Chinese Takeout

"I don't know. The House Triple Delight or the Sizzling Beef and Scallops maybe?"

I turned my head enough to see the good-looking Asian guy in my peripheral vision. I read the specialty names off the menu again, slowly, and watched him. "The Sizzling Beef and Scallops then, I think," I said, giving the Chinese woman at the Ming Dynasty takeout restaurant the order. "And two egg rolls, please," I added. The Asian guy nodded. The two other patrons in the restaurant were Asian too, either ordering or picking up. I guessed I'd come to a good takeout if Asians ordered here. The place had been across town from where I lived. I'd never used this one before.

"Twenty minutes," the woman behind the counter said.

"Fine, I'll be back." I left and walked around the corner to an all-night convenience store I'd seen. I stood in front of the refrigerator section, looking at a bank of iced beer six packs. Putting my hand in the case, I touched a pack of Coors and looked down the aisle. The same Asian guy was there who I'd just seen in the Chinese takeout. He just looked at me, but I saw a slight nod when I moved my hand to the Budweiser.

Fifteen minutes later I was back at the Chinese takeout and my order was ready. I'd parallel parked across the street from the restaurant and took the street crossing slow, looking both ways. It was after 9:00 p.m., and it was obvious they rolled up the sidewalk in this part of town much earlier in the evening. I gave the street a good look when I was pulling out of the parking spot and drove a little slower than usual home. It was only a twelve-minute drive—I lived in a small, dull town where I had to drum up my own adventure—and I'd said I drove a red Mustang. There wasn't much of a chance of misunderstanding.

* * * *

The Chinese guy called himself John. I took that with a packet of salt. They always said their name was John. He gave a superior blow job, though. In the bedroom, I lay on the bed on my back and he worked his way down: lips, throat, stopping to nip at my nubs, on down my sternum, belly, and into the thatch. He took time to kiss and lick my inner thighs before taking my balls in his cheek and humming to my lyrics of "Oh, shit. Fuck, yes." When I was hard and throbbing, he deep-throated me. Clutching and squeezing my butt cheeks, he held me close, his captive, as he went down on my cock, sucking my bulb and flicking the piss slit with his tongue before sliding his lips down the shaft. I came quickly, yodeling my satisfaction.

He did a professional job on me. But then he

was a professional. He was the best I'd had from this service. I wondered if the nationality made it special. Maybe so. It was exotic.

After we'd rested a bit he straddled my pelvis, slid his channel down on my cock, which he'd worked up again in a lubricated hand job, and rode me in a cowboy, giving me a view of his slim back and clutching butt cheeks, split by my shaft, as he palmed my knees and rose and fell on me.

Before either of us came, I took control, rolling over and putting him under me, running my hands down his inner thighs to coax his legs open, which he accommodated with a low, guttural laugh and a string of what I took to be some coarse Chinese dialect.

"Say it in English," I murmured. "It sounded dirty. I want to hear it."

"I said, put it in me, big boy. Fuck me hard."

So, I did, putting him in a missionary, with his heels rubbing the back of my calves and his fingers digging into my shoulder blades. I took my time, getting my money's worth, giving him all of it, and fucking him hard, deep, and long. Afterward, exhausted, I slept.

He was sitting at the kitchen counter, smoking, when I came out of the bedroom. The food cartons and beer cans were on the dining table. Our clothes were strewn between there and the sofa, where I'd first fucked him.

"So, will you call me for takeout again sometime?" he asked, with a small smile.

"You betcha," I answered.