An impending blizzard gives a bunch of horny men who live in the same high-rise the perfect opportunity to get together for a day of naked fun. A novella in five parts.
SNOWED IN
Part One: The Neighbor Next Door
There really wasn’t much to it. We knew the storm was coming and we’d be snowed in for one day at least. And, honestly, how many chat and court programs can a soul endure? So when Gene called to say, “Mitchell, my love, I’ve hatched the nastiest little idea—it’s brilliant,” and told me about it, I said, “I’m in!”
Here’s what it was. Gene, a couple of other guys in our building, and I would each invite two more guys from the building to an all-day play date. We’d tell them to invite two more and they’d do the same and so on until there were no more guys left. Now we live in a very large high-rise that runs about 40-60 gay-straight. If Gene’s utterly ingenious sex pyramid scheme worked, it could turn into one long, outrageous, fucking spectacular, epic event. And, as always, Gene had a new wrinkle that made my cock jump to attention the minute I heard it.
“There’s just one rule,” he told me with an impish giggle. “Only one of the people you invite can be someone you know, or strongly suspect, is gay or bi. The other has to be straight or someone you’re not sure about. I’ve been dying to take a complete census of this place for years, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. This is probably as close as I can get. Besides, it’s high time we loosen things up around here and see what some of these studs we’ve been salivating over are packing.”
“Somebody’s probably gonna get socked in the mouth,” I warned.
“Well, you know what they say,” he answered. “No pain, no gain! Now you better run. I already talked to Manny and Isaac and you can bet your ass they’re dialing for dick and knocking for nachos even as we speak. You don’t wanna find out they beat you to your top picks.”
“Does it matter?” I asked. “Whether I ask them or somebody else does, I’ll still get a chance to fuck them. They don’t call me Sloppy Seconds for nothing.”
Gene said, “Oh, wait! Speaking of sloppy, make sure and tell whoever you invite to bring a towel. I’m not going through what I went through the last time. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean bath towel in the place. I had to use a Christmas tea towel after I showered.”
The visual cracked me up—Gene, six-four, hairy from top to bottom, big where it counts, drying off with a little terry cloth sheet embroidered with poinsettias and candles.
“Should I tell them to bring porn, too?”
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “We’ll divvy it up so everyone can get what they like: gay stuff in the living room, straight crap in the bedroom, and kink in the study. That should please everyone.”
“And when does this blizzard bacchanal begin?”
“Shit, I don’t care. Let’s call it for 8 so anyone who wants to sneak off before boyfriend or wifey wakes up can drop by. Gotta run. See you in the morning.”
“You bet.”
Mark literally crowed when I called him.
“Are you shitting me? Holy Christ!”
“I’m as serious as can be,” I said dryly.
“Wow,” he said. My mind’s eye saw exactly what he was doing. He was off the couch and pacing, his brown eyes darting back and forth, one hand tangled in his thick black mop. “Yeah. Well. Sure. What else am I gonna do all day? Stare out the window at the snow? What the hell.”
I paused for a second. “I need to say this.”
“Say what?”
“It’s awkward.”
“What?”
“Well, you know, we’ve been friends a long time and I need to be sure you don’t read too much into this. I’m not setting you up or anything.”
“Setting me up?”
“I mean, I didn’t call you because I want to mess around with you.”
“No? I’m not sure how to take that.”
“No—I mean, yes—naturally I’d like us to mess around. You’re hot as hell. But I didn’t call you for that reason. I just didn’t want you miss out if you were interested, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m definitely interested,” Mark said. “And we will definitely fuck. And we will most definitely be friends no matter how it turns out. How’s that?”
“It’s a plan,” I replied. “So this thing starts early, 8 AM. Bring a towel and your favorite porn and anything else you may need.”
“I doubt I’ll get there at 8,” he said. “I’ll probably sleep in and stumble in around 11. What’s his apartment number?”
“5201.”
“Corner unit. Nice. Sex with a view.”
“Okay. Get on the phone and round up your specimens.”
“Shit. I hadn’t thought about that. So who’s your straight guy?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve got a few prospects. I just have to figure out how to position it.”
“Good luck with that,” Mark said.
“You, too,” I answered.
Fate. Is. A. Mutha. Fucka.
About a year ago, the most darling young couple took the apartment next door: Katie, a petite peaches-and-cream blonde oozing with charm, and Wendell, her African-American fireplug prince whose smile is as warm as he is fine.
After talking with Mark (and taking a few minutes to picture what finally screwing him—or being screwed by him or both, if I’m real lucky, would be like), I dashed off a list of straight/probably straight candidates.
Simon, Jack, Tank, and Hernando were my top picks. Before I began working down the list, though, I wanted to be sure I’d not overlooked other prime picks. I set my writing tablet aside and walked a bag of kitchen trash to the garbage chute closeted at the end of the hall. Someone left a stack of magazines beside the recycling bin. No sooner had I knelt down to rifle through them than Wendell, my hot next-door neighbor, appeared, his arms piled high with empty cartons, shoeboxes, and such. He dropped them to the floor with a groan. “I should probably break these down, huh?” he said.
“Leave it for the janitors,” I replied without looking up. “They’ll be glad for something to do once everyone hunkers down for the blizzard.”
And then, out of nowhere, Wendell’s voice grew louder in my ear and his breath grazed my cheek, trailed by faint traces of whiskey. “Find anything interesting?”
No more than three or four inches stood between our faces—closer than they’d ever been, closer than I ever expected they’d be. God Almighty, he was one beautiful kid. His smooth complexion reminded me of chocolate mousse, while the pale pink patina of his sweet, kissable lips triggered the taste of strawberries on my tongue. His sharp, mahogany eyes, nesting deep in sockets roofed with coal-black thatches, pierced straight through mine to glimpse my heart’s rapid pulsations and watch the wickedness dancing in my head. His crooked smile confirmed it.
My voice wavered ever so slightly. “Nothing worth taking so far—mostly outdated news magazines.” I handed him a batch. “Have a look.”
Wendell checked the top issue’s address label. “Christina,” he read. “Yeah, I don’t think we’ll find much excitement here.”
“Christina?”
“The poli-sci professor in 13.”
“I don’t think I know her.”
“Nice lady,” he said as he thumbed through an Economist. “Classy in that college-teacher kind of way.”
“Dull is what you really mean.”
“Now, now. Be nice,” Wendell gently scolded.
A scathing caricature of Dick Cheney on the cover of an old Atlantic caught my attention. I pretended to look for the accompanying article while I scanned the rest of Wendell from the corner of my eye. He wore a washed-out baby blue Lacoste shirt; its frayed sleeve bands choked his biceps. The tartan flannel of his pajama bottom lay snug against his meaty legs, pinned in place where his knees met the floor. The drawstring dangled from beneath his shirt and curled up in a cove of bunched-up fabric just above his groin. It was all I could do not to give the lace a quick yank and slide my hand inside his pants for a feel of what was down there.
I managed to resist the urge by giving into a less risky one. Tossing The Atlantic for a copy of Time, I complained, “Yawn. We’ve come to the wrong place if excitement is what we’re after.”
There. The door was open. Would he step in? Yes.
“God knows I need it. The storm’s not even here yet and I’m bored out of my mind.”
“What’s Katie doing?”
“She’s stuck in New Haven. They cancelled her flight.”
Oh man, was I in trouble!
“Well, that sucks,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Wendell groaned. “It blows huge cock.” He shuffled around, planting his hands on the floor behind him to sit up with both legs extended straight ahead. He was barefoot, which meant I was in serious danger. (What did I say about feet and me?)
They were perfect—too perfect. Not clownishly big, but certainly larger than one expected for a man on the short side of 5-8 or so. Each marvelously rounded toe cascaded behind its predecessor, the procession ending with a fetching, fat little baby that turned out a tiny bit, as if it were looking away from the rest. The rose-quartz skin shielded by neatly trimmed nails matched the pink flesh that slipped up from Wendell’s soles and blended effortless into the mocha topsides.
By the time I realized I was spellbound, it was too late to order my dick to stand down. I tried. But it would not obey. Thank God I still held a few Christina’s boring old magazines. I casually sat them on my lap to hide my embarrassment. My sheepish look as I turned to check whether or not Wendell caught me was where I fucked up.
“Whoa, Seabiscuit!” he chuckled. “Whatcha doing down there?” He lifted the magazines like they were a cellar door and after playfully tilting his head to one side for a better look at what was going on, he threw them aside. “Has one of us found a little excitement all of a sudden?”
Any other cock would shamefully scamper into hiding. Not mine. Getting caught made it grow bolder, thicker, and harder even faster.
Wendell gripped its base through my shorts and massaged it as his fingers climbed up its sides. To my utter mortification the tip peeked over my waistband. “Hello!” he cried.
Quicker than the Devil at dawn, he had my shorts down to my knees, my balls in one hand and johnson in the other, and his gaping mouth in rapid approach for the kill.
I blocked him with a forearm to the chest. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”
He fell back, shaking his head like a drunk coming around after a blackout. “What the fuck am I thinking? Any one of our neighbors could have walked in on us.” Then, like the same drunk staggering to his feet to find the nearest tavern, Wendell stood, holding out his hand to pull me up. “Let’s take this inside.”
As I shimmied back into my shorts, I told him, “Sit down.”
In a tone close to begging, he protested, “Come on. Don’t be such a tease.”
“Sit your bad ass back down, I said!”
He complied, landing at 9 o’clock to my 6 in a perfectly executed lotus position that displayed his beautiful, blushing soles in all their glory.
“I am so fucked,” I whispered with a sigh.
“Don’t say that,” Wendell responded. “We’re just having a little fun between neighbors. It’s harmless. Don’t say we’re fucked.”
“I didn’t say we’re fucked. I said me. I’m fucked.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe we’ll get to that. First we need to discuss Katie.”
Wendell brightened. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
“It’s my biggest worry,” I admitted. “Obviously it’s not yours. Why is that?”
“Katie.” A blinding smile overtook him. “If only you knew.”
“From the sound of that, I’m pretty sure it might be best for me—for both of us—if you told me what I don’t know.”
First, he skated his hand over his close-cropped hair, forehead to neckline. Then he grabbed both feet and began squeezing them while he put his thoughts together. I had to look away. I’d just got my cock back to sleep and couldn’t afford to let it wake up again. Once that happened, there’d be no turning back.
A half-minute or so passed with not a word from Wendell. But the heat of his stare on the back of my neck intensified by the second. He finally broke the silence with a raucous giggle. With my head still turned, I asked what was so funny.
“Look at me,” he said. I wouldn’t. “Come on,” he insisted. “Don’t be like that. I didn’t mean to laugh.” He paused briefly and after doing his best to quash his giggle—unsuccessfully—he apologized. “Mitch, I’m so sorry. But I can’t help it. It’s freakin’ funny.”
“Funny.”
His voice glided up and down the scale. “Sweet funny. And, OK, a little weird funny, too. But—“ His pitch dropped into a sure-fire seductive register I never heard before. “But most of all, sexy-as-hell funny.”
I don’t know why that chapped me, but it did. I spun around and my whole head bobbed toward him. “Explain,” I demanded.
Wendell recoiled. His eyes flared with alarm. “God, Mitchell, lighten up! If I knew you were so touchy about it, I would have been more careful.”
“Explain that!”
I scared him—not much, but enough for him to start pulling at straws. “It’s not a big deal. If it was me, I wouldn’t be ashamed. The thing is, you’re the first guy I’ve met—the first person, actually—who’s into that. It’s something that’s never come up. Now that is has, now that I’m thinking about it, I gotta tell you, it’s hot. Stupid hot. I’m so turned on right now I’m about to cream all over myself. Check it out.” He popped his rod out of his pajamas and the sight of it almost bowled me over. It was a few shades deeper than the rest of his skin, not unusually long, yet long enough to count, and significantly thicker than usual—a hole-stretcher by any standard clad in slick, dark sateen that set off the even darker crepe stretched over a bulbous head able to mow down the tightest cherry. With one, abrupt pump of his fist a milky tear spilled from the eye. “See there? You did that. If I could do that to somebody without one word, I’d call a press conference.”
“Without a word about what?” I was less furious now than frustrated, as was Wendell.
“Your foot fetish, Mitchell. The minute I put it all together, my dick practically blew up. All I could see behind my eyes was you sucking my toes. All I felt was your hot tongue licking my feet.” A second tear of pre-cum trickled onto Wendell’s hand without any assistance from him. “Look! Nobody’s ever done that to me and you’re doing it without doing anything. You should have just told me what you wanted. I’m always up for new stuff.”
“I was going to get around to it after we talked about Katie.”
“Right,” he said. “Katie.”
When we heard the doorknob turn, Wendell shoved himself back into his pajamas. Maury Lieberman, who’s got to be pushing 90 by now, padded by, holding a plastic grocery bag half-full of rubbish. After watching him wrestle with the trash chute for nigh unto eternity, Wendell jumped up to open it for him. His hard-on jutted directly at Maury, raising a flannel tent you’d have to be blind to miss. He shot me a panicked look. I shrugged, jacking an eyebrow as if to say, “Oh well.” Bad went to worse when Wendell tried to fix it and it broke through the vent in his pants. Again, he looked at me, his eyes big as saucers. I grimaced and waved it off to signal “Fuck it.” He dropped the garbage down the chute and hurried back to me so fast his cock came very close to stabbing me in the eye. Meanwhile, Maury slowly turned around and crept toward the door. As he left, he said, “Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, Maury,” we said.
The instant the door shut, we howled, “Oh my God!”
“He didn’t see a thing. Trust me.”
“I’m not so sure. I think old people see a lot more than they let on.”
“Of course you do,” I told him. “You’re too young to know eyesight is the first thing that goes. Trust me. You could wave that fabulous penis of yours right in front of him and he still wouldn’t notice.”
With his face lit up like Christmas, Wendell said, “All right, enough with Maury. Tell me more about my fabulous penis.” With two short steps my way, he towered over me and started swabbing my face with his cock. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “How’s that? You like me rubbing my fabulous penis all over you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to suck my fabulous penis? “Cause I really want you to suck it. I do. I want you to suck it so hard you make it sore and suck me so dry my balls ache.” At his point, Wendell was snarling so softly I barely could hear him. I glanced up. He was slack-jawed, watching his dick paint silvery crosshatches on my cheeks and forehead. “I want to suck you, too, Mitch. Older guys with monster cocks like yours drive me crazy. Spread your legs a little for me.”
Clearly, we’d jumped the tracks and I had no idea where Wendell was headed with this or how long I could let him go before pulling the brake. For the moment, we were fine, though. I opened my legs. He lowered his left foot onto my revived dick and softly pedaled it.
“That’s nice, isn’t it?” he said.
“Very nice.”
I clasped the top of his foot. It felt so soft and smooth in my hand.
“Why is this so hot?” Wendell wondered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just is.”
While his foot massaged my drill, he continued to whisper. “So hot. Let me blow you, Mitch. I am the head master. You’ll see. Man, I’m so hungry for you. I want to slide down your throat so bad. I want to do it right here, right now. Let’s do it, Mitch. Stretch out right here on the floor and do it. You can suck my dick. You can lick my toes. You can eat my ass, and that’s my special treat. I don’t give it up very often. But I want you to have it. Really, I do. Say yes, let’s do this thing here and now and I’ll sit on your face as long as you like. Sound good, baby?”
I all but forgot where we were and who Wendell was. His filthy incantations had me mesmerized. “It sounds real good, better than good.”
He stripped off his shirt with his free hand and pushed his flannels down, quickly replacing his dick on my face, swiping it back and forth over my lips several times before halting halfway across. “Take a taste. One taste and you’ll want it all. I promise. One taste and we’ll be all over each other. I swear it. You won’t give a damn who catches us. You won’t even notice them comes in. Me neither. We’ll be so wrapped up in each other’s tools they’ll have to climb over us.”
I was a hair’s breadth from giving in when sirens went off in my brain. The truth was I never gave a fuck about who might walk in on us to begin with—at least, not in terms of what they thought of me. Or Wendell, for that matter. But knowing the people on our floor—other than dull Christina, that is—I could see every one of them making their way down the hall to tattle to Katie. That broke the spell.
I kissed Wendell’s cock and told him, “If it weren’t for Katie, I’d lay here till I died as long as I could have you in my mouth. But, Wendell, you mad wizard, bad as I want you, it’s no good. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt Katie.”
“Katie! Jesus, Mitch, are you back on that bus again?” He pulled up his pajamas, put his shirt back on, and sat down. He talked to me like I was either three or 103, which pissed me off. “Okay. Here’s what’s up with Katie. She knows everything and she’s cool with it. In fact, the only times she’s not cool with it are when I’m not fucking around with another guy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, that’s not what I mean. Let me see how I can put this. Here. Try this. When I don’t have a guy on the side somewhere—you know, a fuck buddy who’ll pick up when I call—Katie goes a little haywire. and our shit gets big-time bumpy.”
“What you’re saying makes absolutely no sense to me,” I said.
“Okay. You gotta stick with me. It’s kind of tricky.”
“Go on.”
“The first thing you should know is Katie’s always known about me. She knew before I even met her, because this dude I was hanging out with at the time told her all of it in explicit detail. I mean, what my spunk tastes like, my gangbang fantasies, my teabag thing, every goddamn detail. When I heard, I wanted to kill him. Then something better than murder happened. The dumb-fuck introduced us. We fell in love and I kicked him out so she could move in.”
“That’s priceless. Serves him right.”
“No joke, huh? So we stayed together and over time a pattern emerged. I’d start craving dick so bad I wanted nothing to do with her.”
“That had to hurt.”
“And that’s where you wrong. OK. Sure. You’re right. It hurt her real bad. But she understood it wasn’t about her. She knew I’d never hurt her on purpose. Katie’s my heart. Look, I know you’re gay and may not be able to appreciate this, but I’ll tell you anyway. When Katie’s dressed, she’s a lamb. But the minute those panties come off, Jesus help me. She’s a wild animal. And her pussy? She’s got more sugar in her bowl than a thousand women combined. And she’s hip to all of this. She’s knows who she is and what she’s got. So if I’m jonesing for dick, it’s not because I’m tired of her pussy. She gets that.”
“So that’s why she loses it when you don’t have a fuck-buddy. If you can’t go out and get some dick, she can’t get any dick at home.”
“That’s why she took off to her parents’ place last week. We moved here over a year ago and I still haven’t hooked up with a regular guy. Every dude I’ve met is a one-night stand.”
“Christ, Wendell,” I groaned. “Why didn’t you knock on my door? I’ve been beating off to you since the day you showed up.”
“Katie suggested that. Seriously, though. What would I say when you opened the door? Can we fuck a few times this week so I can get this monkey off my back and fuck my wife? How rude is that?”
“Not as rude as letting me jack myself to sleep thinking about you.”
With the heavy stuff out the way, Wendell eased up. “Don’t put it all on me. You know how to knock, too. You could have said something.”
“Right. Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I come right out and tell Katie, ‘I’m dropping loads day and night fantasizing about your husband. Can you send him over when he gets home from work, please?’”
His face turned matter-of-fact. “Why didn’t you? You could have. And she would have let you, too.”
I thought that through and agreed.
We sat for a moment or two without talking. Then Wendell said, “So now that you’re cool with Katie, can we please go back to your place and screw our brains out?”
I held off answering at first. “Of all the nights for you to ask that, you pick this one. Any other time, I’d pick you up, carry you down the hall, throw you on my bed, and make love to you like you’re a prince while I fucked you like you’re a two-bit whore. But tonight, I’m sorry. I’m hanging onto every drop I’ve got until tomorrow. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on tomorrow?” Wendell asked.
“I’ll tell you. Before I do, though, talk to me about your gangbang fantasy.” I replied.
Coming: Part Two: Early Risers, Easy Riders
SNOWED IN
Part One: The Neighbor Next Door
There really wasn’t much to it. We knew the storm was coming and we’d be snowed in for one day at least. And, honestly, how many chat and court programs can a soul endure? So when Gene called to say, “Mitchell, my love, I’ve hatched the nastiest little idea—it’s brilliant,” and told me about it, I said, “I’m in!”
Here’s what it was. Gene, a couple of other guys in our building, and I would each invite two more guys from the building to an all-day play date. We’d tell them to invite two more and they’d do the same and so on until there were no more guys left. Now we live in a very large high-rise that runs about 40-60 gay-straight. If Gene’s utterly ingenious sex pyramid scheme worked, it could turn into one long, outrageous, fucking spectacular, epic event. And, as always, Gene had a new wrinkle that made my cock jump to attention the minute I heard it.
“There’s just one rule,” he told me with an impish giggle. “Only one of the people you invite can be someone you know, or strongly suspect, is gay or bi. The other has to be straight or someone you’re not sure about. I’ve been dying to take a complete census of this place for years, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. This is probably as close as I can get. Besides, it’s high time we loosen things up around here and see what some of these studs we’ve been salivating over are packing.”
“Somebody’s probably gonna get socked in the mouth,” I warned.
“Well, you know what they say,” he answered. “No pain, no gain! Now you better run. I already talked to Manny and Isaac and you can bet your ass they’re dialing for dick and knocking for nachos even as we speak. You don’t wanna find out they beat you to your top picks.”
“Does it matter?” I asked. “Whether I ask them or somebody else does, I’ll still get a chance to fuck them. They don’t call me Sloppy Seconds for nothing.”
Gene said, “Oh, wait! Speaking of sloppy, make sure and tell whoever you invite to bring a towel. I’m not going through what I went through the last time. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean bath towel in the place. I had to use a Christmas tea towel after I showered.”
The visual cracked me up—Gene, six-four, hairy from top to bottom, big where it counts, drying off with a little terry cloth sheet embroidered with poinsettias and candles.
“Should I tell them to bring porn, too?”
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “We’ll divvy it up so everyone can get what they like: gay stuff in the living room, straight crap in the bedroom, and kink in the study. That should please everyone.”
“And when does this blizzard bacchanal begin?”
“Shit, I don’t care. Let’s call it for 8 so anyone who wants to sneak off before boyfriend or wifey wakes up can drop by. Gotta run. See you in the morning.”
“You bet.”
*****
Mark literally crowed when I called him.
“Are you shitting me? Holy Christ!”
“I’m as serious as can be,” I said dryly.
“Wow,” he said. My mind’s eye saw exactly what he was doing. He was off the couch and pacing, his brown eyes darting back and forth, one hand tangled in his thick black mop. “Yeah. Well. Sure. What else am I gonna do all day? Stare out the window at the snow? What the hell.”
I paused for a second. “I need to say this.”
“Say what?”
“It’s awkward.”
“What?”
“Well, you know, we’ve been friends a long time and I need to be sure you don’t read too much into this. I’m not setting you up or anything.”
“Setting me up?”
“I mean, I didn’t call you because I want to mess around with you.”
“No? I’m not sure how to take that.”
“No—I mean, yes—naturally I’d like us to mess around. You’re hot as hell. But I didn’t call you for that reason. I just didn’t want you miss out if you were interested, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m definitely interested,” Mark said. “And we will definitely fuck. And we will most definitely be friends no matter how it turns out. How’s that?”
“It’s a plan,” I replied. “So this thing starts early, 8 AM. Bring a towel and your favorite porn and anything else you may need.”
“I doubt I’ll get there at 8,” he said. “I’ll probably sleep in and stumble in around 11. What’s his apartment number?”
“5201.”
“Corner unit. Nice. Sex with a view.”
“Okay. Get on the phone and round up your specimens.”
“Shit. I hadn’t thought about that. So who’s your straight guy?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve got a few prospects. I just have to figure out how to position it.”
“Good luck with that,” Mark said.
“You, too,” I answered.
******
Fate. Is. A. Mutha. Fucka.
About a year ago, the most darling young couple took the apartment next door: Katie, a petite peaches-and-cream blonde oozing with charm, and Wendell, her African-American fireplug prince whose smile is as warm as he is fine.
After talking with Mark (and taking a few minutes to picture what finally screwing him—or being screwed by him or both, if I’m real lucky, would be like), I dashed off a list of straight/probably straight candidates.
- Simon, the Algerian osteopath built like a god, with the sleepy, soulful eyes, perpetual five o’clock shadow, meticulously manicured chest-hair pattern, and mouth-watering feet. (Can I help it I’ve got a thing for beauty below the ankle?) Our paths rarely cross during cold months. But we renew our friendship each summer by the pool, where he spends every weekend with his two kids. (He says he’s married, but his wife’s whereabouts are mystery. My friend Marilyn lives on his floor and swears she’s never laid eyes on the woman.) Simon’s a flagrant, equal-opportunity flirt who keeps all the women and half the men at the pool swooning. More than once, he’s caught me staring at his unabashedly tempting package, and more than once I’ve told him, “I’m gonna have that one day,” whereupon he laughs and says, “You never know.” And who knows? Tomorrow might be my lucky day.
- Jack, the lawyer with the surfer face and pole-vaulter body. I bump into him during late-night workouts in our gym. When it’s just the two of us, he regales me with trash talk about babes he’s banged since the last update. He knows exactly what he’s doing and he’s not at all discrete about eyeballing my crotch to see if it’s working. (I’d put it around 50/50.) Jack’s a full-on tool who’s easy to hate, which, deep down, I do. But some of his stories are real pipe-heaters—tales of slamming bitches so hard they squirt in his face and nailing them behind supermarkets, in airport garages, restaurant johns, and whatnot. Still, I get the feeling he dishes out the bullshit to hide his wish to be another guy’s bitch himself. And there’s that weird comment he made one time: “I don’t get the gay thing—the whole two guys falling in love for life. But, hell, we’re all men. And if it came to it, I’d let a dude go down on me. I might even fuck him up the ass. Jack’s bone gets restless real easy. You know what I’m mean?” It was a long shot, but worth a try if Simon passed. Part of me hoped Simon would pass and Jack wouldn’t, just so I drill his hole so hard he’d beg for mercy. Then I’d whisper, “You love it, bitch,” and turn a half-dozen tops loose on his ass.
- Tank. Don't know his real name, which complicates findin out where he lives. After at least a hundred elevator rides with him, I know he’s on 22. I nicknamed him Tank since that’s what he is: about 5-10, 220, barrel-chested, wide-shouldered, thick-thighed, with a killer butt that stretches the seat of his pants to the breaking point. I’d guess he’s in his late 20s, but it’s hard to tell, because he’s in flawless shape and has the face of a cherub. Simply standing next to him is an erotic experience. He exudes an aura of silent innocence that screams “lover.” Usually I see him with girls, all of whom wear that dazed look of disbelief they’re going home with him for the night. Yet I also see him with unmistakably queer guys, sometimes two or three at once. These silly boys can’t shut up they’re so excited. While they flutter and fawn, he stares straight ahead with a tight-lipped grin on his face. Oh yes, Tank’s a naughty angel all right. If I could figure out how to reach him, he very well might jump at the chance to be bad.
- Hernando, the daddy of all daddies who manages the garage. Photos of his kids and grandkids adorn the walls of his tiny office, and a tiny picture of his wife sits on his desk. But rumors about Hernando’s extracurricular exploits have been in circulation for years. Whenever it’s convenient, it’s said he’ll drop everything to jump into the backseat of a random car with anyone, male or female, eager to blow him. I’ve also heard tales of people discovering spent condoms or wrappers on their floorboards and three guys I trust confessed to letting Hernando eat their asses—all three of them saying it was the best rimjob they ever had. He’s hinted that way several times with me, not so subtly sliding his wedding band up and down his finger as we talked. Unfortunately, I was always in a rush and missed out. Gene’s party could be my chance to make up for it. By hook or crook, Hernando would have to be at work, even though the snow would turn the garage into a cemetery. I can’t imagine he’d turn down the opportunity to waste an hour or two dining and being dined upon at a flesh-feast.
Simon, Jack, Tank, and Hernando were my top picks. Before I began working down the list, though, I wanted to be sure I’d not overlooked other prime picks. I set my writing tablet aside and walked a bag of kitchen trash to the garbage chute closeted at the end of the hall. Someone left a stack of magazines beside the recycling bin. No sooner had I knelt down to rifle through them than Wendell, my hot next-door neighbor, appeared, his arms piled high with empty cartons, shoeboxes, and such. He dropped them to the floor with a groan. “I should probably break these down, huh?” he said.
“Leave it for the janitors,” I replied without looking up. “They’ll be glad for something to do once everyone hunkers down for the blizzard.”
And then, out of nowhere, Wendell’s voice grew louder in my ear and his breath grazed my cheek, trailed by faint traces of whiskey. “Find anything interesting?”
No more than three or four inches stood between our faces—closer than they’d ever been, closer than I ever expected they’d be. God Almighty, he was one beautiful kid. His smooth complexion reminded me of chocolate mousse, while the pale pink patina of his sweet, kissable lips triggered the taste of strawberries on my tongue. His sharp, mahogany eyes, nesting deep in sockets roofed with coal-black thatches, pierced straight through mine to glimpse my heart’s rapid pulsations and watch the wickedness dancing in my head. His crooked smile confirmed it.
My voice wavered ever so slightly. “Nothing worth taking so far—mostly outdated news magazines.” I handed him a batch. “Have a look.”
Wendell checked the top issue’s address label. “Christina,” he read. “Yeah, I don’t think we’ll find much excitement here.”
“Christina?”
“The poli-sci professor in 13.”
“I don’t think I know her.”
“Nice lady,” he said as he thumbed through an Economist. “Classy in that college-teacher kind of way.”
“Dull is what you really mean.”
“Now, now. Be nice,” Wendell gently scolded.
A scathing caricature of Dick Cheney on the cover of an old Atlantic caught my attention. I pretended to look for the accompanying article while I scanned the rest of Wendell from the corner of my eye. He wore a washed-out baby blue Lacoste shirt; its frayed sleeve bands choked his biceps. The tartan flannel of his pajama bottom lay snug against his meaty legs, pinned in place where his knees met the floor. The drawstring dangled from beneath his shirt and curled up in a cove of bunched-up fabric just above his groin. It was all I could do not to give the lace a quick yank and slide my hand inside his pants for a feel of what was down there.
I managed to resist the urge by giving into a less risky one. Tossing The Atlantic for a copy of Time, I complained, “Yawn. We’ve come to the wrong place if excitement is what we’re after.”
There. The door was open. Would he step in? Yes.
“God knows I need it. The storm’s not even here yet and I’m bored out of my mind.”
“What’s Katie doing?”
“She’s stuck in New Haven. They cancelled her flight.”
Oh man, was I in trouble!
“Well, that sucks,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Wendell groaned. “It blows huge cock.” He shuffled around, planting his hands on the floor behind him to sit up with both legs extended straight ahead. He was barefoot, which meant I was in serious danger. (What did I say about feet and me?)
They were perfect—too perfect. Not clownishly big, but certainly larger than one expected for a man on the short side of 5-8 or so. Each marvelously rounded toe cascaded behind its predecessor, the procession ending with a fetching, fat little baby that turned out a tiny bit, as if it were looking away from the rest. The rose-quartz skin shielded by neatly trimmed nails matched the pink flesh that slipped up from Wendell’s soles and blended effortless into the mocha topsides.
By the time I realized I was spellbound, it was too late to order my dick to stand down. I tried. But it would not obey. Thank God I still held a few Christina’s boring old magazines. I casually sat them on my lap to hide my embarrassment. My sheepish look as I turned to check whether or not Wendell caught me was where I fucked up.
“Whoa, Seabiscuit!” he chuckled. “Whatcha doing down there?” He lifted the magazines like they were a cellar door and after playfully tilting his head to one side for a better look at what was going on, he threw them aside. “Has one of us found a little excitement all of a sudden?”
Any other cock would shamefully scamper into hiding. Not mine. Getting caught made it grow bolder, thicker, and harder even faster.
Wendell gripped its base through my shorts and massaged it as his fingers climbed up its sides. To my utter mortification the tip peeked over my waistband. “Hello!” he cried.
Quicker than the Devil at dawn, he had my shorts down to my knees, my balls in one hand and johnson in the other, and his gaping mouth in rapid approach for the kill.
I blocked him with a forearm to the chest. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”
He fell back, shaking his head like a drunk coming around after a blackout. “What the fuck am I thinking? Any one of our neighbors could have walked in on us.” Then, like the same drunk staggering to his feet to find the nearest tavern, Wendell stood, holding out his hand to pull me up. “Let’s take this inside.”
As I shimmied back into my shorts, I told him, “Sit down.”
In a tone close to begging, he protested, “Come on. Don’t be such a tease.”
“Sit your bad ass back down, I said!”
He complied, landing at 9 o’clock to my 6 in a perfectly executed lotus position that displayed his beautiful, blushing soles in all their glory.
“I am so fucked,” I whispered with a sigh.
“Don’t say that,” Wendell responded. “We’re just having a little fun between neighbors. It’s harmless. Don’t say we’re fucked.”
“I didn’t say we’re fucked. I said me. I’m fucked.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe we’ll get to that. First we need to discuss Katie.”
Wendell brightened. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
“It’s my biggest worry,” I admitted. “Obviously it’s not yours. Why is that?”
“Katie.” A blinding smile overtook him. “If only you knew.”
“From the sound of that, I’m pretty sure it might be best for me—for both of us—if you told me what I don’t know.”
First, he skated his hand over his close-cropped hair, forehead to neckline. Then he grabbed both feet and began squeezing them while he put his thoughts together. I had to look away. I’d just got my cock back to sleep and couldn’t afford to let it wake up again. Once that happened, there’d be no turning back.
A half-minute or so passed with not a word from Wendell. But the heat of his stare on the back of my neck intensified by the second. He finally broke the silence with a raucous giggle. With my head still turned, I asked what was so funny.
“Look at me,” he said. I wouldn’t. “Come on,” he insisted. “Don’t be like that. I didn’t mean to laugh.” He paused briefly and after doing his best to quash his giggle—unsuccessfully—he apologized. “Mitch, I’m so sorry. But I can’t help it. It’s freakin’ funny.”
“Funny.”
His voice glided up and down the scale. “Sweet funny. And, OK, a little weird funny, too. But—“ His pitch dropped into a sure-fire seductive register I never heard before. “But most of all, sexy-as-hell funny.”
I don’t know why that chapped me, but it did. I spun around and my whole head bobbed toward him. “Explain,” I demanded.
Wendell recoiled. His eyes flared with alarm. “God, Mitchell, lighten up! If I knew you were so touchy about it, I would have been more careful.”
“Explain that!”
I scared him—not much, but enough for him to start pulling at straws. “It’s not a big deal. If it was me, I wouldn’t be ashamed. The thing is, you’re the first guy I’ve met—the first person, actually—who’s into that. It’s something that’s never come up. Now that is has, now that I’m thinking about it, I gotta tell you, it’s hot. Stupid hot. I’m so turned on right now I’m about to cream all over myself. Check it out.” He popped his rod out of his pajamas and the sight of it almost bowled me over. It was a few shades deeper than the rest of his skin, not unusually long, yet long enough to count, and significantly thicker than usual—a hole-stretcher by any standard clad in slick, dark sateen that set off the even darker crepe stretched over a bulbous head able to mow down the tightest cherry. With one, abrupt pump of his fist a milky tear spilled from the eye. “See there? You did that. If I could do that to somebody without one word, I’d call a press conference.”
“Without a word about what?” I was less furious now than frustrated, as was Wendell.
“Your foot fetish, Mitchell. The minute I put it all together, my dick practically blew up. All I could see behind my eyes was you sucking my toes. All I felt was your hot tongue licking my feet.” A second tear of pre-cum trickled onto Wendell’s hand without any assistance from him. “Look! Nobody’s ever done that to me and you’re doing it without doing anything. You should have just told me what you wanted. I’m always up for new stuff.”
“I was going to get around to it after we talked about Katie.”
“Right,” he said. “Katie.”
When we heard the doorknob turn, Wendell shoved himself back into his pajamas. Maury Lieberman, who’s got to be pushing 90 by now, padded by, holding a plastic grocery bag half-full of rubbish. After watching him wrestle with the trash chute for nigh unto eternity, Wendell jumped up to open it for him. His hard-on jutted directly at Maury, raising a flannel tent you’d have to be blind to miss. He shot me a panicked look. I shrugged, jacking an eyebrow as if to say, “Oh well.” Bad went to worse when Wendell tried to fix it and it broke through the vent in his pants. Again, he looked at me, his eyes big as saucers. I grimaced and waved it off to signal “Fuck it.” He dropped the garbage down the chute and hurried back to me so fast his cock came very close to stabbing me in the eye. Meanwhile, Maury slowly turned around and crept toward the door. As he left, he said, “Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, Maury,” we said.
The instant the door shut, we howled, “Oh my God!”
“He didn’t see a thing. Trust me.”
“I’m not so sure. I think old people see a lot more than they let on.”
“Of course you do,” I told him. “You’re too young to know eyesight is the first thing that goes. Trust me. You could wave that fabulous penis of yours right in front of him and he still wouldn’t notice.”
With his face lit up like Christmas, Wendell said, “All right, enough with Maury. Tell me more about my fabulous penis.” With two short steps my way, he towered over me and started swabbing my face with his cock. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “How’s that? You like me rubbing my fabulous penis all over you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to suck my fabulous penis? “Cause I really want you to suck it. I do. I want you to suck it so hard you make it sore and suck me so dry my balls ache.” At his point, Wendell was snarling so softly I barely could hear him. I glanced up. He was slack-jawed, watching his dick paint silvery crosshatches on my cheeks and forehead. “I want to suck you, too, Mitch. Older guys with monster cocks like yours drive me crazy. Spread your legs a little for me.”
Clearly, we’d jumped the tracks and I had no idea where Wendell was headed with this or how long I could let him go before pulling the brake. For the moment, we were fine, though. I opened my legs. He lowered his left foot onto my revived dick and softly pedaled it.
“That’s nice, isn’t it?” he said.
“Very nice.”
I clasped the top of his foot. It felt so soft and smooth in my hand.
“Why is this so hot?” Wendell wondered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just is.”
While his foot massaged my drill, he continued to whisper. “So hot. Let me blow you, Mitch. I am the head master. You’ll see. Man, I’m so hungry for you. I want to slide down your throat so bad. I want to do it right here, right now. Let’s do it, Mitch. Stretch out right here on the floor and do it. You can suck my dick. You can lick my toes. You can eat my ass, and that’s my special treat. I don’t give it up very often. But I want you to have it. Really, I do. Say yes, let’s do this thing here and now and I’ll sit on your face as long as you like. Sound good, baby?”
I all but forgot where we were and who Wendell was. His filthy incantations had me mesmerized. “It sounds real good, better than good.”
He stripped off his shirt with his free hand and pushed his flannels down, quickly replacing his dick on my face, swiping it back and forth over my lips several times before halting halfway across. “Take a taste. One taste and you’ll want it all. I promise. One taste and we’ll be all over each other. I swear it. You won’t give a damn who catches us. You won’t even notice them comes in. Me neither. We’ll be so wrapped up in each other’s tools they’ll have to climb over us.”
I was a hair’s breadth from giving in when sirens went off in my brain. The truth was I never gave a fuck about who might walk in on us to begin with—at least, not in terms of what they thought of me. Or Wendell, for that matter. But knowing the people on our floor—other than dull Christina, that is—I could see every one of them making their way down the hall to tattle to Katie. That broke the spell.
I kissed Wendell’s cock and told him, “If it weren’t for Katie, I’d lay here till I died as long as I could have you in my mouth. But, Wendell, you mad wizard, bad as I want you, it’s no good. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt Katie.”
“Katie! Jesus, Mitch, are you back on that bus again?” He pulled up his pajamas, put his shirt back on, and sat down. He talked to me like I was either three or 103, which pissed me off. “Okay. Here’s what’s up with Katie. She knows everything and she’s cool with it. In fact, the only times she’s not cool with it are when I’m not fucking around with another guy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, that’s not what I mean. Let me see how I can put this. Here. Try this. When I don’t have a guy on the side somewhere—you know, a fuck buddy who’ll pick up when I call—Katie goes a little haywire. and our shit gets big-time bumpy.”
“What you’re saying makes absolutely no sense to me,” I said.
“Okay. You gotta stick with me. It’s kind of tricky.”
“Go on.”
“The first thing you should know is Katie’s always known about me. She knew before I even met her, because this dude I was hanging out with at the time told her all of it in explicit detail. I mean, what my spunk tastes like, my gangbang fantasies, my teabag thing, every goddamn detail. When I heard, I wanted to kill him. Then something better than murder happened. The dumb-fuck introduced us. We fell in love and I kicked him out so she could move in.”
“That’s priceless. Serves him right.”
“No joke, huh? So we stayed together and over time a pattern emerged. I’d start craving dick so bad I wanted nothing to do with her.”
“That had to hurt.”
“And that’s where you wrong. OK. Sure. You’re right. It hurt her real bad. But she understood it wasn’t about her. She knew I’d never hurt her on purpose. Katie’s my heart. Look, I know you’re gay and may not be able to appreciate this, but I’ll tell you anyway. When Katie’s dressed, she’s a lamb. But the minute those panties come off, Jesus help me. She’s a wild animal. And her pussy? She’s got more sugar in her bowl than a thousand women combined. And she’s hip to all of this. She’s knows who she is and what she’s got. So if I’m jonesing for dick, it’s not because I’m tired of her pussy. She gets that.”
“So that’s why she loses it when you don’t have a fuck-buddy. If you can’t go out and get some dick, she can’t get any dick at home.”
“That’s why she took off to her parents’ place last week. We moved here over a year ago and I still haven’t hooked up with a regular guy. Every dude I’ve met is a one-night stand.”
“Christ, Wendell,” I groaned. “Why didn’t you knock on my door? I’ve been beating off to you since the day you showed up.”
“Katie suggested that. Seriously, though. What would I say when you opened the door? Can we fuck a few times this week so I can get this monkey off my back and fuck my wife? How rude is that?”
“Not as rude as letting me jack myself to sleep thinking about you.”
With the heavy stuff out the way, Wendell eased up. “Don’t put it all on me. You know how to knock, too. You could have said something.”
“Right. Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I come right out and tell Katie, ‘I’m dropping loads day and night fantasizing about your husband. Can you send him over when he gets home from work, please?’”
His face turned matter-of-fact. “Why didn’t you? You could have. And she would have let you, too.”
I thought that through and agreed.
We sat for a moment or two without talking. Then Wendell said, “So now that you’re cool with Katie, can we please go back to your place and screw our brains out?”
I held off answering at first. “Of all the nights for you to ask that, you pick this one. Any other time, I’d pick you up, carry you down the hall, throw you on my bed, and make love to you like you’re a prince while I fucked you like you’re a two-bit whore. But tonight, I’m sorry. I’m hanging onto every drop I’ve got until tomorrow. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on tomorrow?” Wendell asked.
“I’ll tell you. Before I do, though, talk to me about your gangbang fantasy.” I replied.
Coming: Part Two: Early Risers, Easy Riders
!!!
