La Escena de Amor: Numero Nueve
Malcolm Johnson has been my mailman for the last six months, and just the sight of him gets my heart pumping into overtime. When Antony, my boyfriend, goes to work in the morning, I try to get my flirt on with Malcolm. I wear tight shorts, spandex bodysuits, or cut-off T-shirts that show off my lean bronze body. Once, I even tried to bake him some cookies for Christmas. Picture a twenty-five-year-old Latino man in the kitchen trying to bake some damn cookies. Hell, I'm lucky that the kitchen is still there. Those cookies ended up darker than the cold coffee Tony leaves in coffee pot when he goes to work.
Malcolm comes to my house every day at eleven thirty, just an hour before Tony comes home from work on his lunch break. Malcolm always wears a tight, light blue postal shirt that shows his broad shoulders and bulging biceps and dark blue shorts that reveal his muscular thighs and his bitch calves that are covered by sparse black hairs. Everytime he comes to my house, he always knocks on the door to hand me the mail. He always says, "Mr. Riviera, looks like you have mail today," in a jolly tone that contrasts his bass voice. One day, I watched him walking around the neighborhood giving my neighbors their mail to see if he goes to everyone's doorstep to deliver their mail. He doesn't. Half of the time he just throws the mail on the people's lawn, and if the wind picks up the mail, I say, "I hope it wasn't anything important." Maybe that's why today is his is last day. Maybe all those neighbors whose mail was lost went up to his boss and demanded that he is fired. Whatever the reason, I know that today is my last day with him. After today, I can no longer fantasize about him making love to me while I'm in the bed with Tony.
Today is a day of action. While he is out throwing people's mail in their yards, I take time and break into his mailtruck. I look at through the mailtruck's tinted windows. He knocks on my door, and when no one answers he puts the mail through the mail slot on the door and lets out a sigh of disappointment. I sit in the mailtruck waiting for him to see me stretched out in the backseat with a black fleece nightshirt that comes to my thighs. As he comes to the truck, I lay on side with my legs open so that he knows that I mean business as soon as he opens the door.
The door opens, and when he sees me, he lets out a huge grin. "How did you get in here," he says.
"I broke the locks on the back door," I say as he steps into the truck.
"You're a sly little thing aren't you," he says as he looks between my legs. "Well I guess I should say big," he grins. "Why don't we go in the back of the truck where the mail is at, so that we can have more room." We enter the door that leads to the back of the truck.
The back of a mailtruck has more mail than I thought. There are five carts lined up in the corner that's labeled "South Park" and there's another cart that has "Lost or Misplaced Mail" on it. Besides the carts, there is a long oak-finished shelf with other letters and stuff on it.
Before I am fully in this little section of the truck, he has already taken his shirt off. His brown, wide, washboard chests stare me dead in the face. His nipples are hard and his scanty chest hair is on end. This is the way I've always dreamed him: standing there with nothing but his tight shorts and brown hiking boots on. "I've been dreaming of this for a long time Alejandro," he says as he pulls my closer to him. I can feel him getting hard through his shorts. He brushes his hands up my hairless legs reaching up to my crotch as if he's searching for the gold at the end of the rainbow. He curls my dark brown pubic hairs from underneath my nightshirt. He takes off my nightshirt and we lay on the floor. He is on top of me sucking my nipples, and my hands run through every dent on his back. I picture us looking like a Butterfinger bar; the chocolate covering the charred cookie in the middle.
I am suffocated underneath him. I breathe in his Old Spice aftershave. We roll over. I'm on top of him now. I unzip his shorts. He wants to see the prized jewels that I've fantasized about for so long. I notice one thing when I open his shorts: he is hairy. Extremely hairy. His black hairs span from his balls to just underneath his navel. The head of his brown dick shines red as if it's the hot sun in the Sahara. I take his dick into my mouth and suck it. It tastes like one of those frozen fudge ice cream bars. As I suck him, he runs his hands through my hair. When he does this I remember something Tony told me once, "There are some men that play with the other man's hair when they are getting a blowjob and there are others that play with there own." I never understood what he meant, and he has never told me.
When I am finished sucking him, we stand up. I bend over and he slips himself inside me. He likes it fast and rough, and Tony likes it slow and gentle. Malcolm's way is better. After a couple of minutes, Malcolm's body shines in sweat just like his dick was when I saw it. He bumps; I grind. I bump; he grinds. After a while Malcolm goes crazy and starts to tear up my ass. He's going super fast. The closest thing I've seen that moves as fasts as he does, are those racing cars Tony watches on Saturdays. He groans; I scream in pure rhapsody. The truck rocks, and the carts turn over and the papers on the shelf fall to the floor. Malcolm is so much better than Tony, so much better. He yells blissfully, "I'm tearing up that ass! I'm tearing up that ass!"
I scream, "Yeah, baby keep tearing it up! Keep tearing it up! Stick it in harder! Harder!" Tony could never do this to me. He loves me too much. He acts like I'm this fragile glass that can't be broken. Why can't he be rough like Malcolm.
I drop my creamy load on a letter to a woman named Anna LaBarde. She's going to be in for a surprise when she touches that letter. Malcolm is still at it. Sweat rolls off his body and on to the letters. Their ink smear. How will he explain this to his boss? I lick the sweat off his arm that is wrapped around my chest. It's salty like water from out the sea. If any body saw his dick between my ass like it is now, I bet they would say it looks like a vanilla cookie with chocolate filling.
He winds down, and we lay on top of the debris of mail that covers the bottom of the truck. I can see Tony arriving home out the passenger window. "Damn," I think, "he's home early." Then I remember that today is my birthday. Tony carries two dozen of roses in his hand. He probably comes home to surprise me by giving me a noonie. He can keep his weak shit in his pants because I've just had the best birthday present of my life ... fucking Malcolm.