White Collar Tales Bill Drake (billdrake@hotmail.com)
WARNING: The following is for adults only. It contains depiction of sexual acts between men. If this offends you or is inappropriate for you to read, go no further.
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White Collar Tales #12 Midtown Fuckbuddy
I descended the elevator in his apartment building feeling satisfied beyond belief. I adjusted my suit, making sure my starched shirt was tautly tucked back in. Before I hit the ground floor, I took a sec to paw my sated genitals. Hot Shot was sure one helluva lay.
I still didn't know his actual name. I'd spotted him one warm spring afternoon in Bryant Park. Or I should say he'd spotted me. We sat about forty feet apart, each eating our lunches alone. I felt a pair of eyes on me. Sparkling green eyes. And they were staring right at my crotch.
Call me a typical married schmuck. Commute each morning from Fairfield. Blonde Martha-Stewart wanna be for a wife. 3 tow-headed kids who I adore. Only married life does little to tame my wild libido. I swear I could go at it every day, three or four times a day. I'm a walking raging hardon walking around. Fortunately, I'm in a profession where excesses of testosterone are rewarded.
I liked stepping out on the wife with the cute twenty-something women that Manhattan was teeming with. I liked it a lot. Leggy, professional women in strappy dresses and heels hitting the Lower East Side bars trying to have their Sex and the City moment. At least I could provide the Sex part. Only the women were one fat headache. Too fucking emotional. The last chick I balled was clingy as hell and kept friggin calling me. I finally got her to stop. Talk about close call.
So I turned more and more to men. It started with me trawling the m4m boards on Craigslist. A couple of expert blow jobs had me hooked. In the city, turns out, there were always dozens of men willing to take care of you in a heartbeat. Hot Shot was one of them. That was my wry nickname for him. We've all seen the type: guys in their twenties, straight outta B-school, getting suited up for their first finance job, unaware that they look like some pimped-out Gordon Gecko imitation. Spread collars, flashy cufflinks, stripes on stripes on patterns, fully brogued shoes.
He sure was dressed for success that first spring afternoon. Trying to read the Financial Times during lunch hour, but not doing a good job convincing me he was actually reading. He looked away immediately as soon as I caught him crotchwatching, put his eyes back in his paper, so I took my time in appraising him. Tall, good build on him, dark Irish looks with ruddy cheeks and chestnut colored hair. Definitely Sunday Times Wedding Announcements material. But it was funny: with women, I checked out their bodies, their looks, and if in a sexy cocktail dress, their clothes, but with men the thing that turned me on was hunger. A woman could crave for you to ravage her but she'd act coy, make you play the game. When men want to fuck, they let you know. Maybe not aloud, but there's not much hiding our piggish nature, is there? I knew the ogling look on my face as I appraised all the hot women I passed day in, day out. Hot Shot was looking at me that way.
His eyes were back on me, staring me in the face this time. Ashamed, nervous, but hopeful. I fed his hope. Smiled a sly grin his way. Spread my thighs, letting my chubbed cock ride up in my suit crotch. Fuck, that made Hot Shot smile. That smile made my stick harden up and grow plump in my trousers. I saw the recognition on Hot Shot's ruddy face as he realized I'm hung. I liked that.
The kid was boning up too, I could tell by the way he was shifting on his bench. I looked at my watch. Time was wasting and junior cocksucker here was taking his pretty, shy time. Fuck that. I got up, not caring who in the world saw my boner, and paraded over to him. Life's too short, you know?
"Buddy," I greeted him. "Mind if I read that when you're done?" Nodding at the clearly unread FT. I figured I needed an excuse, though let's be honest: it's New York at lunchtime and no one notices you or cares what you're doing.
I didn't wait for him to answer but sat right down next to him. Shoulder to shoulder. I felt him shake a little nervously, then cautiously press his suited leg against mine. I pressed back.
I leaned forward to speak lowly into his ear. "I got about thirty minutes to spare. Got some place we can go?"
He shut his eyes as if to determine this was really happening to him. I was starting to get the feeling Hot Shot was a closet homo rather than a pro at cruising businessmen in the park. All right by me.
I guess he figured out I was real, all right, cause he finally answered. "My apartment's in Murray Hill."
Cool. Close enough for a quick cab ride. "Yeah?" I encouraged, my hand massaging in between his shoulder blades now.
He finally had the courage to look back at me. He liked what he saw. I could read it in his face. "God, you're attractive," he admitted.
I smiled knowingly. Christ, the kid was just some horndog twentysomething being led around by his dick. I'd been there. Maybe I was there now. "Time's wasting," I admonished.
The second we were in the cab, his hands were on my crotch. I looked forward so the cabbie wouldn't get a clue, and unzipped. I savored that little gasp as Hot Shot finally got a close and personal look. His finger circled around it and started stroking. Reached down and massaged my nuts. Felt good. And I continued to feel good the next ten blocks, til I knew I had to put away the toys.
I could tell by the photos everywhere in Hot Shot's one-bedroom that he was engaged or at least had a steady girlfriend. Didn't bother me, just as my shiny wedding band did nothing to deter Hot Shot. He set his keys on the table, circled his arms around me and pressed his lips against mine. Not normally my speed, but like I said I was really feeding off this guy's hunger. I reached down and unzipped again. Already my prick was threaded through the front of my boxers and its heaviness plopped out into the open air and into this young man's hands.
"Suck me," I commanded, and the stud complied.
This was the best part of man-on-man sex in my book. The eagerness. I was eager to get blown, Hot Shot was eager to blow me. He attacked my leaking dick like it was his last meal. Slurping, swallowing, stretching his jaw to new proportions. I fucked his mouth like it was the first sex I'd had in months. I wanted to feel my testicles bounce against his chin. Soon I had my wish.
I can take my time if I want, but that day I was in a hurry. I wanted my nut, and this guy was doing all the right things to get me there.
"You swallow, guy?"
I didn't let him answer, but just held on. Hell, all the guys I hooked up with swallowed. Another advantage over the women. I held my headgrip tight and sawed my prick in and out of his now relaxed throat. Then my nuts churned and my scum went flying. Right into Hot Shot's esophagus. I shoot big.
My thick wad made Hot Shot cough and sputter, but it musta turned him on, too, cause three seconds flat and he was orgasming as well. I cooed in sexual bliss and rubbed his straw-soft hair as he nutted. Finally, I pulled my prick out and wiped it with my pocket square, then tucked myself back in. Zipped up, thanked Hot Shot, and walked out the door. Caught a cab and was back in my office four minutes before my 1:30 conference call.
I thought it a one-and-done affair. But, damnit, I couldn't get that blowjob outta my mind. Or those hungry green eyes. Two days later, I felt randy and found myself going back to that same spot in Bryant Park. Hot Shot was there, of course, waiting to see if I'd return. He smiled big, and that made me smile in return.
"How much time ya got?" he asked as he stood up, and shook my hand. Funny, two practical strangers-turned-fuckbuddies, shaking hands like some business acquaintances.
I shrugged. "Dunno. I normally don't take a long lunch, so not much."
"Cool," he replied as we started walking to get a cab. "One of these days I want a little more time. Want to try something."
"Yeah?"
"You like fucking?"
I laughed. "Who doesn't? But I'll tell you now... you keep blowing me like you did last time and I'm gonna keep coming back for more."
"I'm good aren't I?" Hot Shot grinned. He was getting a little cockier. I liked that.
"I shouldn't tell you this, but you made my top three list."
"Your wife on that list?" The first time we acknowledge out loud my marital status.
Just then a cab pulled up and I opened the door. "Hell no. Marriage is OK the first year or so, but the sex dries up pretty damn quick."
"I'm getting married in June," he admitted. Once again I was quietly unzipping. Once again, Hot Shot was going for his hand full.
"Congratulations. But trust me, you'll see I'm right. Your sex drive's gonna spike like crazy and you're not gonna be able to do a thing about it."
"I was thinking maybe you'd be around to help me from time to time," he whispered.
Hot Shot and I got along famously after that. I got introduced to the apartment building doorman and got a duplicate key to his place. Pretty soon, we were fucking everyday. Usually, he or I only had time for a quickie, so he blew me. Or I bent him over the sofa, dropped his wool trousers, and did my best eight-minute mile on his wonderful meaty tail. And I couldn't tell you how many MetroNorth trains I missed going for seconds, or thirds.
He got married, all right, but somehow convinced his wife that he needed to keep that Murray Hill apartment for those times he had to work late in the City. Fuck, yeah.