I took courage from the memory of a hot night in Chicago when I smoked a doobie on Navy Pier, then came back to the Drake and whacked off to straight porn on Spectravision and got off on it fine, especially with poppers, because sex, I was learning, is a place where all of us go, regardless of gender or sexuality. No matter where we begin, it’s just one big steamy locker room in the end.
Which is the scary part, of course.
“You wanna take off your boots?” I asked.
“That’s okay, buddy, I’m cool.” Jake was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, rocking a little as he gazed at me sideways. “You wanna kick back?” he asked.
I took a last drag on the joint, then stubbed it out in my little Roycroft ashtray. I scooched back into the nubby cotton bolster as Jake knelt between my legs and got to work with quiet efficiency, still wearing his jeans and a loose gray T-shirt. He popped the top button of my 501s, mercifully liberating my belly, but didn’t pull my jeans off right away, just fingered me studiously through the denim as if fitting my dick for a custom suit. When I started to get hard, he looked up. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” I said.
He grinned and popped the other five buttons.
I said the first thing that came to mind: “You remind me a lot of a scoutmaster I used to have.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you guys do stuff like this?”
“Oh, hell, no,” I said. “He was straight as they come. He took us to the Everglades once, and I saw him in his boxer shorts. I never got over it.”
I felt the brush of Jake’s beard against my thigh as his tongue swabbed its way along my dick. This is not his first time, I thought. When he was finally free to speak, he gazed up at me intently.
“You got any?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Boxer shorts,” he explained.
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Want me to wear ’em?”
“Sure.”
He hopped to his feet. “Where?”
“Straight back and to the left,” I said. “Second drawer from the top.”
He was gone less than a minute. When he returned he stood in the doorway for a moment, legs apart, to give me the full scoutmaster effect.
“Very nice,” I said.
It wasn’t a faithful reproduction of Mr. Ragsdale, but it was close enough.
The sex was pretty much as advertised. Mostly he went down on me, and that was nice, I have to say. He was a good kisser, too, though he seemed less interested in that. I felt kind of selfish, to tell you the truth, just lying back like a sultan, so I moved my leg up into those boxer shorts, thinking that a little pressure there might be appreciated. My leg was promptly redirected, so I returned to my passive state and took the rest of my cues from Jake. He wanted to see me come, he said, so I jerked off while he worked my nips with the efficiency of a seasoned safecracker. I left my load, as directed, on the front of his Nature Conservancy T-shirt. “All riiiight,” he growled. “Good one, buddy.”
We lay there side by side, limbs overlapping, until my breathing had subsided and I felt called upon to break the silence.
“Do people always ask you—?”
“—what my name used to be?”
I laughed. “Guess they do.”
“I never tell them,” he said.
“Why? Was it Myrtle or something?”
It was a calculated risk, but he did crack a smile. “It’s nothing to do with the name.”
“You just don’t know that person anymore.”
“Right,” he said. “Close enough.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“You ever need a hand, by the way?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.
“You said you were a gardener, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Well, if you need help…I’m really into horticulture.”
“Great.”
“I grew up on a farm. I don’t mind a little work.”
“I’ll remember that,” I told him. My usual practice was to hire one or more of the Mexican guys hustling for day labor down on Cesar Chavez, but it was like buying a pig in a poke, as my
Which is the scary part, of course.
“You wanna take off your boots?” I asked.
“That’s okay, buddy, I’m cool.” Jake was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, rocking a little as he gazed at me sideways. “You wanna kick back?” he asked.
I took a last drag on the joint, then stubbed it out in my little Roycroft ashtray. I scooched back into the nubby cotton bolster as Jake knelt between my legs and got to work with quiet efficiency, still wearing his jeans and a loose gray T-shirt. He popped the top button of my 501s, mercifully liberating my belly, but didn’t pull my jeans off right away, just fingered me studiously through the denim as if fitting my dick for a custom suit. When I started to get hard, he looked up. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” I said.
He grinned and popped the other five buttons.
I said the first thing that came to mind: “You remind me a lot of a scoutmaster I used to have.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you guys do stuff like this?”
“Oh, hell, no,” I said. “He was straight as they come. He took us to the Everglades once, and I saw him in his boxer shorts. I never got over it.”
I felt the brush of Jake’s beard against my thigh as his tongue swabbed its way along my dick. This is not his first time, I thought. When he was finally free to speak, he gazed up at me intently.
“You got any?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Boxer shorts,” he explained.
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Want me to wear ’em?”
“Sure.”
He hopped to his feet. “Where?”
“Straight back and to the left,” I said. “Second drawer from the top.”
He was gone less than a minute. When he returned he stood in the doorway for a moment, legs apart, to give me the full scoutmaster effect.
“Very nice,” I said.
It wasn’t a faithful reproduction of Mr. Ragsdale, but it was close enough.
The sex was pretty much as advertised. Mostly he went down on me, and that was nice, I have to say. He was a good kisser, too, though he seemed less interested in that. I felt kind of selfish, to tell you the truth, just lying back like a sultan, so I moved my leg up into those boxer shorts, thinking that a little pressure there might be appreciated. My leg was promptly redirected, so I returned to my passive state and took the rest of my cues from Jake. He wanted to see me come, he said, so I jerked off while he worked my nips with the efficiency of a seasoned safecracker. I left my load, as directed, on the front of his Nature Conservancy T-shirt. “All riiiight,” he growled. “Good one, buddy.”
We lay there side by side, limbs overlapping, until my breathing had subsided and I felt called upon to break the silence.
“Do people always ask you—?”
“—what my name used to be?”
I laughed. “Guess they do.”
“I never tell them,” he said.
“Why? Was it Myrtle or something?”
It was a calculated risk, but he did crack a smile. “It’s nothing to do with the name.”
“You just don’t know that person anymore.”
“Right,” he said. “Close enough.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“You ever need a hand, by the way?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.
“You said you were a gardener, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Well, if you need help…I’m really into horticulture.”
“Great.”
“I grew up on a farm. I don’t mind a little work.”
“I’ll remember that,” I told him. My usual practice was to hire one or more of the Mexican guys hustling for day labor down on Cesar Chavez, but it was like buying a pig in a poke, as my
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