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In Praise of Hanes
- Thread starter EasyRory
- Start date
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Ten
“What's in the flask?” asked the black-suited, sun-glasses-on- a-cloudy-day guy.
“A little corn mash,” Randy replied with a grin. “Want some?”
“Can I see your invitation, please,” the guy followed up without cracking a smile. Apparently he could read; he continued, “Stay here, please, Mr. Krol.”
“I guess he noticed Biden's autograph,” Randy chuckled. “Us Delaware guys gotta stick together. Cheers, Refo.” We drank off the fire water and Mountain Dew cocktail before the agent and an older but otherwise identical man returned to announce how sorry they were, but we would have to leave.
I glance around as we were being escorted out of the party area and spotted Charlie, who watched with alarm. I gave him a shrug and figured I could catch a bus home or even walk, it wasn't that far.
“Where do you want to go?” Randy asked. “I can at least drive you home.” I agreed and he opened the doors to the biggest, fanciest pickup truck I had ever seen. “Let's have a drink to the Mothers Annoying Drunk Drivers,” he suggested and took a swig from his flask. He didn't seem reckless or drunk either so I went ahead and took a pull. Straight, the stuff had a mild kick, but nothing that would take skin off your throat. “It's only a little stronger than wine,” he commented. “Like it?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Got no name, I make it from corn and apples. Delaware apples aren't the best for eating.” We arrived at the Massachusetts Avenue gate and stopped for the guard, who waved us out without formalities. “Where to?”
“You could go up Connecticut and drop me. That way, you'd be almost to the Beltway.” I directed him up Reno before we cut over to Connecticut. He spotted a restaurant I'd seen but never entered before.
“You hungry? Let me buy you lunch.” He looked at his watch. “Does brunch go until two?”
It did on Sunday. We ordered non-alcoholic Bloody Marys. After the waiter left, Randy adjusted the drinks from his flask. It tasted amazingly good. I began to feel a little buzz after three, but Randy seemed untroubled. He was much bigger than me, not fat, just massive, like a football lineman. He suggested asparagus fritattas and I agreed again. We talked about my work, life in DC, and how much better than Biden's brunch the fritatta was. We left at four; I never notice the two hours pass.
“You can drop me at Jenifer Strteet,” I told him. “I'll walk the rest of the way.”
“I'll take you home, if you don't mind. I'd like to fill my water bottle for the rest of the trip.”
I couldn't disagree with that. I left him waiting in the living room while I took his bottle to the kitchen. I filled it with some Deer Park out of the fridge and took it back to him.
“Awesome pictures,” he commented, looking at Carter and Lucien on the wall.
“I call them Hanes One and Hanes Two.” He didn't immediately see why. “Because you can read the brand of underwear they're wearing,” I explained.
He nodded at that. “You have a fine appreciation for men.”
No use dancing around the subject, I decided. “Yes, I should tell you I'm gay.” That embarrassed him.
“Yeah, well … thanks for the water and the company. I enjoyed the afternoon.”
“Thanks for the lunch,” I replied.
We walked to the door and it seemed over. He paused. “Um, Refo, here's my card. If you're going to Rehoboth or something this summer, give me a call. Maybe we can get together.”
If you drew a line due east from Washington, you would hit Rehoboth Beach, a Delaware beach resort on the ocean. On weekends, the drive is fiendishly jammed with traffic, but it's worth it on a hundred degree day. I looked at the card after he left. Randy Krol, President, Krol Farms, Incorporated. It listed a post office box in Denton, Delaware and a phone number.
Minutes later, after two knocks, the door opened. “Well, Little Miss Muffet, what the fuck happened today?”
I was in no mood for taking shit from Charlie. “Along came a spider and sat down beside me and frightened the Secret Service ...”
“That spider is apparently a personal friend of Hunter.” Charlie was huffy.
“Who Hunter? Hunter who?”
“Hunter Biden, you idiot! The vice president's son. They went to Georgetown – not at the same time - and worked together on civic stuff in Delaware.”
“Do you also know his birth sign? I bet he's a Libra.”
Charlie scowled some more and then asked, “Where's Frank?”
“How would I know? How your 'thing' with him going, anyway?”
Charlie softened at once. “He's so much … smarter than you ever said. He got good basic business sense and he's serious and he's … HARDLY the selfish prick you called him.”
I shrugged. “I've been wrong before … You didn't mention what a hot body he has.”
“I don't need to tell you that.” Charlie was as testy as I was.
“Is Frank going to make us not friends?” I asked him evenly; at once I realized I was indifferent to his answer.
“It's up to you,” Charlie said and left. It would have been funnier if he had 'spun on his heel' but he was rarely that demonstrative - just verbal by the bushel.
Fuckin' drama queen, I thought. Do I really need that? I'm the one not getting laid … if you don't count Jawan … and why would you count something so blatantly commercial? On the other hand, twenty dollars a pop was a huge bargain … even if it was just an introductory rate. I wondered what the regular price would be. I guess it wouldn't hurt to find out.
“Three hundred dollars!!!!” I almost broke the phone in my hand.
“The thing to remember is it doesn't have to be at the gym. I make house calls,” Jawan answered. “Think about it, Refo. A personally tailored exercise program in the privacy of your home. Not to mention the convenience. And maybe we could work out something on the price if you were a regular. You're easy to work with … Responsive … I got the idea you liked it … Of course, we can vary the program, if you want … I can be versatile ...”
“Three hundred, Jawan ...”
“I said it's negotiable … Think about it … Your own personal trainer – on your schedule … results guaranteed ...”
“I'll think about it,” I told him and put the phone down.
It annoyed the hell out of me that I got a huge erection while talking to him. Jeez, he's not even that attractive … if his dick was any bigger it would be torture … it wasn't though … and with that ass of his it would be a nice soft cushion for screwing him … it hadn't occurred to me that he would be willing to take it ... yeah, I liked bottoming, but a little variety never hurt.
The phone buzzed. Area code 216. Where's that? “Hello.”
“Refo? It's Carter Guerin. I wanted to call and thank you for the … Photograph isn't a good enough word. It's really a work of art.”
“Glad you like it, Carter.” I squeezed my Jawan-inspired erection and felt a surge of heat.
“I even got an offer. Somebody wanted to buy it. You're that good!”
“Listen, about those other shots ...”
“Forget it. I over-reacted.”
“But you have to know that they'll never show up on the Internet or anything. I'll delete them. I just haven't got around to it yet, but I will. I promise, Carter.”
“Ok, thanks. I appreciate that. And thanks again for the gift. The picture really is wonderful.”
We ended by telling each other the usual, vague 'if you're ever in Cleveland/Washington' lines about being sure to call. It was never going to happen, but, God, it was good to talk to him. San Francisco memories came flooding back. I turned on my computer and called up the folder of his pictures. Seeing his face, I ached to kiss him. The next picture displayed his sheet-draped body and I wanted to touch him. Seeing his erection made me want to suck him. So what if I don't like oral, the sucking was only to get him ready, get him primed. The slideshow of pictures looped again, it got me thinking back to that first day, when he didn't ask, he just fucked me. I rolled back on the bed and fingered my asshole, imagining it was Carter.
Thirty years old and I was jacking off to porn. Carter was right. Yes, it was porn except I had real memories to go with it. Carter was no fantasy; I had the pictures as proof. I licked my lips, watching his hard dick and tight balls, . He was real and hot and … It happened fast. My sperm almost hit the keyboard. I quickly got naked and wiped it up with my underwear. Then I had time for a leisurely second go around. It took longer, of course, and gave me time to relive every minute of the time in San Francisco, gave me time for slow stroking, time to play with my asshole, my nipples, my balls … The second time was draining but less messy. I cleaned up and was ready to take a shower when the phone rang again. Carter calling back. I answered without looking.
“Refo? It's Woody Sanchez … I met you in San Francisco? At the convention?”
“Right. I remember.” Woody's nasal whine killed the last hint of hardness in my already wilting dick.
“I'm coming to Washington and ...” Woody was coming on a school-sponsored trip, he explained, the trouble being the group was staying at some to-hell-and-gone cheap motel near Dulles airport and he wondered if he could spend a night at my place to see the lab over two days.
“Woody, my place is really small, one bed, ...”
“I can sleep on the floor. Just one night. Please, Refo ... It's my only chance ... “
I'm such a sucker for sob stories. So now Charlie hates me and this kid is going to sleep on my floor, what next? Doesn't bad luck come in threes?
I showered, got into bed, and picked up a biography of Linus Pauling. I heard Frank get home. He transited my bedroom being very quiet – just a wave to me on his way to the bathroom. He looked freshly fucked and blissful and it pissed me off.
That snake Charlie is fuckin' my boyfriend. But he wasn't my boyfriend, I told myself. Doesn't matter, I answered myself. It just isn't right for Charlie to do it. I couldn't get interested in the biography of a scientist whose reputation was more dubious with every passing year. I turned off the light and tried to sleep, wondering if, when Frank was done in the bathroom, he would stumble into my bed in the dark. He didn't.
“What's in the flask?” asked the black-suited, sun-glasses-on- a-cloudy-day guy.
“A little corn mash,” Randy replied with a grin. “Want some?”
“Can I see your invitation, please,” the guy followed up without cracking a smile. Apparently he could read; he continued, “Stay here, please, Mr. Krol.”
“I guess he noticed Biden's autograph,” Randy chuckled. “Us Delaware guys gotta stick together. Cheers, Refo.” We drank off the fire water and Mountain Dew cocktail before the agent and an older but otherwise identical man returned to announce how sorry they were, but we would have to leave.
I glance around as we were being escorted out of the party area and spotted Charlie, who watched with alarm. I gave him a shrug and figured I could catch a bus home or even walk, it wasn't that far.
“Where do you want to go?” Randy asked. “I can at least drive you home.” I agreed and he opened the doors to the biggest, fanciest pickup truck I had ever seen. “Let's have a drink to the Mothers Annoying Drunk Drivers,” he suggested and took a swig from his flask. He didn't seem reckless or drunk either so I went ahead and took a pull. Straight, the stuff had a mild kick, but nothing that would take skin off your throat. “It's only a little stronger than wine,” he commented. “Like it?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Got no name, I make it from corn and apples. Delaware apples aren't the best for eating.” We arrived at the Massachusetts Avenue gate and stopped for the guard, who waved us out without formalities. “Where to?”
“You could go up Connecticut and drop me. That way, you'd be almost to the Beltway.” I directed him up Reno before we cut over to Connecticut. He spotted a restaurant I'd seen but never entered before.
“You hungry? Let me buy you lunch.” He looked at his watch. “Does brunch go until two?”
It did on Sunday. We ordered non-alcoholic Bloody Marys. After the waiter left, Randy adjusted the drinks from his flask. It tasted amazingly good. I began to feel a little buzz after three, but Randy seemed untroubled. He was much bigger than me, not fat, just massive, like a football lineman. He suggested asparagus fritattas and I agreed again. We talked about my work, life in DC, and how much better than Biden's brunch the fritatta was. We left at four; I never notice the two hours pass.
“You can drop me at Jenifer Strteet,” I told him. “I'll walk the rest of the way.”
“I'll take you home, if you don't mind. I'd like to fill my water bottle for the rest of the trip.”
I couldn't disagree with that. I left him waiting in the living room while I took his bottle to the kitchen. I filled it with some Deer Park out of the fridge and took it back to him.
“Awesome pictures,” he commented, looking at Carter and Lucien on the wall.
“I call them Hanes One and Hanes Two.” He didn't immediately see why. “Because you can read the brand of underwear they're wearing,” I explained.
He nodded at that. “You have a fine appreciation for men.”
No use dancing around the subject, I decided. “Yes, I should tell you I'm gay.” That embarrassed him.
“Yeah, well … thanks for the water and the company. I enjoyed the afternoon.”
“Thanks for the lunch,” I replied.
We walked to the door and it seemed over. He paused. “Um, Refo, here's my card. If you're going to Rehoboth or something this summer, give me a call. Maybe we can get together.”
If you drew a line due east from Washington, you would hit Rehoboth Beach, a Delaware beach resort on the ocean. On weekends, the drive is fiendishly jammed with traffic, but it's worth it on a hundred degree day. I looked at the card after he left. Randy Krol, President, Krol Farms, Incorporated. It listed a post office box in Denton, Delaware and a phone number.
Minutes later, after two knocks, the door opened. “Well, Little Miss Muffet, what the fuck happened today?”
I was in no mood for taking shit from Charlie. “Along came a spider and sat down beside me and frightened the Secret Service ...”
“That spider is apparently a personal friend of Hunter.” Charlie was huffy.
“Who Hunter? Hunter who?”
“Hunter Biden, you idiot! The vice president's son. They went to Georgetown – not at the same time - and worked together on civic stuff in Delaware.”
“Do you also know his birth sign? I bet he's a Libra.”
Charlie scowled some more and then asked, “Where's Frank?”
“How would I know? How your 'thing' with him going, anyway?”
Charlie softened at once. “He's so much … smarter than you ever said. He got good basic business sense and he's serious and he's … HARDLY the selfish prick you called him.”
I shrugged. “I've been wrong before … You didn't mention what a hot body he has.”
“I don't need to tell you that.” Charlie was as testy as I was.
“Is Frank going to make us not friends?” I asked him evenly; at once I realized I was indifferent to his answer.
“It's up to you,” Charlie said and left. It would have been funnier if he had 'spun on his heel' but he was rarely that demonstrative - just verbal by the bushel.
Fuckin' drama queen, I thought. Do I really need that? I'm the one not getting laid … if you don't count Jawan … and why would you count something so blatantly commercial? On the other hand, twenty dollars a pop was a huge bargain … even if it was just an introductory rate. I wondered what the regular price would be. I guess it wouldn't hurt to find out.
“Three hundred dollars!!!!” I almost broke the phone in my hand.
“The thing to remember is it doesn't have to be at the gym. I make house calls,” Jawan answered. “Think about it, Refo. A personally tailored exercise program in the privacy of your home. Not to mention the convenience. And maybe we could work out something on the price if you were a regular. You're easy to work with … Responsive … I got the idea you liked it … Of course, we can vary the program, if you want … I can be versatile ...”
“Three hundred, Jawan ...”
“I said it's negotiable … Think about it … Your own personal trainer – on your schedule … results guaranteed ...”
“I'll think about it,” I told him and put the phone down.
It annoyed the hell out of me that I got a huge erection while talking to him. Jeez, he's not even that attractive … if his dick was any bigger it would be torture … it wasn't though … and with that ass of his it would be a nice soft cushion for screwing him … it hadn't occurred to me that he would be willing to take it ... yeah, I liked bottoming, but a little variety never hurt.
The phone buzzed. Area code 216. Where's that? “Hello.”
“Refo? It's Carter Guerin. I wanted to call and thank you for the … Photograph isn't a good enough word. It's really a work of art.”
“Glad you like it, Carter.” I squeezed my Jawan-inspired erection and felt a surge of heat.
“I even got an offer. Somebody wanted to buy it. You're that good!”
“Listen, about those other shots ...”
“Forget it. I over-reacted.”
“But you have to know that they'll never show up on the Internet or anything. I'll delete them. I just haven't got around to it yet, but I will. I promise, Carter.”
“Ok, thanks. I appreciate that. And thanks again for the gift. The picture really is wonderful.”
We ended by telling each other the usual, vague 'if you're ever in Cleveland/Washington' lines about being sure to call. It was never going to happen, but, God, it was good to talk to him. San Francisco memories came flooding back. I turned on my computer and called up the folder of his pictures. Seeing his face, I ached to kiss him. The next picture displayed his sheet-draped body and I wanted to touch him. Seeing his erection made me want to suck him. So what if I don't like oral, the sucking was only to get him ready, get him primed. The slideshow of pictures looped again, it got me thinking back to that first day, when he didn't ask, he just fucked me. I rolled back on the bed and fingered my asshole, imagining it was Carter.
Thirty years old and I was jacking off to porn. Carter was right. Yes, it was porn except I had real memories to go with it. Carter was no fantasy; I had the pictures as proof. I licked my lips, watching his hard dick and tight balls, . He was real and hot and … It happened fast. My sperm almost hit the keyboard. I quickly got naked and wiped it up with my underwear. Then I had time for a leisurely second go around. It took longer, of course, and gave me time to relive every minute of the time in San Francisco, gave me time for slow stroking, time to play with my asshole, my nipples, my balls … The second time was draining but less messy. I cleaned up and was ready to take a shower when the phone rang again. Carter calling back. I answered without looking.
“Refo? It's Woody Sanchez … I met you in San Francisco? At the convention?”
“Right. I remember.” Woody's nasal whine killed the last hint of hardness in my already wilting dick.
“I'm coming to Washington and ...” Woody was coming on a school-sponsored trip, he explained, the trouble being the group was staying at some to-hell-and-gone cheap motel near Dulles airport and he wondered if he could spend a night at my place to see the lab over two days.
“Woody, my place is really small, one bed, ...”
“I can sleep on the floor. Just one night. Please, Refo ... It's my only chance ... “
I'm such a sucker for sob stories. So now Charlie hates me and this kid is going to sleep on my floor, what next? Doesn't bad luck come in threes?
I showered, got into bed, and picked up a biography of Linus Pauling. I heard Frank get home. He transited my bedroom being very quiet – just a wave to me on his way to the bathroom. He looked freshly fucked and blissful and it pissed me off.
That snake Charlie is fuckin' my boyfriend. But he wasn't my boyfriend, I told myself. Doesn't matter, I answered myself. It just isn't right for Charlie to do it. I couldn't get interested in the biography of a scientist whose reputation was more dubious with every passing year. I turned off the light and tried to sleep, wondering if, when Frank was done in the bathroom, he would stumble into my bed in the dark. He didn't.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Am I the only one liking this story? It doesn't seem to be attracting many readers.
Hi, Rory.
I'm enjoying your story very much. I've had a bit of a stressful last couple of weeks.
You don't frequent the F&G threads I haunt, or you'd have had a better idea about it.
My mom had brain surgery yesterday. She's doing so well they're kicking her out of the hospital tomorrow.
Short term great; longer term probably not so great.
And, I just found out tonight that Lefty - one of our JUB fixtures, passed away at 23:30PDT yesterday.
I'm enjoying your story very much. I've had a bit of a stressful last couple of weeks.
You don't frequent the F&G threads I haunt, or you'd have had a better idea about it.
My mom had brain surgery yesterday. She's doing so well they're kicking her out of the hospital tomorrow.
Short term great; longer term probably not so great.
And, I just found out tonight that Lefty - one of our JUB fixtures, passed away at 23:30PDT yesterday.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Oh, how sad for you, both events.
I always enjoyed Lefty's posts.
I always enjoyed Lefty's posts.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Eleven
“Lasciate ogni speranza …” Hell's motto should have been carved over the door I stared at.. How did it come to this? Well, it was easy – a slippery slope, as they say.
My euphoria over Carter's call didn't last, leaving me with renewed and resharpened Carter-withdrawal pains. Then it didn't help that Frank seemed to be disgustingly happy with whatever was going on in his life, the details of which could only be depressing – for me, not for Frank. I didn't ask and he didn't tell except he was being bubbly and cute all the time. So annoying. The only break in the gloom was finding a package at my door a couple of days ago after work. It was a chocolate cuckoo clock from Lucien; it came with a handwritten note thanking me for the offer of a crash pad. So fucking polite, those Swiss. Finally the visit by Woody Sanchez loomed. Just what I didn't need: forty-eight hours of nerdy collegiate enthusiasm. So was it any wonder I called Jawan? Jawan was weird, yes; complicated, no.
Except here I was facing his door and losing my nerve and ready to abandon my $59.95 plus tax. Could anything that started with a dry mouth and dread possibly have Jawan's promised happy ending? Twice I raised my hand to knock and twice I held fire, eventually knocking on his nose when he opened the door unexpectedly.
“Refo! I was just coming to look for you.” With an odd glance at my raised fist he ushered me into his office.
“Is this ok?” I gestured to my workout outfit, which was voluminous basketball shorts, a t-shirt, and high tops.
“Doesn't matter. Anything your comfortable in that gives you freedom of movement is good.” He was being very clinical and professional, consulting the data he had collected from me last time. “Your weight's good, so I think you should aim at building up your shoulders and arms to give you a better overall proportion.”
“You're the doctor,” I answered.
“Actually, you are!” No black accent. He laughed at his joke about my PhD. “Let's go to the weight room.”
We began with some easy stretches, abdominal crunches, and back extensions; then we moved on to curls and bench presses. Jawan explained how to accomplish the same thing without weights. I expected some effort to sell me a set of weights but it never came.
“I'm trying to sell my services, not weight sets, but if you want weights, go to a discount store. Start with ten-pound hand weights and a hundred and ten pound bar set. Shouldn't cost you more than a hundred and fifty tops. No need to pay more unless you decide to get serious.”
His advice sounded reasonable and professional. I kept listening for some sexual innuendo and heard none. He took me through different sets emphasizing the variety of things possible with a limited equipment suite. He did touch me now and then, but there was no sexual component to it. He merely pointed out what I should feel in different muscle groups as the workout continued.
“You can do all this on your own, but some people need the structure and discipline of a program to keep with it and a cash commitment doubles the bond.”
“Do you think I need a little discipline?” I couldn't resist a tease. It was the only time he responded; I got the bare hint of a smile back. And then, on time, the session was over. “Where's the happy ending?” I asked when we were back in his office.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Great! Ready for anything!” And that was a fact, I felt better than I had in days.
“There's your happy ending, Refo. You'll sleep better and feel great tomorrow, too.” He was dismissing me.
“Where's the black accent, John?”
“I figured you didn't need it.” He explained further. “Being a salesman is like being an actor. I do what I think will work depending on my audience.” My session was plainly over.
“You kind of hinted that ...”
“I'm off on Mondays. You want to see a movie?” He was asking me out on a date.
“I can't on Monday. This kid is visiting the lab and ...” He cut me off with a shrug.
“Ok, maybe another time, then. See you next week for lesson two.”
Wow. Not what I was expecting at all. I went over his sales pitch. He had almost promised sex. I mean, he all but said we'd fuck. “But you said ...”
“I'm sorry if you misinterpreted my offer. I'm a personal trainer, not a prostitute. See you next Wednesday.”
I walked to my locker planning to change and get out of the club fast. Tay changed my mind. He had just come in and was getting ready for his workout. For some reason, well, I guess I know the reason: he was cute, I wanted to see if he wore Hanes underwear. We talked about the club, mostly about the fact that nobody used the pool. I slowed down changing because he was going even slower. Finally he took off his pants and I immediately learned he wasn't wearing Hanes - he wasn't wearing any underwear. Once he took his pants off he quickly shed the rest. He remained naked and talking, making no move to put on workout gear.
I think I avoided staring, but it wasn't easy. His complexion was light but without any hint of Western ruddiness, a pale cocoa; and like many Asians his body was almost hairless except for an explosion of dense pubic hair surrounding an uncut cock and big but tight balls that were much darker in color than his skin. I wanted to explore his body at leisure but settled for stolen glances.
At a loss for something else to say, I told him I had just finished a training session with Jawan. His face lit up and he came close, so close his cock grazed my thigh. “Did you fuck him?” he whispered in my ear.
I was shocked by the question - ok, not so much by the question as by his asking it. “No!” I could hear the astonishment in my voice. Tay recoiled. I quickly added, “I mean, I would have, but … Is that part of the session?”
“I think so. With Jawan, it is, ” he said shyly, not sure how much he should say to me. I noticed a bit of arousal. A pink head was peeking out of Tay's foreskin. He quickly pulled on a pair of gym shorts to cover himself and then the rest of his gear.
We walked out of the locker room together like fellow conspirators, splitting up near the exit. An farewell exchange of smiles sealed a bond.
I showered at home and climbed into bed. Jawan was right about sleeping well; I'll give him that. I overslept the next morning and was late getting to work, which fired perverse delight in Sarah Felsen.
She relished my failures and elaborately looked at her watch. “Good MORNING, what's left of it.”
“Um, yeah … Can I get you a coffee?” My peace offering was rejected, but at least she was nice about it.
“What did you do with the cowboy on Sunday?”
“He's a farmer. Nothing. We had a drink.”
“You're slipping. I figured you'd ...”
“We didn't,” I cut her off. She had figured out I was gay after being in the lab a month but we had never discussed it.
“Too bad. You always miss out on the good ones.” That was a more pointedly personal remark than she had ever made before. “I guess we have that in common.”
“Yeah?” She had my interest. “Who is missing from your life?”
“Thousands, but at the moment that cute guy from Olympus, Lucien. Have you heard him speak German? It sounds …” She struggled for a comparison and settled for, “Nothing like German. Nice build though, must be walking up and down all those mountains.”
“He lives in Baltimore … Essex.”
She rolled her eyes. “Baltimore is the only city where the slums are water-front property.”
“Is Essex is a slum area?” Except for going to a few baseball games at Camden Yards, I didn't know Baltimore at all.
“Well … it's … miscellaneous.” She made the word sound pejorative. “I could get him a better place,” she speculated. “Much closer to Washington.” I could see the wheels of her mind trying different gears.
“I offered him a crash pad arrangement. He said no. Why don't you try?”
“Refo, you're such a genius, sometimes, once or twice a … season.”
I went for my coffee pitying Lucien. A guy in front of me dropped a quarter trying to feed the machine. He bent to pick it up. He had a beefy ass and was wearing Joe Boxers. He was wearing them very high; they couldn't feel comfortable at all. No little strip of skin showed to tempt me. Then I noticed he was a girl. She pressed the buttons for vanilla-hazelnut with extra cream. No taste at all.
“Lasciate ogni speranza …” Hell's motto should have been carved over the door I stared at.. How did it come to this? Well, it was easy – a slippery slope, as they say.
My euphoria over Carter's call didn't last, leaving me with renewed and resharpened Carter-withdrawal pains. Then it didn't help that Frank seemed to be disgustingly happy with whatever was going on in his life, the details of which could only be depressing – for me, not for Frank. I didn't ask and he didn't tell except he was being bubbly and cute all the time. So annoying. The only break in the gloom was finding a package at my door a couple of days ago after work. It was a chocolate cuckoo clock from Lucien; it came with a handwritten note thanking me for the offer of a crash pad. So fucking polite, those Swiss. Finally the visit by Woody Sanchez loomed. Just what I didn't need: forty-eight hours of nerdy collegiate enthusiasm. So was it any wonder I called Jawan? Jawan was weird, yes; complicated, no.
Except here I was facing his door and losing my nerve and ready to abandon my $59.95 plus tax. Could anything that started with a dry mouth and dread possibly have Jawan's promised happy ending? Twice I raised my hand to knock and twice I held fire, eventually knocking on his nose when he opened the door unexpectedly.
“Refo! I was just coming to look for you.” With an odd glance at my raised fist he ushered me into his office.
“Is this ok?” I gestured to my workout outfit, which was voluminous basketball shorts, a t-shirt, and high tops.
“Doesn't matter. Anything your comfortable in that gives you freedom of movement is good.” He was being very clinical and professional, consulting the data he had collected from me last time. “Your weight's good, so I think you should aim at building up your shoulders and arms to give you a better overall proportion.”
“You're the doctor,” I answered.
“Actually, you are!” No black accent. He laughed at his joke about my PhD. “Let's go to the weight room.”
We began with some easy stretches, abdominal crunches, and back extensions; then we moved on to curls and bench presses. Jawan explained how to accomplish the same thing without weights. I expected some effort to sell me a set of weights but it never came.
“I'm trying to sell my services, not weight sets, but if you want weights, go to a discount store. Start with ten-pound hand weights and a hundred and ten pound bar set. Shouldn't cost you more than a hundred and fifty tops. No need to pay more unless you decide to get serious.”
His advice sounded reasonable and professional. I kept listening for some sexual innuendo and heard none. He took me through different sets emphasizing the variety of things possible with a limited equipment suite. He did touch me now and then, but there was no sexual component to it. He merely pointed out what I should feel in different muscle groups as the workout continued.
“You can do all this on your own, but some people need the structure and discipline of a program to keep with it and a cash commitment doubles the bond.”
“Do you think I need a little discipline?” I couldn't resist a tease. It was the only time he responded; I got the bare hint of a smile back. And then, on time, the session was over. “Where's the happy ending?” I asked when we were back in his office.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Great! Ready for anything!” And that was a fact, I felt better than I had in days.
“There's your happy ending, Refo. You'll sleep better and feel great tomorrow, too.” He was dismissing me.
“Where's the black accent, John?”
“I figured you didn't need it.” He explained further. “Being a salesman is like being an actor. I do what I think will work depending on my audience.” My session was plainly over.
“You kind of hinted that ...”
“I'm off on Mondays. You want to see a movie?” He was asking me out on a date.
“I can't on Monday. This kid is visiting the lab and ...” He cut me off with a shrug.
“Ok, maybe another time, then. See you next week for lesson two.”
Wow. Not what I was expecting at all. I went over his sales pitch. He had almost promised sex. I mean, he all but said we'd fuck. “But you said ...”
“I'm sorry if you misinterpreted my offer. I'm a personal trainer, not a prostitute. See you next Wednesday.”
I walked to my locker planning to change and get out of the club fast. Tay changed my mind. He had just come in and was getting ready for his workout. For some reason, well, I guess I know the reason: he was cute, I wanted to see if he wore Hanes underwear. We talked about the club, mostly about the fact that nobody used the pool. I slowed down changing because he was going even slower. Finally he took off his pants and I immediately learned he wasn't wearing Hanes - he wasn't wearing any underwear. Once he took his pants off he quickly shed the rest. He remained naked and talking, making no move to put on workout gear.
I think I avoided staring, but it wasn't easy. His complexion was light but without any hint of Western ruddiness, a pale cocoa; and like many Asians his body was almost hairless except for an explosion of dense pubic hair surrounding an uncut cock and big but tight balls that were much darker in color than his skin. I wanted to explore his body at leisure but settled for stolen glances.
At a loss for something else to say, I told him I had just finished a training session with Jawan. His face lit up and he came close, so close his cock grazed my thigh. “Did you fuck him?” he whispered in my ear.
I was shocked by the question - ok, not so much by the question as by his asking it. “No!” I could hear the astonishment in my voice. Tay recoiled. I quickly added, “I mean, I would have, but … Is that part of the session?”
“I think so. With Jawan, it is, ” he said shyly, not sure how much he should say to me. I noticed a bit of arousal. A pink head was peeking out of Tay's foreskin. He quickly pulled on a pair of gym shorts to cover himself and then the rest of his gear.
We walked out of the locker room together like fellow conspirators, splitting up near the exit. An farewell exchange of smiles sealed a bond.
I showered at home and climbed into bed. Jawan was right about sleeping well; I'll give him that. I overslept the next morning and was late getting to work, which fired perverse delight in Sarah Felsen.
She relished my failures and elaborately looked at her watch. “Good MORNING, what's left of it.”
“Um, yeah … Can I get you a coffee?” My peace offering was rejected, but at least she was nice about it.
“What did you do with the cowboy on Sunday?”
“He's a farmer. Nothing. We had a drink.”
“You're slipping. I figured you'd ...”
“We didn't,” I cut her off. She had figured out I was gay after being in the lab a month but we had never discussed it.
“Too bad. You always miss out on the good ones.” That was a more pointedly personal remark than she had ever made before. “I guess we have that in common.”
“Yeah?” She had my interest. “Who is missing from your life?”
“Thousands, but at the moment that cute guy from Olympus, Lucien. Have you heard him speak German? It sounds …” She struggled for a comparison and settled for, “Nothing like German. Nice build though, must be walking up and down all those mountains.”
“He lives in Baltimore … Essex.”
She rolled her eyes. “Baltimore is the only city where the slums are water-front property.”
“Is Essex is a slum area?” Except for going to a few baseball games at Camden Yards, I didn't know Baltimore at all.
“Well … it's … miscellaneous.” She made the word sound pejorative. “I could get him a better place,” she speculated. “Much closer to Washington.” I could see the wheels of her mind trying different gears.
“I offered him a crash pad arrangement. He said no. Why don't you try?”
“Refo, you're such a genius, sometimes, once or twice a … season.”
I went for my coffee pitying Lucien. A guy in front of me dropped a quarter trying to feed the machine. He bent to pick it up. He had a beefy ass and was wearing Joe Boxers. He was wearing them very high; they couldn't feel comfortable at all. No little strip of skin showed to tempt me. Then I noticed he was a girl. She pressed the buttons for vanilla-hazelnut with extra cream. No taste at all.
, may relate themselves to Refo one way or another.
I concur. What is going on w/ Jawan?
Maybe he wants more on a personal level, so Fucking's not going to be part of their "professional" arrangement.
Maybe he wants more on a personal level, so Fucking's not going to be part of their "professional" arrangement.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Twelve
The week dragged and gave me two problems that were not all that new. I was horny and I was lonely. Physical release would have been good enough, maybe; but I really needed some human contact. Masturbation wasn't doing it at all for me, and even Carter's pictures were beginning to look old. It took me a while to realize how much I had been anticipating my planned session with Jawan. Then Thursday afternoon I nearly asked Sarah Felsen if she wanted to meet after work for a drink. It was that close; fortunately I overcame the impulse. She would have laughed her ass off, said no, and then tortured me for weeks with her new advantage over me.
So how to account for Jawan? Tay's belief that a training session with Jawan, ipso facto, included sex was puzzling. Was Jawan rejecting me? After his sales pitch I thought he was more than eager for another go. Maybe he prefers Tay. That would be believable; Tay was subtly appealing, low key, one of those seemingly-straight guys you just know would be dynamite if you could ever get him in bed. But, from what Tay said, it wasn't just him. It sounded like Jawan was ready for anybody. Anybody but me, apparently. What made Jawan's rejection harder to take was he had been with me twice, so it wasn't a case of casual rejection. He had thought it over and after due deliberation decided he wasn't interested.
Ok, I've heard no before and I'm not suicidal over it, but tossed on the trash heap by Jawan wasn't the best feeling in the world. I was tempted to go to Cobalt. I knew I could pick up somebody, and not just anybody. As long as I didn't try to dance, I was good looking enough to have a choice of two or three decent prospects. The trouble was the odds were good that the guy would be into something I wasn't, something totally freaky, or sickly weird, or flat out dangerous. Or his great clothes would conceal some fatal flaw like a bifurcated dick or fused balls. Pick-ups can be so disappointing and you never find out until you have over-invested and it's too late.
So I picked up the Linus Pauling book again. Who cares about his early life? Get to the science, I begged the author. He ignored me. I had to admit one of Linus's sons was seriously hot, but that picture had been taken in the 1940's, which by now would make him dead, probably. It was an amazing picture, though. I wondered if the photographer had the hots for the kid. Out of a group of ho-hum people, the kid was arresting, he stood out as if he was spot lit. He had a cute, 'who me?' smile and his legs look great even under the baggy pants style of the time. The photographer was definitely interested. I looked up the photo credit, but it was a name I didn't know. I turned out the light and tried without success to sleep.
Where was Frank? Frank hadn't been home for a couple of nights. Did he still think of my place as 'home'? I missed him but I tried not to think about it. Still sleepless after a half hour, I was glad when the phone rang, glad, that is, until saw who was calling.
“Refo, I'm at the airport.”
“It's not Sunday, Woody.” I prepared for the worst.
“I know, but there was a chance for a couple of extra days and I had no time to call you and I just hoped ...”
“Ok, ok … Take the Metro to Friendship Heights. It should take you a half hour or so, I'll meet you in the rotunda at the top of the first escalator.”
After a pause with muffled voices in the background, Woody continued, “There's no Metro at Dulles.”
Dulles Airport is an annoying distance away, about forty miles and there is no direct public transit. I agreed to pick him up. Because one of my front wheels had bad bearings I couldn't go over forty-five, making a long night longer. I hoped Woody hadn't brought a lot of stuff. My car was half-full of junk already. An hour later I drove slowly past the front of the airport and spotted Woody standing near the middle exit with his backpack and a suitcase. As I got closer I could see it was the mother-of-all-backpacks.
“Refo!” He waved me over. Twenty minutes later, after rearranging everything in the trunk and unpacking some of Woody's stuff so his backpack would fit into the back seat, we pulled away from the loading zone.
“Is this as fast as it goes?” Woody asked once we were on the expressway.
“Yes,” I answered in a way that shut him up for a few seconds.
“Bearings, huh? Right front? I can hear the gaps in the race,” he said. “I could fix it, if you want to buy a part. The dealer should have the part. It's been a problem for this model.”
“I thought Japanese cars were flawless,” I suggested.
“Not this one,” Woody answered confidently.
A half hour later we exited onto the Beltway where the traffic was much worse. “We get off at the second exit in Maryland.” I tried to be reassuring. We took River Road into the District and then zigged and zagged our way to my house. It was well after midnight when we got there.
The suitcase in the truck contained his science project, Woody explained. So only his monster backpack went into the part of the house that was mine. I went into the kitchen while Woody unpacked a bit and took a shower.
My God! I almost dropped the beers I had just taken out of the refrigerator. Was I supposed to see that? Woody stood stock still and totally naked positioned where I could see him through the door. Did he pause a little too long? Was he giving me a show? Was that huge thing really his cock? I wished I had my camera. The show ended suddenly as he walked to the bathroom.
I put the beers and some nachos on the table and listened to the water run while I waited for his return. I held my breath when I heard the water shut off and then breathed easier when he entered the room with a towel around his waist. He dropped it and dressed quickly; I got only a brief view of his possible entry for the Guinness Record Book. I'm sure his very slender build made it look bigger than it really was. Still, it was hard to imagine what the erect version would look like based on the usual expansion possibilities of most penises. He pulled on some billowy boxers and hid everything in some even baggier khaki-colored jeans.
We drank a beer and went over his plans for the lab visit. It wasn't difficult to end the night. He was way too young and nerdy for me anyway. The drive and the beer put me right to sleep. I thought I heard him use the bathroom once during the night but I could have been dreaming
The next morning I got up and went into the living room. Woody wasn't on the floor – he was sleeping on Frank's mattress and … “WHO'S THAT?” I asked the other head of hair sleeping with him. My surprised shout woke both of them.
“I live here, remember?” came the sleepy sounding answer. It was Frank. Sleeping with Woody! He rolled over and faced me. “Morning, Refo.”
While I took in the scene and imagined a dozen things, Woody got up and headed for the bathroom. Although he was still wearing his voluminous boxers, I could see something ponderous move within them.
“Did you ...” I pointed at Frank “...and him ... ” I pointed toward the bathroom.
Frank's eyes widened to bright blue and he whispered in awe, “Have you seen his dick?”
“Yes,” but how could I explain that? “I mean, NO,” but that was a lie. “Sort of ...”
“We had a mule once … “
“Frank!” I hissed at him.
“Oh, don't worry. Nothing happened. It's a big mattress and we shared. That's all. He says it's not even eight inches, but I wonder if he has measured it lately. It sure looks ...”
“Frank!” I could hear Woody returning from the bathroom and tried to end the discussion.
“We were discussing your dick,” Frank announced.
Woody laughed. “A lot of people do. I'm telling you it's not that big.” Somehow, I expected him to show us proof on the spot, but he didn't. He dressed quickly and asked where he could get breakfast. With my direction, he left for the Steak and Eggs, a terrible but nearby restaurant.
I picked up the remains of our beer and nachos and took them into the kitchen. I was at the sink when I felt Frank come up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and snuggled up. “I wasn't gonna molest your young house guest.”
It felt so good, so comfortable to be standing next to him; and then I felt something else. “Do you have a hard on?”
“O' course,” he murmured.
I could feel his body against mine and his breath on my neck. I longed to feel his lips on my neck; but he just held me. I turned around in his arms and looked at him. It was spontaneous. I kissed him. It felt perfect and he kissed me back. Gentle. Sweet. Lingering. Finally Frank pulled back.
“What was that about?” he asked, still holding me by the waist.
“I miss you.”
He gave me a follow-up brush of his lips on my cheek and moved away. “I know, Refo, but we've moved on … Haven't we?”
“We could think about it ...”
“We have thought about it. You were pretty adamant about that.”
“Maybe I was wrong ...” I was starting to sound pathetic even to myself.
“You just need somebody new to fill the gap.”
He was right, of course. How did Frank get to be so smart about me? I did need somebody new, but right now the old felt so good. At that moment I would have done anything Frank wanted. I would have sucked his cock all day if he wanted – just to be close to him. Instead he wanted to leave.
“That place I'm fixing up is almost done. I'll probably be gone by the weekend.”
I wanted to tell him he didn't need to hurry. I wanted to tell him not to go. The words formed in my head, I love you, Frank. But I didn't tell him. I ached inside and I could barely keep my voice steady to ask him if he needed help moving.
“Thanks, Reef. There's nothing much to move, really. It all fits in the truck.”
By the time Woody got back I had pulled myself together - only Sarah Felsen could tell something was wrong. On the quiet Saturday morning she was almost the only one in. She greeted Woody amiably when we got to the lab and then whispered to me, “What the fuck? You look like a truck hit you.”
The week dragged and gave me two problems that were not all that new. I was horny and I was lonely. Physical release would have been good enough, maybe; but I really needed some human contact. Masturbation wasn't doing it at all for me, and even Carter's pictures were beginning to look old. It took me a while to realize how much I had been anticipating my planned session with Jawan. Then Thursday afternoon I nearly asked Sarah Felsen if she wanted to meet after work for a drink. It was that close; fortunately I overcame the impulse. She would have laughed her ass off, said no, and then tortured me for weeks with her new advantage over me.
So how to account for Jawan? Tay's belief that a training session with Jawan, ipso facto, included sex was puzzling. Was Jawan rejecting me? After his sales pitch I thought he was more than eager for another go. Maybe he prefers Tay. That would be believable; Tay was subtly appealing, low key, one of those seemingly-straight guys you just know would be dynamite if you could ever get him in bed. But, from what Tay said, it wasn't just him. It sounded like Jawan was ready for anybody. Anybody but me, apparently. What made Jawan's rejection harder to take was he had been with me twice, so it wasn't a case of casual rejection. He had thought it over and after due deliberation decided he wasn't interested.
Ok, I've heard no before and I'm not suicidal over it, but tossed on the trash heap by Jawan wasn't the best feeling in the world. I was tempted to go to Cobalt. I knew I could pick up somebody, and not just anybody. As long as I didn't try to dance, I was good looking enough to have a choice of two or three decent prospects. The trouble was the odds were good that the guy would be into something I wasn't, something totally freaky, or sickly weird, or flat out dangerous. Or his great clothes would conceal some fatal flaw like a bifurcated dick or fused balls. Pick-ups can be so disappointing and you never find out until you have over-invested and it's too late.
So I picked up the Linus Pauling book again. Who cares about his early life? Get to the science, I begged the author. He ignored me. I had to admit one of Linus's sons was seriously hot, but that picture had been taken in the 1940's, which by now would make him dead, probably. It was an amazing picture, though. I wondered if the photographer had the hots for the kid. Out of a group of ho-hum people, the kid was arresting, he stood out as if he was spot lit. He had a cute, 'who me?' smile and his legs look great even under the baggy pants style of the time. The photographer was definitely interested. I looked up the photo credit, but it was a name I didn't know. I turned out the light and tried without success to sleep.
Where was Frank? Frank hadn't been home for a couple of nights. Did he still think of my place as 'home'? I missed him but I tried not to think about it. Still sleepless after a half hour, I was glad when the phone rang, glad, that is, until saw who was calling.
“Refo, I'm at the airport.”
“It's not Sunday, Woody.” I prepared for the worst.
“I know, but there was a chance for a couple of extra days and I had no time to call you and I just hoped ...”
“Ok, ok … Take the Metro to Friendship Heights. It should take you a half hour or so, I'll meet you in the rotunda at the top of the first escalator.”
After a pause with muffled voices in the background, Woody continued, “There's no Metro at Dulles.”
Dulles Airport is an annoying distance away, about forty miles and there is no direct public transit. I agreed to pick him up. Because one of my front wheels had bad bearings I couldn't go over forty-five, making a long night longer. I hoped Woody hadn't brought a lot of stuff. My car was half-full of junk already. An hour later I drove slowly past the front of the airport and spotted Woody standing near the middle exit with his backpack and a suitcase. As I got closer I could see it was the mother-of-all-backpacks.
“Refo!” He waved me over. Twenty minutes later, after rearranging everything in the trunk and unpacking some of Woody's stuff so his backpack would fit into the back seat, we pulled away from the loading zone.
“Is this as fast as it goes?” Woody asked once we were on the expressway.
“Yes,” I answered in a way that shut him up for a few seconds.
“Bearings, huh? Right front? I can hear the gaps in the race,” he said. “I could fix it, if you want to buy a part. The dealer should have the part. It's been a problem for this model.”
“I thought Japanese cars were flawless,” I suggested.
“Not this one,” Woody answered confidently.
A half hour later we exited onto the Beltway where the traffic was much worse. “We get off at the second exit in Maryland.” I tried to be reassuring. We took River Road into the District and then zigged and zagged our way to my house. It was well after midnight when we got there.
The suitcase in the truck contained his science project, Woody explained. So only his monster backpack went into the part of the house that was mine. I went into the kitchen while Woody unpacked a bit and took a shower.
My God! I almost dropped the beers I had just taken out of the refrigerator. Was I supposed to see that? Woody stood stock still and totally naked positioned where I could see him through the door. Did he pause a little too long? Was he giving me a show? Was that huge thing really his cock? I wished I had my camera. The show ended suddenly as he walked to the bathroom.
I put the beers and some nachos on the table and listened to the water run while I waited for his return. I held my breath when I heard the water shut off and then breathed easier when he entered the room with a towel around his waist. He dropped it and dressed quickly; I got only a brief view of his possible entry for the Guinness Record Book. I'm sure his very slender build made it look bigger than it really was. Still, it was hard to imagine what the erect version would look like based on the usual expansion possibilities of most penises. He pulled on some billowy boxers and hid everything in some even baggier khaki-colored jeans.
We drank a beer and went over his plans for the lab visit. It wasn't difficult to end the night. He was way too young and nerdy for me anyway. The drive and the beer put me right to sleep. I thought I heard him use the bathroom once during the night but I could have been dreaming
The next morning I got up and went into the living room. Woody wasn't on the floor – he was sleeping on Frank's mattress and … “WHO'S THAT?” I asked the other head of hair sleeping with him. My surprised shout woke both of them.
“I live here, remember?” came the sleepy sounding answer. It was Frank. Sleeping with Woody! He rolled over and faced me. “Morning, Refo.”
While I took in the scene and imagined a dozen things, Woody got up and headed for the bathroom. Although he was still wearing his voluminous boxers, I could see something ponderous move within them.
“Did you ...” I pointed at Frank “...and him ... ” I pointed toward the bathroom.
Frank's eyes widened to bright blue and he whispered in awe, “Have you seen his dick?”
“Yes,” but how could I explain that? “I mean, NO,” but that was a lie. “Sort of ...”
“We had a mule once … “
“Frank!” I hissed at him.
“Oh, don't worry. Nothing happened. It's a big mattress and we shared. That's all. He says it's not even eight inches, but I wonder if he has measured it lately. It sure looks ...”
“Frank!” I could hear Woody returning from the bathroom and tried to end the discussion.
“We were discussing your dick,” Frank announced.
Woody laughed. “A lot of people do. I'm telling you it's not that big.” Somehow, I expected him to show us proof on the spot, but he didn't. He dressed quickly and asked where he could get breakfast. With my direction, he left for the Steak and Eggs, a terrible but nearby restaurant.
I picked up the remains of our beer and nachos and took them into the kitchen. I was at the sink when I felt Frank come up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and snuggled up. “I wasn't gonna molest your young house guest.”
It felt so good, so comfortable to be standing next to him; and then I felt something else. “Do you have a hard on?”
“O' course,” he murmured.
I could feel his body against mine and his breath on my neck. I longed to feel his lips on my neck; but he just held me. I turned around in his arms and looked at him. It was spontaneous. I kissed him. It felt perfect and he kissed me back. Gentle. Sweet. Lingering. Finally Frank pulled back.
“What was that about?” he asked, still holding me by the waist.
“I miss you.”
He gave me a follow-up brush of his lips on my cheek and moved away. “I know, Refo, but we've moved on … Haven't we?”
“We could think about it ...”
“We have thought about it. You were pretty adamant about that.”
“Maybe I was wrong ...” I was starting to sound pathetic even to myself.
“You just need somebody new to fill the gap.”
He was right, of course. How did Frank get to be so smart about me? I did need somebody new, but right now the old felt so good. At that moment I would have done anything Frank wanted. I would have sucked his cock all day if he wanted – just to be close to him. Instead he wanted to leave.
“That place I'm fixing up is almost done. I'll probably be gone by the weekend.”
I wanted to tell him he didn't need to hurry. I wanted to tell him not to go. The words formed in my head, I love you, Frank. But I didn't tell him. I ached inside and I could barely keep my voice steady to ask him if he needed help moving.
“Thanks, Reef. There's nothing much to move, really. It all fits in the truck.”
By the time Woody got back I had pulled myself together - only Sarah Felsen could tell something was wrong. On the quiet Saturday morning she was almost the only one in. She greeted Woody amiably when we got to the lab and then whispered to me, “What the fuck? You look like a truck hit you.”
EasyRory,
A painful chapter - with a feeling I am well acquainted with lately for a different reason.
Refo is definitely having issues.
A painful chapter - with a feeling I am well acquainted with lately for a different reason.
Refo is definitely having issues.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirteen
I have to admit that Sarah Felsen has a nice rack. Her boobs are near perfect - at least in my gay eyes - not too big, not too small, just full enough, and ripe looking, just a little pendulous; she makes a pleasing package. And her hips aren't bad either, on the slim side, almost boyish. If I were a lesbian, I'd be chasing her. The trouble is she knows it and flaunts her body a little. God knows why she flaunts it at me, but I think she does. I think she wants me to know she's hot and available, to know what I'm missing. One time, it must have been a mid-afternoon low-sugar moment, I was daydreaming and looking at her legs. I'll admit I got a little chub. Naturally, she caught me looking and somehow she knew. She never said anything; but there was a 'gotcha' look in her eyes and a flavor of triumph in her as she recrossed her legs and smoothed her lab coat.
Ok, if we were on a desert island with no hope of rescue, I'd do it with Sarah Felsen. There. I said it, if only in my own head; but she knows. Somehow she knows and it gives her leverage. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time I don't give a shit about her, and still she knows she has sexual power over me. It isn't fair.
She cheerfully took Woody on a tour of the facility in exchange for my agreement to read her paper while they were gone. I was ready to nitpick her to death, but my total notes were three and one was on a debatable point of grammar. It was a good paper, publishable somewhere just as written, publishable in a good journal if she beefed up her findings with one more confirming experiment. I told her so when she returned; she accepted my comments with false modesty. Inwardly, she gloated; I could tell.
“What have you done with Woody?” I asked. He didn't seem to be around.
“Refo,” she opened with teasing mystery. “Have you seen his dick? It's huge!”
I was astonished. “He showed you?”
“He didn't have to.” For some reason I breathed easier. “It's so obvious.”
“What?” As far as I could tell, the fashion-free cut of his trousers revealed absolutely nothing; the casual observer could not be completely certain he had legs.
“It's a girl thing. We know.” She gave me an assured look that discouraged any doubt. “So … I asked him to dinner.”
“He's nineteen! You're old enough to be his mo … older sister!” At that point Woody arrived back at the lab, eating an Eskimo Pie and, despite the ice cream, looking much more mature than I had noticed before. He looked at Sarah Felsen as if she was his next dessert.
As a result, Woody is out with Sarah, it's Saturday night, and I'm home alone. Horny? Of course I'm horny. I went to my gym before it got to be too late and I would seem desperate. Charlie said that Washington is full of desperate people and I shouldn't be worried about looking like one of them, but still ... Alone at the gym after eight o'clock? It's the trademark of desperados if you ask me.
The last good looking guy left the locker room as I arrived. The desperados were out in force earlier than I expected. Was I one of them? By age, no; by circumstances … I didn't want to think about it.
As I neared the end of my planned routine, I heard Jawan. “Refo!” A cheery greeting. “You coming next Wednesday? Here, position your elbows closer to your body.” He adjusted my position on the curl machine.
“It's harder that way.”
“It's supposed to be. No pain, no gain. You know the story. If you're not feelin' the burn ...” He smiled with the ad hoc friendliness of a confident salesman.
“Jawan, how come so few people use the pool?”
“Why aren't you using it?”
“I don't have a bathing suit.”
“Yeah. Nobody does and we're not the YMCA. No nude swimming.”
“I don't think the Y allows nude swimming any more, either.”
“Pity,” he said. “Where's that old Spartan spirit? I'm closing up tonight. If you want to swim, just stay late.” He winked at me and adjusted one of his wrist bands.
Did I really want to do that? Mess around with somebody who didn't give a shit? It took me about two seconds to decide. Yeah, I did. All I had to do was kill forty-five minutes working on the weight machines until the place closed. But it would be worth it, I told myself.
I stood near the pool and watched as the lights began going out in various parts of the club. Then with an impressive thud, Jawan threw the breakers that controlled the pool lights and overheads. Two underwater floods stayed on making the pool glow. The red exit lighting added a lurid aura to the room. Jawan came up to me looking devilish and paused. Suddenly with a jab to my shoulder, he pushed me backward making me lose my balance.
“Hey,” he snarled. He jabbed at my other shoulder and then grabbed me before I fell. “You waiting fo' me? Waitin' fo' de fuckin'?” The fake black accent was back. I heard a ripping as he grabbed at my shorts, trying to pull them down. He partially succeeded and then he jammed his hand down my jock, grabbing all he could get hold of. He gave me a squeeze and then pulled his hand out. “Get yo' ass naked and get ready!” He walked away. “Don't be wearin' dem clothes when I get back,” he called over his shoulder.
I felt foolish standing naked and waiting. My dick got hard at first but then began to deflate as the wait continued. I gave it a few strokes and felt the wetness on the tip. I laughed at myself, a little surprised for responding to Jawan's minstrel show. I paused and listened. I could hear the sound of doors slamming come closer and closer. Then the door to the pool room opened and Jawan stood backlit in the red glare. He looked naked and he was almost. I could see the white wrist bands and a small kit of some kind as he came closer. He pushed me backward onto a bench and then knelt in front of me and spread my knees wide apart. “We fuckin'. Right?”
“Yeah,” I answered nervously and watched him remove one wrist band. He double wrapped it around my cock and then hooked it under my balls. It hurt and I said so.
“Shut up,” was his answer. Then he got something out of his bag of tricks and he applied a thick coating of lube to my cock, stroking me to complete hardness. He stood. “Do it to me,” he demanded, handing me the squeeze bottle of lube.
Once he was satisfied with his readiness, he bent me backward onto the bench and lifted my knees to his shoulders. I was afraid he would just ram it in, but he didn't. He teased me with his cock and his body, pushing but not penetrating, coming close, like he was about to kiss me and then backing away. I tried to pull him close enough to kiss, but he resisted instantly.
“This ain't love; we jus' fuckin'.” He kept up the tease until I was moaning quietly from wanting him in me. “Say it!” he demanded.
“Fuck me,” I demanded in return.
“No!” He shifted position and straddled me. Before I knew what was happening he sat on my cock. There were no preliminaries; he sat and took my cock in him. He barely paused before he began a sinuous wiggle, moving his ass in a rotating motion and then raising and lowering himself, working as much of me into his asshole as he could. “Jack me off!” he demanded.
His cock felt like rock in my hand. The skin barely moved on his shaft. The slick friction was purely from my hand and the lube. A lot of lube. I could feel it drip onto my stomach. “Stop!” he ordered. “I don't want to come yet.” He got off me and lay face down now straddling the bench, not me. “Put it back in,” he asked, not a demand this time, just a confident expectation.
I liked the new position, lying on top of him. There was lots of body contact and the pressure of the muscular swell of his ass against my groin added to the feeling. He sighed as I pumped. “Slower. All the way in and all the way out. Open me up every time.” He liked it. “Yeah, I can feel your balls on mine.” The black accent was gone. “Slow, baby. Go slow.”
“I'm gonna cum,” I warned him.
“That's ok, just keep fuckin' me.” I kept a steady rhythm. “Oh, yeah. Keep fuckin' me. You like that ass?” He knew I did; and he liked it too. He was writhing under me, moaning his pleasure. Finally I thrust as deeply as I could and erupted. The spasms were amazing and tinged with something that was almost pain. The cock ring was keeping me from ejaculating. When the spasms passed, it also kept me hard.
He rolled me over and sat on my cock again. He pulled the wrist band off his cock and said, “Jack me off.” He squirmed around on my cock and gave me more direction. “Hold my balls.” No problem doing that. “Squeeze 'em.” He continued squirming more frantically. “Harder. HARDER!” He erupted. His first shot of cum went over my shoulder. The next hit me in the face. The third fell on my chest and more dribbled all over my hand.
“Wow,” I managed as he licked his cum off me.
“Do you think you can get off again?” he asked, stroking my semi-hard dick speculatively.
I was willing to try. We did it missionary, sweet old missionary. He even kissed me a couple of times out of politeness, I guess, because he wasn't very passionate about it. It worked though; I pulled out, ripped the band off my cock and went back in him. A couple more stokes and I came. Considerately, he didn't hurry me and held me against his body while I recovered. We got up a little awkwardly. He was silent and I was desperate to say something.
“So, how come we can't do this after the training sessions? You do it for everybody else.”
“Are you kidding?” I wasn't; I wanted to know. “Dude ...” he was back to being the white boy again, ”You wipe me out. I can't perform for twenty-four hours when we're done. The other customers get pissed off. We're only doing this because I don't have any bookings tomorrow.” He waited for my reply. “I got to think about business,” he added.
“It's just business? That's what this is?”
“What did you think it was?” Jawan was very professional. He gave me a pair of shorts emblazoned with the gym logo to replace the pair he ripped and held the door for me as he let me out of the dark gym. “See you Wednesday for your session?”
“Yeah, sure,” I told him and then I chuckled. Did he really think I was going to wear shorts that advertised a gym famous only for being cheap? Immediately, the realization came that Frank, a connoisseur of gift horses, would wear them without a second thought.
I have to admit that Sarah Felsen has a nice rack. Her boobs are near perfect - at least in my gay eyes - not too big, not too small, just full enough, and ripe looking, just a little pendulous; she makes a pleasing package. And her hips aren't bad either, on the slim side, almost boyish. If I were a lesbian, I'd be chasing her. The trouble is she knows it and flaunts her body a little. God knows why she flaunts it at me, but I think she does. I think she wants me to know she's hot and available, to know what I'm missing. One time, it must have been a mid-afternoon low-sugar moment, I was daydreaming and looking at her legs. I'll admit I got a little chub. Naturally, she caught me looking and somehow she knew. She never said anything; but there was a 'gotcha' look in her eyes and a flavor of triumph in her as she recrossed her legs and smoothed her lab coat.
Ok, if we were on a desert island with no hope of rescue, I'd do it with Sarah Felsen. There. I said it, if only in my own head; but she knows. Somehow she knows and it gives her leverage. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time I don't give a shit about her, and still she knows she has sexual power over me. It isn't fair.
She cheerfully took Woody on a tour of the facility in exchange for my agreement to read her paper while they were gone. I was ready to nitpick her to death, but my total notes were three and one was on a debatable point of grammar. It was a good paper, publishable somewhere just as written, publishable in a good journal if she beefed up her findings with one more confirming experiment. I told her so when she returned; she accepted my comments with false modesty. Inwardly, she gloated; I could tell.
“What have you done with Woody?” I asked. He didn't seem to be around.
“Refo,” she opened with teasing mystery. “Have you seen his dick? It's huge!”
I was astonished. “He showed you?”
“He didn't have to.” For some reason I breathed easier. “It's so obvious.”
“What?” As far as I could tell, the fashion-free cut of his trousers revealed absolutely nothing; the casual observer could not be completely certain he had legs.
“It's a girl thing. We know.” She gave me an assured look that discouraged any doubt. “So … I asked him to dinner.”
“He's nineteen! You're old enough to be his mo … older sister!” At that point Woody arrived back at the lab, eating an Eskimo Pie and, despite the ice cream, looking much more mature than I had noticed before. He looked at Sarah Felsen as if she was his next dessert.
As a result, Woody is out with Sarah, it's Saturday night, and I'm home alone. Horny? Of course I'm horny. I went to my gym before it got to be too late and I would seem desperate. Charlie said that Washington is full of desperate people and I shouldn't be worried about looking like one of them, but still ... Alone at the gym after eight o'clock? It's the trademark of desperados if you ask me.
The last good looking guy left the locker room as I arrived. The desperados were out in force earlier than I expected. Was I one of them? By age, no; by circumstances … I didn't want to think about it.
As I neared the end of my planned routine, I heard Jawan. “Refo!” A cheery greeting. “You coming next Wednesday? Here, position your elbows closer to your body.” He adjusted my position on the curl machine.
“It's harder that way.”
“It's supposed to be. No pain, no gain. You know the story. If you're not feelin' the burn ...” He smiled with the ad hoc friendliness of a confident salesman.
“Jawan, how come so few people use the pool?”
“Why aren't you using it?”
“I don't have a bathing suit.”
“Yeah. Nobody does and we're not the YMCA. No nude swimming.”
“I don't think the Y allows nude swimming any more, either.”
“Pity,” he said. “Where's that old Spartan spirit? I'm closing up tonight. If you want to swim, just stay late.” He winked at me and adjusted one of his wrist bands.
Did I really want to do that? Mess around with somebody who didn't give a shit? It took me about two seconds to decide. Yeah, I did. All I had to do was kill forty-five minutes working on the weight machines until the place closed. But it would be worth it, I told myself.
I stood near the pool and watched as the lights began going out in various parts of the club. Then with an impressive thud, Jawan threw the breakers that controlled the pool lights and overheads. Two underwater floods stayed on making the pool glow. The red exit lighting added a lurid aura to the room. Jawan came up to me looking devilish and paused. Suddenly with a jab to my shoulder, he pushed me backward making me lose my balance.
“Hey,” he snarled. He jabbed at my other shoulder and then grabbed me before I fell. “You waiting fo' me? Waitin' fo' de fuckin'?” The fake black accent was back. I heard a ripping as he grabbed at my shorts, trying to pull them down. He partially succeeded and then he jammed his hand down my jock, grabbing all he could get hold of. He gave me a squeeze and then pulled his hand out. “Get yo' ass naked and get ready!” He walked away. “Don't be wearin' dem clothes when I get back,” he called over his shoulder.
I felt foolish standing naked and waiting. My dick got hard at first but then began to deflate as the wait continued. I gave it a few strokes and felt the wetness on the tip. I laughed at myself, a little surprised for responding to Jawan's minstrel show. I paused and listened. I could hear the sound of doors slamming come closer and closer. Then the door to the pool room opened and Jawan stood backlit in the red glare. He looked naked and he was almost. I could see the white wrist bands and a small kit of some kind as he came closer. He pushed me backward onto a bench and then knelt in front of me and spread my knees wide apart. “We fuckin'. Right?”
“Yeah,” I answered nervously and watched him remove one wrist band. He double wrapped it around my cock and then hooked it under my balls. It hurt and I said so.
“Shut up,” was his answer. Then he got something out of his bag of tricks and he applied a thick coating of lube to my cock, stroking me to complete hardness. He stood. “Do it to me,” he demanded, handing me the squeeze bottle of lube.
Once he was satisfied with his readiness, he bent me backward onto the bench and lifted my knees to his shoulders. I was afraid he would just ram it in, but he didn't. He teased me with his cock and his body, pushing but not penetrating, coming close, like he was about to kiss me and then backing away. I tried to pull him close enough to kiss, but he resisted instantly.
“This ain't love; we jus' fuckin'.” He kept up the tease until I was moaning quietly from wanting him in me. “Say it!” he demanded.
“Fuck me,” I demanded in return.
“No!” He shifted position and straddled me. Before I knew what was happening he sat on my cock. There were no preliminaries; he sat and took my cock in him. He barely paused before he began a sinuous wiggle, moving his ass in a rotating motion and then raising and lowering himself, working as much of me into his asshole as he could. “Jack me off!” he demanded.
His cock felt like rock in my hand. The skin barely moved on his shaft. The slick friction was purely from my hand and the lube. A lot of lube. I could feel it drip onto my stomach. “Stop!” he ordered. “I don't want to come yet.” He got off me and lay face down now straddling the bench, not me. “Put it back in,” he asked, not a demand this time, just a confident expectation.
I liked the new position, lying on top of him. There was lots of body contact and the pressure of the muscular swell of his ass against my groin added to the feeling. He sighed as I pumped. “Slower. All the way in and all the way out. Open me up every time.” He liked it. “Yeah, I can feel your balls on mine.” The black accent was gone. “Slow, baby. Go slow.”
“I'm gonna cum,” I warned him.
“That's ok, just keep fuckin' me.” I kept a steady rhythm. “Oh, yeah. Keep fuckin' me. You like that ass?” He knew I did; and he liked it too. He was writhing under me, moaning his pleasure. Finally I thrust as deeply as I could and erupted. The spasms were amazing and tinged with something that was almost pain. The cock ring was keeping me from ejaculating. When the spasms passed, it also kept me hard.
He rolled me over and sat on my cock again. He pulled the wrist band off his cock and said, “Jack me off.” He squirmed around on my cock and gave me more direction. “Hold my balls.” No problem doing that. “Squeeze 'em.” He continued squirming more frantically. “Harder. HARDER!” He erupted. His first shot of cum went over my shoulder. The next hit me in the face. The third fell on my chest and more dribbled all over my hand.
“Wow,” I managed as he licked his cum off me.
“Do you think you can get off again?” he asked, stroking my semi-hard dick speculatively.
I was willing to try. We did it missionary, sweet old missionary. He even kissed me a couple of times out of politeness, I guess, because he wasn't very passionate about it. It worked though; I pulled out, ripped the band off my cock and went back in him. A couple more stokes and I came. Considerately, he didn't hurry me and held me against his body while I recovered. We got up a little awkwardly. He was silent and I was desperate to say something.
“So, how come we can't do this after the training sessions? You do it for everybody else.”
“Are you kidding?” I wasn't; I wanted to know. “Dude ...” he was back to being the white boy again, ”You wipe me out. I can't perform for twenty-four hours when we're done. The other customers get pissed off. We're only doing this because I don't have any bookings tomorrow.” He waited for my reply. “I got to think about business,” he added.
“It's just business? That's what this is?”
“What did you think it was?” Jawan was very professional. He gave me a pair of shorts emblazoned with the gym logo to replace the pair he ripped and held the door for me as he let me out of the dark gym. “See you Wednesday for your session?”
“Yeah, sure,” I told him and then I chuckled. Did he really think I was going to wear shorts that advertised a gym famous only for being cheap? Immediately, the realization came that Frank, a connoisseur of gift horses, would wear them without a second thought.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around the whole Jawan situation.
At the same time, I wonder how the date went - will our young 19YO come home unsatisfied and seeking solace?
At the same time, I wonder how the date went - will our young 19YO come home unsatisfied and seeking solace?
EasyRory
JUB Addict
That makes me feel better then, I think?! lol
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fourteen
I woke with the memory of Saturday night vivid in my mind. I felt stiff from the exercise and dirty from the sex. A hot shower didn't help. I could have spent all day in the shower and the soap and water still wouldn't have washed away the shame I felt. Instead I limited my time under the spray thinking my guest Woody might want to use the bathroom.
Dried and dressed, I opened the bedroom door quietly so as not to disturb him. My kindness went unrecognized. He wasn't there. His backpack was intact and Frank's air mattress was leaning against the wall.
A feeling of pervasive sleaze returned in the kitchen when I noticed a half-loaf of olive bread. Upon closer inspection the image of olives resolved into the reality of mold formation. The tainted bread loomed as my own version of Dorian Gray's portrait; then scientific reality took over and I began calculating. Man, how old was that bread? How active were the spores?Some scientists have attributed a kind of intelligence to spores, but show me a single spore that has ever used money to its own advantage. Trying to keep my distance, I disposed of the bread using some long barbecue tongs that Charlie had given me and washed my hands again. Twice.
What had possessed me last night? That business with Jawan … So mechanical. So freaky. The wristbands! I looked carefully and they were the same wrist bands. Did he ever change them? Even before I got home I knew it was a mistake. Five minutes of kinky sex for what? Ok, it was more than five minutes and I was oddly pleased that I had made Jawan come twice, but it wasn't half as nice as just feeling Frank lean up against me. And what would the Wednesday session be like? Maybe I should cancel. That's exactly what I'll do. There. That was an easy decision. A turn in the right direction. Empowering, even. The proper path is obvious and easy once you make up your mind. Tattered virtue can still triumph. It's never too late.
It was too late for toast, of course, but I found some cookies in the cabinet and tried not to wonder exactly when I had bought them. I boiled some water while I looked for the tea. I couldn't have coffee, I remembered. Some time ago I had bought whole beans by mistake and didn't have a grinder. Darjeeling, the box said. What did that mean? A mixture of black and oolong, the box added in opaque amplification. Why couldn't they label it something honest and forthright? 'The Kind You Like', for example; that would work.
The phone announced a new text. “On Wisconsin bearing gifts.”
Charlie arrived ten minutes later with bagels and Danish from the bakery at Wisconsin and Albemarle. He sniffed around the kitchen and found it satisfactory. “Safe to eat here, I guess.”
“What did you expect? Month old garbage?” I tried to effect an air of domestic competence while I poured the hot water into mugs.
“I kind of hoped to find Frank. Not here, huh?
“Not. Stayed at his cabin in the woods.”
“His cabin in the …? Oh, his barn. Hardly a cabin, Refo. Haven't you seen it? It's … let's just say if it were closer to town, he could sell it for ...” Charlie left the sum unspecified and sipped his tea, nodding with approval. “Amazing, really.”
“The tea?” Charlie had never complimented my cooking before.
“No, Frank. With the right backing, he could be … anything he wanted in real estate. A builder. An architect. A billionaire.”
Charlie's words, while enthusiastic, were not the personal, intimate endorsement of a contented lover. Just what was their relationship? I couldn't ask, but I knew Charlie would tell me eventually. “So it sounds like your happy with him.” I put the hint of a question in my voice.
“I don't want to jinx it,” Charlie answered, leaving me hanging. “The only trouble is he barely has time for me. He works like a dog.” Then Charlie's face softened; it was so easy to see him thinking of Frank more as a cuddly, affectionate puppy than a working dog.
“He was always busy. You just didn't notice.” Truth was I hadn't noticed either; but now that I thought of it, he was never home much except at night. “He always worked weekends.”
A rustling in the living room got our attention. “Hey...” Woody stuck his head in the kitchen announcing his presence. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night. “Refo, I'm just gonna grab my stuff and head out. Thanks for the floor to crash on.”
“Don't you want to stay another night? I thought you were ...”
“I'll be at Sarah's if you want anything.” He stood in the kitchen doorway and gave some version of a peace sign in farewell.
“My GOD!” Charlie hissed after he left. “Is that ALL COCK in his jeans?”
“What? How can you tell?” Woody had looked even more rumpled than usual to me.
Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “You are so dense, sometimes.” His comment was encompassing; he meant dense about everything. Then he tried to make up for his criticism. “If you weren't so talented, bright, and handsome, I couldn't stand to be around you.”
“Well, Mr. Genius, maybe you can explain this ...” I told Charlie the latest chapter in my Jawan story.
“Why do you care what's going on? Enjoy a little jump or two at the gym and move on … And of course you're going to your Wednesday session. You know you will, Refo.”
He took the rest of the bagels and left me with an uneaten pastry and the unease of the coming Wednesday night. I'm not going. It's not much of a financial loss, since he essentially gave me two free training sessions anyway. No need for pointless frugality if it left me feeling dirty. I washed my hands again and dried them carefully as if there might still be microscopic bits of Jawan or maybe mold spores clinging to them.
With the Wednesday business re-resolved and confirmed in my mind, I again felt disburdened and inspired by the bread problem to do some housework. It would soon be just me in the place. No more need to compromise with the needs of others. I checked around, not feeling it was at all like snooping when I looked in the dresser Frank had in the front closet. The top drawer was still filled with his socks and odds and ends of papers and small items. A Burke and Herbert bank statement caught my eye; numbers in Frank's neat handwriting covered half the outside. They were sizable numbers in an addition column that totaled more than I made in a year. I looked in the next drawer and found underwear neatly stacked, his 'drawers' as he called them and a variety of colored t-shirts. The softness of the garments was unexpectedly evocative; it was like hugging Frank. I quickly shut the drawer and blinked away the start of tears in my eyes. Getting misty-eyed over some random underwear drawer was so pathetic. Now I did feel like a snoop. I quickly checked the two lower drawers in the chest. They were less than half full. A few folded flannel shirts waiting for winter's return and a couple pairs of cargo shorts that Frank wore reluctantly only on the hottest days. “My legs look skinny,” he claimed. His legs were not skinny. Pasty white, yes; but not skinny. All he needed was a little color.
Skinny legs. It made me chuckle. It was so easy to remember one of our early times together, the time I first heard about his skinny legs. We had been together a couple of times before but always at night. This time it was just past midday and the bedroom was bright with summer afternoon sun. He didn't mind me taking off his shirt and playing with his nipples. He liked it and said no one had ever done that to him before; but he protested when I tried to slide his pants off. I asked him what was wrong and he said something about skinny legs. I told him his legs weren't what I was after and he relented. I got his pants off and he shyly pulled a sheet over us. His body felt great against mine and his ever reliable erection poked at me. I held his cock in my hand and felt it pulse harder. Then I pulled at his thigh to spread his legs and discovered I loved feeling the hairiness of his legs. I dove under the sheet kissed his cock. There was enough light to see the perfect shadow of curly publc hair not quite as light as the hair on his head. The hair thinned and continued down his legs. I chuckled. His idea of skinny was my idea of perfect. “Are you laughing at my legs?” he joked sheepishly. I told him I was laughing at how lucky I was to be in bed with him. We kissed, giving each other handjobs, and came way too soon.
I patted the cargo shorts and closed drawer. Enough of that, I decided and walked purposefully into the kitchen determined to return to my housework. I got a rag from under the sink and began dusting the window ledges with a fury, raising more dust than I was wiping away. That led to sneezing and frustration at my ineffectiveness. I was glad of the distracting phone notice of a new message.
“Looking forward to our Wednesday session.” The feeling of disgust returned. I quickly punched in my reply to Jawan.
“Sorry – need 2 cancel” My finger hesitated over the send button. Was the text too abrupt? Did it betray fear or something? I erased it. “May have a problem – I'll get back to you” I looked at the message hard. Why should I be the one with the problem? HE was the sex freak. I erased it and slumped into a chair.
I glanced up at the framed photographs of Carter and Lucien and felt the attraction of the images wash over me. The snatch of intimacy conveyed by those Hanes labels - the promise of passion that radiated off the bit of exposed skin, a passion chilled and countered by the innocent preoccupation of these young men with something outside the picture, outside the viewers mind. They were good photographs. Carter's passion I knew was real. Lucien's was only a promise, but a promise of potential rewards; and potential rewards are the best, full strength, undiluted by disappointment. I came out of my daydream with the curious idea that maybe there was the same potential in Woody, a potential I could find with my camera. Everybody else could see it with the naked eye; but maybe I needed a camera.
I entered “OK” in reply to Jawan and punched send. I can back out later, I figured. I looked at the dust cloth and remembered my mother used to spray something onto hers. Newly reenergized, I left the house with a mission.
I like having a mission when I go out. Any mission, any quest makes me feel like a knight of old. Having a mission is so much better than just hanging out somewhere. Going for the sake of going is like masturbation; just something to do. My mission was real, almost urgent. I planned to buy some of whatever that dust spray is and … hmm … that new store – Sur La Table – would have a coffee grinder. Dual quests. Practical and useful. And maybe I could buy a couple of wrist bands in case Jawan never does launder his.
No. Forget the wrist band idea. Not going down that road. But if I continue with my workout regimen I could use the wrist bands myself. Keep the barbells dry. A built-in forehead wiper. Or … a cock ring. No. Not going down that road.
It turned into a hot day, a day in training for Washington's energy-sapping summer. As I walked home from Wisconsin Avenue's blocks-long row of shops with quests accomplished, I wiped my forehead with the new wristband on my right arm. The left one was carrying the dust stuff and a coffee grinder. Once at home, I lay down my purchases and wiped my forehead again. Ok, let's start with the coffee grinder, I decided; but the directions for grinding coffee made running a binocular chromatographic camera seem easy and the dusting could wait, too. I decided on a nap instead.
Naps can be risky. I dreamed that Frank and Charlie were building a barn out of bricks made from a mixture of cement and cargo shorts and Charlie kept telling Frank how much better his legs looked without the shorts. When I woke the bedroom was like an oven of afternoon heat. I hurried to open the window and then got a fit of sneezing from the dust.
I woke with the memory of Saturday night vivid in my mind. I felt stiff from the exercise and dirty from the sex. A hot shower didn't help. I could have spent all day in the shower and the soap and water still wouldn't have washed away the shame I felt. Instead I limited my time under the spray thinking my guest Woody might want to use the bathroom.
Dried and dressed, I opened the bedroom door quietly so as not to disturb him. My kindness went unrecognized. He wasn't there. His backpack was intact and Frank's air mattress was leaning against the wall.
A feeling of pervasive sleaze returned in the kitchen when I noticed a half-loaf of olive bread. Upon closer inspection the image of olives resolved into the reality of mold formation. The tainted bread loomed as my own version of Dorian Gray's portrait; then scientific reality took over and I began calculating. Man, how old was that bread? How active were the spores?Some scientists have attributed a kind of intelligence to spores, but show me a single spore that has ever used money to its own advantage. Trying to keep my distance, I disposed of the bread using some long barbecue tongs that Charlie had given me and washed my hands again. Twice.
What had possessed me last night? That business with Jawan … So mechanical. So freaky. The wristbands! I looked carefully and they were the same wrist bands. Did he ever change them? Even before I got home I knew it was a mistake. Five minutes of kinky sex for what? Ok, it was more than five minutes and I was oddly pleased that I had made Jawan come twice, but it wasn't half as nice as just feeling Frank lean up against me. And what would the Wednesday session be like? Maybe I should cancel. That's exactly what I'll do. There. That was an easy decision. A turn in the right direction. Empowering, even. The proper path is obvious and easy once you make up your mind. Tattered virtue can still triumph. It's never too late.
It was too late for toast, of course, but I found some cookies in the cabinet and tried not to wonder exactly when I had bought them. I boiled some water while I looked for the tea. I couldn't have coffee, I remembered. Some time ago I had bought whole beans by mistake and didn't have a grinder. Darjeeling, the box said. What did that mean? A mixture of black and oolong, the box added in opaque amplification. Why couldn't they label it something honest and forthright? 'The Kind You Like', for example; that would work.
The phone announced a new text. “On Wisconsin bearing gifts.”
Charlie arrived ten minutes later with bagels and Danish from the bakery at Wisconsin and Albemarle. He sniffed around the kitchen and found it satisfactory. “Safe to eat here, I guess.”
“What did you expect? Month old garbage?” I tried to effect an air of domestic competence while I poured the hot water into mugs.
“I kind of hoped to find Frank. Not here, huh?
“Not. Stayed at his cabin in the woods.”
“His cabin in the …? Oh, his barn. Hardly a cabin, Refo. Haven't you seen it? It's … let's just say if it were closer to town, he could sell it for ...” Charlie left the sum unspecified and sipped his tea, nodding with approval. “Amazing, really.”
“The tea?” Charlie had never complimented my cooking before.
“No, Frank. With the right backing, he could be … anything he wanted in real estate. A builder. An architect. A billionaire.”
Charlie's words, while enthusiastic, were not the personal, intimate endorsement of a contented lover. Just what was their relationship? I couldn't ask, but I knew Charlie would tell me eventually. “So it sounds like your happy with him.” I put the hint of a question in my voice.
“I don't want to jinx it,” Charlie answered, leaving me hanging. “The only trouble is he barely has time for me. He works like a dog.” Then Charlie's face softened; it was so easy to see him thinking of Frank more as a cuddly, affectionate puppy than a working dog.
“He was always busy. You just didn't notice.” Truth was I hadn't noticed either; but now that I thought of it, he was never home much except at night. “He always worked weekends.”
A rustling in the living room got our attention. “Hey...” Woody stuck his head in the kitchen announcing his presence. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night. “Refo, I'm just gonna grab my stuff and head out. Thanks for the floor to crash on.”
“Don't you want to stay another night? I thought you were ...”
“I'll be at Sarah's if you want anything.” He stood in the kitchen doorway and gave some version of a peace sign in farewell.
“My GOD!” Charlie hissed after he left. “Is that ALL COCK in his jeans?”
“What? How can you tell?” Woody had looked even more rumpled than usual to me.
Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “You are so dense, sometimes.” His comment was encompassing; he meant dense about everything. Then he tried to make up for his criticism. “If you weren't so talented, bright, and handsome, I couldn't stand to be around you.”
“Well, Mr. Genius, maybe you can explain this ...” I told Charlie the latest chapter in my Jawan story.
“Why do you care what's going on? Enjoy a little jump or two at the gym and move on … And of course you're going to your Wednesday session. You know you will, Refo.”
He took the rest of the bagels and left me with an uneaten pastry and the unease of the coming Wednesday night. I'm not going. It's not much of a financial loss, since he essentially gave me two free training sessions anyway. No need for pointless frugality if it left me feeling dirty. I washed my hands again and dried them carefully as if there might still be microscopic bits of Jawan or maybe mold spores clinging to them.
With the Wednesday business re-resolved and confirmed in my mind, I again felt disburdened and inspired by the bread problem to do some housework. It would soon be just me in the place. No more need to compromise with the needs of others. I checked around, not feeling it was at all like snooping when I looked in the dresser Frank had in the front closet. The top drawer was still filled with his socks and odds and ends of papers and small items. A Burke and Herbert bank statement caught my eye; numbers in Frank's neat handwriting covered half the outside. They were sizable numbers in an addition column that totaled more than I made in a year. I looked in the next drawer and found underwear neatly stacked, his 'drawers' as he called them and a variety of colored t-shirts. The softness of the garments was unexpectedly evocative; it was like hugging Frank. I quickly shut the drawer and blinked away the start of tears in my eyes. Getting misty-eyed over some random underwear drawer was so pathetic. Now I did feel like a snoop. I quickly checked the two lower drawers in the chest. They were less than half full. A few folded flannel shirts waiting for winter's return and a couple pairs of cargo shorts that Frank wore reluctantly only on the hottest days. “My legs look skinny,” he claimed. His legs were not skinny. Pasty white, yes; but not skinny. All he needed was a little color.
Skinny legs. It made me chuckle. It was so easy to remember one of our early times together, the time I first heard about his skinny legs. We had been together a couple of times before but always at night. This time it was just past midday and the bedroom was bright with summer afternoon sun. He didn't mind me taking off his shirt and playing with his nipples. He liked it and said no one had ever done that to him before; but he protested when I tried to slide his pants off. I asked him what was wrong and he said something about skinny legs. I told him his legs weren't what I was after and he relented. I got his pants off and he shyly pulled a sheet over us. His body felt great against mine and his ever reliable erection poked at me. I held his cock in my hand and felt it pulse harder. Then I pulled at his thigh to spread his legs and discovered I loved feeling the hairiness of his legs. I dove under the sheet kissed his cock. There was enough light to see the perfect shadow of curly publc hair not quite as light as the hair on his head. The hair thinned and continued down his legs. I chuckled. His idea of skinny was my idea of perfect. “Are you laughing at my legs?” he joked sheepishly. I told him I was laughing at how lucky I was to be in bed with him. We kissed, giving each other handjobs, and came way too soon.
I patted the cargo shorts and closed drawer. Enough of that, I decided and walked purposefully into the kitchen determined to return to my housework. I got a rag from under the sink and began dusting the window ledges with a fury, raising more dust than I was wiping away. That led to sneezing and frustration at my ineffectiveness. I was glad of the distracting phone notice of a new message.
“Looking forward to our Wednesday session.” The feeling of disgust returned. I quickly punched in my reply to Jawan.
“Sorry – need 2 cancel” My finger hesitated over the send button. Was the text too abrupt? Did it betray fear or something? I erased it. “May have a problem – I'll get back to you” I looked at the message hard. Why should I be the one with the problem? HE was the sex freak. I erased it and slumped into a chair.
I glanced up at the framed photographs of Carter and Lucien and felt the attraction of the images wash over me. The snatch of intimacy conveyed by those Hanes labels - the promise of passion that radiated off the bit of exposed skin, a passion chilled and countered by the innocent preoccupation of these young men with something outside the picture, outside the viewers mind. They were good photographs. Carter's passion I knew was real. Lucien's was only a promise, but a promise of potential rewards; and potential rewards are the best, full strength, undiluted by disappointment. I came out of my daydream with the curious idea that maybe there was the same potential in Woody, a potential I could find with my camera. Everybody else could see it with the naked eye; but maybe I needed a camera.
I entered “OK” in reply to Jawan and punched send. I can back out later, I figured. I looked at the dust cloth and remembered my mother used to spray something onto hers. Newly reenergized, I left the house with a mission.
I like having a mission when I go out. Any mission, any quest makes me feel like a knight of old. Having a mission is so much better than just hanging out somewhere. Going for the sake of going is like masturbation; just something to do. My mission was real, almost urgent. I planned to buy some of whatever that dust spray is and … hmm … that new store – Sur La Table – would have a coffee grinder. Dual quests. Practical and useful. And maybe I could buy a couple of wrist bands in case Jawan never does launder his.
No. Forget the wrist band idea. Not going down that road. But if I continue with my workout regimen I could use the wrist bands myself. Keep the barbells dry. A built-in forehead wiper. Or … a cock ring. No. Not going down that road.
It turned into a hot day, a day in training for Washington's energy-sapping summer. As I walked home from Wisconsin Avenue's blocks-long row of shops with quests accomplished, I wiped my forehead with the new wristband on my right arm. The left one was carrying the dust stuff and a coffee grinder. Once at home, I lay down my purchases and wiped my forehead again. Ok, let's start with the coffee grinder, I decided; but the directions for grinding coffee made running a binocular chromatographic camera seem easy and the dusting could wait, too. I decided on a nap instead.
Naps can be risky. I dreamed that Frank and Charlie were building a barn out of bricks made from a mixture of cement and cargo shorts and Charlie kept telling Frank how much better his legs looked without the shorts. When I woke the bedroom was like an oven of afternoon heat. I hurried to open the window and then got a fit of sneezing from the dust.
Our poor protagonist. I can't say I've had one of THOSE days, exactly, but I have had days my head seemed out of gear, and every time I tried to get it to shift properly, I ground a few pounds of transmission.
An intriguing episode of utter despair and rationalization.
Just like parts of my life have been at odd intervals.
An intriguing episode of utter despair and rationalization.
Just like parts of my life have been at odd intervals.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
You see this, but does Refo?
