I’m walking toward Broadway in the lower Seventies when I pass a storefront with a display of floral bouquets out front. Garish carnations dyed orange, bundles of freesia, drooping boughs of heather. On impulse, I stop to select a plastic-wrapped cone of roses. The bored young man inside smiles when I proffer them to be rung up. “For your girlfriend?” he asks.
“For my boyfriend,” I correct. He just raises his eyebrows, shares a knowing smile as if he’d already guessed that answer, and returns my change.
Almost at your place, I text, as I step out back out onto the sidewalk. It’s only a little before five, and already the sky is almost dark in New York. People are hustling homeward with swift steps; most of them seem to be in pairs. I’ve scarcely shoved my phone back into my pocket when it vibrates once more. I press myself against the shop front, pull it out, and see a notification from one of my cash apps. There are four digits before the decimal point.
So that part of the transaction is done.
Julio’s apartment is only a short walk from where I’ve selected my bouquet. In the vestibule I press a tiny button with my index finger, wait for the corresponding buzz of the door, and let myself in. I share my ride to the tenth floor with an older couple. They smile at the flowers, and then at me, conspirators in my wooing. I pull my mouth to the side, wryly bashful, and wish them a good evening when they exit on eight. At my floor, I step out, look both ways to find the direction I need to go. When I’m outside his door, I press the rectangular button beneath the peep hole. With one hand I hold the flowers behind my back, parallel to my spine.
I hear footsteps. The door opens. A man stands before me—shaved head, muscular, handsome, late thirties. I’ve seen photos, of course; they didn’t do him justice. Julio’s wearing nothing but a towel. His hairless pecs still glisten with droplets of water, as if he’s run to the door straight out of the shower. He’s considerably shorter than I expected, but it’s obvious he’s a powerful man. “Baby,” he says, looking at me with chocolate brown eyes. He speaks in velvet tones. “You got in early.”
“Hey, lover,” I murmur back. I lean forward from the waist over the threshold of his apartment until my lips meet his. His eyes close as he melts into the gentle kiss. One of his hands still holds his towel at the hip, but with the other, he cups the side of my furry face. “I’m home.”
The kiss ends. I straighten up. For a moment, his eyes remain closed, as if he’s still lost in the moment just passed. Finally, he smiles. “Yes, baby. You’re home. And I’m so glad.”
That’s when I present the flowers. He’s genuinely surprised; his eyes dart back and forth between the red roses and my face as if he can’t believe I’ve gone to the trouble. “What were you thinking?” he fusses, absurdly pleased, as he paces down the hallway into his little kitchen, roses in one hand, the ends of his towel in the other. The apartment smells of spices; there’s something cooking in the oven.
I follow him, and watch as he lays the flowers onto the counter and tucks the terrycloth to fasten it tight. “I was thinking that it has been a long time since I’ve been home, and that my boyfriend might like to know I’ve been thinking of him. Every day. Every minute. Every second.”
He’s flattered, I can tell. Both hands now free, he joins me at the kitchen door. “I missed you,” he tells me.
“I missed you too,” I say, softly. Our faces are mere inches apart. “My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend.”
That’s when he takes my face between his palms and draws me down for another kiss. This one is soft, deep, my tongue deep in his mouth, his hands holding me in place until he knows my taste. “You don’t have to say that.”
There’s a genuine bashfulness in the way he nay-says me. Is he fishing for compliments? He doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he’s unaware how striking are those rugged features—the crooked nose that looks like it might have been broken at some point, the sculpted brow, the point of his chin. I can picture him in his Wall Street pinstripe armor as a formidable foe, or as a beast lifting weights at the local Equinox. Here though, nearly naked, his damp flesh pressed against my fully-clothed body, he’s sincerely handsome. “I say it because it’s true,” I assure him.
Julio cracks a smile. He’s delighted, I can tell. And shy. Surprisingly shy. “God, I missed you,” he says, as he grabs my hand and leads me deeper into the apartment.
Julio’s home is no cramped walk-up; it’s a genuine luxury flat. I’d already noticed the gleaming stainless steel and marble of the kitchen. The combined living and dining areas seem professionally decorated, or at least the pieces have been chosen with someone with taste far better than mine, and with much deeper pockets. The oversized sofas are upholstered in rich, textured jewel-colored fabrics; the dining table is glass and steel. Plush rugs in earth tones delineate the different living spaces. It’s not a decorator’s showcase, though; the space looks lived-in. There’s a stack of mail on one of the occasional tables, and books that actually look like they’ve been read on the shelves; through the bedroom door I can see Julio’s work suit discarded on the mattress.
“Hey babe, I know I said we’d go out to dinner, but the show’s at seven and I thought I’d just cook at home so we wouldn’t be in such a rush.” He holds both my hands now as we sink onto a sofa together.
“That’s great,” I tell him. “It gives me more time to spend with you here, baby.”
Again, he seems pleased with my answer. “Are you tired?” he asks. “Let me rub my boyfriend’s shoulders.”
I laugh, and protest, but he’s already helping me out of my jacket. I admit to being a casual dresser at the best of times—a hoodie and jeans kind of guy. Tonight, though, I’ve made an effort to clean up. I’m wearing dark slacks and shiny black shoes, a dress shirt of deep purple with cuff links, and one of the few sports jackets I own. I’d had a haircut earlier in the week. I’ve been growing out my beard for the last two months, but earlier today I’d made an effort to trim the sides and groom back the startling chin so that it looks neat and respectable. Surrounded by all this finery, however, I feel a little like Cinderella, the kitchen drudge cleaned up for the ball.
Once Julio has positioned me so that I’m leaning over the sofa’s arm, I feel the warmth of his body across my back. His fingers begin kneading my muscles. It’s been so long since anyone has done this for me. I sigh, and allow him to continue. “You’re so tense,” he whispers in my ear. “Did you have a hard day at work?”
“No,” I murmur, my eyes closed. “I just missed you, baby.”
“Really?” he asks. “My god, you are so sweet. I couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend.”
“Neither could I.” I groan slightly as he finds a knot and massages it into submission. “You are so good to me. So handsome.”
For reward, he plants a succession of tiny kisses upon the back of my neck. I gasp at the tickling sensation, then shiver as the fluttering pecks send a wave of tingles across my scalp and down my spine. “My sexy boyfriend.” His words, whispered directly into my ear, cause another tsunami of shivers across my skin.
Something is pressing into my lower back. Hard. Insistent. I’m pretty sure it’s his cock. I twist myself around, reach beneath his towel, and wrap my fingers around his dick. It burns like a branding iron in the palm of my right hand. I can feel wetness from its tip on the inside of my wrist. For a moment we stare at each other as I squeeze him tightly. “Oh god, I have missed you,” I tell him at last.
“Me too,” he says. Then he’s on top of me, his mouth on mine, his hands stroking my beard, my hair, the underside of my chin. Our kisses grow more and more desperate as I hold his rigid cock in my hand. It’s thick. Short—maybe five and a half inches. Uncut. I haven’t seen it yet, but can easily imagine the thick dark shaft, the fat and glistening head. “Baby, I don’t want you ever to go away again.”
“I won’t.” Tonight I’ll be saying all kinds of things I cannot really mean. We both know that. But in the moment? My promise is all sincerity. “I belong to you.”
“You’re my boyfriend,” he whispers, staring down from above.
“And you’re my boyfriend,” I reply. In that moment, I’m being honest.
We stare at each other in the moment. His flesh throbs in my hand. Then slowly, sweetly, he leans down to kiss my forehead. “Let me get you some dinner, baby,” he whispers.
There’s a breed of man who sometimes crave the close and established intimacy of a lover—a deeply-connected lover with whom they have a history—yet who have little time, or perhaps no serious inclination, to cultivate a long-term romance. In my experience, these men tend to have achieved success in their careers, perhaps at the cost of their own personal lives. These men sometimes reach out to me and inquire whether I’d be willing to fulfill, for a price, a specific fantasy.
The Boyfriend Experience. It has a name. The illusion, just for a few hours, or a day, or a weekend, of complete intimacy, of a familiarity that goes far beyond a hookup. It combines tenderness. Suavity. A gallant respect for the client and his emotional needs. The Boyfriend Experience is perhaps the deepest form of Method role-play I’ve ever encountered.
Take Julio. I’ve never met him before today. We’ve communicated only briefly, first through an app and then later a handful of text messages. There’s so much I don’t know about this man—what he does for work, what paths in life he’s walked to get to this point, his tastes in food, his family and friends, whether he’s one of those Taylor Swift gays. His surname, even.
And yet, how difficult is it, really, to be a good boyfriend to someone you’ve never met? I’m leaning against the kitchen lintel, glass of red wine in my hand, watching him putter around the stove and steaming some green beans. He’s talking about work. Someone named Gretchen has done something that I can’t in the least parse, but it sounds as if it could be grievous. Julio, now wearing a t-shirt and joggers beneath his apron, checks on whatever smells so good in the oven and chatters away about how he spent an hour consoling Gretchen and trying to educate her on how to avoid the problem in the future.
“You are such a good mentor, baby,” I tell him. I’m sincere. I’m not making a stab in the dark. It genuinely sounds as if he’s doing the right thing by this woman. “But that’s just the kind of man you are.”
He beams. Doesn’t the colleagues with whom he spends his days tell him such truths? I suspect not, after he replies with a shy, “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I really think so.” For reward, he comes over, stands on tiptoe, and kisses traces of wine from my lips. “So tell me more. What happened?”
And then I listen, like a good boyfriend should.
We sit catercorner at one end of the glass-topped dining table over dinner, glasses of wine nudging together as closely as our knees. The roses I bought for him sit in a glass vase filled with water, at the table’s center. He’s pulled open the draperies, revealing a fantastic view of Broadway below, and of lights from the neighboring buildings. He’s still telling me work stories, dropping first names as if I’ve heard them all before, while I nod or shake my head at appropriate junctures, and ask questions when I feel the need for more clarification. I don’t find financial work all that fascinating, but I’m here to pay attention, so I do. Meanwhile, I eat the eggplant lasagna, laden with cream and cheese, that he’s sweated over, and compliment his cooking skills.
“I wanted to make sure you got a good meal before we go out,” he says.
“You are so fucking sweet,” I reply, meaning it. In my time I’ve cooked for plenty men I’ve loved. None of them have cooked for me. Impulsively, I place my hand over his.
“Anything for my boyfriend,” he tells me, as he leans in for another kiss.
The show is less than three blocks from his apartment, a way-off-Broadway comic revue of which I’ve seen other iterations. The theater itself sits on the second floor of the building, over a restaurant; once we’ve passed the ticket-taker, we slide across a vinyl bench to sit side-by-side at a cocktail table close to the tiny stage. The audience demographic seems to be mostly older than me, and definitely a lot older than my date, but there are young gay men in pairs sprinkled throughout the crowd. Once settled, I rest my left arm atop the padded bench’s back, around Julio’s shoulders.
“Cocktails?” asks a server.
Julio’s already studied the drinks menu. Without consulting me, he tells the young woman we’ll be having the theater’s fruity variation on a Moscow Mule. I’m taken aback at having someone choosing for me, yet slightly flattered, especially since of all the specialty cocktails on the list, he’d picked what I’d have chosen. “Everybody’s looking at us,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Are they?” I ask, scanning around. I don’t see any evidence of his claim, but I haven’t been paying attention to anyone else but him.
“They’re probably wondering how I landed such a handsome boyfriend.” I flush a little at the compliment. If anything, I suspect they’re speculating why such a good-looking Latin stud is saddled with such an old geezer—the prince burdened with Cinderella. He leans in a little closer, though, as if telling me a secret. “They’re probably wondering what a tall, handsome…big-dicked…stud sees in someone like me.”
Again, my scalp and spine tingle from the combination of flattery and close-talking. “I’m the lucky one,” I tell him. His hand rests on the table; with my left arm still around his shoulders, I cross my right arm to take his hand in mine. I look him in the eyes. “Because I’m out on the town with the most handsome boyfriend in the theater. If they’re looking—it’s because they’re jealous I have such a good-looking man to take care of.”
I sidle closer on the bench as I speak. It doesn’t take a psychic to know how pleased he is by those words. His eyes are liquid. His lips tremble with unspoken happiness.
“You are beautiful,” I tell him. I need no acting skills to mean what I say. The server arrives with our drinks, disappointingly served in bar glasses instead of copper mugs.
“You’re my gorgeous boyfriend,” he says, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheeks.
I raise my mule. He taps his glass against mine. “To us,” I suggest.
He agrees. “To us.”
Then the lights dim.
We hold hands on the walk back to his apartment, my larger paw completely encompassing his fingers. No one really turns a head to stare our way, but I sense that he wants to be seen like this. With someone. Together. Taken. The show had no intermission and hadn’t lasted more than an hour and a half, so it’s not even quite nine o’clock yet. “You want a hot dog, baby?” he asks, as we amble past the sidewalk brightly lit by Gray’s Papaya.
“No. Seriously, after your delicious dinner?” I ask. “You’re not hungry, are you? Do you want a hot dog?”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m hungry for
something. Something I want only from my hunky boyfriend.”
My dick stirs at the insinuation. “I think I can accommodate you, in a bit.”
Up Broadway we stroll, seemingly in no particular hurry, though we’re both anxious to get back to his apartment. Along the way he tells me more about an upcoming work trip to Chicago, where’s he never visited before. I share a few of my hazy memories of previous visits to the city, but mostly he’s interested in telling me about the hotel where he’ll be staying, the deals he’s expected to accomplish. I know much more about Julio and his day-to-day workflow than he knows anything about me, at this point, but I don’t mind. A good boyfriend—in this situation—listens more than he speaks.
Once we reach his building, we fall silent. No conversation during our elevator ride up, though our fingers remain clasped. Neither of us utter a word as we walk down the hall to his apartment. I drop his hand when he fumbles with the door keys, and follow him inside.
“We’re home, baby,” he finally says, once we’ve crossed the threshold.
“We’re home,” I echo.
He turns to face me. All evening he’s been spoiling me with alcohol and food, with back rubs, with entertainment. Now, I sense, it’s my turn. I step forward until I’m able to hold him by the shoulders. My face looms over his. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“I love being good to you,” he protests. His voice is soft. Breathy.
“Now let me be good to you.”
Slowly—slowly—I lean down. Our lips connect. I hesitate, pull back, and look into his eyes. “Do you love me, Julio?”
This powerful little man, this muscular athlete, seems unsteady on his feet at hearing the question. He breathes, “Yes. I love you so much.” My heart pounds more quickly when he says my name.
“I love you too,” I tell him. Again I give him the lightest kiss possible, our lips barely touching, our hastened breaths warming each others’ faces. “You know that, right?”
Slowly he nods. “I know.”
“And you’re going to show me how much you love me, right now,” I inform him.
“Yes.”
“Because you’re my boyfriend.”
“Because I’m your boyfriend. And because I love you.”
I look into those brown eyes and pause a moment before I say, emphasizing each word, “And I love you like no other.”
My erection rages as he leads me into the bedroom. Gently, carefully, he removes my jacket. Undoes my cuff links. Kneels to slip off my shoes. Lifts each foot to remove and fold the sock covering it. He stands, unbuttons my shirt, unclasps my belt. I finish the job of removing the rest of what I’m wearing, watching as he undresses.
He was solicitous with my clothing, but he shows no mercy to his own, in his haste to get naked. Shoes and socks fly. He yanks open his shirt front so quickly that I imagine buttons popping. His pants and shorts hit the floor with a thump. Then he’s on the king-sized bed, on his back, holding out his arms for me while I’m still shucking my trunks. “Come to me, baby.”
I straddle him on the mattress. Both our dicks are hard as cement; they strike against each other like fencing epees. When I lower my weight on his smaller frame, he wraps his knees and arms around my body and holds me tight. “I need you tonight,” I tell him. “I need to be deep inside you, sweetheart.”
“Use me,” he begs. I feel him reach for my dick, and then sense him squeezing it tightly for the first time. “I want that big dick making me pregnant.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I’ve always wanted to have a baby with the man I love.”
“I need your babies.”
His moaning continues, though muffled, as I kiss him roughly. “I think about you all day at work,” I tell him when we come up for air. “People see me daydreaming and they tease that I must be thinking about my boyfriend again.”
“Oh fuck,” he pants. “That is so hot, baby.”
“They’ve all seen the photo of you I keep on my desk,” I tell him. “They all know that I’ve got the most handsome boyfriend out there.”
“You keep my photo on your desk?” he asks with wonder, as if this world for two we’re building is real. “Really?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, cradling him in my arms. “I’m proud of being your boyfriend.”
I retrieve my right hand, gently lift it to my lips, and deliver a payload of spittle to his rectum. “Oh fuck, baby,” he says again, as I slather the moisture there. “You don’t know how that makes me feel.”
I shake my head. “I know
exactly how that makes you feel. Because I love you.”
“I love you,” he repeats, lost in sensation.
“Then show me,” I tell him.
It takes only the gentles of nudge to roll him onto his abdomen. I position a pillow beneath his hips, then spread his hairy little legs. He gasps when I taste him; my beard is covered with the scent of his shower soap, and of my own spit, as I lick my way into his pussy. Deeper and deeper I delve as he jerks, twitches, and groans. “Fuck me, baby,” he says, while I lap away at his most tender parts. Then, more sharply, “Fuck me!”
With that snappish tone, he sounds more like a client making demands. I’m not a dick for hire, though. I’m not his employee. No way. Not now. I’m this man’s
boyfriend. I call the shots.
I love eating hole, and his is the perfect combination of fuzz and warmth. So for a while, I ignore him, and gnaw my way in. His tone is less aggressive next time he speaks. “Fuck me,” he begs as I pull apart his cheeks.
But no. I’m still rapt in my own passion for my boyfriend’s hole. It slides open when I insert two fingers, three. His back arches; his hips lift. I’m determined to pleasure him this way until he can’t stand it.
A few minutes later, he sobs. “Fuck me. Please fuck me. Please—just fuck me. Please.” I’ve tamed the boss. Reduced the beast to whimpers.
That’s when I pull myself to my knees and plant my hands on either side of his ribs. “Yeah?” I ask, sounding dubious. “Should I stick it in?”
“Yes.” He’s almost crying with frustration and pleasure.
“You want your boyfriend’s dick in that sweet ass?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeats. And now he wrestles with the pillow and manages to turn himself on his side, so that he can look me in the eye in that dark bedroom, illuminated only by the city’s lights. “Because I want to show how much I love you.”
I allow the words to hang in the air for a moment. Finally, I nod. Help him turn onto his back. Adjust the pillow once more beneath his hips. Haul his legs into the air, and aim my pulsing cock at the hole. “I want you to look me in the eyes as I slide in,” I tell him. He nods, anxious to have me inside. “And I want you to tell me how much you love me when it’s time to breed you.”
“I’ll tell you how much I love you right now,” he promises. “I love you, baby.” My head presses against the point of entry. “I love you so much.” I feel his flesh part to admit me. I hit the first ring, and press harder. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love my boyfriend so…ahhhhh.”
And then I’m in. True to his promise, he keeps his eyes wide open, adoring me from below as I slide to the base.
It’s after midnight. Julio sleeps in a fetal position, his legs pulled up, his head crooked down. It rests on my half-numb arm. I’m big spoon to his little. My belly is glued to his back by the juices of four loads. A few minutes before, he had asked, in the softest and most boyish of voices, “Will you stay until I fall asleep, baby?”
I’d kissed the top of his smooth head, and rubbed my beard against his neck. “Of course.”
He had sighed, and cuddled against me. “I have the best boyfriend,” had been his last words before subsiding into a doze.
I’ve been lying with him, listening to him breathe, for the last half hour. Down on the streets below I can hear the occasional whine of traffic whenever the lights change. Distant sirens occasionally cut through the quiet. Julio slumbers solidly, now. I’m able to retrieve my prickling left arm from beneath him without disturbing his rest. After I creep to my feet, I pull up the sheets and blankets from the bed’s bottom, where we’d kicked them a couple of hours before. His deep respiration continues as I tuck them gently around his shoulders.
I don’t take a shower—I don’t want to wake him, and I’ve a commuter train back home to catch. In the bathroom I do quietly run a washcloth beneath the faucet and sponge myself off, however, then check my reflection in the gloom before returning to the bedroom. My clothes are mostly in one place; I dress, check my pockets, and determine I’m good to go.
I’m walking in the direction of the front door when I see the roses I’d bought Julio, resting in their vase on the dining table. I pause, then pluck one from the rest. I wipe the water from its stem onto my palm, and tiptoe back into the bedroom. Then, gently, softly, I lay it upon the pillow where my head had been resting a few minutes before.
It will be the first thing he sees when he wakes in the morning, my boyfriend.
I love you so much, he’d told me, I think, as I let myself out.
In that moment, those were the words I’d needed to hear. Even if, like Cinderella’s gown and carriage, their spell had evaporated at midnight.
