The Man for Whom All This is New

The Man for Whom All This is New

the man for whom all this is new

Benjamin Ashton

"I don't get him," I said dragging on a cigarette. We were outside, on the curb of the hotel, lit by its neon signs in an otherwise pitch black night. I had badly wanted to smoke and Tom had come down, wanting to let his room get some air with the window ajar. It was freezing and my underwear felt uncomfortably sticky. "I don't get his life."

"And I don't get why this vile cigarette was so important to you that we had to come out in this polar weather," Tom said, before hugging me from behind, to warm himself.

That strange, long day had begun with me waking up in Tom's hotel room sweating profusely. It was freezing and overcast outside, but neither Tom nor I had been able to work out the remote for the heating system before we went to sleep the night before. Tom had tugged just a corner of the white duvet on the small of his back, his round pasty ass was glowing in the early morning light, sliding through the curtain. His long legs were spread wide, one feet dangling over the bed. I placed a kiss on his hairy thigh, the muscle reacting with a slight flex.

I've always loved staying in a hotel in a city where I lived and Tom's visit in DC for a three-day conference offered such lovely opportunity. The conference was at the Hilton and Tom had gotten in town two nights before. I lived not too far, in Logan Circle, and I had walked to his hotel the night before, after having drinks with a couple of friends. Tom had had some networking duties his first two evenings, but last night's event was finished early enough for me to drop by and hang out.

I had been friends with Tom for ten years. He was originally the best friend of one of my first boyfriend. We had instantly hit it off and had managed somehow to keep our quite animal attraction towards each other in check. When I became single, he was dating someone, which kept me from pursuing anything. Yet one drunken night, after an evening of our legs rubbing under the table at a dinner party and a frantic making out session in the bathroom, we had found a way to end up at his place, alone, and had finally been able to relieve the built up sexual tension between us. I felt awful afterwards for his boyfriend, he didn't, yet we decided to try and keep our hands off each other and the possibility of building something together for later, more auspicious times. This never happened, even if we did hook up periodically. We lived in different cities, our relationship statuses never matched and by the time something like a budding romance could have materialized, we had become the perfect "fuck buddies", as he once introduced us to some guy in a bar he was trying to hook up with.

I hadn't seen Tom in over a year. He hadn't changed. He seemed to have eschewed the slight addition of weight I so often noticed in my friends, the discreet kind, the kind that comes with turning 30, with making money in a job that involves lunches and dinners, but leaves little time for breakfast. His features were sharper, the lines around his eyes framing more crisply the playful, mocking, leering wickedness that glinted almost permanently.

Tom was three years younger and one inch taller than me. His slim, lanky, tight, hairy body was at times surprisingly strong and flexible, not unlike Tom himself. He had bushy eyebrows (which he liked to raise) and thin small lips (which he liked to curl). He played incessantly with his thick mop of dark hair and used, charmingly and adroitly, his infectious smile. He was fun, wild, daring and insatiable. A lot of our discussions or correspondence was about sharing and dissecting at length our sexual experiences and fantasies. He took me to a sex club a couple of times, we cruised online together to find a willing prey, I fucked him in every position I could imagine. Tom had kinks and fetishes that I didn't particularly share, but he was so enthusiastic and exhilarated when he talked about sex, that nothing did phase me or turn me off. He did respect my boundaries – even if he did rolls his eyes occasionally. I had an age-bracket (shifting, arguably, but ageing does that to you), while he clearly didn't. I had a height-, a weight-, a girth-bracket (shifting, arguably, but experience does that to you), while he laughed at them, pitying me. He was completely and eagerly versatile and no body fluid seemed firmly catalogued outside the realm of sex. Neither statement really applied to me. He claimed to never say no to sex; I've often found the question sexier than whatever may follow.

So when Tom emailed me he was going to be in town, I had become instantly horny at the prospect. When he opened the door of his room that night, wearing nothing but his briefs, I felt my cock slightly hardening. He closed the door, took me in his arms and kissed me hungrily. I laughed and pushed him away; I had layers and layers (as well as gloves and hat) to protect me from the cold and the room was very warm.

As I got in and undressed, I noticed his laptop was switched on, on his desk. He wasn't' watching porn, he said before I could ask it myself. He was giving a presentation tomorrow in the morning and was finishing up work. He sat back at his desk and began to type furiously. I took all my clothes off, kept my boxers on and sat on the bed, resting against the head board. I was watching him work, watching his shoulders, the back of his head, his naked hairy legs. I was very happy.

While still typing, he told me "I have to tell you about last night". I laughed. He slammed shut his computer, said a loud and resounding "Done". He then jumped on the bed, sat next to me, planted a big smooch on my crotch, put his hand on my thigh, and started to tell me about his previous night.

He was at the opening reception, here at the hotel, chatting up the people that he needed to. He kept flirting with one of the waiter ("Tyler. Hot name") and, as the room was emptying, he went and started to talk to him. Tom is very direct and his blunt, sexy charm usually works in getting him what he wants. Especially towards the end of the evening. This was no exception, apparently, and Tom convinced Tyler to take him somewhere semi-private ("Something like a broom closet, maybe?"). The eager waiter led him to the restaurant's Assistant Manager's office, which was never locked, and Tom found it sexy and thrilling enough to fuck Tyler ("Hard, and fast, and really fun") with barely any foreplay.

Tom's cock was hard, just by recounting the story; so was I, just by watching Tom's horny smirk. We locked eyes and smiled. Tom silently and knowingly raised himself and move to the edge of the bed, kneeling in front me. His eyes motioned me to sit in front of him, resting on my elbows. He spread my legs apart and took my cock through the opening of my boxers. He sighed contentedly and took me in his mouth, just before asking "What have you been up to?"

I told him about my life in DC, snippets without much coherence or logical flow. He had once told me to "think happy thoughts" while he blew me ("What, like a beach?" I had quipped), so I talked about running in Rock Creek park, about playing soccer off 17th Street with Italian and Brazilian expats, about the beautiful Iranian doctor I had fucked a few days before, about the Mall in the snow, about the drummer of an obscure rock band who had given me a hand job in the bathroom after a gig in a dive on U Street. Then I stopped and watched him devour my cock with increasing speed. I motioned him to slow down and he let my dick go with a noisy slurp. "I want to hear about you," I said.

He stood up and went to turn off the light and half-close the curtains. Only the moonlight was now illuminating his pale body and his hard cock, bobbing up and down as he walked across the room, nudged me to lie on the bed, and positioned himself on all fours to resume his blow job. He alternated deepthroating dexterity and animated retelling of his recent sexual escapades. We had done this before, on a couple of occasions, and I played along as I knew where it was headed: he would get us both extremely hard by recalling his adventures with coworkers, online horndogs, strangers in a sauna, or distant male family connections. Tonight, he stayed particularly long on how he revenge-fucked a guy from his high school he connected with on Facebook, a member of the school wrestling team who had been in his teens a particularly nasty bully. I couldn't tell whether the story was true, but experience had told me that Tom's most unlikely stories are usually the ones which have actually happened. When he went into graphic details about how the guy came without touching himself while Tom was brutalizing his ass, he must have sensed the perilous throbbing of my cock in his mouth.

So I pulled out, rolled him over, grabbed his ankles and inserted my dick in his ass. Tom laughed with pleasure, rolling his eyes and curling his fingers in the air. I had rarely seen Tom serious during sex; he never had the bewildered, startled, slightly alarmed or vacant look I had seen in so many men getting fucked, nor the penetrating, pouting squint some of them seemed to want to emulate from the porn they watch on their lonely nights. Tom's eyes were usually bright and open, winking or chuckling, stunned with glee or alight with wicked hilarity; a metaphorical high-five, an intimate cheerful bonding.

We fucked and fucked some more, before both standing up, hugging and jerking each other off. We came at the same time, on each other's chests, and stomachs, and pubic hair. We crashed on the bed, panting. It was so hot. We fiddled forever with the remote for the heating system, but it seemed to be broken. There was no way we'd call for maintenance then, we were too tired, too naked and too drenched in cum. So we just lay there, holding hands, and fell quickly asleep.

I took a cold shower in the morning; it was still early and the sun hadn't completely set yet. Tom opened one eye and muttered:

"Why don't you have breakfast with me here? Great buffet." 

"Will you sneak me in?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I kind of want to see you give your presentation. Mind if I sit in the audience?"

"Nah. It'll be hot to know you're close. Just don't distract me".

"I won't. Let me go home and change my clothes. I'll call you from the lobby when I'm back, ok?"

"Great. See you in a minute".

I called in sick while walking home, brushing off the creeping pang of guilt.

Soon enough, we were having breakfast, a little exhausted but still exhilarated from the previous night. While Tom ate, he was concentrating on his notes, getting ready. As he finished his coffee, Tom scanned the room and his eyes grew wide. "That's Tyler", he said, nodding towards one of the waiters. I tried not to be too obvious, but Tyler saw us across the room and darted towards our direction.

"Hey guys", he said, in a soft, hushed tone. Tyler's looks were pretty much as Tom had hungrily described them. Spiky hair, neatly trimmed beard, large shoulders and the tiniest ass. He had a raspy Southern drawl.

"Hey, how've you been?" Tom asked.

He blushed a little, before saying "Well, this has definitely been an interesting week. You guys at this conference are quite the horndogs".

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I almost hooked up with another attendee last night. Hot guy, looks like a football player, he kept checking me out. I slipped him a note with my cell number on it. He texted me ten minutes later with his room number."

"Did you go?"

"Yeah. When I got there though, he was like all nervous and freaked. Turns out he's married and he is all confused and tormented and all that. He kept babbling about it. Total turn off."

"So, nothing happened?"

"Well, I opened my fly at some point, just to relax him or to shut him up. It did the trick. He started to blow me. Nothing like I had during my time with you, though. He started to jerk off, but then his phone rang and he freaked out because it was his wife. For a moment, I really thought he was going to answer! So I took over and sucked him off a little. But the dude came as fast as a thirteen year old. He was even more freaked out after that. So I just left, with major blue balls."

"Anything we can do about that?" Tom asked, his attention then firmly away from his notes.

"Nah, that's cool. I jerked off at home with some good porn. Thanks, though," he winked. "Well, you guys have a good day".

"Wait", I said, "is the guy somewhere here?"

He looked around carefully, then said "Yeah, actually, he is. The dude there, at the buffet, by the toast machine?" We both looked and saw a tall and bulky, somewhat serious-looking man, in his late twenties, wearing an ill-fitted blue suit and a grey tie. "His name is Simon something. You guys should break him in; he really needs to loosen up and get laid big time".

I recognized the guy, I had seen him passing me by in the lobby and heading towards the restaurant. He didn't look very social, a bit rough, awkward and austere. Since Tom and I had been sitting at our table together, I had noticed he seemed to glance at us constantly, but hadn't figured out whether it came out of lust or of some sort of queasy curiosity, like a Mormon football player who had never seen gay guys before. His figure was both attractive and rough, massive and somewhat intriguing. A small square head with strong jaws resting on a short, bullish neck. His upper body was impressively strong, hulking and muscular, making his suit jacket appear too tight at the shoulders and too loose at the waist. His cropped light brown air, his two-day trimmed stubble, his large, flat nose and his small eyes were all a little brutish. A first glance, he had the generic look of the gruff, oblivious, slightly conceited straight guy you pass by at the gym or in bars, whose tastes, conversation, fashion style, sports teams and work-out routine are eye-rolling predictable and bland. His thin eyebrows and his soulful eyes did have a dissonant softness, almost a delicate elegance, but it was mostly the looks Simon Something had been giving us that morning (and, arguably, the story Tyler had just recalled) which displayed the hints of vulnerability, slight yearning, and contained fluster that displaced him from masculine orthodoxy into the realm of volatile uncertainty and of willing preys.

Tyler left us, returning to work. Later, we made our way to the conference room, I wished Tom the best and went to sit in the audience, third row - not too far, not too close from where Tom and the rest of his panel would be seated. A few minutes later, as I was scanning the room, I noticed Simon entering and heading to the panel. He stopped in his tracks for a split second when he saw Tom sitting there. I could tell he was a little rattled and he looked around him - only to catch my staring at him. He quickly turned his eyes away and resumed walking towards his designated seat, which happened to be just next to Tom. It is then that Tom looked up, saw him and instantly turned to me, with a huge grin on his face. I stopped myself from laughing, but winked at him. He winked back, with his winning smile. I discreetly raised my hand and made a pretend high-five. He did the same.

Tom and Simon introduced themselves politely; Simon was trying to be collected, but it was now obvious that the numerous glances I had caught from him came from lust rather than curiosity.

Tom was first to speak, his presentation went smoothly. Simon was second. He was nervous, a bit sweaty, but got into his business groove quickly enough and became the handsome, serious, young businessman that fit his burly good looks and conservative clothes.

When he was done, Tom whispered to his ear "Very nice" and put his hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. I could see, almost feel, Simon shudder. The rest I know from Tom, who later filled me on with all the details. Tom started to press, very gently, his leg against Simon's, while looking straight at the room. Then Tom tested him: he gently pulled away and, yes, Simon's leg definitely tried to catch his back. Tom pressed back and both, their legs were now touching and rubbing slowly. By a movement of his eyes downward, Tom made me understand what was going on and I smiled at him.

This went on for a while. Then Tom looked discreetly towards Simon's crotch. Simon had a large waist and wore his pants tight. His erection was obvious, a perfect outline in display. Tom couldn't help but wink at me to let me know. Our exchange, however, was noticed by Simon, who whispered "who's your friend?" with a mix of alarm and curiosity. Tom told him "Someone you need to meet." Simon was not blushing any longer, but it was still tentatively that he said "I'd like that".

Carefully, and as discreetly as possible, Tom's hand reached the very tip of Simon's hard cock. With just two fingers, Tom caressed it and made slow circles around its head, all the while pretending to be absorbed by the third speaker at the podium. "Don't!" Simon said in a breath. "Please don't". Tom could feel and see Simon's cock throbbing, and his cheeks becoming very red.

The panel moderator cast them a disapproving glance: chatting was frown upon while the presentations were going on. Tom rubbed his legs again, then took a small sheet of paper and a pen. I saw him scribbling something then passing it on to Simon, who read it, blushed, then looked away and pretended to listen to the speaker. After a while, I saw Simon taking a pen too and furiously making a short note on Tom's sheet of paper. After he passed it back, Tom read it, smiled mischievously, folded it in two and grabbed the attention of a waiter, standing by with a jug of water. Tom gave him the note, whispered something to him and pointed at me. 

The waiter made his way towards my row, while Simon witnessed this, looking mortified. I received the note and unfolded it. I could spot Tom's handwriting on the first line, and figured Simon wrote the next. It said:

WHATEVER YOU HAVE IN MIND, WE 3 SHOULD DO IT

I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU. BUT YOU GOT ME THINKING --

The whole session seemed to drag on forever, even if, with very few questions from the audience, it was over quite soon. Tom had rubbed his leg against Simon's the whole time, occasionally glancing at his erection coming and going. When the crowd started to disperse, I walked towards them. Simon seemed a little disoriented, but made an effort to stay stern. Tom was childishly excited. I felt the need to cool things down for both their sakes, to deflate somewhat the agonizing sexual tension between them two. After introducing myself, I said, "Why don't we go and get a drink at the bar. It's noon, it's early enough".

No one said a word the whole walk to the bar. We sat at a booth, Tom in the middle, and as soon as we were settled, Tom spread his legs, pressing them against both Simon's and mine. I took his hand and squeezed it. We all assumed straight faces and composure when the waiter came to get our order. Simon drank beer, I noticed, some foreign brand I never heard of.

Someone had to say something. "Tell us about yourself, Simon", I asked.

"Well", he said, "I'm 29, I'm from Connecticut and...".

"Simon", Tom interrupted, "this is not a job interview. Relax."

"Yes", Simon sighed, then looked away, a little chastised and visibly nervous. "You guys are together? Like, a couple?" he asked, turning back to face us.

"No, we're friends," Tom said.

"We go way back," I added.

"And you're both gay?" Simon asked.

"Yes," we replied simultaneously, me with a tone of reassurance, Tom full of promise.

"I see", Simon said, with a hint of disappointment.

"And you're married," Tom asked.

"How do you know?" Simon shot back, a little alarmed.

"Your ring. Your wedding band," I said.

"Oh, yes," he said, suddenly playing nervously with his ring. He took a deep breath and said, fast and nervous, "Listen, I... I've never done anything like this. I'm not sure exactly what you expect and... I don't know. It's just a bit surreal, it's the middle of the day, I'm here for work, I'm supposed to meet with colleagues for lunch, attend my boss' presentation this afternoon and –"

"Listen, Simon, seriously, relax," I said, leaning towards him. "It's okay, we don't have to do anything right now. Why don't we meet up later, for a drink, a proper drink with a proper conversation? Hang out, talk, see where the evening takes us."

He grabbed his jaw with his strong hand and squeezed it tightly, taking another deep breath. "Yes, that'd be nice," he finally conceded.

"Deal," Tom quipped.

"There's a lounge at the Hotel Rouge, on Scott Circle, not too far, you can take a cab or walk if you don't mind the cold. You won't run into any of your colleagues there. Why don't we meet there at 6 tonight?" I said, placing the note he had exchanged with Tom on the panel firmly in his hands.

Tom and I had lunch in Dupont Circle and walked back to my apartment. I spent the afternoon doing some work, Tom lay on the couch, his tie loosened, his shoes and socks dotting the white shag on the hardwood floor. He took a nap, then watched a documentary on the Rat Pack.

"Do you think Simon will come?" I asked at some point.

"He will," Tom answered distractedly.

"He seemed nervous."

"He is. And he is not," Tom said knowingly, after pressing the pause button. "He's apprehensive, maybe. Because he doesn't know what we want, who we'll be when he does actually get naked in front of us. He knows what he wants, however. He knows who he wants to be."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he started, shifting his body to sit cross legged on the couch and grabbing his now lukewarm mug of tea, "I don't exactly buy the whole I've-never-done-this-before act, to be honest. He is not that innocent. Or, I don't know, virginal. He can't be."

"What, do you think he's lying? He's wearing a fake wedding ring?" I chuckled.

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying, this guy went straight for a quick drink with us and quite readily accepted to meet us later. It doesn't seem like something someone who's a cock virgin would do. We're hot, but we're not that hot," he smiled.

"Okay. So do what did you mean by he know who he wants to be?"

"I think that's his shtick. I don't know how much action he gets on the side, but he likes to be, he needs to be, the guy for whom all this is new, and dramatic, and disturbing. And beyond his self-control."

"And you got all that from the ten minutes we spent with him?"

"Yes, I did," he said confidently as he stood up and walked towards the kitchen area to get some juice in the fridge. He stopped to kiss me softly on his way.

"And you said he knows what he wants, too?" I asked.

"Yes. But that, my friend, I'm not a hundred percent sure what it is and I'm very much looking forward to finding out."

"He didn't go through with it with Tyler, though," I said, thinking out loud.

"What do you mean?"

"If he is so experienced, why would he panic with Tyler? Why would he almost back out?"

"His wife called. We'll need to make sure he turns off his phone, is all. Listen, I'm not claiming this guy bangs everything that meets his eyes. All I'm saying is, don't surprised if he gives great head or takes your cock like a champ. He's done it before and, right now, I'm guessing he is looking forward to do it again. On his own terms," he added, straddling me on my desk chair.

"Which you will accept?" I teased, kissing him.

"Gladly. I like his type. I'm not into the closeted guys who overcompensate by going all nasty on you, calling you their fag slut. I like the ones who spread their legs and ask nicely to be taken somewhere incredible," he said, kissing me back.

We arrived on time at the bar, but Simon was already seated, fiddling with his phone in a secluded small couch in a corner, a beer half full on the small coffee table. He had changed and had assumed yet another generic look which suited the outward appearance expected from the guy that he was or had to be: a tight plaid shirt, chinos and loafers. Tom was still wearing his suit and tie, I had a sweater and a hoodie, dark blue jeans and a pair of Stan Smiths. We were not an assorted threesome.

"Hey," he greeted us huskily, when he looked up.

"I'll get us some drinks," Tom said before heading to the bar.

I sat in front of Simon and pulled the chair closer. "You found the place alright?"

"Yeah. I walked. It's fucking freezing."

"I know. Beautiful, though."

Tom came back, holding three beers. He too sat in front of Simon, and he too pulled his chair closer. He instantly started to chat him about the conference, about their work, about their colleagues. Tom was both attentive and flirtatious, chummy and warm. I asked some trivial questions too and Simon seemed to enjoy the attention. He opened the top button of his shirt, revealing a muscular and hairless chest, and rolled his sleeves up, displaying massive wrists and hairy strong arms.

"I have to go the bathroom. I'll be right back," he said, before standing up, making his way uneasily between our two chairs, readjusting his pants, asking the bartender for directions and walking slowly towards some stairs.

"I love this moment, this precise moment," I said, watching Simon walk away.

"What moment?" Tom asked, looking in the same direction.

"The imminence of sex", I said, turning and leaning towards him, conspiratorially.

"Ah," he chuckled.

"The certainty isn't always there, of course. And when it's there, it might be a little underwhelming at times. And yet, sometimes, in some situations, some absurd or just unexpected situations, it's suddenly there. The imminence of sex. You know you will see this person naked, in front of you, waiting and yearning for release, wanting you, wanting sex."

"Yes," Tom smiled. "We should make this last."

"We should."

Simon came back a few minutes later. He must have splashed his face, as his short hair and forehead looked wet. He sat down and leaned towards us, his elbows on his spread knees. He seemed about to say something, then thought otherwise and took a sip of his beer.

"So, you're married," Tom prodded softly.

"I'm married. Yes." Simon sounded comfortable, even a bit relieved that the conversation now started to veer toward the personal. "We met in college, at UConn, in Waterbury. We had the same friends. It was easy. We've been together ten years now and our life is fine. But well, I've been feeling awkward towards her for a long time. Our sex life was never great but it's just non-existent now."

"Because you crave cock?" Tom asked, winking gently.

Simon laughed and said "I guess, yes. I crave cock. It's odd to say it out loud." He chuckled and looked at me, then at Tom, with a sheepish smile, which slowly turned a little mischievous.

"No kids?" Tom asked.

"No kids."

"But you've done gay stuff before?" I asked him.

"In college, yes. A good buddy of mine. We kissed one night, really drunk. And we fooled around after that, a few times. But it was always jerking off to porn together. A couple of blow jobs. It made me uncomfortable at some point, so I stopped. College was strange for me. Everything had always been so easy in high school, but college, I don't know. I always felt a little withdrawn or just melting in the crowd, you know? I just felt awkward and the whole gay thing was really upsetting. I kind of shut down."

"This guy was the only one?" I asked.

"There was this other guy, once. He was in one of my classes and I knew he was gay. He kept checking me out, which was a little embarrassing. One night, I ran into him on my way back to my dorm and he started to chat me up. We went to his apartment, he lived off campus, and we talked for a long time. But, I don't know, he was more interested in talking about himself and all the guys he had been fucked by, than by listening to whatever I had to say. The sex was very good, though. Kind of eye-opening, I guess. But I never dared speak to him again after that night, I was just too freaked out. He let me in peace, though. He was a good guy."

He took another sip of his beer, a long one, almost emptying his bottle, before asking us, looking down at his bottle, "What about you? Did you also start in college?"

"A few months before, on my part," I said. "But I was still dating women too in the first couple of years."

"My first time was freshman year, in the spring," Tom said. "And I haven't stopped since. But yeah, what you describe is actually pretty common. I was more obsessed by the whole thing than you were, though."

"I was pretty obsessed at times, believe me," Simon chuckled. "Like, for a few months, I was obsessed by the bathroom stalls in the library, the ones people were telling stories about. Like, you could meet up guys there and fuck, or get blown. I would go there all the time, but nothing ever happened."

"Maybe you got the floor wrong," I said.

"Yes, maybe," he smiled, a little forced.

"What about now, though? How are you getting on?" Tom asked.

"Now, I just spend a lot of time jerking off," Simon said, with a beaming, naughty smile. "It's been like an addiction. I don't travel much, but my wife does. Every time I have a few days alone at home, I barely go out. I get drunk and masturbate for hours on end, I spend the whole day and night with my laptop, jacking off in every room of the house."

"I'm not sure this qualifies as an addiction," Tom said, leaning towards Simon, their faces now really close to each other. "You're just a very horny man. You're not alone, my friend."

"One day I found a vibrator in my wife's drawer," Simon started again, as if not wanting to be interrupted. "I freaked out and felt really guilty. You know, like I'm not satisfying her? But a few weeks later, I started using it on myself. It was incredible," he added, looking up straight into my eyes, a little puzzled and pleading, as if I could decipher for him the mystery behind anal stimulation.

"I don't know," he resumed, dismissive, and emptied his beer. "I feel like I'm sick sometimes. I masturbate all the time. At work, I almost got caught twice in the office bathroom. Sometimes, I'm on a craze for days. I have to jerk off and leave my cum everywhere. I'm semi hard all throughout my workout at the gym and I have to jerk off in the shower before I'm done. I was once at a friend's house a few months ago. In the middle of the dinner, I excused myself and went to the bathroom just to jerk off. I am pretty fucked up".

He seemed pleased, however, chilled and comfortable, confident even. His confession was probably true, and these bouts of wantonness must have genuinely distressed him, but he sounded relieved to be able to tell them to an empathic audience, to share them with two men who might not only condone his behavior with a pat on the back and a punch in the shoulder, but might get a little kick out of them too, a little jolt in the groin.

"What do you want to do, Simon?" I asked him, after all three of us had been silent for a little while.

"I don't know," he said, looking straight at me, with a new hunger in his eyes. "As I said, I'm new to this."

"I meant, do you want to have another drink, go somewhere else, head back to the hotel?" I smiled softly. "But, I guess you've answered my question."

"No, no, it's fine," he retreated. "We should get another drink. Here. This is nice. I want to keep talking. With you guys."

"I'll get the next round, then," I said, before heading to the bar.

When I came back, Simon was leaning towards Tom, talking in hushed voices. He looked up and told me, with an endearing teenage-like trepidation, "Tom asked me to talk more about my experiences."

"I'm all ears," I said, sitting down and setting the three beers on the table.

"Well, as I was saying, last year, my wife was away and I was cruising the net. I found this thing, this group of guys that were having circle jerks and it was in Hartford. I got so excited, I almost had a hard time breathing when I realized I could actually go there if I decided to. You know? There was nothing to prevent me. I hesitated but I went. It was a long drive, but I got so incredibly horny. And scared too, I guess. I got to this house, in the suburbs. There were about fifteen guys, all older than me, like in their forties and fifties. Some of them actually not bad looking. They were all already going at it already when I got there. The one in charge looked at me appreciatively when I entered and started to boss me around a bit. Which, I don't know, I kind of liked. All the guys were indeed in a circle, on chairs and sofas in the living room. They were all dressed, stroking their dicks, with their pants at their ankles. He told me to join them, on one of the few empty chairs. Then one guy started to stand up and went in the middle, undressed completely and jerked off. I was mesmerized. He started to cum profusely and licked his fingers afterwards. He then went back to his seat and just panted, looking at the floor. Then, I don't know what came over me, but I stood up and started to do just what he had done. I took off all my clothes. Except, as soon as I was starting to jerk off, two guys began to groan and ejaculated. It totally turned me on that I had made them cum. One guy told to come nearer him; I did and he started to touch me, all over my body. The guy sitting next to him reached his hand and massaged my butt, the one on the other side reached for my cock and jerked me. It felt like I had hands all over my body. The other guys started to say that I was there for everybody, not just them. So I went back to the center and, it was weird, it's like I started to give them a performance. I totally lost myself in the moment. I was moaning, fingering myself, closing my eyes, masturbating very slowly. I saw at least four guys cum during the whole thing. Then I erupted, really violently, like I had never cum so hard or so much. But, well, then I freaked out; I was suddenly, alone and naked, in the middle of a room full of men, old men jerking off looking at me. I picked up my clothes and left in a hurry."

There was silence after that. Simon gulped down half his bottle, lost in his thoughts, reliving the experience. Tom's jaw was slightly dropped, his eyes fixed on him. I could tell Tom was incredibly turned on: speechless and with that familiar horny glint in his eyes. Tom drank too, almost the entire bottle, in three intakes. He slammed his bottle down, probably louder than he had intended, and said, "I think we should go."

"I'm ready," Simon said and I loved everything these words could mean at that moment.

We decided to walk back to the Hilton, which was not a particular great idea, as the cold had worsened with the early night settling in. Simon wanted to stop by the Starbucks on Dupont Circle on the way up. "I've had a long day. I could us an espresso". Tom, walking in the middle, hooked his arms in Simon's and mine, and we walked a few steps cuddled and in bonding solidarity.

I watched Simon wait in line and order his drink. It was a strange but beguiling parenthesis between listening to him open up about his sexual cravings in the cozy, leathery, and intimate atmosphere of the lounge and what awaited us at the end of our walk. I watched this big young man, attractive, polite and poised, wrapped in a grey woolen coat, taking his gloves off to get his wallet, chatting the barista, mixing sugar to his coffee, blowing and sipping cautiously on his hot drink. "Shall we?" he said, as he discarded his cup in the bin, his eyebrows raised, his eyes sparkling. "Let's", I said. He walked out decidedly, smiled warmly at us and looked stern but serene. The imminence of sex.

As soon as we entered the room, we three started to kiss. We were huddled together, our hands all over each other, kissing in alternating pairs. I watched their lips, tongues and stubbles touch from an incredibly close, misty proximity. Tom put his fingers in Simon's and my mouths, as we kissed and licked each other. Simon took a step back to observe intently Tom devouring my mouth.

We alternated rhythm and intensity, and these long, long kisses seemed to last forever. Simon stopped, pulled back again and looking straight at us said, softly and lustfully, "Let me undress you. I've been watching you both since this morning. I've been wanting so bad to see what's underneath your clothes".

He started with Tom, removing his suit, loosening his tie, caressing his cheek while looking straight into his eyes. He unbuttoned Tom's shirt, ran his hands on his chest, kissed his nipples, took off his tie, took off his shirt. He made Tom sit on the bed, kneeled and took off his shoes, then socks. He lifted Tom back up again, unfastened his belt, unzipped him, slid his hands in his underwear. He felt Tom's very hard cock, squeezed it. He made Tom's pants slide down to his ankles, pushed the underwear down and made Tom get out of them. He slowly and softly kissed him all over his lanky body: Tom's neck, chest, nipples, stomach. He licked the bellybutton, the shaft of Tom's dick, kissed its head, caressed his balls, squeezed his ass. Then stood up and did the same to me.

The sight of him was fascinating. He handled every piece of clothing, every button or zipper, with tentative eagerness. The look in his eyes might have been something akin to that of a kid opening a Christmas present, if that kid were slow and cautious in his every movements. He wasn't hesitating exactly, his slow progress was deliberate, an effort to bask in the mild awe of gaining access to a man's body. He knew he'd find pectorals and nipples when he lifted my tee-shirt, he seemed to marvel at them anyway. He knew he'd have a man's feet in his hands when he took off my socks, he still rubbed them with approval. He played with my belt, my zipper, the waistband of my briefs, he rubbed and grabbed through the fabric the heft of my cock and the sliding curve of the top of my ass, he leaned back to gawk at the shapes, the bulges, the lines, the protruding hair, the creases, the teasing flesh. He seemed almost reluctant to pull my jeans and briefs fully down, to halt too fast the terrific interlude between the covertness of a clothed man and the blatant, dizzying finality of nakedness. But he did, and his eyes changed once more, and his mouth dove on my crotch, and his tongue licked and kissed and scrubbed and gorged. I gently pushed him away.

Tom and I undressed him together, failing to take as much time as he did. There was bliss, and pleading, in his eyes. We moved to the bed, lay down together, and all three of us kissed again, our legs entwined, our hands all over each other, grabbing and squeezing, as if pressing our three bodies into one.

Simon suddenly asked to slow down, with a hint of anguish. "It's okay, Simon," Tom said softly, "we've got all night." Tom moved around and sat against the head board. He motioned Simon to sit between his legs, close to him. "Raise your legs," Tom calmly ordered. "More. Towards me." Tom reached for Simon's thighs and pulled them towards him, then grabbed the back of his knees. Simon was curled up, looking slightly uncomfortable, a big lump of flesh, which, I feared, threatened to quash Tom with its weight. "Relax," Tom whispered, unperturbed, to his ear. I sat on my knees, facing them, guessing what Tom had in mind. He pulled slightly on Simon's legs, lifting his ass up. "Relax," he repeated. And Simon did. Visibly. His eyes closed, his chubby feet dropped, his arms lay flat on the bed, and his hole loosened. I leaned down, grabbed both his wide ass cheeks and started to blow softly, then kiss and lick on his ass. Simon was held together by Tom, and he started to moan with pleasure, his hole gaping and his cock throbbing. I felt Tom's look on me the whole time, I glimpsed at him a couple of times and caught his wily smile; I watched Simon, his eyes wide open with bewilderment and delight. I grabbed his short, fat cock, blew him for a while, before going back to his hole, keeping one hand on his dick to jerk him off. His moans and the wet sounds of my tongue were the only noise in the room. I inserted a finger, then two. I played with his prostate, I licked his hole all around my fingers. I licked his balls, all over. I went back to his ass and licked and kissed some more.

At some point, he started to quiver, his whole body trembling and wiggling, attempting to get his ass and cock away from me, refusing his upcoming orgasm as if it would doom him or break him. "Relax," Tom said once again and Simon did. He let go, closed his eyes, defeated, and a minute later, a minute full of increasingly loud groans and grunts, he came, his cock throbbing vigorously in my hand, his cum splattering his chest and chin. I moved back and Tom slowly lowered Simon's legs, then wiped some cum with two fingers, which he inserted in Simon's mouth, before taking some more for his own licking.

"We've got all night," Tom said again, to Simon but looking straight and intently at me.

We lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, our bodies close and slithering with the light sweat on our naked flesh. Simon was breathing heavily, the only sound that of evening traffic on nearby Connecticut Avenue. I looked down at our entangled figures. I smiled at the sight of three cocks in familiar stages of arousal: Tom's, long, thin and energetically rigid, mine, whose semi-hardness allowed my foreskin to stealthily regain possession of my swollen head, and Simon's, a hefty, slimy, frumpy lump of reddened flesh. But it was our entangled legs which I then found most beguiling. Piled on each other, crisscrossing, blurring our various girths and complexions, mixing our hair, displaying feet and furry toes. Two bodies and four legs are those of lovers and fornicators; three bodies and six legs are those of comrades and playmates, they are something else altogether: they speak of disinhibition, of jocular intimacy, they move sex a few steps beyond the mating of two people hungry for connection (with each other, with themselves) and towards a different essence of sex: the bonding over the joy of release, the unguarded, unbridled and noncommittal unleashing of primal urges. Two people is a couple, four is an orgy; there is something special about three.

"This is so good", Simon said softly, interrupting my thoughts, with a tone which left ambivalent the source of his contentment: his recent orgasm, the post-climactic silence or, more generally, the whole concept of gay sex.

"Yes," Tom simply said, raising himself delicately from the bed. He circled towards the minibar, his barely subsiding erection giving him a funny walk. He grabbed three tiny bottles of alcohol through the glaring light of the fridge and threw one to each of us on the bed. Rum was what landed on my stomach and I looked with envy at the whisky Simon caught adroitly. Tom unscrewed the vodka he'd kept for himself and joined us back on the bed, attempting with care to resume the exact position he had assumed before.

"What was your best gay sex?" he asked while sliding his right leg under Simon's bulky one.

"Me?" Simon asked, taking a large sip.

"Yes, you. It can't all have been odd or gloomy."

"No," Simon said, thinking, "no, it wasn't." He closed his eyes for a moment, either to beckon a memory or to avoid Tom's intent stare. "There was this guy. I had met him online and we hooked up. That isn't something I often do", he added, frowning before opening his eyes again. "It wasn't great. Rushed and a bit awkward. For me at least. Him, I wasn't sure. He wasn't particularly attractive and he just wanted to blow me. Which was fine, except... I don't know, we had spent two hours on our computers, writing about how we'd fuck each other's brains out. I was really worked up," he said pensively and uncertain. "I don't... I don't do that and it had made me want it. Real badly. Anyway, I got to his place, we got naked very quickly, he insisted we stayed in his kitchen. And he blew me for, like, hours."

"And that was your best experience?" Tom asked, gently but with a hint of impatience.

"No," Simon chuckled. "I saw him again. Something random. He knew a friend of a friend of a friend, or something. We ran into each other in this sports bar, with a bunch of other guys. We spent the whole evening there. He and I exchanged glances and made small talk, but it was obvious neither of us were out, though he wasn't married. Towards the end of the evening, we were pretty drunk and he came up to me and whispered to my ear I need to bust a nut. I got so turned on. So I just followed him, outside. He led me to this back alley, dark and empty. And he just unzipped, whipping out his dick. He pulled me towards him and took my cock out too. Our faces were almost touching, I could feel his breathing on me, but we didn't kiss. We just jerked each other off, staring at each other. Panting and moaning. It was incredible. We heard noises from people leaving the bar, but we kept going at it. Nothing could have stopped us. We took our time though, but we never moved, my body pressing his against the wall, our lips almost touching. It hurt a bit too," he smiled, "what with the belts, and the zipper, and the jackets. But it was awesome. We finally came, at the same time, all over each other. He wasn't embarrassed. At all. He just smiled and said something really crass, I'm not sure what. We slowly walked back inside and he kept whispering obscenities. I was giggling, but not freaking out."

"You ever saw him again?" I asked when his silence seemed to indicate the end of his story.

"Kind of. A couple of times. But it was never as great as that time in the alley. He mostly likes to give blow jobs, it seems. And he likes watching himself in the mirror while blowing me, I found out."

"There's something about sex in public," I said, taking a sip of the foul cheap rum. "Or, rather, clandestine sex. When it's hidden, and dangerous. Spontaneous, frantic, furtive, secret. It's a little childish, in a way. The pleasure of the forbidden, you know. The thrill of subversion. Gay sex is so easily available now. So normal, easy, random. So legal."

"Oh, please," Tom quipped, smiling. "Don't romanticize the Neanderthal years of scared closeted guys, risking jail and social rejection for the thrill of the forbidden cock. No offence, Simon."

"None taken," Simon said sheepishly. "He's right though, I think. That's why I have a thing for having sex with clothes on. Gay sex, I mean."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Tom asked, finishing his bottle a little dramatically.

"I don't know. There is a sense of transgression, I guess. Like you're pressing the pause button on real life, you're stealing this moment. It's not supposed to happen. Hard cocks shouldn't happen, blow jobs, anal sex, ejaculation shouldn't happen. But it does, despite everything."

"I like sex with clothes on because it implies a rush, an uncontrollable lust," Tom said. "You don't even have to time to get naked, you want that cock in your mouth, in your ass, too badly. You just go for it, and damned be whatever stands in your way, like clothes."

"I like sex with clothes," I said, "because it is a visual, very real reminder of the actual person you're fucking. Not just a body, an ass, a chest. The clothes tell a fuller story about that person, a story you can tell yourself."

Tom broke the silence, a few seconds later, by sighing, "We've got nothing left to drink. Why don't I have something brought up?" Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the phone and ordered "a fine bottle of whisky" to room service.

Simon looked really serious, his strong jaw a little clenched and his eyes focused on the ceiling.

"There was something else..." he said softly, almost to himself.

"Tell us," I prodded gently, placing my hand on his beefy thigh.

"This man. I had also met him online," he started slowly and Tom's earlier words about Simon's larger than admitted experience flashed back. "I had to drive a while to get the hotel where he was staying. He turned out older than he looked on his pictures, and a little aloof too when I stepped in. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a handsome man, and looked like he knew it. He told to me undress and watched in silence. Then his phone rang and he told me he had to take it because it was work, but he ordered me to lie on the bed and wait for him. I'll fuck you when I'm done, he said before answering. He talked for about ten minutes, turns out he was a lawyer of something. Sometimes I could see or feel him look at me, sometimes he was just fidgeting with his pen and scribbling notes. And I was just there, l just lay on the bed and waited. Naked, silent. I didn't move, not an inch, the whole time. I could sense my... asshole loosening, my body relaxing and, at the same time, I felt frantic inside. I wanted him. I wanted him to ... fill me. So much. So badly. I didn't move but I was going crazy inside. I could hardly breathe. And he was just walking around the bed, talking on the phone, circling me like a piece of meat he was going to have for dinner. I closed my eyes and I wished him to hang up and fuck me. When his conversation finally ended, he just dropped the phone on the desk and undressed. He put on a condom and lowered himself on top of me. I couldn't control my body, it was moving on its own. I could feel my ass raise itself, trying to align with his cock and vacuum it inside me. I had my eyes still closed, but it was like I could see his cock approaching, nearer and nearer to my hole. Then I felt it, I felt it rubbing me, I felt it pushing, I felt it entering, I felt it inside. He grabbed my waist and lifted me a little, pushing himself completely in. Then he was pounding me."

Simon's voice had grown increasingly husky, raspy as he told the story. He was now close to clenching his teeth, with lust or anger I couldn't quite tell. His cheek bones were sharply drawn, his nostrils flaring a little. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, before continuing.

"He was mounting me," he said coldly. "He wasn't fucking me, or screwing or banging or whatever. He was mounting me. Like an animal. Grabbing me tight, and feeding me his cock, breeding me. I grew up on a farm and it felt like..." He stopped and took another deep breath. "Man, it was incredible. So fucking hot," he said, with a surprisingly light and airy voice.

I saw Tom slowly lowering himself to Simon's crotch. He licked and kissed gently Simon's semi-hard cock and took it in his mouth. Simon closed his eyes and let his hand fondle its way to my dick. Then there was a knock on the door, and a brief surge of panic in Simon's eyes. "Room service," Tom said, while reaching for a robe on the floor, "I'll get it."

Simon raised himself and grabbed my arm, taking me to the bathroom in silence, presumable to hide there. He rested against the wall, staring at me, while we heard Tom opening the door. I grabbed Simon's shoulders, then his face, our eyes locked. I leaned towards him and kissed him. I felt his cock, throbbing and inflating on my crotch. We heard the door close and Tom whistled the all-clear.

"I must have looked either very interesting or very sad to that guy," Tom said, nudging us to the bed, while pointing at the three sets of discarded clothes on the floor and the full bottle of whisky in his hand.

Simon and I both sat our backs against the bedpost, while Tom sat in front of us, gleefully unscrewing the bottle before handing it to us.

"Have you ever had cum all over your face?" Tom airily asked Simon, who was taking of large swig of whisky. Simon stopped his movement, then lowered the bottle slowly, with a menacing hardness in his look. For a second, I could see the hard-edged, seething, brawny teenager he might have once been. I felt some relief to hear curiosity more than anger in his voice when he answered "No, why?"

"Because it would look awesome on you. Like war paintings. The imprint of your lust. Gluey, slimy, dripping male excretion soiling your footballer's face."

"That's ... a little disgusting", Simon said, looking down and not entirely truthful.

"You had me until soiling," I said, taking the bottle from Simon's hand.

"Yes, maybe," Tom conceded, waiting for me to drink until he could take a gulp himself. "I meant it in the most beautiful way possible, though," he smiled. "And it's not disgusting. It can be, or feel like that, to some men who urge you to spray their face, then wipe it furiously off as soon as they've cum. But on some men, it's just... a little mind-blowing. An awe, or a bliss in their eyes. Nothing debasing, defiling. They look complete, or forceful. They have arrived, they are satiated. I know, to many, it doesn't get any gayer than that, but to me, a man spattered with cum never looks more like, well, a man. Brave, mighty, cocky, magnificent." And he took a large swig of whisky to conclude his speech.

I wasn't sure how Simon would take Tom's lyrical advocacy. I turned to him and he looked a little transfixed, his whole demeanor stern and intense, until he lowered his face to escape Tom's gazing. "I'm not... like you," he said, with a hint of reproach, and one of dejection.

"Like what?" I said quietly, taking the bottle out of Tom's hands to pass it over to him.

"I can't... dissect things like that," he said dismissively, yet leaving me unsure whether he questioned his ability or his interest. "It's not like that for me. I'm sure you think I'm gay and all, and that I am repressed and I should be more like you-"

"We don't think anything, Simon," I interrupted, a little cross. "You told us you were unhappily married and all the fantasies or experiences you brought up didn't exactly include many women. And-"

"I know, I know," he cut me, a little annoyed. "That's not what I meant. I –"

"And there isn't a like you when it comes to Tom and I," I continued, undeterred. "He and I are not quite alike. Not every gay man is."

"Fine. Sure. Again, that's not what I meant. All I'm saying is, yes I love gay sex. I... need gay sex. But I can't talk about its beauty like Tom does. I can't quite see it, really, to be honest. I can't see myself dating a guy for instance. It just... doesn't seem like something I want to do. Hold hands? Candlelit dinners and all that shit? With a man? I just..." his voice trailed off, before picking up again. "Listen, I'm sorry, I really don't mean to bring the mood down. Honestly, I don't think I've had such an incredible time in... well, maybe ever. It's just hard for me to get into these conversations, because they only seem to remind me, at some point, of how much I have no fucking clue about what I'm doing."

"These conversations? You've had them before?" I prodded gently.

"With this guy, yes. We chat online. We never actually met in person, he lives in Minnesota, but you know, we talk. He was married too. Somehow, with him, I managed to open up a little. We supported each other. He got me, you know? Then he made the decision to come out. He had an awful time, and I tried to be there for him. Then he started to try and convince me to do the same. He became a little insensitive, pushy. Fucking thick at times, actually," he chuckled.

"And now?" Tom asked.

"It's cool. But we don't chat as often as we used to. All he talks about is how he is desperately looking for a connection with a man. That's the word he uses all the time. A connection," he repeated, as if it was a foreign word or preposterous jargon. "I like fucking with strangers," he said a little defiantly, watching us both in turn. "I do."

I could sense Tom's hesitation to answer Simon's rant, I could guess how he'd qualify the very word connection, how he'd extol the virtues of liberated sex and the beauty of companionship, how he'd subtly push Simon toward self-realization, how he'd detail the varying and satisfying arrangements that the very notions of dating and couplehood can encompass these days. I felt my own ambivalence about testifying for the splendor of male intimacy, for the fluidity of sexuality and the strength of our longings and hunger, for the decency and respect owed to others and to oneself, for the overpowering gratification of defying expectations and fulfilling one's true yearnings. But I knew Tom well enough to see that both of us were weighing the drag of supportive pontification against the prospects of blithe sex. Would we be honest to admit that Tom's wish to see Simon's face covered in cum and my desire to fuck him overcame our altruistic inclination to help him make sense of his contradictory feelings? We weren't there to save Simon, we both must have concluded. He hadn't had "such an incredible time" ever, and he had seemingly made incremental progress since the last of "these conversations". He'll take the next steps forward in other, future conversations, with other, yet-unmet strangers. We can't save Simon, we shouldn't have to, but we may have nudged him further down Salvation Road, if we'd need to feel better about ourselves. If so, we'd been indeed passing the baton to the next strangers, in Simon's convoluted relay race towards self-acceptance.

I liked to think that ceding to the common impulse of gay men to impart wisdom and reassurance to struggling fellow travelers would have been here an exercise in vanity. Well-intentioned, but misplaced nevertheless. Whatever you have in mind, we three should do it, Tom and Simon's exchanged note had said. I like fucking with strangers, Simon had just reminded us, commanding and definite.

So I slowly moved, grabbed Tom and pushed him on his back, and I lay on top of him. We started kissing, our hands running all over each other. I could feel both our cocks getting hard, rubbing and swording. I turned him on his stomach and positioned my cock on his hole. I spat on my fingers and lubed him, swirling gently the head of my dick around his breathing sphincter. I nodded at Simon, nudging him to pass me the lube and a condom from the box that stood on the night table.

Tom was so turned on that I slid in a couple of inches without effort. I kissed Tom on the neck, licked his ear, my sweaty body pressed on his sweaty back. I pushed in and soon my whole dick was inside him. I started moving in and out, just barely removing the head of my dick before plunging it back in. It was driving Tom crazy and he started bucking and shaking. My kisses got more intense, I pressed myself against Tom even harder. We both got lost in each other, my moans muffled by burying my head in his neck and hair, his muffled by the pillow into which he was biting.

Simon was mesmerized. He lied on his stomach and moved right next to Tom, their two bodies completely touching. He managed to kiss Tom all over his face, while Tom was being pounded increasingly fast. He moved down and positioned his face right next to Tom's asshole. He looked intently at my cock sliding in and out, his mouth open. He slowly moved his hand to my dick, letting his fingers slide against the shaft, caressing Tom's moistened hole, inserting them in his ass, squeezing me. The sensation proved too much for me and I had to stop and pull out of Tom to avoid cumming involuntarily. Simon looked up at me, with a glimpse of fear that it was over, that there was to be no more. I moved back a little, panting, and extended my hand towards him, pulling him up and close, and kissed him. I slowly turned him to face Tom's wriggling body, leaned to grab another condom and, circling him from behind, pulled one down along his rigid cock. Tom turned around and raised his legs, flashing a hungry smile inviting Simon inside him. I stepped back and sat on the desk to watch them, to watch Simon grab Tom's ankles and force himself inside him a little too abruptly, to watch Tom squirm and relax and encourage Simon with hankering eyes, to watch Simon find his rhythm, drop his head back, stare at the ceiling with a long groan.

Tom moved and moved some more, steering Simon into a variety of positions, all met with Simon's violent gasps, wide-eyed awe, or grunting distress. The movements in front of me, legs extending and bending, graceful swirls and solid grasps, rhythmic bounces, all morphed into a form of choreography, a showy mating dance.

Tom and Simon, both with increasingly loud moans coarsening the grace of their fucking, seemed in harmony and synchronization in their abandon and lust. Simon lifted one of Tom's leg high up and pulled the other sideways, his arms extending in a perfect line of tensed muscles; Simon stood and straddled him, grabbing and pulling Tom's calf on his chest, while Tom used his other leg to clasp Simon's thigh; Tom curled up and Simon fucked him, his body a perfect straight line, like a ballet dancer doing push-ups. The long, slender figure of rakish Tom and the tall, bulky shape of athletic Simon turned into bodies engaged in aerials, flows, arches, contractions, tilts and motifs, punctuated by muffled screams and the wet noises of flesh thumping against flesh. They bucked, straightened, flexed, whirled, they seemed to ebb and flow, to tense and loosen, to sway and seethe. "Fuck!" Simon eventually barked and extracted himself from Tom's ass and Tom's encircling legs.

He grabbed the sheets tightly, on all fours, his breathing heavy and irregular, his back soaked in sweat, his dick still frantically and rigidly throbbing, as if looking maddeningly in the void for a hole to fill. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth. "Fuck me," he groaned. "Fuck me, both of you."

I grabbed a new condom and quickly got on the bed. Simon hadn't moved and I got inside him surprisingly easily, squatting and holding his waist. I had never fucked a man with such a massive frame, I realized. I'd never been particularly attracted to heavily muscular builds, though I did like tall men. The sight and size of him were a little astounding. There seems to be so much of him.

"Yes, yes," he kept creaking, grinding his teeth. "Fuck me". I noticed my position had changed slightly and had assumed one that probably resembled the mounting which Simon had huskily described earlier. I was mounting Simon. I increased the force and speed of my fucking.

Tom came to stand by me. As he touched my shoulder, I pulled out of Simon and made room for him to take my place. Simon turned around, lay on his back and raised his knees to his chest. I put a condom on Tom who started fucking Simon in earnest.

"Look at me," Simon ordered Tom, who had been mostly smiling at me, both gleeful and hoarse. Their eyes locked and I watch their trance, hugging Tom from behind. Tom had both hands firmly pressing on the back of Simon's thighs, lifting himself to glide in and out of Simon's ass. I reached for Simon's cock and he cried "Don't!" in obvious alarm.

Tom pulled out and let me in again. "Yes," Simon gruntingly approved, "keep fucking me. Both of you. Take turns. Fuck me harder." So we did. Simon never moved, he kept on his back, his legs raised, his knees bent, staring at us pummeling him. He encouraged us, yelped and grunted, he let out a string of dirty talk at some point, something disturbingly graphic and a little self-demeaning, which Tom interrupted and halted with a "You're so fucking beautiful". Every time either of us came too close to orgasm, we'd slip out and let the other fill and fuck Simon's ass and bask in his begging eyes. I could hardly believe how he could take so much fucking, how he could endure for so long the ramming and slamming we were too horny to tame and abate, how he obviously reveled not quite in being passed around, swapped, traded, used, but in being seized, shared and prized.

When Tom pulled out for the last time, he passed his hand over his hair, taking a long breath. "I can't anymore," he exhaled, "I really have to cum." He climbed on the bed, as I took my turn inside Simon, and rammed his dick in Simon's mouth. He grabbed and locked Simon's face on his cock, plunged in and out, made him gag, told him gently to relax and started squirting down his throat, pulling back eventually to have the last drops land on Simon's cheek.

Simon's eyes were almost vacant at that point, he swallowed uncomfortably, yet keeping a straight face, as if inhaling the moment. I could see Tom staring at him; I wondered if he saw braveness and magnificence, if he thought Simon, a man now spattered with cum, had never looked more like a man.

I slowly pulled out of Simon's ass, letting the moment hang and hover. I moved and sat down on an armchair, by the window, trying to catch my breath. Simon turned towards me, gave me a searching look, which ended and stuck on my erection. He got up from the bed and stepped towards me. I saw more than I felt my legs instinctively spreading, an organic movement to beckon him back. Simon silently sat on my dick, facing and watching Tom, reclined and spent on the bed. He lowered himself on me, using my thighs for balance. He started moving, shaking, bucking, bumping on my lap, getting fucked deep. He then dropped and stopped, as if close to complete exhaustion, resting his body on mine, and jerking himself off. I couldn't hold it any longer and I started erupting in Simon's ass. My convulsions sent Simon over the edge and he started cumming all over his chest, in violent quixotic bursts.

Simon's body was now completely loosen, drooping and spooling all over mine, his weight suddenly difficult to bear. I could hear and feel his intense breathing. Tom watched us dazedly and whispered "Yes".

We all dozed on the bed, naked, sweaty and sticky, entangled in complicated ways. It soon became uncomfortable, however. The bed seemed to have lost half of its earlier size, when sex and intimacy had seized and expanded every single inch square. Our large bodies didn't imbricate any longer, they overlapped, grated, bumped, bothered, overheated. Simon's grunts now indicated sourness rather than yearning, Tom's restlessness betrayed discomfort rather than eagerness. The musky, feral, sour stench in the room was overbearing.

"I need to get going," Simon said softly, leaving the bed in tactful movements, grabbing and putting on his clothes, all in silence and stealth. Within two minutes, he was at the door, patting us on the back clumsily. There didn't seem to be shame or remorse in his meek behavior, not exactly, rather a touch of self-consciousness, of awkwardness, of disorientation perhaps.

"Good luck," I told him, only a second later hoping my send-off hadn't sounded condescending.

"What are you thinking about?" Tom asked as we stepped out of the hotel. I had wanted a cigarette and some fresh air – a somewhat oxymoronic proposition, as he had pointed out. He had slightly opened the window of the room to get some of the heat and the pungent smell out, while I had fumbled with my clothes to get dressed and he had decided to come along.

"I don't get him," I said, exhaling. "I don't get his life."

"And I don't get why this vile cigarette was so important to you that we had to come out in this polar weather," Tom said, before hugging me from behind, to warm himself. Washington seemed eerily silent.

Despite his apparent lack of interest, I couldn't quite let it go. "I mean, it's 2010. He lives in New England. What is actually the matter?"

"Why do you care?" Tom asked levelly.

"Why do I care?" I repeated, taken aback.

"Yes. I am not saying it's weird that you care. I'm asking for the reasons why you do."

"Because I know these men exist, yet never seem to meet them. Because I wonder how society can still oppress some people, through which mechanisms. Because understanding that is key to change and progress. Because Simon was touching, in his own way."

"These men do exist and I'm not surprised you never get to meet them."

"How so?"

"Because these men won't come to you, they rarely come up to anyone, except online. And you don't hit on people. I do. And I've met many of them."

"And so you understand them."

"I understand that there isn't a them. That there isn't a grand sociological explanation to understand them all. I know they hurt, I know they lie. Often, but not always, more than we all do."

"Right," I conceded, not entirely satisfied and a little frustrated by Tom's reluctance to engage with me. "I guess. I just can't figure out whether tonight, today, was something very beautiful or just extremely sad."

"Because Simon was and stayed a mystery."

"Maybe."

"That's the thing with you: you are interested in the mysteries of the human sexual psyche," he said with a gentle hint of derision, "but also a very horny man. And, well, sometimes, you combine both fascinations and can't quite tell them apart. You know what I mean?"

"Not entirely."

"You see a mysterious man and you think you want to fuck the truth out of him. Whereas, maybe, all you want is just to fuck him. And your problem is that you see mystery and wonder on a very frequent basis."

"Right," I chuckled. "Fine. I'll think about that."

"You think enough as it is. I'm just saying." My cigarette had ended, but he was still hugging me, sometimes placing a kiss on my neck, through my scarf. "I mean, I get it. There is a mystery in every man. Or at least there is latent curiosity about every man. Starting with wondering what's in his pants."

"Oh please," I smiled.

"No, I'm actually serious. Or just a bit metaphorical, maybe. You're interested in people's sex lives. I've always noticed that. It's fine, it's not lecherous or sordid. You are genuinely interested. I'm like that too, in a way. Maybe just a tad more lecherous than you are."

"A tad."

"The thing is, we never really got past the eyeing of guys undressing in the locker room. That curiosity, that fascination. The possibilities. The fantasies. The very reality of it all," Tom said, increasingly pensive.

"I never really did that. In locker rooms."

"Then you're a different sort: the discriminate voyeur. I can see that. You're not interested in any cock. You like cocks with a good story. You like meaning in your erections," Tom said, amusing himself but with the tone of someone who thinks he's on to something. "I envy you in a way: sex always seems extraordinary. Literally speaking. You've bedded tons of guys and yet you so often seem to find it something special."

"I actually have always thought the same thing about you, Tom."

"It's different. With you, it's often as if sex is something that isn't supposed to happen, as if sex had an inscrutable, beautiful oddity about it. And you often ask yourself why it's so damn good."

"We should go back inside, it's freezing," I said, moving back to the lobby.

"These are good questions," Tom continued, undeterred, as we walked to the elevator. "I just, personally, only asked myself these questions when I fall in or out of love. You exercise your brains over a beautiful one-night stand – or a very sad one."

"What does it have to do with Simon?"

"Nothing. Everything. Who knows what Simon is thinking right now? It's not that I don't care. When the mystery is beyond me, and believe me, Ben, most mysteries are, beyond any of us, all I can do is respect people's boundaries. If he wants to find us, two minutes on Google will do it. If he wants to talk, I'll talk. If he wants support, I'll be there. If he wants to be fucked out of his torments, I will."

"Is that your philosophy?" I asked, entering the room, chilly and messy, with a disheveled yet incredibly inviting large bed.

"My philosophy is simple: be kind and honest," Tom quipped, jumping on the duvet.

More fiction (stories and novels) at http://benashtonfiction.tumblr.com/

All feedback is welcome. I'm always looking for beta readers, editors, proofreaders or anyone willing to help improve previously published stories or work in progress. Hit me up at benashtonvilla@yahoo.com