Go through downtown in any major city and you see them, those glass boxes. They are the modern cathedrals to capitalism where investment banks, law firms, corporate headquarters and the like tower over the rest of their respective communities, lording their strength and influence. Interesting that they are called glass boxes since one ordinarily associates glass with transparency, but today's glass is colorful and shiny, but opaque from the outside. You wonder what really goes on behind all that false transparency. More than you might imagine for a bunch of tough guys.
Inside, they're clean, new, quiet and posh. The other side of the glass pushes common problems far away, leaving gentle landscapes of green without a problem in sight. Your house or life might be ablaze in the distance, but from up here, it's an interesting shape of smoke drifting up to the sky. This environment is where I work, where lawsuits are litigated, deals are done, and if I'm lucky, butts are buggered.
The paradox of the glass boxes sometimes extends to our lives. To the rest of the world, I'm a fit specimen of one of those tough guys – in my mid-thirties. I work out each morning, shower and have breakfast with the other power brokers at our club. We chat about rumored deals, torrid affairs and our short game that needs work. After eating, I dress in my in tailored suits, gold cufflinks and handmade lace-up shoes. I drive my Porsche Carrera convertible to my parking space in the basement of our building. I take the series of elevators up to my office on the 34th floor of the glass box and watch the sun rise over the horizon as I began the relentless pace. I exemplify the whole package, with one exception. Similar to the manner in which the pristine outer facades of these buildings hide the constant, twisted turmoil inside, my secret inside belies every other facet of my life. You see, I'm bisexual.
This small blemish on my tough guy persona could create horrific problems in my world. Up here, surrounded by well-heeled vermin, rodents and reptiles, being labeled a fucking fag directly and immediately leads to death. It would not be a physical death, of course. Physical death would be a welcome alternative when compared to the emasculation that would follow being "outed." In my world, in which one must be sized up based upon perceived ability to do what has to be done to succeed, not simply doing one's best, any tendency towards homosexuality would lead directly from titan of power to purveyor of women's shoes, figuratively and literally. I exist each day knowing that one revealing slip could lead to permanent cancellation of my membership in the tough guy club I fought so hard to join.
It's hard, stressful work, often too intense to even rest a bit over lunch. I usually eat at my desk to keep the dollars flowing all day long. Finding something to eat is usually a dreary chore. A few months back, though, life got spicy. I found a particularly tasty Cajun restaurant with a take-our counter. It was manned with a young stud named Chris. Why is it that slender but shapely studs with longish blond hair, piercing blue eyes, perfect faces, and of course, tight round asses all seem to be named Chris? My outside persona befriended Chris with platitudes about their food, the weather, college football and bars. Inside, my mind mentally undressed. Chris is no fag, you see, but I soon realized that he and I could carry on a conversation, simultaneously with the spoken one, using only our eyes. These visual conversations began with just a bit too much eye contact. It advanced to glances at asses and then stares at packages draped by soft cloth on either side. Chris, an exceptionally bright pre-med junior working part-time to make ends meet far below the glass boxes, sensed my interest from the get-go. The insightful drive that fuels my businesses acumen soon began hatching a plan to give young Chris a practical lesson in male anatomy.
Negotiating deals and implementing strategies for a living teaches that closing the deal is usually a function of testing and proving interest in creative opportunities upon which the deal may be structured. My plan, conceived from this familiar lesson, was cautiously tailored to my peculiar circumstances of wanting to have sex with Chris with the corresponding least possible chance of being caught. The first step was to see if Chris was truly interested in what he saw or just careless with his glances. This would have to take place well away from my haunts so that there would minimal opportunity to be seen out of place and role. At this place, I would further explore the periphery of that which I perceived to be his potential – or real -- prurient interests in that which I offer, thereby testing my hypothesis that Chris might also be bi, or at least bi-capable. Each deliberate step would provide both an opportunity to build further interest upon any in me he might possess and show, while always keeping a window nearby to exit the situation should my necessarily well-developed sixth sense for identifying the right partner had, in fact, betrayed me.
Step one was finding the right venue where we could both open up. I queried Chris on bars he frequented. He identified several, and I suggested that we meet next week at one I knew after his mid-term exams. He smiled and said sure. Step one complete.
We met, drank and chatted on the appointed day after-hours in a tough guy watering hole, a sports bar. I noticed that Chris didn't have much to say about women, and with his intense studies, I knew he didn't have many opportunities for getting off beyond that which is self-induced. In response to his questions about corporate America, I regaled him with (interesting, I thought, to an outsider) war stories, legends and lore. I knew by his questions and genuine interest he expressed that I had an opportunity to take this plan to the next level. We approached the next decision-point in the algorithm. I proposed that we take a peek at our new offices. He was all over this offer. I wondered if this was just another inquiring mind broadening its horizons or whether he had the same thing on his mind as did I. The eye candy wasn't a bad downside even if the latter. I picked up the tab, and off and up we went to the 34th floor.
It was eerily quiet by this hour. The tough guys were at home, and the staff had vacuumed and cleaned. Only a few corridor lights were on when we stepped into my office. The view of the setting sun reflecting on the clouds was spectacular with my office lights off. Chris just said "wow" as I closed and quietly locked the thick mahogany-clad door. I turned on a small credenza lamp and pulled the bottle of single-malt from my desk and poured more drink. I stepped up behind Chris, who was mesmerized by the view, and handed him his drink. The warming of the whiskey emboldened me. As he began identifying landmarks, I gently aligned my arm with his to point out a few more. I was close enough to smell his cologne, see a few sun freckles on his neck and hear and feel his voice resonating with excitement. He raised his arm to point out another landmark, and the light colored hair on his muscular arm lightly touched my arm. It was an electric non-verbal answer to my wonder about where this field trip for Chris might lead. I had to repay his bravery of crossing into uncertain territory, so my front lightly grazed his protruding backside. Not the least flinch!
As the sun disappeared below the distant horizon, I invited Chris to sit while we finished our drinks. We relaxed on the soft Italian leather sofa and watched the city lights begin to shimmer in the increasing darkness. I carefully choose the next line; still not sure this – if there is a "this" -- will be completely secret.
"So, been getting any," I ask.
Softly, as though he too is unsure where this might lead, he replies, holding up and rotating his left hand, "[humph] all I want."
Chris continued. "Truthfully, I sit in anatomy classes and think about naked bodies all day. It's kinda hard to keep my mind off sex with beautiful hard bodies. I have to run back to my dorm room and jerk off so I can study. But please, you're not going to say anything, are you?"
"Hell no," I reassure. "This is just two guys talking – no one gets to listen in. That works both ways, of course."
Chris reassures me, now: "Nobody gets to know." (I think he said hard bodies with no reference to gender.)
Chris sees the paradox of the glass skin on the building as I absorb the visible parts of his soft, white skin. "This is a cool place to talk in secret with all this open glass."
More assurances of secrecy from me: "you ever notice that you can't see inside a high-rise? It's about as private as it gets."
Chris keeps the sex banter going. "How about you, your sex life, I mean?"
