Catfish moves to Crestwood Acres 2
by Bald Hairy Man
This is a story about gay men and gay sex. If you don't like that DON'T read it. You have been warned. It is intended for adults to read, not for minors. It is a fantasy, not a sex manual. No effort to portray safe sex practices has been made. If you have any comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymn@aol.com.
The Admiral relaxed when Glenn appeared. They weren't just casual acquaintances. I think the Admiral was fairly new to the gay scene and wasn't that comfortable meeting a new man. He clearly enjoyed men, but he still had his training wheels on. He was use to the well ordered life of the military and was uneasy in the more free wheeling gay community.
He knew Glenn and he let Glenn be his guide. Glenn was no virgin and seemed to have a good sense of what I liked and how far the Admiral would go. The Admiral had a nice, beer can style cock and matching meaty balls. Everything was in working order, but it did take a while to get the spigot flowing.
He was sucking Glenn and I was sucking him when the juices got going. It was worth the wait. His cock got really hard and then came the flood. His cock juices didn't drool, they flowed. When the pre cum began to flow it seemed as if his cock got more sensitive and responsive. I traded places with Glen and let the Admiral suck me a second time. This time, he was enthusiastic.
When I get excited, eventually I want to fuck, but that wasn't to be. The Admiral and Glenn shot off and things cooled down. We talked and the conversation turned to the widows. Widows were the majority of Crestwood Acres residents. The Admiral regarded them both as persons to be protected and as pests.
He was a big, strong and dominant man who naturally was protective, a classic Alpha male. He had no problem giving advice, or helping in medical or family emergencies, but he hated acting as the garbage man or the yard boy.
"For some of the ladies a husband was just a personal servant," he complained. "Maybe they found a sucker the first time they married, but I'm no sucker. Some ask my advice as a form of entertainment, not because they really want it. Lucy wanted me for fun, but it seems that twerp, Henry Paulus, is the one whose advice she takes."
"I don't trust Paulus," Glenn said. "The old ladies get on everyone nerves once and a while, but I think he positively dislikes them. When I see him getting kissy-kissy with one of the residents, I get worried."
"You think he has ulterior motives?" I asked.
"I don't know anything at all, but I don't like it," he said. "He's not like Ira, the art director. He likes the old biddies."
"Ira's a flaming fagot," Admiral Green said. "Well, he not going to give Clint Eastwood a run for the macho sweepstakes, but he is helpful," Glenn said. "He knows the ladies well enough to warn me if somethings afoot. He told me Mrs Taylor was looking pale. I checked on here and she was on the edge of a heart attack. He saw it coming."
"Maybe there's more to him than I noticed," Admiral Green said. "His mannerisms drive me crazy."
"He can be one of the girls," Glenn conceded. "Ira does play the mother hen, but some of them need that. He watches over some of the ladies' medicines and makes sure they take it. He has a knack for that. They do what he tells them."
We had to get back, so Glenn and I left. That night I called my office and told them to do a background check on Henry Paulus and on the Director. Glenn told me his name was Jon Dustin.
Early the next morning Glenn called. Ira, the art director's car had broken down. He wanted to know if I could pick him up. I said sure. He gave me the address. It was only a few blocks form where I lived.
Ira was the personification of mass media's idea of what a gay man should be. He was average height, slim and had a goatee. He was rather elegantly dressed in the Crestwood blazer. He embellished it with a scarf and gold necklaces. Ira talked a mile a minute and a heavily lisped voice. He was not my type. If Ira wasn't my type, I was even less his. He like young, smooth pretty boys, Asian if at all possible.
By the time I picked up Glenn and got to Crestwood Acres, I realized Ira had a good sense of humor and was a well informed gossip. He seemed to know each resident and their peculiarities. He was one of those persons who could meet a person and know their birthday, their children's birthdays and what medications they were on in ten minutes. You find that in women regularly, but not in men. Ira was everything a detective could want.
I spent the day in general clean us. A bad thunderstorm had gone through in the early hours of the morning and limbs and leaves were down everywhere. I kept my eyes pealed for Henry and others of his ilk. I found him at one of the assisted living units. Sometimes I think I'm God's favorite detective. A big limb was down across the cul-de-sac from the unit he was visiting. It took more than an hour to clear it up.
About ten a big Mercedes drove up and a well dressed couple got out. The man went to the trunk and got a package. It was rectangular and flat. My guess it was a framed painting or print. Henry greeted them at the door. Apparently they were old friends. I got the license plate of the car. Later that day I saw Henry and a young woman visiting another unit. I got the number and would talk with Glenn about it later.
I was driving around the place in a little lawn tractor with a trailer behind, to hold the branches. I could cover a lot of ground in that, so I got a good feel for the place. The Admiral flagged me down to look at a branch in his patio. It was more of a twig than a branch.
"I have some friends in Richmond," he said. "They knew you and didn't know you did yard work."
"I have a lot of skills," I said. "If you didn't mention any of my other skills to th residents or staff, I'd appreciate it."
"Damn, I guessed right," he said. He looked pleased with himself. "Somethings up! What is it?"
"It's a bit early yet," I replied. "Nothing is definite; just a faint odor in the air. You could say I'm still sniffing things out."
"I can keep a secret. I've had a few slightly uneasy feelings about this place. By the way, my friends in Richmond described you as a hairy chimp who's hung like King Kong," he added.
"Did they like the chimp part, or the hung part?"
Green smiled. "They knew about you and had heard about it," he said. "Apparently I've started at the top."
"Given my druthers, I'm a top," I said, smiling.
"I've never done that," he replied. "Glenn's interested, but I'm not sure. This is all uncharted territory for me. If I can help you on your investigation, I'm more than willing."
"That may work out," I said. "I may need some background on the residents when I figure out if something is amiss." I went back to my clean up tasks. I got beeped to go back to the house where I had cleaned up the large limb earlier. Another branch had fallen.
Henry Paulus was waiting for me looking put upon. "Mrs. Anderson is very disturbed you didn't remove the branch that was going to fall," he said. "I don't like sloppy work like that." It was a silly thing to say, since the branch was still in the tree when I was there that morning, but I didn't say anything about that.
"I'll clean it up right away sir," I said. I could tell he wanted to huff and puff a bit longer, but I went to work right away and he didn't have a chance. He went back in the house. I made short work of the branch.
I went to the door and knocked. A maid answered the door. "I just took care of the downed branch," I said. "Are there any other trees down?"
"Come in," the maid replied. "I'll ask Mrs Anderson." The entry faced directly into the living room. The packing for the painting was on the floor and a painting was in the wall behind the sofa. It was smaller than the painting that had been there before and you could see the light spot where the earlier painting had hung. The new painting was of a western scene in the style of Remington.
"Ask him to wait for a few minutes," I heard an aggravated voice say. "I'm busy now." The maid reappeared and gave me the message. She left and I took the opportunity to look at the painting and the wrapper. The wrapper had a label saying, the Miller Galleries of Americana. The painting was signed F.D. Remington, 1893. I didn't think it was a print, but it was either a good copy, or the real thing. It was either very expensive, or stunningly expensive, I was back in the entry by the time Mrs Anderson appeared with Henry.
"What do you want here?" she asked. "You don't belong here!"
"This is the man who was removing the fallen limbs," Henry explained.
"What limbs?" she demanded. She looked enraged, then confused.
"Do you have anything else you want to have done?" I asked.
She looked around the room and saw the painting. "Who stole my painting?" she asked. "That's not my painting."
"That's the new painting you just bought, Betty," Henry said. He looked at me. "You'd better go." The maid opened the door and I heard her latch it behind me as I left.
I drove my lawn tractor to a shady spot and called into my office. Lewis, the office manager picked up the phone. "I need for some one to check out the Miller Galleries of Americana. It's an art gallery of some sort," I said. "Is there any information on Henry Paulus and Jon Dustin?"
"Let me check the file," Lewis said. He was silent for a few seconds as he pulled up the computer records. "Zip so far, but I just Googled The Miller galleries. Mostly self generated promo stuff, but there is one news article. "Gallery Admits to Error in Attribution," is the title. It looks like they had a problem selling a painting with a forged signature. Is that the information you wanted?"
"We may have hit the jackpot," I said. "Who's our most likely art investigator now? Let's do a full investigation on the Miller Galleries."
"Gus is into that," Lewis said. "He moves in those circles. I'll get him on it right away."
What had been a faint suspicion that something was wrong had turned into a stench. The combination of wealthy elderly people slipping into their dotage and an unscrupulous art dealer selling suspect works could make for a great scam.
I was a know-it-all kid in high school and proud of being born a redneck. I explained his to my freshman English teacher, Mrs Franken. She was a plump Jewish lady who's husband was a Doctor. "There's a world of difference between being a redneck and being an ignorant redneck," she said. "We're all born ignorant too, but that's no reason to die ignorant."
I thought that was a put down at first, then I realized it was true. I've picked up a lot of knowledge since I was in Mrs. Franken's class. What chance was there that a genuine Frederic Remington would end up over the sofa in Mrs Anderson's house? The chances had to be somewhere between zero and none.
It looked real to me. Forgers specialized in creating that "real" look. There was one other option. The painting was real, but stolen. If I was going to hide a work of stolen art, Crestwood Acres would be the ideal place. The attics and basements of art dealers in New York or Amsterdam would seem to be a likely hiding place. Mrs. Anderson's living room would not.
On the drive home I got the lowdown on Mrs. Anderson from Ira and Glenn. "To tell you the truth, if the word "bitch" hadn't been invented yet they would made it up to describe her," Glenn said. "She's demanding, pretentious and totally self centered."
"Actually Glenn is treating her kindly," Ira said. "The staff hates her as do the residents. She was trailer trash who married an elderly car dealer. He died and left her well off, but not that well off. I listened to her sound off on her hubby's children once. She wanted it all, but only got 20%. Talk about bitter."
"How big was the 20%?" I asked.
"I'm not sure, maybe a million, or a million and a half," Ira said. "She's comfortable, but not floating in cash."
"I take it, not many people gather around the Thanksgiving table at her house," I remarked.
"Somehow I think she may have an estranged daughter," Glenn said. "She had a knack for ruining dinner parties, so she doesn't get out much. That last time she came in to see me, she was slipping badly. I couldn't tell if it was dementia, or booze that was causing the problem."
"What did she come to see you about?" I asked.
"I can't talk about that. She's a patient," Glenn said. "She doesn't come to see a lowly nurse practitioner, she needs a doctor. If she had her druthers she'd have them flown in directly from the Mayo Clinic."
"Is she the arty type?"
"Shit no," Ira responded. "She's the Dollar General type. She can do Martha Stewart stuff since she's read about it, but that's as far as she can go. Her house was done by a decorator in Richmond. There were threats of law suits about that, but they never materialized. Betty hates lawyers." I dropped the men off and went home.
There was a message for me on the phone from Elliot Stevenson. He was the Curator of American art at the Museum. I called him back and he asked if I could come over to chat about the Miller galleries. I had a quick dinner and went to his Monument Avenue house.
I had seen Elliot several times. Elliot is a good six foot five inches tall. You always see Elliot. He looked like a caricature of a museum curator with a goatee and slightly affected mannerisms. I wouldn't say he was effeminate, but you would never mistake him for a longshoreman or a truck driver. He had encyclopedic knowledge about American art. He knew it all.
I was put off by him the first time I met him. He seemed like a pompous, know-it-all jerk. Later I discovered he did indeed know it all He was just a bit light in the social skills.
"Why are you interested in the Miller galleries?" he asked. I explained the situation and told him about the Remington. He was really interested in that. Elliot called a friend as asked him to come over. Five minutes later an aging hippie appeared at the door.
"Catfish, this is Sedgwick Montague, the head of the painting conservation lab at the museum," Elliot said in introduction.
"You are the famous Catfish, the horse hung detective?" Sedgwick asked. I smiled and we shook hands.
"Are you interested in the detective or horse hung part of me?" I asked. Poor Elliott looked scandalized. Sedgwick was disheveled and sloppy looking. He was bald, wore a pony tail and had a Blackbeard the Pirate style beard. He wore a paint splattered Hawaiian style shirt, only partially buttoned. It looked as if he tucked the beard into the shirt, but it was possible his his chest hair was as thick as his beard. Elliott was thin and wore a Victorian style smoking jacket and an Ascot. He was perfectly groomed. That contrast between the two men was stunning.
"Can you tell me about the Remington?" Sedgwick asked. I went over the story again. They were more than interested.
"The Miller Galleries have been suspect for years, but they've been slippery." Elliott explained. "We almost got them once, but they talked themselves out of it."
"Are they forgers, or are they fencing?" I asked.
"They like to add signatures and dates to paintings that aren't quite so deserving," Sedgwick said. "It wouldn't surprise me of they worked with paintings of problematic provenance."
"Does problematic provenance mean stolen from a Jewish family and formerly in the collection of Hermann Goering?" I asked.
"That's what it means, but there are many stolen works floating around," Elliot said. "Can you get us in to see the painting?"
"That my take some work, but I will see what can be done," I said. We talked for an hour or so. Elliott knew all about stolen works. Sedgwick covered the forgery front. I went home at 11:00. Sedgwick was right behind me.
"Do you have time for a night cap?" Sedgwick asked. He had run to catch up with me. "Elliot doesn't drink anything but expensive wine and he saves it for himself. It's his only vice."
"I don't need a drink, but here is another vice I wouldn't mind indulging," I said. "If you're a Bottom, that is."
"Did I just get lucky?" he asked. "My apartment is a block away. I have been known to entertain on the back porch."
"Are you a size queen?"
"Can I answer that later?" he asked.
Sedgwick may not have been a size queen when we met, but he was one two hours later. As soon as we got naked I knew Sedgwick had an aesthetic admiration for my cock. Several men have had that deer caught in the headlights look when they see it the first time. For Sedgwick it was as if he had discovered a new Rembrandt. He loved it as an object of beauty, a work of art. He studied it in detail then used his tongue to explore it.
Sedgwick possessed a classic fire plug cock. It was a six by six inch wonder. Once we got going it flowed like a fire hydrant too. It was on the thick side of average, his balls were in the 90th percentile. He had bull balls in a hairy bull ball sack.
He told me his partner had left him for another man a year earlier. His partner was a top, but had a long thin cock that fit easily. He wanted my cock but wasn't sure he could take it. I got Sedgwick on his back with his legs spread wide. He had a pretty rosebud poking out of his hole. The second my lubricated knob touched the bud, he shivered and his ass hole opened.
I knew I'd have no problem. It wouldn't be easy, but he wanted it all. Sedgwick was tight, but he wanted it really bad. I used a lot of lube and just pumped until my head popped through the sphincter. Ten minutes later my curly hairs touched his ravaged hole. Each inch of penetration was difficult, but after I slowed up for a few seconds, he'd beg me to go deeper. Deeper I went.
Sedgwick must have had a particularly sensitive ass. Once it was stretched, it became ultra sensitive. Every moment I made caused him to react. Sometimes he would moan, shiver or twitch. By the time I got him fully skewered he was crying. I stayed perfectly still until he got a grip. I moved and he shivered.
I pulled out to let him rest, then I rolled him over and did him doggy style. That was much easier. Once he got use to that I flipped him again and deep dicked him on the first thrust. I came damn close to shooting so I pulled out and rested. I figured that was enough fucking for one night.
I rested and felt drowsy. Sedgwick got up and went to the bath. He took a shower. When he returned he straddled me and sat on my cock. As his ass lips parted and welcomed my cock into his body, we merged. His ass was shrink wrapped to my cock. It was lovely.
I had an odd vision of the Vulcan Mind Meld for Star Trek. It wasn't the mind that melded for Sedgwick and me, it was a cock-prostate merger. They formed a new, super sex organ that we shared. He sat, impaled on my cock, twitching and moaning until I felt his entire ass contract. A second later I was giving his prostate a sperm bath as his seed squirted from the slit and coated my hairy chest in cum.