'C-mon up!'
I press '9' on the keypad to release the door lock. 'C'mon up,' the sound of my voice echoing in my mind, thinking to myself 'You sound like whatsisname - Johnny Olson - on 'The Price is Right'. I hear the click on the phone, and hang it up. Butterflies in my stomach, excitement kicking in. I visualize him, waiting now at the elevator, even getting in maybe, and on the way up.
I go over to the door, glance around for a last minute check of the room, open it, and stand waiting for him for when he exits on the floor.
I swallow, my gorge rising, a knot tightening my throat. Doggone, I am saying to myself, it's happening. He has had to bail how many times, but this time, he is on his way up. In a minute we'll be in each other's arms, each holding the other tightly, the thrill of it electric, imagining it.
'Glad to see me?', I can imagine him saying, 'You better believe,' I am saying, feeling his bulge pressing into mine, and it rising up, stiffening, and with it a flush rising up, hot and getting hotter, scarlet, from my neck up through my face. I anticipate what it will be like, holding him, wondering at the marvel of him.
Sure we have been chatting on line, each chat hotter, more intimate than the last, - 'next best thing' we say to each other, - but to actually have each other in each other's arms, it really has been too long. For sure too long when you crave each other as we have come to crave each other.
In my mind's eye, I am taking his measure. We're about a height. He's maybe an inch or so shorter, but otherwise we stand eye to eye. His shoulders, arms, muscular - pecs well developed. Perfect. His bodybuilder abs, obliques, his Adonis belt, tapering down to his groin, and his groin - beauty, big, thick, long, uncut, suckable. 'Immanently suckable', I tell myself. And I do like going down on him.
I'm needing a haircut. He'll have something to say about that. A jibe. All in jest, because, when we embrace, he likes to run his fingers up through my hair, holding my face to his, his tongue penetrating my mouth, deep kissing. Our tongues will do their little dance, a thrust and parry. And kissing, he will pull me into him, and I will pull him into me, tighter. By then, of course, we'll have closed the door.
'Wear those grey sweat pants,' he told me, 'I want to undress you, get you out of them.' His hands will be at the waistband, stripping them down. And I, likewise, will be at his belt, un-notching it, unzipping his fly. He will, of course, be commando - we both are, as usual - and as I open his pants it will fly free, to stand up and out. As will mine. And I will reach out to grab his, as he will mine, to stroke it, pulling back and rolling down the foreskin, and rolling it back. Him stroking mine, me stroking his, the thrill of it, man to man, touching it.
'Easy,' he will say, 'that's a five-month's load!' And I jerk back involuntarily at the thought of him when he touches mine. 'Damn, he is one hot dude,' I think to myself, 'eight and a half inches of man meat, and all for the delight of taking it by the mouthful, feeling his flood as he rises to his climax, savouring it before swallowing it.
'Five months,' I think. 'Yes, I guess it has been.' 'November till now.' 'An eternity.' He was supposed to have been here in early December. Then he got whatever it was going the rounds, putting him off his feet. And then it was Christmas, and we had to lay off, each of our families taking precedence. Being discreet, of necessity. 'What they don't know, won't hurt them. Nobody's business but ours, what we do,' we reaffirm. But it means we didn't get to give each other the blow-jobs we intended for Christmas.