Casual First Night Encounter

He'd yelled his name—Hank, Hal, Al? I couldn't quite hear—above the First Night New York Time's Square seething crowd. He'd appeared at my side, spun in and brushed up against me by the boisterous milling crowd, with some ten minutes to spare before the ball dropped.

"You're cold, sweetie," he said. That I heard. "Here, this will warm you." He was holding out a metal flask. I took it and managed a full swallow, almost gagging. But it was, indeed, warming.

"Thanks, I said," handing it back to him. He was tall and well-built. Late thirties? His past being somewhere in the Mediterranean, I thought. Expensive-looking clothes. Better for packed crowds in Times Square on New Year's Eve than what I was wearing. I'd come back from the other coast and into the city on a whim to do this one more time before moving full time to the West Coast on commercial modeling contracts. Since breaking up with Neal, I had had no reason to stay here.

He was a stranger, just appearing at my side. No one else had related to me. Everyone seemed to be here with someone. Someone other than me. We were standing under the CNN tower. Looking up at Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen cavorting above. He called out, "Do you think they . . .?" bringing his mouth close to my ear.

"Do I think they what?" I answered, turning my head to his ear.

"Do you think they do it?" he said. "With each other?" When his mouth was to my ear, he kissed me on the ear. "What I'm really wondering is whether you do it," he said.

"What?" I said, shocked that he'd asked, embarrassed too, as it was what I was thinking—whether he did it. I wondered whether to answer—and to answer honestly—or to pretend I didn't hear him.

"I want to take care of you. I want to fuck you." That's what Neal had often said—well, at least the first part. Neal wanted to daddy me—until he didn't anymore. But I'd known Neal. This guy was a stranger.

I just laughed and smiled at him.

I hadn't noticed, but the ball was descending. People were yelling off the numbers. Three, two, one. Happy New Year!

He put a hand on my cheek, turned my face to his, and kissed me on the mouth. I pulled my face away, but he followed, gripping the back of my head with a hand, and we went into a deep kiss. He was asserting command. I gave into commands. I knew he felt me tremble, heard me moan, felt my body relax into his.

He wanted to take care of me. "You want me to fuck you," he said. I was too easy.

The swirl of the teeming crowd separated us, though. I looked around, not seeing him. After a few minutes, I walked toward the periphery of the crowd, in the direction of the Hudson River. I'd wanted something to remember New York by and this had provided that. That was enough. Just the bald danger of the encounter with a stranger. Even though it went nowhere.

As I cut my way through the crowd, I had the sensation that someone was behind me, following me. I shook that sensation off. Others would have had their momentary thrill of togetherness in seeing in the new year and would be leaving via this route as well.

I shuddered at the thought of how casual those kisses had been—but also how satisfying. They would give me something to fantasize myself with as I drifted off to sleep in a hotel bed—alone.

* * * *

On my back on a bed in an unfamiliar room. A stain on the ceiling. Concentrating on the stain, trying not to focus on the cock inside me. legs splayed, heels dug into the mattress, elevating my pelvis. No struggle whatsoever. Totally submissive. Focusing on the ceiling stain to neutralize the pain-pleasure of him inside me. Once he was in and I was stretched, it would be heaven. I knew that was what it would be. It always was before—with other guys.

Panting, gasping. He was bigger than other guys. Eyes locked on ceiling stain. Panting, moaning.

"Oh, my god, you're going to split me!"

"Stay with me, Baby."

He was kneeling between my legs, one hand gripping my throat, penning my head back into the pillow, the other hand grasping my erection, jacking me off. He was inside me, deep inside me, and pumping, pulling back, thrusting forward. The initial entry had been slow and taxing, but he commanded that I spread for him, and, tuned into a commanding partner, I blossomed open for him. Moaning and grunting, fully possessed, I was countering each thrust of his with one of my own, using my set heels for leverage. Pelvis elevated, swinging with his thrusts. Gripping his undulating butt cheeks in my hands, holding him close to me.

"You're such a slut for it," he murmured and laughed.

"Oh, shit. Oh, Fuck! Screw me Al!" I cried out. Holding each other tight, our pelvis locked together, we swung in unison, shaft forcing channel to open and shimmer, passage wall muscles clutching at the churning cock. I came in his hand. Suddenly holding still, trembling, tensing and jerking, tensing and jerking. He came in a flood.

"We'll take longer next time," he murmured. "Enjoy it longer."

Next time!

Holding in an embrace for several minutes. "No, don't pull out yet." Both of us panting, breathing heavily, concentrating on whether it would happen quickly. It did. His erection began to build again.

Sighing, I whispered. "Yes, yes. Again." Never having withdrawn, his regorging inside me wasn't painful. "Yes, yes," I continued murmuring. "Oh, God, yes." It seemed bigger than before. I panted at the stretch of it.

"Yessss!"

Reaching under me, he turned me over, belly to bed, pulling me up on all fours.

"Be my bitch. Dog fuck."

"Oh, FUCK. Fuck me!" I cried out.

Laughing, he mounted me high, gripping my hips between his hands, slowly, deeply penetrating. Riding me like a jockey. Slow. Faster. Furiously. Possessing me more fully than before. In, out. In, out. Shuddering, spreading, yielding to the demanding shaft, shimmering.

"Oh my Goddd!" I am his. Every muscle of my body relaxes. Surrendering all.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Tense, jerk, come. Tense, jerk, come.

His name was Al. I'd found that out after we'd checked into the seedy gay-friendly hotel in Hell's Kitchen.

Happy New Year to me.

Pushing me over onto my side. Grasping my ankles, pulling me up his torso, knees bent over his shoulders. Positioned and then the killing upward thrust.

"Oh, SHIT!"

Thrust. Again. Again.

Grooaann.

"Stay with me, Baby. We've got all night."

* * * *

Waking, with the whatever dawn's light was filtering through the dirty, curtainless window, I found myself alone in a shabby hotel room with the bare minimum of scruffy furniture to suffice the limited time the room was designed to accommodate visitors. There was a small bathroom, the door opening close to the bed, the bathroom light shining onto the bed, highlighting me in a "Fuck me, sailor" pose no one was there to appreciate.

Fuck me, sailor. That's what the night had been like:

Roll me over, in the clover.

Roll me over, and do it again.

I groaned and turned over on my side from where I had been on my back, both legs spread, knees bent. I was sore. He'd been big—both thick and long. And such stamina. Was that three—four?—times? More?

He wasn't here now. The shower was dripping. So, he'd come and gone. I smiled. He'd come. He'd come and I'd come—and I'd come and he'd come—and I wasn't going to complain about the casual New Year's Eve experience I'd had. Sore, gaping, but satisfied.

I reached down and touched myself. Still gaping. Still "Property of Al."

Fuck me, sailor. Roll me over, in the clover.

His name was Al. I knew nothing else beyond that, other than that he was handsome, and friendly, and forward—and hung. That he had warmed me with his flask of booze and then with his body. That he was muscular and athletic and thick and long.

Oh so thick. And so many inches. I panted at the memory of it.

Were Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen doing it, he'd asked. Damned if I knew. Shit if I cared. Although I doubted it. They both came across as submissives to me.

I'd had a daddy who looked like Anderson Cooper when I'd lived here—before I'd gone to the West Coast to model and work in commercials and as a background actor in movies. We had done it—but not like Al had done me and not so many times.

His name hadn't been Al. Neal. I'd tried contacting him yesterday—last year now—to see if he wanted to go down to Times Square with me. But I couldn't find him. No trace of him. I'd had to come down to the crowds by myself . . . to meet Al—to be royally fucked by Al. I just didn't know it at the time.

I knew his name now—and that he was magnificently endowed—but nothing else.

With a sigh, I got up, showered, dressed, and went down to the lobby. I recognized the hotel now. I'd been here before—momentarily, casually—before I'd met Neal and Neal wanted us to be monogamous—until Neal hadn't wanted us to be anything at all together.

I wondered if the hotel had been my idea last night or Al's—but I couldn't remember.

I suddenly felt alone. Entering 2024 alone. How melancholy was that feeling?

Hell's Kitchen was socked in by fog when I exited the hotel. A foggy morning for the first day of 2024.

A man was leaning into the wall next to the hotel entrance, smoking a cigarette.

"Ah, there you are, lazybones," Al said. "I think there's someplace open in the Sunrise Market Place for breakfast. Then I thought we'd just walk the streets for a while—see what New York looks like on day one 2024. Then, you know, back to the hotel. I've held the booking of the room. You're a really sweet lay."

I sighed, contented. Maybe not such a casual new year after all.