Yes, these are desperate times. And, by tradition, they call for desperate measures.
Right. College town (small city actually, and no, I am not going to tell you exactly where since there is now a "business model" to protect, and a market share to preserve. I'll just say that it is the US in northern latitudes, and we had a beastly winter, and the snow started melting about the time the damn lockdown orders took place.)
With the university closing, that left Jared and I alone in our off-campus apartment, our two other apartment mates clearing out but no convenient homes for either of us to resort to, and we had classes to finish in an abysmally unsatisfying online fashion. If I hear the phrase "remote modalities" one more time I will puke.
At least it was our junior year and we didn't have to undergo the indignity of no graduation, fruitless job searches, all of that the seniors have to endure. We'll inevitably have it better next year. (He says, with hopeful confidence.) Who knows what next year will be like.
Jared's girlfriend Camile had retreated home to Chicago, and you can bet I heard a lot about how much he missed her. More precisely, how much he missed certain intimate activities that they indulged in. I am not sure how much he actually missed her actual presence, and the accompanying "extracurricular drama," as he put it, that accompanied her, to which I can attest.
But he missed her cunt. Her lips. Her "soft, supple hands" on his "throbbing cock." Makes a guy a little irritated, to tell the truth, to hear long detailed descriptions about pleasure-producing activities especially when the patient listener didn't have a partner, and in fact hadn't had a partner in some time.
Back to the desperate measures part.
So, being an inventive and restless soul, I had established a plan to handle some of the current difficulties. Jared made fun of my efforts, but I ran drafts by him anyway. This was a month into lockdown, and the sexual deprivation in the flat had grown insufferable.
Jared and I look enough alike that some folks (not very observant ones) thought we were brothers. Light brown hair for both of us, clean-shaven (mostly, although that had taken a beating as a regular practice lately), he was a little taller at five-foot-ten, I was a little broader in build. Couple of college guys.
We had started by masturbating separately in our lonely rooms, trying for discretion but soon had evolved into public (well, living room anyway) mutual masturbation sessions. I could tell you all sorts of things about his dick, size, arousal levels, how Jared would scrunch up his face when he finally climaxed, all of that, but I am not sure you need to know all those details.
I had even broached the notion, fairly cautiously, of each of us "helping out" the other but this was a no-go for Mr. Moral (spare me) and I didn't press. And so, on to my urge to systematically mine and leverage that endless pit of depravity, social media, for relief. A first for me.
"Clean, completely disease-free, asymptomatic college male sheltering-in-place, moderately good looking, quite desperate for crotch attention seeks a willing female mouth for lascivious pleasures. Cumside service, I'll wear a mask, you won't need to." I read this to Jared, quite pleased with myself for the "cumside service" line. I had to look up "asymptomatic" to get the spelling right.
"And who the fuck do you think is going to answer this ad?" Jared snorted, his dark eyebrows almost hit the ceiling, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
He didn't wait for my answer. "You are going to have a long line of balding guy perverts with bad teeth who are going to want to do the deed."
"Oh, I don't think so. It says 'female' right in there and I am placing it in an appropriate category." But I was worried, I had no experience with this sort of thing, and maybe Jared knew more about it all.
Jared sniffed. "If you get any legitimate takers, I will be astonished. Gobsmacked."
"And jealous as hell," I shot back. That part would be true at least.
"And just how are you going to handle this 'Cumside Service' thing anyway? You're not going to be able to sneak someone in here."
We lived in three rooms in a multi-unit, entirely unremarkable apartment complex built sometime in the nineteen-fifties or sixties. And his question was a good one, but I had given it a fair amount of thought. I am not famous for my creative qualities, but in this case I thought my planning to be above average, even verging on the brilliant.
Getting someone inside was indeed a difficulty. The front entrance was enough of a bottleneck that folks were always coming and going, and a fair percentage of the denizens here were those whom I would categorize as "rule nazis," obsessed about wearing masks and keeping apart. There was one older guy, if we were in the lobby at the same time, would fling his back against the wall, glaring at me with his beady little eyes from above his mask, yelling "six feet!" for having the nerve to be coming in the front door at the same time he was leaving. I would need a different mechanism for contact.
The street we faced was a mix of residential and small businesses, hardly private in any sense of the word. If you went out the front door of the complex to the street, there were apartments to the right, and to the left various small shops, including a hair salon just next door, which had had to shut with the state close-down, as getting your hair cut apparently wasn't an 'essential' service.
The salon, "Cut Rate," and the other shops had metered parking places in front, but the city wasn't even issuing citations these days, didn't need to, and the spots were almost always open, the streets eerily deserted, with most students having vacated, the shops closed down.
I had figured I would put a folding card-table we had with a sign on it and have a few dummy paper bags of "merchandise" on the table with fake-invoices stapled to them, like all the other curbside businesses were doing. Most of the bags would be a deke, just a couple with repackaged bread loaves from a local bakery in them at the front of the pile. I had made up a story about selling homemade bread if any of the apartment complex nazis or inquiring street passersby asked about the "business."
Jared sniffed at all this. "What's in it for the girl who will be blowing you?" He asked. "You're not offering money or any compensation, who the hell is going to go for this?"
"I could give them a loaf of bread? As a token of my appreciation?" He snorted.
I spun out a pitch about "public service" and he wryly commented that people who did public service wanted something in return, and the only public service he could see was to my penis and a loaf of bread was hardly an equivalent barter. I retorted that any exchange of money could get me in all manner of difficulties (besides which I didn't have any to spare) and that the platform I was using prohibited it anyway. Jared shook his head.
"You're basically asking for a 'mercy blow.' On your knees, begging for it. Pathetic."
"Someone else will be on their knees," I said with forced confidence.
The next part took more thought, and a need to take advantage of limited options. There was a narrow passageway alongside the hair salon that went to the back of the place. Some shrubbery at the end shielded their back-space where supplies got stored, trash bins were parked before getting hauled out to the street on Tuesdays for pickup, etc.
I had, perhaps a bit illegally, certainly without permission, opened up a section of the shrubbery with some pruning shears, cut out enough room for me to stand, pretty much unobservable from anywhere except the hair salon, which of course was closed, with a little extra room for my "customer," who I reckoned would be on her knees. That's where I planned to deliver my "product." It wasn't absolutely risk-free, but it was far enough from the street, and away from any viewing angle as to be private enough to work.
I had no idea of the odds of any success. I would meet my "clients" at the table, we would discretely retreat to the back, then on the way out I would give them a "bonus bag" before they left, to preserve appearances.
I posted it Tuesday the last day of March, not daring to post it on April Fool's Day for obvious reasons. I will not reveal the platform for my endeavour but "# CumSideService" was the ticker. For my table I had carefully prepared a sign that said "C* SIDE SERVICE." I thought I was very clever. Jared said it would have sounded better if we were actually near an ocean beach, but then he had been critical of every aspect of my endeavor.
And I sat back to wait. And wait.
And got just what Jared predicted. Lots of guys, age usually unspecified, who asked for pics of my cock and described all the lovely, lecherous things they would do to it. I stopped reading the responses to Jared after the third one, as his enjoyment at my resounding failure was, I thought, excessive and unseemly from an apartment-mate.
