The Moustache
by Oregon Bear June 2019
Disclaimer: This story is about gay love between consenting adults. If this is offensive or illegal for you, please leave this site.
It was the mustache.
That would be what would turn me on, excite me, send me into orgasmic ecstasy at the end of every time we'd make love. He would push me over the edge, not with his cock, or his muscled, hairy torso, or his hot breath and slick wetness of his tongue, but his moustache, hairy, bristly, wild and barbaric. Savage.
I didn't care about his milllenial, sophisticated job. All internet ready, primed for every kind of technological advancement, on the cutting edge of tomorrow's prime business model. He was successful, I could tell that when I showed up at his apartment.
The proper haircut, the right kind of "business casual' clothes, the just right kind of facial stubble, the hint of the goatee and, for me, the `stache. He was just the perfection of what the modern business world expected of him. The MBA degree, the right kind of balanced resume, the number of cities around the world he had traveled to. He was just so "millennial", just so prim and proper.
We'd done some business with each other a few months ago. There was a "meet and greet" in our industry, and one of my clients needed something from one of his clients. I'd made it a point to find him in the crowd, give him my card, and make the connection. My client was hungry for a deal, and so I moved in.
After the usual pleasantries, and figuring out we had a deal to make, we found a quiet corner in the crowd, put our drinks down, and talked business. We both made quick calls to our clients, and put the deal to bed, ironing out a few details with some texts, and shook hands. The beers we had each had in our hands got refreshed, and we eased into a comfortable conversation, the kind of "meet and greet" talk we were there for in the first place.
I filed away his contact info into my "good guy; deal ready" file in my head, and got busy with the other deals to be made in my crazy business life. Still, the other part of me kept him on my mind. Handsome beyond the average, engaging, personable, and well, yes, downright sexy and desirable.
Oh, all right, hot. My fantasy life picked him as one of the top stars of my recently celibate existence. I kept looking for excuses to connect with him and talk business. Yet, my clientele and his expertise and contacts weren't quite connecting.
Maybe, a friend suggested, I could do it the old fashioned way and ask him for a date. My friend had asked around, gotten a little nosy and found out he was unattached and looking for an older man, someone with brains, a career, and experience.
"You fit the bill," my friend said. "And don't go all shy on me. That's not your style, and certainly won't get you what you want out of this."
I laughed. He was right. But, I was shy about him, about making the first move.
And, I was older, and unattached, and lonely, but what this desperation, too? Was I moving into the role of being a cougar, wanting to prey on young, attractive men?
"Cougars can be male, you know," my friend said. "And what's age got to do with love, anyway?"
I mulled it over, being shy again, which was certainly not my style, not my modus operandi.
And, he was cute, and smart, and had a sense of humor. And available.
I waited, going against all my friend's advice and what my gut was telling me was a smart move. What did I have to lose? Being rejected, ignored, laughed at?
Been there, done that. Nothing new on those fronts, for an old dog, or cougar, like me. And, what if he liked me, and said yes, and I found myself having a beer with him after work one night.
I could pretend it was business, but I don't like to mix business and pleasure, or romance. I keep those worlds a little farther apart, earning money and filling my heart weren't compatible. And, at my age, being loved and happy was by far the most important thing for me to be working on. There'd always be a deal to be made, but finding real love and happiness with a guy was a rarity, and needed some time and genuine effort and honesty to make it work.
Finally, I picked up my phone, found his number, and sent a text. "How about another beer sometime, and get to know each other?"
My hands shook as I hit "send", and I felt like a teenager again, nervous as hell about dating and relationships. Even if my friend had assured me he was gay, and single, I still wasn't sure. And, I wasn't all that sure about me being in the dating mode. Most everything else about me was pulling me back to getting back to my apartment, and enjoying a quiet evening with my cats and a good book. Me, the true introvert, despite what my colleagues think about my style as a businessman, a maker of the deal.
An hour later, "Yes" and a time and the name of a nearby, quiet watering hole showed up on my screen.
A chestful of air escaped my throat, and I felt my back unclench. Guess I was nervous. Anticipation does that to me, making me a nervous wreck and I'm not even aware of it.
"Relax," I told myself. "You've done this before. You know how it works. You're desirable, you know, and he said yes. It's just a date for a beer, you know. Not a lifetime commitment."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. But what do I know. I still get to be nervous, and edgy.
"What if he doesn't like ....? what if he thinks I'm.....?"
Oh, shut up, brain, I said to myself, trying to flip the switch on the self doubting machine that was solidly established in my head.
The rest of the day passed slowly, the occasional drop of sweat flowing down out of my armpits reminding me of my nervousness.
I showed up fifteen minutes early, and found a small table at the edge of the patio of the bar. The place wasn't too trendy, and the midweek crowd I'd feared hadn't materialized. We could actually hear each other talk, and no one could get close enough to overhear us. I could relax, be myself.
He came a few minutes later, catching the waiter's eye and ordering the same local craft IPA that I'd ordered. We shook hands, and exchanged a few sentences about our previous deal, that it was a win-win for our clients. We should do it again, if the situation came up again.
We talked safe for a while, sports, the weather, good hiking trails in the mountains, good places for weekend breakfast, and coffee.
He took a breath, looked down at his shoes, and swallowed.
"This is hard for me, " he said, finally. "And, I'm really nervous. Not like me, not at all."
There was a pause, and I could see a bead of sweat on his forehead. He took another sip of beer, setting the glass down and folding his hands in his lap, his spine stiff, his face serious.
"I like you, and I think I want....I know I want to get to know you better, to have a ....relationship," he said.
"Well, whatever a relationship might look .... Between us."
He was struggling, and I wasn't jumping in to rescue him. I had my own demons to wrestle with, a knotted up stomach, and my own dripping sweat.
I nodded, and I smiled. He nodded back, and smiled.
Thankfully, the bartender swooped in, bringing two fresh beers.
"On the house," he said breezily. "You're here in time for our two for one happy hour."
"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said. "I'll leave you two alone now, so you can get to know each other better."
The bartender grinned then, his eyes twinkling.
Jim and I laughed then, our shoulders relaxed. Jim's hands reappeared from his lap and he curled fingers around his first beer, and drained the glass.
"Good, now we can be done with being awkward, and follow the bartender's good advice," he said.
"Yeah, I don't do `awkward' very well, and I'm much happier to have a beer with a friend," I said.
The second beer tasted colder, better.
I scooted nearer the table and our conversation got close, too. We shared stories about ourselves, about the uncomfortableness of dating, and being gay in the city, and in our work. We found commonalities, and swapped anecdotes and insights, both serious and funny.
We both knew we'd be lovers, but our lives together would be richer if we took it slow, lingering over the "getting to know you" part of dating, until we felt more comfortable about being together. Lovemaking would be deeper, more satisfying to our souls, if we eased into being a couple.
A few weeks later, we finally got to the first time of taking each other's clothes off, touching each other, finding our rhythm and our tender spots. I was grateful for the time we had taken, easing into this, feeling relaxed with being lovers.
The second time we made love, we laid together, at ease, savoring the glow new lovers have with each other, when they are truly in love, trusting each other in their nakedness, after they've opened up their hearts and their bodies to receiving the love of the other now in their lives.
I slowly ran my fingers through his hair, and down his face, tenderly touching his moustache, and feeling the stubble along his jaw and on his chin.
"It's the mustache, isn't it?" he asked. "That's what attracted you to me, wasn't it?"
I could only nod, and kissed him softly, my hand running down his chest, along his belly, and slowly stroking his hardening cock.