Today, however, I turned the corner and jerked to a stop. Juan was standing out front, tool belt and hard hat under one arm, looking casually at his newspaper. I forced myself to start walking.
“Little early today?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
His beautiful dark eyes rose from the paper. “Yeah. Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I got, what, a half hour before you’re open?”
I made a concerted effort not to drop my keys as I unlocked the door. It was even more of a struggle to keep my voice steady as I said, “You can come in now…if you want. I always put a pot of coffee on for myself when I get here.”
He smiled, eyes still focused on my face. He followed me inside. The shop’s front blinds were down.
I was facing away, which helped to hide my hard-on. I was also trying frantically to evaluate the moment, again reading a hundred different meanings into the situation, desperately hoping that somehow I could finally get my hands on him—and at the same time sure it would never happen.
I was just a few steps inside when Juan answered my multiple questions. From behind, he grabbed a cheek of my ass and gave it a steely-fingered squeeze. Air rushed out of my lungs.
“You got a nice butt for a skinny white guy.”
I craned my head slowly around. He was smiling again, gleaming white teeth flashing from between soft brown lips. I tried to speak.
Again he saved me the trouble. He dropped his tool belt and hard hat on a nearby table, turned my body around and planted a kiss on my shocked lips. For what seemed like a long while I was unable to return the kiss I’d been longing for; then, my mouth finally melted, and our lips mashed together. His were as soft as I’d imagined. His moist tongue probed my mouth, encountering my own. We frenched long and deep, my eyes drifting shut.
Eventually our mouths parted. “You like it?”
I opened my eyes, thinking I’d never heard a sillier question, and nodded.
“You want to go in back somewhere?” Juan asked.
With the blinds down we were invisible from the street. “Right here’s fine,” I said breathlessly. I wanted him so badly. There were only a half-dozen tables out on the floor. Customers mostly got their coffees, cappuccinos and pastries to go.
Our mouths crushed hungrily together again. This time Juan’s hands moved over my body, stroking my bony flanks, reaching again for my ass. After a second’s hesitation my hands rose to his broad, well-rounded shoulders. He was firm beneath my touch, all muscle and sinew. I caressed his arms as they enclosed me. His tongue danced wildly against mine as my hands roved down his back toward his shapely ass. I moaned into his mouth as my fingers finally closed on its luscious swells.
He pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans, drawing it up over my ribs and my aroused nipples. I lifted my arms, and he tugged it over my head. I unbuttoned his denim work shirt with hasty fingers, then helped yank it off him.
We gazed at each other. His unclothed torso was a wonder to behold—firm pecs capped by the dark swollen circles of his nipples, classic washboard abs, veins prominent along his muscular arms. And dark, gorgeous flesh…
He was looking at me with the same sort of longing—which in a distant corner of my mind I found rather perplexing. I only weigh about one thirty-five, and while there’s not an ounce of fat on me, there’s not much in the way of muscle either. Nonetheless Juan’s gaze mirrored the rapture in my own eyes.
He lifted a hand and trailed it delicately over my shallow chest, fingertips straying across my left nipple. Imitating him, I stroked his impressive pectorals, my fingers lovingly cupping the solid mounds, trapping a nipple between two knuckles and squeezing.
We explored each other’s bodies for several leisurely minutes, our movements strangely synchronized: as my palm glided across his rippling abdominals toward his crotch, Juan’s hand slid across my less-defined stomach toward my denim-trapped hard-on.
His hand closed around my blatant bulge and I shivered sweetly. I groped his thick meat through the fabric of his jeans. He jammed his crotch hard against my palm, his cock pulsing.
We removed the rest of our clothing, dropping it carelessly to the floor. I eyed the clock: fifteen minutes until I had to open. It would be enough time.
Naked, we studied each other again. Juan was a solid pillar of masculine strength, legs bowed slightly, body radiating health and stamina. His cock was a gorgeous length of firm meat, the same color as the rest of his stained-wood flesh.
Why he was looking back at me—
me
—with the same lustful leer, I couldn’t imagine.
We stepped toward each other and kissed again, each seizing the other’s cock. His naked body felt glorious against mine, his dark flesh as smooth as I’d fantasized.
Gasping, I broke my mouth away from his. “I want to suck you,” I panted. I prayed he’d had the foresight to bring along condoms.
He had. He fished one out of the pocket of his discarded jeans. I snatched it, tore open the packet and slid it over his cock, then dropped to my knees. My mouth watered in anticipation. His dark-haired balls hung heavily, and it was these I went after first. I moistened the sac with my tongue, lapping in long, savoring strokes. Then I gently sucked one, then the other into my mouth, squeezing them delicately with my lips, drawing in their flavor. Juan moaned above me.
I shifted on my knees, ignoring the discomfort of the hardwood floor, and turned my attention to his cock. I first licked the sides of the hefty shaft, then moved toward the dark jewel of his cockhead.
I held his moist balls in one hand and the column of his hard thigh in my other. I closed my lips around the tip of his cock, setting my tongue loose again. Then I lowered my mouth, letting his impressive length fill me. My tongue curled wildly around his shaft as his head approached the back of my mouth. I felt a muscle jump along Juan’s thigh beneath my hand. I swallowed him down to the base, his dense black pubic hairs brushing my cheeks and distended lips.
“That’s good…” I heard from above.
I drew my cheeks in tightly and sucked in earnest, picking just the right tempo and increasing it every thirty seconds or so until my mouth was plunging up and down in a blur.
His hips thrust forward, matching the speed of my blow job. As he face-fucked me, his body quivered, then trembled harder.
“Here it comes!” he yelled.
His balls moved beneath my fingers and started unloading, heavy gushes through his shaft, cum filling the condom. I kept my mouth on him until, his leg spasming where I held it, he disengaged himself from my lips. The filled condom fell to the floor, heavy with its load.
I rose to my feet, my cock still rigid. Without hesitation Juan moved into position, settling to his knees, sliding another condom onto my shaft.
I gazed down, dazed with lust, as his mouth closed over me. I put my hands to his broad shoulders to steady myself as he swallowed me, my inches disappearing between his soft lips. His agile tongue slithered up and down my cock, sending hot jets of pleasure through my thin, pale body.
He looked so beautiful kneeling before me, strong hands gripping my skinny thighs, his dark-haired head bobbing faster and faster. He was an expert cocksucker, taking my length effortlessly, laughing off his gag reflex and burying his nose in my pubic curls.
Juan moved one hand from my leg to my balls, cupping my sac and squeezing gently. My excitement was mounting by rapid degrees, and soon his mouth was racing up and down my cock, lips wrapping me tightly, fingers urgently trying to milk my cum from my balls.
He didn’t have long to wait. My eruption approached, my flesh tingling, my fingers digging into the solid mounds of his shoulders. I rose slightly up onto my toes and let loose. Cum hammered out of me, Juan’s mouth clamped tightly around my shaft, his tireless tongue still squirming all over my cock. My eyes closed again as the waves of fulfilled lust crashed over me.
When I was done, I opened my eyes and looked vaguely at the clock on the wall. I had to open the coffee shop in three minutes. Still I took the time—not caring if those first customers got their caffeine fixes—to give Juan another deep, lingering kiss.
He grinned at me. “Y’know, it’s probably not politically correct to say this but…I’ve always had this thing for skinny white guys.”
I laughed. “Well, we’ve all got our kinks, don’t we?”
BOOKENDED BY BEAUTY
Jamie Freeman
I fell asleep with my iPod on last night,
Spring Awakening
blasting in an endless loop while I floated up into the shimmering sunlight of purple summer. It reminds me of the summer I turned fifteen and spent the afternoons sleeping under emerald leaves at my uncle’s farm, the sun beating down through the foliage, my headphones blasting
Chess
over and over. I listened and listened, flipping the cassette over again and again until the tape clicked and dragged. I floated out of myself then as well, fleeing into the music. I remember that feeling so clearly; as if the music itself was lifting me up, up away from my father’s quietly restrained, meticulously ordered little world into the freedom of the dancing sun-streaked maple trees. And last night I felt my body rising sunward like it did so many years ago.
Nick thinks I need to spend a little more time inside myself and a little less time inside my show tunes. Last night he left Jennifer’s card on the table with a yellow Post-it that said,
Appointment.
Jennifer’s my shrink. Nick’s not a subtle guy; he used to teach high school English, so he sometimes likes to provide me with life lesson plans in the form of suggestive words scrawled on Post-it notes. Sometimes he leaves a checkerboard of them on the refrigerator spelling out a variety of possible solutions like a two-dimensional Rubik’s Cube. One afternoon I spent an hour shuffling Post-its from place to place; over dinner I told Nick I thought I was going to buy a pool. He stared at me for a long time, dropped his fork onto his plate, slid his chair back from the table and said, “Fuck you, you stupid asshole. That Post-it said
poll.
” He wanted me to poll our friends about vacation destinations, but sometimes the lessons we learn are not in the lesson plan.
Now every morning before his beauty regimen, Nick swims laps in the pool I bought that year, maintaining long, slender limbs and a hard, perfect stomach. He learned to love the pool and he polled our friends himself, planning our cruise to Mexico and dragging me along with a suitcase full of sunscreen, books and reluctance.
“Poll, my ass,” I yelled after him that night as he stormed down the hall.
The lesson plan for last night was directing me to make an appointment with my shrink, who I haven’t seen in a couple of months. I think seeing her now would be a waste of money. No need for professional intervention, just look at a fuckin’ calendar. Anyone else would see that the neatly numbered squares lead inexorably toward my fortieth birthday. But Nick thinks age-related anxiety’s bullshit since he didn’t have a freak-out when he rolled past forty. Honestly, if I looked as good as he did, I’d roll on past without a thought. But I don’t. I’m gaining weight in all the places forty-year-olds do. I still have my runner’s legs and I swim in the afternoons to try to even things out, but it’s a losing battle. And my thick, beautiful chest hair is growing long and kinky and colonizing my shoulders and my back. And I’ve never had a beautiful face to offset the normalcy of my body. I fuckin’ hate gettin’ old.
There are fifty-one days until I turn forty.
Nick’s in the bathroom now, pouting in front of the mirror where he spends an hour each morning, his delicate, long-fingered hands competently slowing his beauteous decline. I’m still in bed with the covers kicked off in the Florida heat, but I can picture him there, his face damp from the first rinse as he smoothes a five-hundred-dollar cleansing cream across his beautiful pale cheeks. He’s gently rubbing the lines from his face like he’s Photoshopping his skin, perfecting perfection, airbrushing Rock Hudson.
I usually walk into the bathroom at the end of his rituals, kiss him on the cheek or massage his shoulders for a minute or two, and then join him in the shower. This morning I look over his shoulder into the mirror, still transfixed by his beauty after nearly fifteen years, and I wonder what he can possibly see there to elicit such methodical, pathological—Jennifer might say obsessive-compulsive—concern on his part. He is flawlessly beautiful, a truly stunning man, entering his prime at forty-five, when I’ve already left mine far behind me.