Tom Cat Bill
I sat in the living room paging through a magazine, waiting for my masseur to finish showering. There was an array of magazines on the table in front of me - one with news/gossip, another a girlie magazine, and also an artsy-fartsy entertainment magazine called After Dark, popular with gay men. Maybe Bill used the choice of magazine as a test to determine the sexual preference of unknown first-time clients. With me, there was no such problem. We had met at a gay strip show. Bill was one of the dancers. The massage had been arranged a few days earlier. I had seen Bill a few times at the Tom Cat, and last week, I had spoken with him after his performance. Some of the dancers would hang out to chat up the audience in the rear of the theater. And to drum up private business. I asked Bill about whether he worked privately as we were chatting and he offered his home number to arrange a massage.
Here he comes out of the bathroom now, drying his hair. He has pulled on a pair of jeans but is wearing nothing else. Although it is my lunch hour, he is just rising for the day. He glances over to see which magazine I chose. I'm looking at After Dark. Bill is about 5'8" or 5'9" with short dark hair, a compact muscular body and rough pleasant features. His nose is a bit too big and his chin and jawbone jut out prominently. Also, he has acne on his face. But surprisingly, all together, it works fine. These imperfections give him sort of a rough-hewn, Marlboro Man look. I like the look, and I also like Bill's easy masculine manner.
After a minimum of chit chat, I strip and lie on the bed in the small apartment. He is proud of this new rental. He had previously shared a place, and this is his first private apartment in New York. He proudly points out the exposed brick living room wall. As we talk about house decorating, I begin to rub his arm. Bill strips off his jeans and lies back on the bed. There is no pretense of a legitimate massage at all. I caress his hairy chest and run my finger down his flat stomach to a nest of pubic hair still damp from the shower. He reaches for my dick and slowly begins to pull it.
We continue with this lazy foreplay for perhaps five minutes. Bill says, "You'll have to tell me what you want." He was expecting me to go down on him by now, I suppose. And now he's probably thinking that maybe I want to be fucked. I surprise him by saying, "Uh, nothing. Nothing more than this, actually. Just a little hand action." He reacts with a surprised "well, you meet all kinds in this business" look. And then he smiles and relaxes. There follows a nice mutual hand job, with some hugging, ass grabbing and a peck or two on the neck. After we have spilled our juices, Bill offers a glass of orange juice which I accept. I pay and leave.
The next time I go to the Tom Cat Theater, Bill comes out for his performance and studies the audience in the small theater. There are only about half a dozen men at this early afternoon performance. Bill looks from face to face as he slowly removes his clothes. As he sits down on a chair to take off his boots, he comments, "Well, I know everybody here. All friends." I take that to mean that we have each been private massage clients of the performer. I bet I was the easiest one to satisfy.