I Had to Say Something by Mike Jones

Art had been in my place for only a little more than an hour. That’s my kind of client!

CHAPTER 3
    MY SECOND YEAR WITH ART

    â€œHey, Mike, I’m running late, but I should be there in fifteen minutes or so. Okay? Bye.” I erased the voice-mail message and went to the kitchen to tidy up. There were only a few glasses in the sink so it didn’t take long.
    I had recently moved from the condo on Sherman Street to an apartment on Downing Street and had also given up the studio next door to the condo. Since then, I had been entertaining clients in my new place. It was important to me that the apartment look neat—although I’m not sure that anyone who ever came to my place cared about how the kitchen looked.
    My next stop was the bathroom. I usually took a minute to wipe down the toilet rim, sink, and counters. Again, I don’t ever recall anyone commenting on how clean my bathroom was, but I knew that if it looked like a guy’s bathroom, stench and all, someone would have said something. On the counter, I made sure I had plenty of mouthwash, paper cups, fresh combs, toothpaste, shaving cream, and a roll of paper towels. I’ve found that men do better with paper towels than with a nice set of hand towels. It works for me, too, since it means less laundry to do.
    I then went to the bedroom to straighten up, but that was just for my own satisfaction. I very rarely brought anyone into the bedroom. For starters, that was my space, and it was important
to keep at least one room in the apartment as mine. More importantly, however, a bed just presented too many issues. Once my career really got going, I let almost no one stay more than one hour and often had to say no to clients who wanted to stay the night, even if they were ready to pay me for eight hours.
    â€œMike, I’m here,” Art said. I buzzed him in and told him to come to the eighth floor. He hadn’t been to my new place yet. It was in a tall apartment building right in the heart of Capitol Hill in central Denver, a neighborhood where a lot of gay men and other creative types live.
    Two minutes later, with a quick, almost gentle knock on the front door, Art was ready for action.
    â€œHi, Mike,” he said with a wide grin. “God, I’ve missed you.”
    He stood at the door until I gestured for him to come in. “Hello, Art,” I said. He was now trying to kiss me on the lips whenever he could, but I always turned my cheek toward him. Art rubbed my shoulders and my chest.
    â€œWhy the new place?” he asked.
    â€œI got tired of the home owner’s association.” That was true, really.
    Before going into the massage room to undress, I gave Art a glass of water. Everything was quiet, just the way he liked it, though there was a bit more noise coming from the street.
    Art loved rubbing my chest, moving his hands up and down firmly. After his fingers did the walking on my clean-shaven chest, he put his hand on the small of my back and pulled me in toward him. You could almost feel the passion in his face as he closed his eyes, clenched his teeth ever so slightly, and then held on to me for dear life.
    He clenched my hand again, gave me a squeeze, and then let go. He went into the massage room to get undressed.

    After a few minutes, I walked in and took off my gym shorts. Rather than wait for me on his stomach, Art was standing with a full erection. When I approached, he kissed my neck, cheeks, and forehead, all the while rubbing my chest, biceps, and abdomen. His hands worked their way down my body until he got to my pubic area. His touch suggested both delight and trepidation.
    In one smooth gliding motion, his hands cupped my groin, and he effortlessly dropped to his knees in front of me, lightly breathing on me all the while. Sometimes we’d do it standing, and sometimes he’d place me in a chair and let me sit back and relax while he did all the work. His joy at doing this was