, me on my back, him cuddled up and nuzzling my armpit, when he looks at his watch. “I’ve got class in a half hour.”

“I know,” I mumble. Three days we’ve met, now, during our lunchtimes. I’m well aware of his midday schedule.

“Mind if I shower?” He bounds up from the bed with sudden feline vitality, making me feel every single minute of the—god—four decades exactly that lie between us. All I have the energy to do is wave my hands and shoo him toward the little bathroom at one end of his untidy quarters. There’s a full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door; the kid doesn’t seem to know that from my angle on the bed, I can see everything he does inside. I watch as he cups, then slaps his round little butt so that the flesh jiggles. I see the mighty grin on his face when he probes his hole and discovers how wet are his fingertips, when he brings them away. I admire his slender body as he opens the shower stall and turns on the water.

While he waits for the hot water to arrive, he inspects his upper lip in the mirror over the sink, a scenario reflected once again for me upon the door, as he grooms the micro-mustache that grows there. Baby’s first facial hair. It’s really no more than the most featherweight trimming of dark peach fuzz, perilously clinging to the ridge above his lip, barely visible beyond arm’s length. I find endearing the care he takes in smoothing it down, though, after the wrangling our mouths have enjoyed. Pleased with what he sees, he backs away from the mirror and bounces on the balls of his feet, arms outstretched, bobbing and swaying as—left-right, left-right, left-right-left—he punches at the air. For a silent minute he boxes with an invisible opponent, eyes on himself in the sink mirror, his little cock springing up and down. Finally he grins in the glass, chucks himself softly on the chin, and disappears behind the shower door.

This is how I hope to remember the kid: lively and unselfconscious, happy with what he sees in himself.

In the bathroom, the sounds of water cease; there’s a near-silence once the kid turns off the overhead fan. That’s my cue to haul myself up to a sitting position and fumble for my clothing. I’m pulling on a sock when he he tackles me, his skin still damp, the sopping towel falling from his narrow waist onto the jumble of athletic footwear at the bed’s foot. “Don’t go,” he teases, butting his wet hair against my shoulder.

He’s so cute, this boy. I plant a kiss on the top of his head, and am rewarded by his shy smile. He crosses his skinny legs and leans into me. “Don’t go.”

“I have to go. You have to go.” I wrap my arms around him. “You’ve got class in…” I check my watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“I can be late.”

“You’re going,” I insist, returning to the sock that hangs halfway up my foot. “I’ve got to get back to my dad.”

I’ve met the kid three lunches in a row, now, ever since he hit me up on Grindr the day after my dad entered rehab. I consider it something of a miracle my dad’s in the rehab facility at all, when I consider the tantrums he threw at St. Mary’s. For two solid days, my father ranted and raved and cursed at the world, insisting to his doctors that he would never go to rehab and that instead, I would run through physical therapy exercises with him. I would shook my head and informed the same professionals that no, I would not. In the hospital, he made himself so unpleasant that I took to withdrawing from the room whenever I could, and lingering as long as possible in the cafeteria for my meals.

Logical appeals didn’t seem to sway him. The prospect of 24/7 medical supervision, or physical therapy close at hand, the proximity of the rehab facility to St. Mary’s in case of an emergency or another stroke—none of that matters. What seems to change his mind, over the long weekend, is when the hospitalist begins comparing a visit to a rehab hospital like a mini-vacation or a spa stay. He’d have his own room, larger than what he occupied on St. Mary’s neurology floor. He wouldn’t be hooked up to any machines. When he wasn’t in therapy, he could relax in his room and watch TV or listen to music or read or use his tablet. (“You mean I’d have to sit in a lounge around a single TV with a bunch of crazy old sick people,” my dad complained, ignoring the fact he was one of those crabby old sick people. “No,” said the hospitalist, baffled. “Why would you think that?”)

What turned the tide completely was when the doctor added, “The food there is much better than here.”

For some reason, my dad enjoys the hospital food. No, he fucking loves it. He thinks it’s top-notch, lip-smackin’, gourmet shit. Never mind that when I, a pretty great home cook, had whipped up many a delectable dinner for him back in 2020 during his radiation therapy, he’d turned up his nose at my hearty stews and delicious dinners. Pour some Campbell’s chicken noodle in a cup, give him a slice of institutional meatloaf with a watery gravy, throw some succotash on the plate, top it off with a sealed plastic tub of vanilla pudding and serve it on a tray with plastic utensil, though, and the man is in hog heaven. The St. Mary’s meals make my stomach turn, but when my dad hears that the rehab hospital’s meals—three a day plus snacks, delivered to his bed hot from the kitchen—are even better, well. He meekly, perhaps even avidly, accedes to a transfer the next day.

And I have to admit, the rehab is experience is incredibly more relaxing. The facility itself is a one-level sprawl shaded by old oaks that’s older, but cheerful and easy to navigate. My dad’s private room is bigger than my living room and kitchen combined, back home. The staff is uniformly upbeat, friendly, and professional. I commit to memory every single one of their names, so I can use it when thanking them. We spend the first afternoon engaging in an activity that my father will talk about with fond relish for weeks after: filling out a week’s worth of menu requests. For an hour and a half I read out the menu choices for each upcoming meal while my dad considers big-picture questions like, what juice would he prefer with his breakfast on Thursday, tomato, orange, grapefruit, or apple? What should accompany his chicken cutlet, that night, macaroni and cheese? Or mashed potatoes? He smacks his lips over each culinary decision while the nurses bring him applesauce.

He is living like a king.

It’s the second day of his tenure that I snort a little, sitting at his bedside. “What’s your on phone?” my dad asks.

“Your hot nurse is on Grindr,” I tell him. Said hot nurse is a mere 35 feet away.

“What’s Grindr?”

We’ve discussed Grindr before, but my dad’s brain has little retention for anything that isn’t interesting to him. “It’s an app gay men use for sexual partners. You fire it up and see who’s nearby.”

He peers at me. “Which hot nurse? Laura? Or the one who takes me to the bathroom?”

“Molly,” I remind him. “Why would Laura and Molly, both women, be on an app for gay men? No, it’s Lance, the blue-eyed one who runs the gym.”

“He’s hot?” My dad seems baffled at the idea.

“With those shoulders and pecs?” I whistle. “Good lord, yes.”

“You and I have very different definitions of hot,” he grumbles.

I flip through the photos. “His profile says he’s into cruising, edging, and group.”

“Hedging!” My dad snorts with derision. “Absolutely not. Find someone who’s more decisive.”

I peer over the top of my phone, trying to decide whether or not he’s shitting me. A message pops up. It is not, sadly, from the nurse with the pecs and shoulders. Looking, sir?

I don’t interact with blank profiles. It’s an exercise in diminishing returns. Mr. Looking, however, immediately provides a photo, taken in the full-length mirror on his bathroom door. He’s a young guy of 19 or 20, slender, his chicken legs speckled with sparse, wiry fur, his chest smooth, his face nearly covered by a mop of shoulder-length, dark, lank hair. Even though he’s nude in the shot, even though he’s turned sideways in the shot to show off the surprising roundness of his butt and the silhouette of his hanging dick, there’s something in the serious intent of his expression that makes him seem, well, shy. It’s a quality I find irresistible. He’s only five hundred feet away.

I’m looking for either lunchtimes or after 6, if you can host, I tell the kid.

Lunchtimes are great! he replies. My folks are home after 5:30 nights but you can come over today at lunch if you want.

I look over at my dad, who is holding his tablet up to his nose so that he can watch a noisy YouTube video of trains slowly traversing a crossing, somewhere in Nebraska. I definitely want. Send me an address.

A block and a half from the rehab hospital, the kid and I sit side by side on his twin bed, the room dark and quiet. His personal space is a contrast to the bright tidiness of the rooms I had to pass through to get here. His family living room looks blandly stylish, like an Ashley Furniture showcase. The kid’s bedroom, though, is plainly the space of someone who’s never had to look after himself. It’s not squalid. It doesn’t stink. Shoes lie in an unsorted pile at the foot of his bed, though, kicked off and tossed to lie where they tumble. The closet lies open; it’s difficult to tell where the hamper of dirty clothing ends and the piles of possibly clean garments begin. The walls are painted a deep blue and covered with posters, half with anime with which I’m unfamiliar, half with promotional posters for old Final Fantasy games. It’s definitely the quarters of an adolescent, or post-adolescent, boy.

He’s nervous, now that I’m here. Trembling, even. I’m aware I should be making the first move. Young men reach out to me because they assume a certain level of sexual mastery—they want a masculine dad type as a guide, one who know what to do and say, every step of the way. Normally, that’s a role I willingly play. With this skinny kid that I’ve just met, though, I’m less certain. He’s an attractive boy. I mean, that mop of messy hair is something that gets me every time, right in the gut and groin. Those pretty eyes, those big wide eyes, those serious eyes, as they stare sidelong my way. Shit. From the photo he sent I have an idea what lies beneath that oversized tee, beneath those baggy skater shorts. If he were sent to central casting right as he is now, he’d be starring as the sensitive and artistic best friend of some female college freshman no doubt played by a former Disney star. Or—and it unsettles me as I consider it—throw a hoodie over his head and paint circles beneath his eyes, as the tortured loner prodded into a school shooting.

No, don’t think about that. Fuckin’ Gen Z’ers. So difficult to work with, what with their puritanical views of sex. Even during the worst years of the AIDS crisis I’d never seen anyone as afraid of sex as these young whippersnappers. I’d lay a hand on him now, but he’s vibrating like a fawn that’s spotted a hunter, eyes wide, unsure which way to bolt. Fuck. Maybe this was a mistake.

His long, naked toes wriggle against the loop pile of his bedroom rug. I clear my throat and place a consoling palm in the middle of the kid’s back. “Look,” is all I say.

Then he lunges. His fingers encircle my skull; with hunger, he pulls my face to his and engulfs me in a kiss. His mouth tastes sweet, like bubble gum. Once he’s pulled me atop him, once he feels my weight pressing down upon his slender frame, he sighs happily as we kiss. His hands dive beneath my tee while his legs curl around my hips, locking me close.

All right then. Way to go, Gen Z.

We knock each other about to find comfortable positions on the narrow mattress. Piece by piece, our clothing arcs through the air and lands upon the mountain of sneakers on the floor. My beard abrades his skin, drawing satisfying gasps. His lips search for far-flung parts of my body while I poke and prod his soft flesh. “Please,” he breathes, when I clutch and squeeze one of his pert little buttocks. That breathing turns to rasps when I sit him squarely on my face.

I’m about to plunge inside him for the first time when he puts a hand on my chest to stop me. For a moment we remain still, captured in what must look like some advanced couples yoga posed with a name like The Wheelbarrow or The Farmer and His Plow. He looks up the slant of his body into my eyes, above him. “Let me say I love you, when you fuck me?” My lips part, surprised. “You don’t have to say it back,” he says in haste, afraid he’s gone too far. “I’m not gonna be a freak about it or anything. I won’t stalk you. I just…I just…”

My voice is level as I finish his sentence for him. “You just need to be able to say it to someone.”

He nods, almost ashamed I can read his mind. “Is it okay?” For answer, I keep my eyes upon his while I spit once more into my hand and rub it onto his already-slick hole. Then, slowly, gently, sweetly, I slide myself inside him, inch by inch. The kid’s lips part. His eyes become lidded once more. “I love you, dad,” he says in a tentative whisper, when I reach bottom.

“I didn’t hear you, son.”

He understands the permission I’m giving him. “I love you, sir.” Now his voice is louder, more confident. “I love you. I love you so much.”

I nod, understanding. It’s very okay. They’re words I need to hear.

This raggedy college kid couldn’t have chosen better. Not because I know how to lift those bony legs into the air and spread them wide as my eyes bore into his. Not because years of instinct tell me where to touch, where to kiss, the exact moment I need to reach down and brush the hair from his face, nor because I know when and how to speak, and when—as now—to stay silent. No, he’s selected well because this week, this trip, I am in need of kindness, no matter how cosmetic.

I have been so lonely, these last two weeks. I’m a bottomless well, echoing, dry, its stones on the verge of collapse. All my energy I’ve poured into hospital visits and doctor consultations and making certain my dad has what he needs, into getting his home ready for his eventual return. A couple of random one-time sexual encounters don’t balance the terrible desolation I feel, the unhappiness that keeps me awake at night.

It doesn’t help that all through this ordeal, from home to hospital to rehab, my father hasn’t once acknowledged all I’m doing. He takes my back-breaking efforts for granted. That alone is fine—he can, and should, assume I’ll be there when he needs. But fuck, would it ever be nice to hear a thank you from his lips. Thank you for helping me through this mess. Thank you for taking notes. Thank you for remembering and explaining my complex medical history to every new caregiver we encounter. Thank you for checking my wrinkly balls for yeast because I’m too shy to let a female nurse do it.

Loneliness has stretched me thin and made me unrecognizable, even to myself. An attractive boy saying he loves me during our most intimate moments is a temporary anodyne I welcome.

Day after day, lunch after lunch, he always smiles as I grow closer to letting loose inside him. His head on the pillow, his eyes looking up into mine. The sweat on our faces, stinging my eyes and gluing together our foreheads. He is so hungry as his legs pull me against him and his lips purse for more kisses. “I love you,” he tells me. I should say something in reply. I owe him that. Once I open my mouth, though, he shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t.”

“But you need to know…” I want to tell him how much it means, to feel a little less lonely. I want him to know how beautiful he is, and how much I enjoy our lunches together. I want to say…

“I know.” He prunes short my sentence with another kiss. “I wish it was real, though. I wish you didn’t have to go back home. I wish you could stay and…”

Whatever else he wishes I cut short with a thrust. His sweet-talk excites me. “Does this feel real?” I ask, jaw set.

He grunts from the impact. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“It is real.”

“Yeah.” Once again, he begins to smile. His eyes puddle with satisfaction “It’s the realest real.”

“Then enjoy it. Dad's orders.” I lean down to cover his mouth with my own.

We lock into a clinch that neither of us releases until I’ve emptied myself deep inside. Throughout, he whispers three words, over and over. They soothe me. They lull me into a post-coital drowsiness, into which we curl beneath his sheet, big and little spoon. My beard nuzzles his shoulder. “Just because something is temporary doesn’t mean it’s not real,” I whisper.

His ribcage rumbles, content. When he turns his head to look at me over his shoulder, his long hair flops into my face. “I love you, daddy,” he says, one final time, as he drifts into a brief nap. Soon, we both must return to our lives. For now, we have each other.

My fingers riffle through his long locks. Stroke his head. I pull him close. Dream on, I think with affection as I watch him slumber. Dream on, kid. Then I wrap my arms around his chest to protect him, as I lie awake before colossal shadows.

Room 208

February 2023

Since my arrival in Virginia, I’ve been averaging about five hours a night of slumber. I know because I wear my watch as a sleep tracker. Mornings, my ears ringing from birds screeching before the light of dawn, I’ll blearily look at the tally of my nighttime hours, then groan. I’m used to much more rest than this. Back home, it’s eight hours or I’m a grumpy boy.

When I visit Richmond for non-emergencies, I stay at a hotel rather than my dad’s. He doesn’t understand why I pay good money for a room than sleep for free at his house. A modicum of comfort is worth the cost, I tell him. Since I’m here indefinitely, though, the price of an extended hotel stay would be prohibitive. Plus after my dad comes home from the hospital—he’ll have to come home eventually, right?—I know he’d be more comfortable with me close at hand. So here I lie in my little sister’s old room, where the only clear space is occupied by my open suitcase on the floor—there’s no closet or drawers I can use, and no room for anything, anywhere else.

Part of my sleeping problem is the bed. It’s a twin mattress, half a century old; it was my birthday gift when I was eight. It might have suited my smaller self. Now, my feet hang off the bottom. It’s lumpy. Over the decades, the springs have collapsed. They now droop down on one side, so I have to bolster myself against the wall to avoid rolling onto the floor. Then there’s the room itself, five feet wide by eight feet long. It’s too hot at night, and too cold in the morning; the only twin blankets and sheets my father has are threadbare and older than I.

I’ve been spending my days at the hospital, arriving after breakfast and lingering until past dinner. By the time I get back to my dad’s, it’s dark and I have his cats to feed. His house is in bad shape, so I’ve been tackling bite-sized projects as I can. But exhausted as I am by day’s end, after I turn off the light and wedge myself into a fetal position on a mattress older than either the song “American Pie” or the TV show All in the Family, god help me, all I can do, long past midnight, is toss and turn. My lower back aches in ways handfuls of ibuprofen can’t mend. My eyes won’t close. I masturbate, hoping it might exhaust me, but beating the meat doesn’t do the trick.

Self-pity eventually wears me down, but it never lasts. I’m awake with the birds, bleary, unhappy, worn thin.

This can’t go on forever.

Today has been particularly grueling. Ever since he’s been admitted to the hospital, my dad has been unusually caustic with everyone within earshot, including myself. It’s a change from his usual, laid-back self; I’ve never known my father to say an unkind word to anyone, much less treat someone trying to do their job with contempt and disrespect. But today he’s been argumentative with the nursing and technical staff and even the doctors themselves.

It’s mostly the fault of the cardiologist who visited in the morning. After pronouncing my dad’s heart in good condition, the specialist declared he didn’t need to see any more of him. What the cardiologist meant was that my dad’s two strokes had contributing factors other than his heart. My father decided that I don’t need to see you again means he’s being released.

All day, when the hospital staff visit to perform more tests or to check his vitals, he demands to go home. When friends phone, he tells them he’s being discharged, above my protests. When the hospitalist—the doctor in charge of his case, who receives reports from specialists and makes any final decision—arrives around dinnertime and strongly recommends my dad enter a rehab facility for an unspecified period immediately after the hospital stay, my dad throws an actual tantrum. He screams at the top of his lungs that ‘his doctor’ said he would be discharged. He raves at length about ‘the comforts of home.’ At one point, he looks like he’s searching for something to throw.

After the hospitalist departs, I launch into action. I give my father a hissed, angry lecture about how he is never to speak to another member of the hospital staff in such a manner ever again. He’s behaving like a child. No, in fact, children behave much better than he. I remind him that I’ve been forsaking the comforts of my home in order to see him back to health, so the very least he can do is cooperate, participate in his own recovery, and listen more than he speaks.

I’m so angry that I’m sure sparks are flying from my skin. Once I’m done with my scold, I cool off in the lounge down the hallway, where I call my next-door neighbor back home. She’s a physical therapist who gives me a detailed list of all the ways rehab is more productive than any therapy my dad might do at home.

When I return, list in hand, calmer and ready to discuss with him the prospect of rehab, my father nastily accuses me of sneaking out of the room to conspire with the doctor—to send him away for good, he snaps.

I need a fucking break.

So I’ve rented a hotel room. Just for a night. Just so I can sleep on a mattress that’s not tilting like the Titanic, post-iceberg, or doesn’t feel as if it’s been stuffed with garden trowels. I don’t care that I’m going to be spending less than twelve hours there. I need to sleep. No, I need a good night’s sleep, on a real bed, between sheets with a thread count higher than twenty-five. I want a thermostat that I can control, set at a temperature I choose. I want a room that’s dark and hermetically sealed against the sound of squawking birds at four-thirty in the morning. Going a little out of pocket for a night’s comfort is an indulgence I’ll allow myself. I deserve it.

When I check in, the imperious, effeminate clerk looks at my out-of-state license, then gives my rumpled clothing the once-over before inquiring, in a vaguely Teutonic accent, “Long drive?” It’s a shady comment, as the hotel is only ten minutes from the hospital, but I smile blandly and accept the twin room cards he passes over. To the elevator I stumble, then up to my third-floor room. Inside, in the living room portion of the suite, the TV immediately blinks on. A message welcomes me by name and hopes I enjoy my stay, triggered by either the door or the first-time presence of my room key nearby. I fumble for the remote and switch it off, toss my knapsack onto the sofa, and drag my weary feet to the king-sized bed in the room beyond.

Oh god. This bed is perfect. It’s clean. It’s flat. The pillows aren’t the thickness of pancakes. I fall back onto it with my arms outstretched, breathing a sigh of relief. The room itself smells like nothing. Not like the litter box for my dad’s cats, which for some reason sits directly outside the door of my sister’s bedroom. Not the staleness of a house sealed against outside air like an ancient pharaoh’s tomb. Just simple, air-conditioned neutrality, with only a phantom of disinfectant haunting the darkened bathroom. I arch my back and stretch, eyes closed, blissful, happy for the little luxuries of corporate impersonality.

Then I flick on my phone and open Grindr. Out of curiosity, I tell myself. Despite my weariness, though, I feel something stirring within. Seeking a hookup hadn’t been on my agenda for tonight—but I am what I am, and tonight I have a clean hotel room all to myself. There’s no harm in looking. I’m not surprised, when I check out the app’s grid, to see the desk clerk from downstairs staring back at me. I’d been pretty sure I’d clocked him, checking in. However, his profile very prominently proclaims, NO MEN OVER 40 EVER!! To which I roll my eyes, as that clerk will be hitting forty himself in a couple of years, and that kind of sexual karma has a way of hitting hard. More of immediate interest is the fellow to the left, only 15 feet away. The photo is of a torso, dark and blurry. I’m a little surprised when my phone vibrates and a number appears in the profile’s corner. He’s messaging me.

Looks like you’re real close, he says. You at the Fairfield?

Sure am, I reply.

Looking for…?

I think. I hadn’t really been looking at all. Honestly, though, would I still be looking at this screen, pondering how to reply, if I weren’t interested? But ugh. I’m so tired. Mentally, I’m wiped. Do I really have the sexual wherewithal to spare for a random stranger? What is it I want, here?

I take a moment, then decide to be candid. My thumbs busily type back, I need to suck some cock. I want someone who needs his dick serviced for as long as it takes. I want to be fed. That’s exactly all I’m fit for, this evening. I don’t want to have to plan some elaborate scenario for a guy who needs me to be his daddy, or his controlling but understanding top man. I don’t have the perception or patience to navigate the tricky stepping stones across a river of consensual non-consent.

I just want to suck. I want a cock in my face and saliva enough to keep it wet and happy. I want a job to do, and a hard dick ready to make me go through with it. I don’t care what the guy looks like, or what he’s packing. My hands tremble as I wait for the guy’s reply.

Now? He asks.

Now, I say.

Again, I have to wait for a reply. Finally it comes. Room 208.

I don’t need more invitation than that. I bound up, spry and alert, as if I’ve already had that fantastic night’s sleep. All my aches and pains evaporate. I shove my room key into my shorts pocket, give my pits a quick sniff—they’ll do—and sprint out the door, down the hall, and to the elevator. Once I’m outside the stranger’s room, I check Grindr to ensure he hasn’t changed his mind. Then I knock.

When the door opens, I’m a little taken aback to face a good-looking Black man wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. He’s neither tall nor young; I’d guess him to be in his late thirties and barely five-foot-five. I stare at the bare torso that had been dark and blurry in his Grindr photo—well, at least now I understand why it had been so dark. However, I’m baffled why he’s settling for a shot that more resembles a blurry smudge than the lean and sexy man before me. He’s holding his left arm akimbo; I instantly spy a wedding ring glinting above his hip. His right arm is raised high to hold the door open, giving me a moment to blink at his surprisingly hairy armpit, the inky, tight coils that cover his chest, then finally the light beard on his face. His dome is completely shaved.

He’s checking me out as well, looking me up and down, not missing the obvious protrusion beneath the cotton fleece of my shorts. After a moment he grins, drops his arm, and steps aside. “Come on in.”

His room is identical to mine, though in the sitting area, his TV softly plays a repeat of a sitcom I don’t watch. We’re not here for television, though; he leads me to the bed at the suite’s far end. Bedside, he makes a leap into the air, sleek as any cat, to land on the mattress with a bounce on his butt. His lean legs open.

I seize one of his bare feet as I move between them onto the mattress. My other fingers dance up his thigh; before I can lay claim to my prize, though, he takes my right hand between both of his, then presses the palm to his abdomen. Without a word, he slides it upward, toward one of his broad and flat nipples. I squeeze it gently, then harder, judging his reaction by the satisfied slits of his lids. He nods as I move close; when my lips meet the raised circle, darker even than the skin surrounding it, a sigh escapes his lips.

While I gnaw gently at his nipple, I can feel him lifting his hips to lower his sweats. He cups my head to keep my mouth attached to his tit, but his other hand wraps my fingers around his hard cock. It’s firecracker hot to the touch. His clutch tightens around mine, showing me how firmly to squeeze.

I keep up the pressure while he disattatches me from his nipple. Hands on either side of my face, he looks me in the eye. “You a good cocksucker?” His voice is little more than an animal’s growl.

“Yes, sir.” The ferocity of his stare is everything to me. Those dark pools of carnality hypnotize me. My only immediate concern, in this moment, is a need to please the naked stranger. To prove to him that I’m worthy of the pulsing inches in my grasp.

“You want this?”

It’s a rhetorical question. We both know it. I swallow hard to clear my throat, so anxious I am to speak. “Yeah. I want that dick. Please.”

Still he holds my skull between his palms while his eyes bore into mine. “Suck it.” He spits the syllables at me like buckshot. “Suck it good.”

There’s a moment’s mad scramble as he kicks off the sweats from around his ankles and I, still holding onto his meat, press my chest into the mattress between his legs. This is my one chance really to examine what his piece looks like: I study what’s about to occupy my attention for the next few minutes. To memory I commit the image of that thick five and a half inches and the heavy, shaved balls hanging below them. I admire the dark sheath, smooth at the base and wrinkled where he’s pulled back the foreskin. The pinker, tapering head that’s smaller around than the shaft. I don’t care that his dick isn’t as big as my own. Screw that. It belongs to this good-looking stranger, and I’ve volunteered to satisfy. That dick could be a mere three inches and ugly as sin, and I’d still worship it like the prize-winning fuckstick it deserves to be.

His legs spread as I dive down. He’s groaning the moment he feels my hot breath on his balls. I feel warmth both on the back of my head and circling my neck; his hands are pressing me onto that thick, pulsing saber until my lips hit the base. “Fuck yeah,” he says, as I buckle and suppress my gag reflex. “That’s what I need.”

I grunt, eyes watering, as he drives himself deep into my throat. With that kind of determination to penetrate my gullet, it’s a good thing he’s not super long, and even better that his head is smaller in diameter than the rest. It tickles my tonsils as the column of flesh beyond attempts to force open my gorge. His hands push me more deeply onto his concrete firmness and hold me there as he grinds and thrusts.

When at long last he releases his grip and allows me to come up for air, I gasp and open my eyes, staring up at him through my tears with blind adoration. I feel his fingers run through my beard, against the grain, messing it up before he smooths it down again. “Suck that dick,” he orders.

My eyes close once more and I go to work. My thumb and forefinger angle the fat tool to match the trajectory of my lips as they glide back and forth along his length, lingering at both the tip and the base. The rest of my fingers cradle the man’s fat nuts and stroke the smooth skin. I’m glad I memorized the fat cock before I set to work; I can relax and let my mouth and tongue flick and linger over spots I hope he enjoys: the valley between his balls where sac meets shaft, the crevice from which leaks a constant supply of his precum, the tender spots covered by foreskin.

He doles out my reward—all the reward I need—in grunts and groans. Every time he lets out some new feral whimper of pleasure, my own cock hardens. I grind myself against the bed’s corner, feeling my shorts grow even more damp as I self-lubricate. It’s his pleasure that’s my priority. Not my own. I revel in his gasps, in the rumblings deep in his chest, at the air whistling through his nostrils when I do something he particularly likes. My jaw is sore and I’ve lost all sense of time—all consciousness of anything beyond the inches pistoning my stretched lips and aching throat. But this is what I wanted. I’m happy to lose myself in the bliss of service.

It’s a shock when, after how long I don’t know, his palms pry me from his fat dick and pivot my focus to his face. Into my eyes he stares, his pupils flared to their widest. “Sexy white daddy,” he whispers. I don’t know how sexy I can look, in that moment, mesmerized by his tool as I am, slobber all over my beard, lips puffy and wanting more. “Sexy white daddy, suckin’ my dick. You like it?”

“I love it.” I reply without hesitation. Pride and desire battle for precedence in my scratchy voice. “I love your big dick, sir.”

“Damn right you do.” I wish he would let me get back to my work, but he continues searching my eyes. For what, I don’t know. Then, without warning, he pulls me to him and covers my lips with his own. The kiss is shocking in its passion; I haven’t been kissed like this in far too long. His tongue invades my mouth as if he’s trying to root out my very soul; his arms hold me close to his chest as his palm cups the back of my skull. I’m helpless as he turns us over and introduces my back to the mattress. Still he kisses me, his cock driving into my stomach as his hands tug at my waistband. When the kiss ends, I open my lids to see him staring at me again. He rubs his nose against mine. “You’re a pretty man.”

Before I can thank him for the compliment, he’s sat up to complete the job he started. The man rips off my shorts. My phone flops out of my pocket, but he picks it up from the hotel carpet, folds my shorn clothing, and places both it and the device atop the desk at the bed’s foot.

“Shit,” he says, moving back to stand by the bed. “You a big boy.” He seems surprised that I surpass him in the cock department; I’m definitely surprised when he lifts a foot to press against me. The heel connects to my dick’s base, while the sole digs against my shaft. His long toes wriggle against my head, eliciting a snarl of pleasure. “You like that, huh.” I can only nod. He rewards me with another firm shove of his foot against my meat, then stands upright and strides around.

I’m horizontal across the mattress, at this point. From next to the air conditioning unit, he grabs my arms and drags me until my shoulders lie at the bedding’s sharp edge. My head dangles over the edge. I see his plan, now; after he points his hard dick down, my mouth is ready for the re-entry of his cock down my throat. He begins slowly, at first, elbows raised and out and his fingers interlaced at the back of his neck. Then he picks up the pace, leans down and braces himself against the bed to give himself more traction. I aid my own violation by grabbing his ass from below and pulling him into me. I want to be used like this. Use is my purpose, tonight.

He fucks my mouth like pussy, sometimes with such force that I feel sure my chin might bruise. The violence is worth it. All I care about is providing the wettest, softest, most accepting hole for his beautiful uncut dick. I’m sprawled across this stranger’s bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and sneakers, my dick straining to the ceiling and leaking on my belly, but I don’t give a damn about what it might want in the moment. I can and will take care of myself later. My eyes water so freely that I have to keep my eyes clamped shut out of fear my contacts might float away. Saliva spills from the corners of my lips and runs up my face. My mustache keeps some of it from entering my nostrils, but not all. I scarcely notice my own discomfort, though. So long as the man keeps ramrodding my throat, using my mouth—so long as he’s relishing the sensation of my tongue sliding and clinging to the top side of his beautiful, magical tool—I’ll lie there and provide this man the pleasure he needs.

The pleasure he deserves.

I can tell he’s close when he changes position. Instead of balancing himself on the mattress with his palms, he grabs the sides of my skull to hold it still while plunging in and out. It’s enough to make me choke, but I defer my distress. Now’s not the time to distract him. He plugs my throat once. Twice. A third time. Than a few rabbit-like thrusts. His palms cover my ears, muffling his stream of curses, but I both hear and feel his body-rumbling groan as he unleashes glob after glob of semen into my throat. It burns when he withdraws, slowly, leaving a trail of his cock slime on the roof of my mouth. I get a brief taste of its strong, brackish saltiness before my throat begins to react from the abuse it’s endured these last several minutes. Much as I try to subdue my choking, he’s left the passage raw. I keep it as quiet as possible, but I need a moment to recuperate.

I try to wave him away, but he’s solicitous in his response. Though I’m taller and bigger by far, I find myself scooped up in his arms, then a pillow thrust beneath my head. He curls himself to become my big spoon and pulls me closer. That beautiful dick, now soft and still wet from my mouth, presses against the base of my spine. Soft lips pepper kisses on my neck; one arm holds me tightly while the other squeezes my dick to see if it’s still hard—it is—before roaming over my chest and belly. “That was so gooooood,” he whispers in my ear. “Thank you, baby.”

I sigh and smile, content. His tenderness is an unexpected bonus and I feel selfish for accepting it, but for a while, he shows no signs of stopping. I shiver as his hand travels from hip to shoulder, from beard to nipples, from the mountains of my buttocks to the bristly forest of my head. He hums with contentment as he grinds into me. It doesn’t take long, though, for his motions to slow, then cease altogether. His grip slackens. His breathing becomes slower.

The stranger has fallen asleep.

The only sounds in his dark room are the hum of the air conditioner and the quiet canned laughter on the TV in the other room. It’s with reluctance that I disentangle myself from his grasp. I’m not needed any longer. Across the mattress I slide, careful not to wake the man with any sudden or loud movements. I tug my shorts over my sneakers and shove my phone back into my pocket. With a last glance back at the sleeper, I pad quietly from room 208 with my hands plunged deep in my pockets to conceal the erection that’s been plaguing me for the last—whoa—hour.

Not until I’m back in my own room upstairs do I unleash the beast and pleasure myself. From time to time I’ll wrinkle my lips upward to take deep whiffs of the man’s scent from my mustache; the musk of him is as potent as any poppers. My orgasm, when it arrives, wracks my body and leaves it feeling spent. Covered with sweat and juices, only some of which is my own, I lie in the cool air and allow my lids to sink.

Now, finally, I can sleep.

Poison Pen

It’s one of those ugly blots on a Monday morning, waking up to find hate comments on my blog. Everything readers submit gets shunted into a folder to await my review. Most I can approve immediately. The obvious spam, I flag and delete. Then there are those special, occasional missives that fall into their own special category: nuggets of poison intended to put me in my place. They’re dispatches straight from the black center of the sender's personal misery, lobbed in my direction, the correspondent's self-loathing barely camouflaged.

I know you and everyone else think you’re hot shit (LOL), reads this one. I haven’t even had my breakfast yet, and already my stomach hurts. But you’re nothing but a fucking old creeper that chases after young tail so you can shove that nasty probably diseased senior citizen dick up inside it as fast as you can. It’s fucking pathetic and sure I bet some of the ugly boys are desperate enough to give in to you chasing them constantly but the rest of them know how disgusting you really are. Act your age already and give it up, creeper!!

I don’t recommend it as a start to your productive day.

But it’s not enough to deter me from meeting someone new, that afternoon. In fact, maybe it's the reason I give in. All I know is that several hours later, I'm nudging my dick’s knob against the puckering indentation of a boy a third my age, who's just moved into his dorm room. The long fingers of my one hand clasp both his ankles and pull his upstretched legs slightly to one side. They’re skinny, those legs, and covered with a thick dark fur utterly absent from the rest of his skinny body, save for perhaps a fringe on the perimeter of his hole, where I’m rubbing the ooze of my precum. Little monkey legs, I think, every time I notice how hairy they are. Mine were that furry in my teens, before years of office attire socks abraded them smooth.

The boy is craning his neck to look at what’s happening down below. His own cock is smallish, but thick. It points at an angle to his mini-fridge, where rests his phone and a pair of over-the-ear headphones. The phone has been lighting up and vibrating this last half-hour as friends message him, but he hasn’t once been tempted to check the incoming texts. “You’re so fucking big, sir,” he whispers.

I look him in the eyes, and nod. “That’s what you want, though.” He’s a good-looking kid. In a couple of years, when the angles of his face find themselves and take shape, he’ll be outright handsome. For now, he’s a slender little snack with a thick head of curly dark hair he must constantly brush from his face, a dandelion pouf of waves that, when stuffed beneath a baseball cap, make him look like a skateboarder or a wanna-be surfer. There's a row of those baseball caps on his dorm desk. Though there are two beds and two desks in the little room, only my boy's side of the room is so far occupied. “Correct? You want dad’s big dick.”

“Yes sir.” He nods, then bites his lip. “I want it real bad. But it’s so big.”

I release his ankles and let his trembling stems plant themselves bad onto the mattress. “How about you let me chew a little more at that hole, then,” I suggest. His dick leaps at the suggestion. I don’t miss the cue. “You liked the feel of my beard against it, didn’t you?”

He’s all eagerness, as if I’ve suggested a trip to Dairy Queen for his favorite flavor Blizzard. “Can I sit on your face this time?”

“You may.”

His suggestion is no hardship. The confines of his dormitory twin bed aren’t easy to navigate, but with some squeaking of the box springs we manage to switch positions. I now lie on my back. His pillow cups my head; his hairless testicles drape themselves on either side of my nose as he settles himself down. My tongue darts up into his smooth crack as his pearly cheeks separate; his little monkey legs dig themselves beneath my shoulders. I can taste my own essence, still fresh on his tight little butt. At last he lowers himself to perch on my jaw, leaving no distance between his hole and my hungry lips.

The boy loves when I scrape my teeth over the tender flesh, never biting, but scouring. He clutches the headboard as if for dear life as he begins to buck and grind his hips. I’m happy to help, seizing his stiff little dick like a handle, and with my face pushing back against his gyrations as hard as I can. He begins to curse aloud; one obscenity is barely distinguishable from the next as they stream from his pouty little lips. My free hand helps to separate his cheeks, so I can gnaw at the prize blossoming and winking from between them. If I wanted to protest at the savaging of my mouth by his hole, I couldn’t; I’m nearly smothered by the spread of his buttocks, by the canopy of his sac, the insistent pressure of his need.

But I don’t protest. I just want this boy to have the time of his life.

After a few minutes, he wrangles himself into a more daring contortion. His hands still cling onto the top of his wooden headboard. He's barely unpacked, but he's already hung posters for video game shooters on the wall above. He unhooks his feet from beneath me, though, and plants them flat onto the board, so that it supports his entire weight. It’s not something I’d allow him to do on my own bed, skinny as he might be. Somehow the laminated wood manages to support his weight without falling apart or separating itself from the bed frame. The athletic position make him look even more like a monkey clinging to a tree trunk, but it gives him the freedom to slam his greedy hole onto my mouth with even more force, his cheeks even more widely open than before. His hair hangs heavily from his dropped head. His groans become feral.

He can do this as long as he needs. I fucking love it. I’m no hurry, despite what my poison pen correspondent of the morning suggests, to get my dick inside the kid. Don’t get my wrong. My dick wants in. It’s so aroused by the boy’s assault that it points to the ceiling, dripping sticky threads that descend, slower than a drip of molasses, to my stomach. This kid can use my face as long as he cares to, or until my jaw erodes from the repeated onslaught, whichever comes first.

The end comes both too soon and not quickly enough. With care, he detaches himself from the headboard and, with wobbly legs, straddles my body. “Let me sit on it,” he suggests. “Do you like that?”

I like that very much. I spit on my fingers and add to the slickness of my dick. He sets one furry knee to my ribcage, then the other. On impulse, he leans down to kiss me, while his fist rapidly churns around his cock. He’s breathing heavily; his eyes gaze into mine with unadulterated desire. “You sure you’re ready, son?”

I already know the answer. He nods with vigor, closing his eyes when my fingers deliver another load of spit onto his hole. “I need that big dick in me, sir. I need it so bad.” He shifts his weight, calculating the angle at which he’ll attack his goal. “I need it so bad,” he repeats, whispering this time. Thick hair falls around his face as he settles back. “Fuck!” He winces as my cock pushes in.

“Go slow,” I tell him.

But he has other ideas. Grunting, he takes the girth in three swift stages—the head, the midsection, then a quick slam all the way down to the base. I feel the walls of his ass clench down on my inches as they seize up, after the invasion. He relaxes once he realizes there’s no more to swallow. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck,” he curses. “You’re so big.”

“And you love it,” I say. I’m giving him permission to love the hurt.

He nods, panting. “I love it. Fuck. You are so hot. Thank you.”

This is what my poison pen fails to understand about me: I don’t think I’m hot shit. I know exactly what I am: a man traveling through his sixth decade, a man of modest attractions who’s never once advertised himself as hot or VGL, who doesn’t spend his free time in the gym, who has a belly. I’ve never been a man who chases after young tail. Young tail chases me. This boy with the thick mop of hair and the tight little hole recognized me as his prize and went after me relentlessly—not the other way around. 

I’ve never hounded after anyone, especially young guys. My entire sexual career has been based upon letting others see me as I am, allowing them to make me their choice...and then rewarding them for their good taste.

Never in my life have I had to rely upon the charity of the sexually desperate. I’m no Adonis, but that's never a prerequisite for a good and giving lover. What I lack isn’t enough to stop me from making love like a sex god. I haven’t allowed the doubts of my decades to convince me I’m undeserving of pleasure, or that I shouldn’t share a student twin bed with a beautiful young man. One poison pen comment isn't going to change my convictions. I know exactly what I am: a diviner of the erotic who, with every whispered query, with every touch and gesture, dowses to find the hidden reservoir of another man’s sexual energies beneath the surface, ready to tap into the wellspring.

This boy bobbing atop my dowsing rod—this kid could have any stud he wanted. He’s chosen me. I might not be hot shit, but right now, today, for him, the look in his eyes tells me I’m the shit he needs more badly than anyone else in the world. I’m the shit his world revolves around, this very moment. I’m the shit that makes him pant and sweat and shudder. I don’t intend to let him down.

“You feel amazing.” My words of encouragement open his brown eyes. The moment’s lust has dilated his pupils. “You are so incredibly handsome, son.”

When my hand strokes his cheek, he leans into it like a young feline bunting his territory. “Not like you,” he tells me, planting his palms onto my chest. “Nothing like you.”

Now he’s found his center of gravity. I grunt wordlessly as he begins to buck on my hard cock. He settles on a motion I find irresistible, his hips sliding in a horizontal plane back and forth, causing my prick to swell as rapidly it slides in and out of his chute. He can tell I’m enjoying it. With a sadist’s zest, he ups the intensity of his attack. I’m the victim of his sweet friction, helpless to resist as he cruelly savages me with his rectum. My ramping excitement is a mere byproduct—it means nothing to him. He’s doing this for his pleasure, for his hole, for the sensations he can wring from every curve and vein and ridge in my cock. I can tell by his closed eyes and the expression of intent concentration on his face that he’s lost in his own raptures. “I’m going to shoot if you keep doing that, son,” I warn.

His lids open; his eyes focus once again. Staring at me from above, his jaw juts to the side with mockery. He grins. And he keeps on doing what he’s doing—and doing it even more vigorously.

The kid is toying with me by the time I approach orgasm, arching and thrusting to get me close, then halting to frustrate me. I recognize the fiendish pleasure he’s taking in bringing me to the edge. All it takes to thwart him is to grab his hips and thrust mine upward, deep into the warmth of his insides. We grin at each other as I take my turn to punish his tight hole. When he leans down, my open mouth engulfs his lips in a kiss. I stab inside him with a final brutal thrust that takes me over the edge.

“Is that your cum?” His lips are a mere inch from mine. He seems astonished as my dick swells and throbs, as deep as it can reach. “Fuck. I can actually feel your cum!” He reaches behind to make sure he’s got as much of me as he can take. “Oh, fuck!”

I don’t get much warning as he unknots me from his hole. My still-shooting dick falls onto my belly with a wet smack and a last gush of seed. He scoops it up with his fingers, collects more from his gaping ass, and slaps it onto his own cock. Then, with my assistance, back he sits on my dick and sinks to the bottom. Balanced on the flats of his feet and using my erection as his seat, he spreads the mixture of spit and cum over his own cock and balls.

He comes quickly, shooting as far as my nipples. I enjoy watching him thrash and quake while electricity sets his every nerve ajangle. I’m surprised, though, by how silent he remains as it happens. His lips work, as if praying; his breath intensifies, his chest heaves. But all I hear as he gushes his load over my stomach is the slightest of sighs. He’s in the habit of hiding his climaxes at home, I realize, and hasn’t shed it yet in his new digs.

I want to remember this moment forever. His pale skin, and the little pink nipples that have contracted to miniature pencil erasers. The awning of his hair above me. The traces of stickiness he leaves in it, while pushing it away from his face with cum-covered fingers. He way he rubs his nose with the back of his wrist, as he comes back to himself after his orgasm. The alarm in his eyes when I stir. “Don’t go,” he begs, pressing down on my chest.

“You want me to stay?”

For answer he lifts himself up. On the mattress’ cramped confines, he becomes little spoon to my big. His freshly-used ass presses insistently against the erection that’s only just beginning to fade. “Stay and fuck me again,” he whispers, happy for the moment to be in my embrace, but far from sated.

To this kid, I'm hot shit. That's all I need, for now.

Pool Boy

I’m horny and I’m angry. I don’t like it.

I’m horny enough that my dick’s had a mind of its own all morning. It’s the last full day of my visit with my father, and offers on Grindr and Scruff have been flooding in. I’ve put off all the men by explaining I’ve got some chores to do before I’m free. Then, while I pound nails into the fallen trim on my dad's screened porch, I fantasize about which little twink or otter I’ll be pounding later in the afternoon. While I’m insulating some of the pipes in his basement, my own pipe is tenting my shorts, ready to spurt.

I don’t know what it is that’s making me so crazy. I’ve had two nights of a stranger rimming me relentlessly in my hotel room, followed by an afternoon plowing one of the hottest muscle twinks I’ve ever had. Perhaps the novelty of being the new meat in town is going straight to my littler head. When I order lunch through a sandwich shop app and drive out to pick it up, I’m basically violating with my eyes, over my mask, the cute guy behind the counter; he responds with a smile of regret that lets me know he registers and even welcomes my notice. His shift probably isn’t over for hours, though. When I pump gas for the trip back home tomorrow morning, the mere action of shoving the nozzle into the gas tank evokes in my gut a grunt that’s purely sexual.

By mid-afternoon I’m back at my hotel room. I’ve told my dad I’m taking the rest of the day for myself, and that I’ll stop off in the morning before I make the seven-hour drive home. After a quick shower, I flop onto the hotel mattress with my phone, ready to hook up. I’ve already made my choice. For a couple of years now, I’ve always wanted to get together with this guy who lives in the Fan. We’d originally talked on BBRT on one of my previous trips, and I dig his looks—mid-thirties, lean, long wavy hair, big soulful eyes. I have a couple of types that get my immediate attention, and this dude nestles snugly into one of them.

On this trip, he’s hit me up on Sniffies, so that’s the site I use to shoot him a message. I’m in my hotel room for a couple of hours. Want to come by?

I only have to wait a couple of minutes for his reply. I sure do. I’m showered and free now if you want me to come.

I want you to come, I tell him.

He asks for the address. I send it. Leaving now. I’ll be there in 15, he assures. Can’t wait.

Mission accomplished. My dick is raging already. When I review photos of the guy’s firm little ass, I lick my chops over how it points unflinchingly at the camera, ready to be impaled. The Virginia afternoon is hot as fuck, so I’ve turned up the rattly old air conditioning unit to fill the room with its chilly blast. Meanwhile, as a few more offers trickle in on the apps, I send some polite regrets. Sorry. I’m meeting someone in a few. Maybe later?

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Twenty-five. For long minutes I anticipate a nervous knock at the door. My dick has wilted some time ago. I try to tamp down my disappointment. The interstate could be busy. There might’ve been an accident. So I attempt patience, and wait some more.

After forty-five minutes, the horniness hasn’t abated, but the anger has kicked in. I’m being stood up. Every time I look at Sniffies, there’s a little blue dot on the dude’s profile to show me he’s online, but his location hasn’t changed at all. Onscreen he’s an inch away to the right—which means in real life, he’s a mile away in the Fan, not moving any closer.

Motherfucker.

When I fire up other apps, I’m annoyed to see that he’s checked me out on them since we made our assignation. In fact, I can construct an entire timeline of what’s happened since I gave him the hotel’s address. Fifteen minutes passed, then he visited my profile on BBRT at roughly the time he told me he’d be knocking on my door. Ten minutes after that, his Grindr profile looked at mine. Then, ‘just now,’ he’s looked at me on Scruff.

What kind of fuckery is this?

An hour and a half has passed since he told me he couldn’t wait. I send the guy a message on Sniffies, since that’s where we made the date. Okay. I get the message that you’re not coming over. A pity, since I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.

As I expect, I get no reply. I’m horny, I’m furious, and I don’t like it. But I know sitting in my hotel room, stabbing at the screen with my index finger trying to find a quick replacement, will prove a recipe for regret. So I recalibrate.

My favorite barbecue joint is across town from where I’m staying. It’s worth the drive just to clear my head. My dad has accompanied me to barbecue spots across the city, but none of the chains he prefers compare, I think, to this locally-owned spot where I can order hush puppies and a side of corn pudding to accompany the generous helping of pulled pork the chef has slapped onto a rectangle of kraft paper on my tray. As I devour the spread, I flip between various apps on my phone—browsing the news headlines, looking at the subreddits I follow, and checking out the local grid on Grindr.

I’ve nearly spooned out the last of the corn pudding when I get a message on the latter. Hi Sir. It’s from a profile with no photo and very little information—a 23-year-old who’s less than a mile away, is all I know. I rarely respond to profiles that are blank or close to it. Just as I’m about to close the app, though, the kid sends a few more photos. The first is of him reclining on his bed, head tilted on his pillow. He wears a t-shirt of primary red; his hand rests just out of the camera’s view, between his legs. A good-looking kid. Clean cut. Well groomed. Whether from his natural, fair-skinned coloration or an acute case of sunburn, his nose is a bright red. The photo has a caption. Rudolph, it says.

All right. I like a little bit of self-deprecating humor.

The remaining pics are less boy-next-door than they are hungry-hole-down-the-street. There’s a shot of him bent over a bare mattress, knees spread wide and white ass in the air, taking a spit-slick Black cock. Then there’s a blurry shot of him on his knees, eyes unfocused and glazed, mouth agape, beneath a stubby dick that’s already left a spurt of jizz across his forehead. Finally, there’s a shot he’s managed to take of himself on his bed again. This one is both blurry and dark; he’s got his legs in the air and fingers probing a pink little hole.

Hey, I think this trio of photos deserves as reply. Nice pics, son.

I bet you have a big cock, Sir. I can’t help it: my dick twitches at this form of address. In lieu of a written reply, I send him a shot of my meat hanging between my legs, thick and engorged. Fuck yeah. I knew it, dad. Are you looking?

To myself I think: why not? I’m done with dinner. I’d left the hotel feeling nettled, in order to avoid fruitless hours of hunting for—and not finding—sex. And see? Here’s a pretty boy, throwing himself in my lap.

Yeah, I reply. I’m looking.

Already I’m thinking of the kid as Rudolph, though I know it was a joke and unlikely to be his name. My car’s in the shop, he tells me. Can you come get me?

You know someplace we can go? I could easily take Rudolph back to my hotel, but it’s a little bit of a haul by Richmond standards. Part of me, I admit, intends the question to see how serious this kid is. On my last pre-pandemic trip down here, I’d wasted an entire evening on some asshole without a car who’d expected to treat me like his personal Uber driver while he ran errands. When the kid responds in the affirmative, I have only one more question. How soon can you be ready? Because if it’s going to be an hour or more, I’m going to have to pass.

Now. Come get me, Sir. I want you inside me.

Now is good. I like now.

Ten minutes later and I’m pulling up to the address he’s given me—a squat Henrico bungalow boasting a rusted carport at the driveway’s end. I’ve scarcely pulled up in front than Rudolph flies out the side door. He’s shorter and smaller than I expected—no more than five-five or so—but his legs propel him down the driveway and into my front seat. Once the passenger door shuts, he points down the county road ahead. “Go straight. I’ll tell you where to turn,” is his greeting.

He sounds like he’s escaping from something. Probably still lives at home, I think to myself. I say nothing and pull away from the curb in the direction he’s indicated. It’s not until we’re away from the house and at a stop sign that I feel his hand on my leg. His fingers probe at my crotch. When I divert my attention from the road, he’s looking at me with liquid eyes, full of desire. “You’re hot, Sir.”

Under his fingers, my dick balloons. The kid’s pics hadn’t done him justice. There’s a redness to his face that I see often in the local men here, but only the very tip of his bulbous nose carries a touch of sunburn. He’s small for a twenty-three-year-old; I could almost carry him around by the scruff of the neck without much exertion. Cute. Definitely into me, from the way he keeps drinking me in. The boy exudes a puppy dog urgency as he paws at my parts and runs a hand over my chest. It’s all I can do to keep from swerving.

Eventually we reach his destination. Out here in the county, where the little ranch houses hold each other at arm’s distance, there are still stretches of undeveloped plots. At Rudolph’s prompting, I turn onto one of them, along a twisting gravel road that leads through thickets of wild saplings. Hidden beyond is a fenced-in property, overgrown with waist-high weeds. Its dirt parking lot, which could easily hold twenty or more cars, is almost completely invisible from the road. “Come on,” he tells me, letting his smooth little hands slide from mine once I turn off the ignition. “Nobody comes here.”

I swing my legs onto the dirt and click the remote to lock my car doors. The place must once have been a neighborhood pool; through the broken privacy slats in the chain link fence I can spy a rough slab of patio around a kidney-shaped outline. The pool itself has been filled with concrete long before, to prevent both liability and mosquitos. It’s eerily quiet back here. If anyone were to walk or drive down the only road in, we’d be sure to hear the crunch of gravel well in advance. I approve.

“Over here.” The kid beckons me to a large shed around one side of the property. Beyond the high grasses, there’s a padlocked chain, much distressed, linking the door’s handles. The kid retrieves an artificial rock stashed among several real stones in the weeds nearby, though, and flips it over to reveal a hidden compartment. He slides open a little door to produce a key. A few moments later and we're in the shed’s interior.

There’s not much in here. A few old empty plastic tubs that used to hold pool chemicals, but that’s not the smell that’s making my nose twitch. A pair of long-handled nets, neither of which retains any webbing. A stack of cardboard boxes lurks in a corner, slumping from gravity and damp. Two webbed folding recliners occupy most of the room’s length, set side by side. Rudolph positions me between them and pulls down on my neck. He stands on tiptoe so that my mouth can completely engulf his own.

We’re a contrast in sizes, he and I. I’m reminded of those porn sites that pair pint-sized boys with much bigger, older men. He seems to love the contrast, too. When I try to stand straight after our first, deep kiss, he jumps up and into my arms. When I catch him—barely, surprised—he wraps his legs around me. We kiss again. His mouth is hungry, wet and deep.

I can’t hold him off the ground indefinitely, so I try to let him down as gracefully as possible. “You’re so hot,” he says, reaching for my beard. “Do you like me?”

I remember the insecurity of that age. “You’re a sexy boy.” I look around the deserted shed. “You’ve brought men here before?” My question abashes him, I can tell. “You can say.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flicker from mine to the floor.

“Yes, Sir,” I correct.

“Yes, Sir.”

“So you just…pick up strange men online and lure them there, huh.” He’s wearing a pair of denim shorts faded almost to white, save at the seams, and a loose-hanging shirt made of something approximating linen. While I talk, I begin running my fingers up its placket, loosening the fastenings one by one. At some point, perhaps in his haste to escape his house, he’d mismatched the buttons to their holes. It gives him a lopsided look.

I watch as he licks his lips. “Yes, Sir. Is that bad?”

I neither nod, nor shake my head, reserving judgment. My hands move up, knuckles grazing his smooth stomach. “So you bring them out here. Where anything could happen.” His heart thuds so strongly that each beat stirs hairs on the back of my hand. He nods. “Yes, Sir,” I prompt again.

“Yes, Sir.”

The size difference between us is making my cock rigid. It demands to be shoved in the young man’s holes, but for now I keep it from asserting itself. The exertion of willpower hones my voice to a steel-hard edge. “You’ve been doing this a long time, I bet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I’m at the last button. My fingers tweak it loose, so that the fabric falls to reveal his skin, opalescent in the indirect light. I turn him around and relieve him of the garment, then spin him once more so he faces me, gently as a father might get his kid ready for bed. “How long?”

“A long time.” His response is breathy, excited.

“Months?” He nods. “Years?” There’s a hesitation, but at last he nods. “I figured. A boy like you can’t do without cock, right?”

“Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir.” He barely aspirates the confession.

I unbutton his shorts. Slowly, deliberately, I pull down their zipper. The boy has a tiny waist. My long fingers might be able to encircle him if I tried, it almost seems. I turn him around again and draw him close, allowing myself to run my fingers over his skin before hooking my thumbs under the waistbands of both the denim and his shorts. “Then you bring them to this godforsaken place and make them do things to you.” His head falls back against my chest. His eyes are closed, his jaw slack. Down fall his shorts around his ankles; the boy’s cock, thin and short, pokes out like a flagpole. “Bad things.”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir.” As my hands move over his body, his cock, his lightly hairy balls, he shivers. “Real bad things.”

I let go of him. He drifts forward, eyes still closed, his naked body twirling, slow motion, in the shed’s twilight, until he’s facing me again. “Like what?” I direct his hands to my own shorts, where my cock demands attention. “Do they make you…suck their big cocks?”

“Yes, Sir. They make me suck their cocks.” His eyes open, seeking permission. I nod, giving it.

Down on his knees he goes. My shorts have no zipper. He yanks down the elastic waist to my knees. As my eight inches flop upward, his mouth opens; his tongue darts out. His hand clasps the lower half, seizing his prize. I feel the kid’s hot breath before I plunge between those pretty lips.

My own heart thuds in its cage as the boy goes to town on my meat. I lean back so I can have a clear view of him in action. He’s no dabbler; he knows what he’s doing. I watch his own skinny dick jerk and throb unattended, nearly slapping against the shed’s concrete floor. Already he’s leaking precum.

“Cocksucker,” I spit out, letting the word swing, pendulum-like, somewhere between praise and epithet.

He opens his eyes at the word and allows my dick to slip from his mouth. “Yes, Sir.” His words are sibilant and indistinct with the spit dripping from his lips. “Just a cocksucker, Sir.”

His address makes me harder. Redder. Thicker. I grab the back of his skull and hold it while I shove my cock as far as it will go. Though he can’t quite manage the last couple of inches, his lips greedily reach for the base, trying to make a show of engulfing the whole thing. I give him credit for trying.

“Your folks know what a dirty little faggot cocksucker they’re raising?” I ask. Through a mouthful of dick, he shakes his head. “But you go back home from here with a gut full of seed to lie to mommy and daddy about where you’ve been, huh.” It’s a shot in the dark, but he nods, his eyes gazing up at me with sheer adoration. “You don’t even know my name. Getting anonymous dick in some—“ I look around at our surroundings. “—skanky-ass lean-to.” He grunts, agreeing. “You let strangers fuck you too, don’t you.”

“Yeth Thir,” he attempts to say, but I don’t let him off my dick. Not yet.

“Figured.” I curl my upper lip in a show of contempt. “Little faggot boy, going ass up for who the fuck knows who.” I grab a handful of the kid’s sandy hair and thrust my hips in and out of his mouth, feeling his saliva on my balls. “Letting strange men sodomize that boyhole.”

When I withdraw most of the way, he raises his glance to me again and grunts. “That’s what my holes are made for, Sir. Faggot holes for men like you.”

“Someone trained you right,” I comment. He digs that, responding with grunts and an instinctive arch to his back. When I pull out from between his greedy lips, he responds with a whine of outrage, like a toddler deprived of a favorite toy. “Up,” I order. Then, “Around.” Once he’s obeyed, I turn him so that his hands are planted on the webbing of one of the recliners. “Well, well. Look at that ass,” I hiss, when it’s on display. "No wonder men like me want to fuck it." Automatically he spreads his legs, widening his stance.

The boy’s butt is compact. He’s still young enough that he still carries a slight layer of baby fat, which bounces when I slap it hard. “Ow,” he says—from instinct, not actual pain.

“Come on,” I growl, slapping it again, this time harder. The sound fills our tiny space. “Don’t try to tell me that ass hasn’t been smacked before.”

“It’s yours, Si—“ I interrupt his obeisance with another hard whack. His head flies up; his eyes widen. If I thought Rudolph loved me when he was sucking my dick, that was nothing to the look of sheer veneration he’s giving me now. “Fuck.”

“Damn right I will,” I say, deliberately misinterpreting the four-letter word as permission, or invitation. My fingers probe at his exposed, pink, hairless hole. “Jesus Christ, son,” I exclaim, as if my slippery fingers have discovered something foul. “You’re already fucking lubed up!” Rudolph can’t stand any longer. He tumbles forward onto the ancient lawn chair so that his face and knees dig into the woven fabric. He’s light, but I don’t trust the chair to support both our weights, so I remain standing as I finger his pucker. “You just checked out my profile, thought to yourself, This dude looks like the kind of man who fucks little faggots like me, and shoved a bottle’s worth of lube up your shitter before I picked you up, huh?”

“Please fuck me,” he begs.

“Please fuck me, Sir.”

“Please fuck me, Sir.”

I hesitate, as if unsure. “I don’t know. There’s no telling how many men have been up this boyhole before.” I’ve got three fingers in, now. Plus the tip of the fourth. He’s wide open and obviously well-used. It’s a hole that begs to be stretched even more.

“Fuck me, Sir. Please fuck me. Sir, please fuck me.”

He repeats the words over and over while I pretend to consider my option. At long last, as he squirms his hips and repeats his litany, I spit on my fingers and spread the fluid on my enraged inches. Then I shove it in, at long last.

He seizes up almost immediately, then relaxes as I force him back down onto the lawn chair. I slide to the base with little resistance. The kid has been fucked before, and probably often. That smell I’d wondered about earlier, the one tickling my nostrils—it’s not damp or chlorine. It’s probably the scent of dried sweat and semen from all the hookups little Rudolph has lured here over his sexual career. Thinking about the boy using this abandoned shed to collect seed makes me more aggressive.

“This what you wanted?” I ask. “Is this what you want, cocksucker?” I don’t need to hear his answer. I’m being rhetorical. The chair’s aluminum frame grates across the concrete as savagely I stab into the boy’s guts.

He’s the happiest little pup around, though. “Yes, Sir!” he carols, holding onto the armrests for dear life. “Fuck it, Sir. Fuck that hole.”

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ it, all right,” I snarl.

The chair’s top half comes to rest against the shed wall; Rudolph grabs onto a support beam to raise himself up and look back at me. “You can fuck harder, Sir,” he promises. “Get in there with that rape stick, Sir.”

Little turns me on more than a boy complicit in the abuse of his own hole. I seize the kid’s neck and hold it while I savage his rectum, one searing thrust at a time. “A man could do anything to a boy like you back here,” I growl in his ear. He nods, agreeing. “No one would ever know.”

“Yes…Sir.” The words are an effort for him. I tweak his nipples hard, making him cry out. “Right there,” he sobs. “Right there. Right there. Right there. Yes.”

I know I’m hitting the perfect spot. I can feel his little button jamming against my thick cock head. Again and again I stab at it, making him cry out each time. His tiny prostate has probably never been hammered so hard.

“Oh, fuck,” he at last says. He sounds shocked, and looks down at his dick. I thrust down onto the button and hold it, while I feel his ass convulse around my thick meat. Cum shoots out of his dick. One long strand hits the shed wall. Then a second. A third flies lower, onto the beam. Then a fourth, onto the lawn chair. While I hold him still, his body shivers and thrashes as cum continues to fly from the tip. “I’ve never—“

“Shut up, cocksucker,” I growl, as I pin him against the exposed wood. “Daddy’s turn.”

I don’t drop Rudolph back at home until after dusk. By the time I reach my hotel, the sky’s dark and I’m two loads lighter. It’s close to nine-thirty by the time I’ve showered the boy’s scents from my skin and flopped down on my bed. I fire up my phone, intending to catch up on any messages I might’ve missed while I was out pounding.

Sniffies is still open on my phone’s browser. I’ve got a couple of the usual ‘Hi’ messages from anonymous profiles that I can easily disregard. A couple of interesting offers that I might’ve contemplated, if Rudolph hadn’t hit me up. And then, at the top, a message from the wavy-haired fellow from the Fan who’d stood me up earlier. It’s time-stamped from only ten minutes before, while I was washing up.

Hey, says the message. Still looking? Lost track of time when my mom called.

I mean, there’s not even an apology attached. Apparently I’m supposed to swallow whole the belief that after he told me he’d be arriving in fifteen minutes, his mother called, and that he’d then engaged in conversation with her for six and a half hours. And that during those six and a half hours—particularly during the crucial first ninety minutes or so in which I was stomping around my hotel room, certain I was being stood up—he wasn’t able to to use his phone or any other device to send me a quick message to say Hey, I’m being delayed, but I’m still intending to be there when I can. Although over the course of an hour he was able to, you know, check out my profile on three other apps.

Right. No, I’m not buying it. Once again I feel that tide of anger rising.

But you know what? It’s not worth it. I roll my eyes, shake my head, and block the guy on Sniffies. I block him on Scruff. I block him on Grindr. And finally, I block him on BBRT. I don’t need to engage with that kind of gaslighting. And besides, my loads had found a better home.

Room 155

The hotel was a Howard Johnson’s fifty years ago, when my parents first moved from a cramped apartment to their first and only house. On Friday nights in good weather we’d walk three blocks down our sleepy street and see it through the bowers of trees—an orange-roofed and turquoise oasis sitting across from the freeway entrance. My dad loved the HoJo’s fried clam plate—he still esteems it (and its fifty-cent price) as one of the culinary triumphs of the twentieth century. I would tolerate my Little Boy Blue special of a hamburger patty and assorted bland vegetables, tossed on dishes sporting the silhouette of the chain’s famous Pie Man serving a kid and his dog. What I really loved, though, was the exotic, soothing dessert I was always allowed to order: a dish of orange sherbet, speared with a vanilla cookie. I played Pong, my very first video arcade game, at that Howard Johnson’s in second or third grade. Two years later there I played my second cabinet game, Midway’s Gun Fight.

Sometime in the late seventies all the HoJos in our area disappeared, though; another chain bought up the hotel, repainted the roof, and added some modern additions in the back. It’s changed hands several times since. At one point it was a Holiday Inn. When my mother died and I stayed there for the funeral twenty years ago, it had devolved into a no-name motel with hot water in the toilets and cold in the showers.

On this particular visit to my dad—my annual spring jaunt when I help him clean up his yard and do chores around his house—I’ve chosen this particular hotel to stay. Before I’ve always slept in my childhood home. My back’s not as resilient as it was in my teens, though. I can’t squeeze my six-foot-three frame into a twin bed quite as easily. But between its nadir and now, the hotel’s been renovated and refreshed to become part of a middle-tier chain. It’s close to my dad. The price is right. This hotel is respectable again.

Or so I think.


Sunday, 6 p.m.

I’ve told my dad that I’ll take him out to dinner after I check in. I’ve had a six-and-a-half hour drive from home through New York City and down the east coast with only one break. I’m exhausted. But after I get into my room for the next three days, and after I drop my luggage and my gear in room 155, I’m not super-anxious to hop back into the car again. So I flop onto the king-sized bed and fire up Grindr.

There’s someone 35 feet away from me—the photo is of a scrawny 20-year-old torso, hairless, his chin the only part of his face showing. He must in one of the rooms close by, I figure. But I’m not into hitting up 20 year-olds. When they come on to me, I welcome it . . . but I refuse to be part of any kid’s I can’t go on Grindr without all these old perverts trying to get into my pants narrative.

I’m browsing the other guys in my vicinity when the phone buzzes. It’s from that twink kid. He’s sent me a photo of himself without comment—a picture of his face. He’s got green eyes, red hair. He’s paler than me, which means practically paper-white. Cute, though. Cute as fuck. I’m still looking at his face when another photo pops up. It’s of his dick. Skinny, like the rest of him. Curved. Its head just as red as his hair.

A third pic arrives, this time of a skinny white ass. Are you at the hotel? he asks. Then, Looking for right now? I need dick.

My dad can go hungry for a half-hour, can’t he?

Give me your room number, I tell the kid.

He’s in 159—a mere two doors down from me. As far as Grindr encounters go, he’s been the closest body to me I’ve ever talked to, certainly the closest I’ve had an offer to fuck. Unlatch your door and be ready. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.

The couple of minutes is just so I can quickly brush my teeth. After I check my phone one last time to make sure he’s not changed his mind, I leave it on the room’s desk before I tuck the card key in my pocket and walk out into the hallway. I’m not even wearing shoes.

159 is two rooms closer to the ice machine. I push on the door—it gives way. It’s early evening but still bright out, but the kid’s got his privacy blind drawn and all the lights off. I can still see the luminous white of his skin on top of the bed. He’s face down. Skinny butt up.

And this kid is so damned skinny. I can feel his hipbones jutting beneath his skin as I assume my place behind him. He grinds back on the crotch of my jeans, the heat of his crack warming my dick beneath a layer of denim and the cotton of my shorts. He’s smooth, too. My fingers rub against his hole, trace up his crack, circle his buns. When I reach under to tweak his nipples, even his chest is smooth as a boy’s.

I’m hard in my jeans from his insistent friction. “You need dick?” I ask the kid. For response, he reaches above his head to clutch the headboard. His ass grinds against my bulge. “All right,” I say. “I’ll give you dick.”

There’s no romance to this encounter. No kissing. No preliminaries. I don’t even know his name. This is just some little whore in a hotel, letting a stranger nearly three times his age invade his room and then his ass. I unbuckle my belt. Unbutton and loosen my jeans. Yank down my shorts. My dick flips up from under the waistband and wedges itself into the boy’s crack. He groans at the sudden feel of flesh against his flesh.

I spit on my fingers. Work it around the length of my dick until it’s slick. Once again I spit. This time I deliver the moisture to the kid’s hole. He’s loose. Two of my fingers slip in with no resistance. Three. The insides of his chute are already slippery. Maybe it’s lube. Maybe it’s some other guy’s hour-old load.

I don’t care, either way.

My dick slides in as easily as my fingers. Maybe easier. There’s more pleasure as his hole gulps at my inches, though; when I’m all the way in, his ass constricts to clamp down on me like he never intends to let go. He arches his back, lifts his butt up even higher; I have to stand on tiptoe so that I don’t slide out.

Not that he’d let me. He’s an aggressive little whore. He starts ramming his hole down to the base of my dick. Every time he hits bottom, he grunts a little. I’m turned on by his sheer need, but I need to set the pace, here. I push down at the base of his spine to lower his ass a little, so I can stand on the flats of my feet. I keep my hand there, stilling his up-and-down motion; my other hand grasps his left hip to keep him from wriggling so much. I’m taming this little bronco, whether it wants taming or not.

He learns quickly that I’m in charge of his hole. I lift up my tee so that it’s out of the way when I thrust. “Yes, daddy, like that” he says, when I start long-dicking his hole. His voice is soft. Light. Almost feminine. Even when I’m banging him harder, spreading his skinny little legs as I push him into the mattress and kneel between his knees, he’s still softly moaning and begging for dad’s dick. I’ve got three hundred miles of driving tension to work out on this hole, and the kid is good at taking a hard fuck.

When I shoot, I’ve got my right hand gripping the kid’s skull, pushing his face into the pillow so firmly that his little cries of pleasure are muffled. My left hand is squarely between his shoulder blades, keeping him still as I bang into his skinny little ass. He can tell I’m shooting; he clutches at the sheets and says “Yes . . . yes,” as my meat throbs and expands inside him. Maybe it’s my breathing that tips him off; maybe it’s the increasing ferocity of the fuck. Either way, I shoot my three-day load inside the kid with my dick splitting him open to the maximum.

I stay in there a moment, grinding the seed in with my dick. Then I pull out. He’s left a hand towel on the side table. I use it to wipe off, while he lies there motionless. He makes no motion to rise. I then toss the cum wipe onto his butt. Pull up my shorts. Fasten my pants.

“Thanks, kid,” I say. Then I leave.

Elapsed time: 20 minutes. My dad won’t be late to dinner at all.


Monday, 7:30 a.m.

Big day planned with my dad—dental appointment, yard work, errands. But it’s seven-thirty and I don’t have to be there until nine, and I’m in bed, naked, lounging.

So I fire up Grindr again. There’s a message waiting for me from the red-headed kid: holy fuck u r a hot top.

It’s a compliment I’ll accept. He’s 12 miles distant now, though.

On the nearby screen, the closest guy is a smiling, attractive African-American kid. Bearded, skinny, young. 24, his profile says. And he’s only 40 feet away.

Fuck, lightning can’t strike twice, can it?

Apparently it can. Sexy, he messages me, while I’m still viewing his profile.

Yes, you are indeed, I reply.

Ha ha, I meant you. Are you at the hotel?

I am, I tell him. What’re you looking for?

His answer is short and sweet. White dick in my hole.

How do you like it?

Raw only, the kid writes back, and follows it by five emoji: three smiling devils, one pig snout, and an arrow pointing down.

I send him something better than an emoji: one of my dick shots. The deal clincher. As I expect, he writes back, Come now.

I tell him I’ll be there in 5, and he sends me his room number.

The night before I’d taken a shower. I’m clean enough for a morning fuck, I reckon. I brush my teeth, though, and pull on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Slip on a cock ring. I’m good to go.

This kid’s room is three doors down the hall away from the ice machine, on the opposite side of the hall. All I’ve had to do for both these tricks is just pad down the carpet in my bare feet. The door’s off the latch, as I instructed. I push inside and close it behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness within. I mean, I had my blackout blinds drawn in my room, but it still wasn’t pitch black in there like it is here. And fuck, is it ever stifling. He’s got the heat turned up high, even though the morning temperature is in the sixties.

The only light in the room is a rectangle that appears on the screen of his phone, in the general vicinity of where the bed should be. I aim myself in that direction and find myself hitting the mattress with my knees. My eyes are adjusting, now; I can see a figure looming closer in the dark.

A hand touches my chest; another grasps the back of my head. There’s a mouth against mine that’s hungrily seizing my lips, pushing them apart with a probing tongue. This boy’s an octopus, eight hands doing crazy things to me all at once—rubbing my dick through the thin fabric of my shorts, tweaking my nipples, pulling my shirt over my head, seizing my short hair and using it to pull my mouth harder against his own. Not being able to see him clearly—or at all—makes the situation even hotter than the room.

My dick is rock hard when finally he flips me onto my back. I feel the heat of his mouth surround me, his hand clutching at my balls as he sucks me down all the way. I groan and try to sit back up, but he pushes me down. This boy knows exactly what he wants.

He’s got my knob sloppy with his spit when he tries to sit on it. I can feel resistance from his hairy hole as he struggles to spear himself with my inches. He’s a tiny thing, like the white boy the day before. But the ginger twink had a gape that could accommodate a Boeing; this boy’s pucker is tough to get into.

Once, twice, he tries. Neither time is he successful at opening himself. Finally I take pity on him and pull myself up and stand by the bedside. I flip him face down, on his knees. I spit on my hand, then sheerly by groping my way there, I spread the moisture on his hole. Finally I guide the head to the entry point and start pushing.

Third time’s the charm.

Now that I’m actually in him, he starts to open up. I’m down to the base when he collapses his knees and lies prone on the mattress; I let my weight push him into the springs as I begin pounding. He’s craning his neck to kiss me again; he has to strain so that our lips can meet. “You want my cum, don’t you,” I observe. He makes animal noises as his answer. “You want this big white dick breeding that black ass, don’t you, son.”

“Yes daddy,” is his eager reply. “Fuck me like you own it. Please!”

He’s open, now. Hungry for dick. The mattress is bouncing up and down as I pound the shit out of this boy, and he’s loving every bruise I might be leaving on his cheeks. I’m loud when I shoot; I’m hoping his neighbors in the adjacent rooms aren’t sleeping.

Oh wait. I’m one of those neighbors.

When my spent dick slithers out, he rolls over and grabs my hand, shoves my fingers up his hole. I manipulate the sloppy flesh as he jacks himself. He shoots within ten seconds, panting and heaving from the climax.

“You sticking around?” I ask, as I grope on the floor for my shirt and shorts. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Supposed to check out this morning, but now I’m thinking it over,” he says softly, as he rolls over to check his phone.

“Let me know. I’d like more of that ass.”

“Fuck yeah.”

I let myself out.


Monday, 10 p.m.

You ever top?

Unlike every other profile I maintain, my Grindr information doesn’t specify any positional preference. I kind of like it that way. It broadens the offers I get. In theory, anyway. In practice, most guys look at me and come to the conclusion I top.

It’s a pretty good assumption.

I’m back in my hotel room after a long day with my dad. I send this blank profile in question a shot of my dick. The guy has turned off his geolocation, so I have no idea how far he is. He sends me back a pic of his own, of a lean, lightly-muscled body sporting a pert and round little ass. He’s what, in his forties, it looks like? The next photo he sends shows him manspreading in a coffee shop somewhere, handsome, smiling, looking like a lumberjack with a latte. His left hand, clutching a cardboard cup, sports a prominent ring.

Married? I ask.

Yeah. Hope that’s not a problem. Really get into guys who like guys cheating on their wives like me. Are you one?

I breed cheaters like you, I tell him. Might as well get to the point. I send him a shot of my bare dick plunged halfway into a jocked Latin hole.

I want that, he responds immediately. Come flood my guts. Now?

I ask him where he is. Lightning has struck not once, not twice, but three times in two days: the guy is in the very same hotel, one floor up. Fuuuuuck, I love this joint. I am staying here every time I visit my old home town, in the future. It might look mildly respectable on the outside, but on the inside, it’s one hundred percent pure sleaze . . . and I love it.

I’m upstairs knocking on the dude’s door within five minutes. He’s naked when he admits me inside. He must like what he sees, because the door’s barely latched behind us than he’s yanked my basketball shorts on the floor and gobbled my knob down his throat. He’s not the most masculine guy in the world; his eyelashes and lips are sultry, almost feminine, his voice soft and light as he begs me to lie down on the bed so he can service me. Plenty of down-low married dudes get away with that in their marriages, though, without the wife ever thinking twice about it. I’ve fucked enough of them to know.

The guy’s got a hot mouth. His hole is already juicy . . . prelubed, at least. When I rub it as he sucks me, my index finger just glides right in. There are a lot of men out there who take the moral high ground when it comes to married men who cheat on their wives for dick. I’m not one of them. Depriving them isn’t going to fix their marriage. It’s not going to stop them from cruising. These fuckers are going to get cock from someone or another. It might as well be me. Especially a hot, lean piece of ass like this one.

I admire the way his hole stretches, how the chute clutches at my dick as I force my way in. Force, shit. His hole is practically suctioning my meat into its vortex. “That what you wanted?” I ask. “This big bare dick?”

“Yes sir!” he yelps, as he starts grinding back on it.

“Married dad dick up your cheating hole?”

“Fuck, are you married too?” he asks. I shove my dick all the way up that cunt, then shove my left hand in front of his face as response. “Christ. That’s even hotter, sir. Does she know?”

That answer is none of his business. I keep fucking.

“Make babies in me like you made in her, sir,” he begs. “Knock me up.”

“You want this seed, huh?”

“I’ll do anything for it. Anything,” he stresses. I don’t know what else he needs to do for it at this point; he’s already got a stranger’s raw dick up his butt in a motel. Seems like a load in his hole is the given outcome of that scenario. “Just make those babies in me, please.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge, like denying him is a serious option.

This dude is seriously into the dirty talk. Filth pours from his mouth. He tells me he wants my babies, that he needs to be bred, that his pussy begs to be always wet from my bareback breedings. I flip the married slut over and rest my forearms on the soles of his feet while I pound and he continues talking about me knocking up his cunt. It’s my most arrogant fuck pose. Look at this, it says. I could do this all goddamned day . . . and you’re just a fucking armrest and cock cozy to me.

“Is this what you do? Rent a hotel room and let strange men sodomize you, faggot?” I ask him.

“Once a month, sir,” he says, between pants. “I don’t always get as lucky as I did with you.”

I’m close to shooting. I hold both his ankles with one hand, and use the other to give one of his nipples a savage twist. The sensation makes his hole contract . . . and that’s what pushes me over the edge. I’ve cum in two other boys in roughly twenty-four hours, but jets of my goo spurt into his hole. The married guy’s eyes roll up so that I only see the whites of his eyes.

I shove all the way to the base while the last drops dribble out. “Tell me what a lucky faggot you are now,” I order.

“I’m a lucky faggot, sir. I’m such a lucky faggot.”

“Why is that?” I just want to make him say the words.

“I’ve got a fuck god’s sperm inside my lucky faggot cunt, sir. I’m the luckiest faggot in the world right now. Thank you sir. Thank you.”

It’ll do. When I pull out, his hole vomits seed; it dribbles down his butt and onto the hotel bedspread. Immediately his fingers race to collect it and shove it back in. I’ve got my shorts back on by now; my shirt didn’t even come off.

“Hope I see you again, sir,” he said, an edge of pleading coloring the statement.

“Likewise, faggot,” I say. Then I’m out the door.


I am definitely, one hundred percent, positively going to have to stay in this hotel again.