Glances Men

24 March 2022

This is a work of fiction, Darling. Well, sort of. The narrator is me, of course, and the object of affection is named Rick, though he doesn't show up to Part 2. I include some gratuitous sex up front to see if I can get you interested. He was real, too. But I haven't seen him in a few years. We would have to get together to discuss some of the order and events to determine they are either entirely fictional or accurate. I certainly will never forget them, and they were one of those tipping points we encounter. And fun!

It features explicit descriptions of sex between men. None of them at the time of these purely fictional interludes were underage, and all were between men of legal standing for purposes of intimacy.

It is set in the past, so protect yourself.

If you are under eighteen or your locality prohibits material of this sort, stop reading immediately and get the heck out of here.

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Glances, Men Part 2

Ron was nice enough to drop an e-mail note right back. I had been trying to place an ad in the Blade, the local gay paper. It had worked for me before. Not the Blade, actually, one of the sleazy little fuck books that exist for guys to get together without having to go to a bar and actually meet face to face with someone. Someone with hungry eyes. It is easier at home, or over the phone. Scrolling through the possibilities. And it is easier to place an ad than it is to answer one. Placing one means that the hungry ones have to come to you. It is much easier, if you craft it right. You have the sample universe, all seemingly willing. It works, even for the faint of heart. I know.

So, I was horny a couple weeks ago. I am still closeted, but the marriage has fallen apart and I have moved out and can actually do what I want to do. I decided to go to DC on a lazy Sunday afternoon, have a couple beers and survey the landscape. The need of a man is a heavy longing, sometime. It has always been with me, sometimes near, and sometimes at a distance. But always there. I'm convinced that my marriage, which I worked at for around seven years and put up with for twenty, and my career which I worked hard at for 24 years and put up with for twenty-five, have saved my life. It spanned the time when the AIDS plague first erupted, and then spread, killing a whole generation of young men in their prime.

I was on the sidelines then, jerking off. But I often thought about it. Both the death part and the joy of submitting to a fundamental need

This afternoon I dressed carefully. Tight jeans, moccasins, nice soft turtleneck. An old Levi jacket to go over the top. I practiced The Walk. Not a sashay, but one free of straight-ahead male determination. A little whimsical. I even let my wrists flop a little when I smoked. It was fun. It felt nice and liberating to let the hard linear lines fade out of my posture. Soften. But I wasn't going to go out and mince around. I usually go places and chicken out at the last moment. Mostly. But maybe this would be different. I always thought that. I checked myself, I looked good, and drove down to the Metro station.

I didn't want to drive into the city. You can't tell where to park. The traffic is madness. And if you wind up a little drunk and in trouble, you could lose the car altogether. So, the Metro is the way to go. You are on foot, anonymous. No threat to public order at the wheel of potential vehicular manslaughter. I had to take the Yellow Line to get across the Potomac, but that wasn't going to get me where I wanted to go. I was headed for Dupont Circle, heart of gay life in the District. To do that I had to transfer to the Red Line at Metro Center. I was preparing to get off the train. I was standing, facing the rear of the car, leaning against a pole. I realized with a start that the dark-haired young man facing the rear of the car was someone I knew.

In fact, I knew him better than he had any idea. I had been a member of the promotion panel that had decided he didn't have a future with the Company. I had fought for him, fought as hard as I could. But in the end it came down to him and another. The Panel deliberated hard and picked the other.

To my growing horror I realized I was going to have to be the one who told him, since he worked in my Division. It was awful, as awful as anything I have ever done. But I wrapped myself in the cloak of the Company and I told it as straight as I could, cushioning where I could. But I told him it was honest, the decision was based on the record and he had just got a bad break. It still didn't go well. He was bitterly disappointed.

This afternoon he sat in the first row of seats. His slim body was slumped back in the seat, his eyes were closed in contemplation. His youthful features were relaxed, distant. His dark hair was short and combed to the side. He wore a dark windbreaker and dark trousers. I wondered where he was going. And the thought occurred to me that he might be going to Dupont Circle on an outing like mine.

The loudspeaker announced: "Metro Center, transfer point for the Red Line. Doors opening on the left."

I turned to face the front of the car, hoping he would not recognize me. The train glided to a halt and the doors whooshed open. I paused with the intent of allowing the other passengers to clear the car onto the platform.

It was not to be. I could not wait long, or stay to the next station without heading too far toward Union Station. When I turned to exit I discovered he had hung back. His brown eyes met mine directly.

"Hello, Keith" I said. I offered my hand to him as we stepped from the car and walked across the decorative granite paving of the platform. His hand was soft but his grip was firm.

"Hi, Jerry!" he responded. He seemed pleased to see me. "What are you doing this afternoon?"

I answered vaguely. "Just headed Uptown." The Red Line platform was a level above us, and I can never remember which escalator to take to hit the Northbound track. "Lovely afternoon for it." I didn't ask where he was going. The moment hung, gently, and he gave a little wave and moved down the platform. I went the other way, studied the track information on a pillar and realized I had to turn around. The platform was dotted with day-trippers, locals and tourists, but despite the beauty of the day on the surface above the crowds reflected the general unease about life after 9-11. I flowed along behind a family with a stroller and gave them space as they lifted the child out of the seat to accommodate the moving stairs.

I turned the corner to the Northbound platform, glancing up to see if Keith was waiting there. He wasn't, and I found a place along the concrete barrier to lean and look up at the graceful barrel vault of the station's roof. The concrete was cool and gray. I have always loved the spare geometric pattern that unifies the architecture of the system. There was a moderate crowd, indicating a train would be along shortly.

Keith hurried along the platform in front of me. This time he only glanced up, moving quickly, as though he had an important destination further along the waiting area. I was relieved. I didn't have to make small talk, or pretend I was not going where I was. It was apparent that he felt the same way. An interesting data point. Still, I resolved to go one stop beyond the circle, to the Zoo, and walk back. Enjoy the sunshine I said to myself, actually just wanted to not share my intentions with someone who knew who I was. I was not ready to acknowledge publicly my private self.

Privately I had worked it out. There were no contradictions. I liked women and men. And sometimes there was a heaviness in my loins that only could be satisfied by men.

And what exactly were my intentions today? I mulled that one as the lights on the platform edge began to pulse and the northbound train arrived. It was to find the happy hour prices at some gay clubs and watch some football. See what developed. I was not here to find sex, through the heaviness in my loins indicated that I could. To meet someone? Perhaps, though I was not in the market for anonymous sex. I was still basically a monogamous creature, but I was also well aware of my predilection to be a tramp. Two stops and we passed Dupont. I didn't see Keith get off, though he could have. I rose at the Zoo stop and walked out of the station into the brilliant Fall light. There were still leaves on the trees, but the light was lowering. As I crossed the bridge over Rock Creek Park I paused to drink in the beauty of the foliage, this strange intrusion of the wild into the city. I walked down Connecticut Avenue and cut over at 18th Street past the cute little row houses. Some of the clubs I thought I might try were located here.

I passed the Club Chaos, down in the basement, where the Sunday feature is a drag show of grotesque female impersonators. I wound up in a quiet café, drinking Rolling Rock beer and listening to a young man who was very drunk and very garrulous. It was a pleasant way to pass the time. I contemplated what it would be like to make love with him, but it was clear that he was a lost soul, trouble on two legs. At length I tired of having the same discussion over and over, unable to finish a thread. Finally I left him to his whiskey and made my way to the Metro station and home on an empty train before the night fell.

It was another busy week in the series of busy weeks following the attacks. In the early morning, lying in my bed in the dimness I stroked myself and thought back. The encounter with Keith intrigued me. Was he on the same sort of mission as I was? Was he gay, too? The thought of his dark eyes made me stiffen. What were his thoughts of me? The thought of pressing myself against his slim body, the fine dark hairs covering his pale skin brought me full erect. I stroked harder, his image clear before my eyes. I felt myself rising toward completion, the skin of my member slick with the first juice. I climaxed, sowing my seed across my belly I thought of it being his semen. I ran a finger through the pool and brought it to my lips. I tasted my pearly deposit, stringy and sweet and imagined it was his. I rubbed it into my skin until it became sticky, lying languorous before the steaming morning shower and the rush of the day began.

I made it through the week, not an inconsequential accomplishment in this strange year. I made it through Saturday, too. I wrote a little and did laundry and got some physical activity. But Keith was in the background. On a whim, I called up the web site of the Washington Blade, the local gay paper. Since I started the long slow march to my divorce I had stayed away from computer contact with the gay world. I now knew enough to know that if it was on the computer's hard drive, it was recoverable by anyone who knew even a modicum of techno-savvy. Lists of web sites, temporarily saved images that were invisible and present forever. Both of my sons were achieving those skills. I had found some strange images in my sleuthing, trying to see what they were up too when we were not watching. I once called up an image file at random from a long list and saw a handsome young man with an improbably large erection, his face screwed up in passion, the first jets of his orgasm shooting upward under a clear blue sky. Los Angeles, I thought. I wondered who had summoned this picture to the hard-drive.

But there seemed little reason for caution now. I had a lap-top at my little apartment, and I frankly didn't care anymore what my future ex-wife or her rapacious lawyer could divine about the crannies of my mind. I had to be discrete, of course, because of the potential impact on my job. But even the career was in the concluding phase. I had accomplished all that I desired in the professional arena. It was a magic time in my life. By that I do not mean glittering good. More a sense of giddy freedom, with the knowledge that the abyss beckoned to me. But the abyss will take me anyway at some point. I will now encounter it on my own terms.

I clicked on the icons and looked through the "personals." I wondered how the market was doing since the big metropolitan dailies started to carry gay ads. This had once been the only outlet for alternate life-styles, a revolutionary vanguard of sexuality. There were six categories. One each for bisexuals (a short list- if you were in this paper there was little need for a fig-leaf), women, and men seeking the same for a continuing relationship. One for brief encounters that shouted out: danger! And one each for men and women who had passed briefly and shared a sidelong look. In a crowded place, a bar or supermarket, who had been unable to say what they felt. A mechanism to take a second chance at a passing fancy.

I was not unfamiliar with the ad game. When I felt the most trapped in my marriage I would sometimes scan the pages of the gay paper, careful never to keep a copy, reading in coffee houses during breaks I found in my job in the city. It was pleasant to daydream about casual sex. But as my marriage became increasingly two hostile camps under one roof I began to think about actually acting out on my daydreams. One problem was responding to the ads. The game was that there was a substantial charge to respond by phone, and it would leave a record. I mailed a few responses, but realized there was no way I could leave my work number, much less take a call at home.

It appeared that the smart way to do this act of unfaithfulness was to place my own ad. I composed one mentally, finally screwing up my courage to go to the advertising department of the paper and pay to have it published in cash. Untraceable. That also meant traveling to the paper to pick up the responses. It was quite an adventure, and I will never forget the lovely lady who worked as a receptionist. She told me I had beautiful eyes. I thanked her, wondering that while soliciting sex from men in the greater metropolitan area I was still attracted to this lady. The nature of sex is an eternal mystery to me.

Over the months I placed several different ads, screening the dozens of responses which ranged from the bizarre to the appealing. For the most part it remained a process of mental arousal. But there was an increasing desire to consummate one of the exchanges.. I arranged assignments, sometimes seeing the man I arranged to meet. But I was never able to bring myself to actually walk up to them and consummate the rendezvous. Anonymous sex was too dangerous, and the thrill was only in the sick feeling in my belly that I was capable of this desire. I composed a list of likely men I might call back. I toyed with it, dreamily imaging scenes of intense passion.

One of the letters contained a phone number, and I went to Herndon to meet a recently divorced Justice Department Agent for an early coffee. It was an uneasy meeting, neither of us quite sure what would develop. There were no sparks, and I thanked him for his time and left for an appointment in Maryland. The closer I got, the urge more insistent, the more the risk of exposing myself. The thrill was in the anticipation, I concluded, not in the act. But it was insistent and building. A few weeks later I arranged to meet a young man at a strip mall off Route 7. He was standing where we had agreed, and after an awkward introduction, I agreed to follow him to his house. As I drove behind him I thought how insane this behavior was, and yet how exciting. I noted a butterfly net in the back of his little white Ford Fiesta. I asked him if he was an entomologist, and he said he was. At some point he asked me if I was married. I said I was. He had kissed me ferociously, almost clicking his teeth against me. We were in his bedroom. We were lying against one another, he was slim and boyish and wanted me badly. I was so aroused that I erupted the first second he touched me. The release was too soon, no buildup, just a jet of wetness without completion

I was embarrassed and tried to jerk him off, but didn't know to lubricate his thin erection. It irritated him, and we parted badly. I tried to call him later, to see if there was a way we could meet to try to fix things, but he was adamant that there was not. I dropped it and walked away from the payphone, scratching his name from the list. Feeling frustrated and a little lost.

The next week the fever was on me again. I was lobbying at offices downtown. The commute from the suburbs only worked very early, and there was normally time to kill before my first appointment. I could work out at the health club, or have breakfast and read the paper. Or I could play with my little list of names from the ads. The one I placed this time had said I was looking for an "Early Riser." This particular Monday I made a call to another promising name on the list. The man who answered had a curt demeanor that was a little unsettling. He gave me directions, and told me he would get up early to have coffee with me and see if there was anything there. The next morning I awoke long before the alarm. There was a hunger and the familiar heaviness in my belly. I drove downtown earlier even than the specified early hour. I bought both morning papers and drove slowly down the ridge. I saw a light on at the correct address and parked around the corner. The heels on my dress pumps clicked on the concrete and my heart was sunk down in my belly with nervousness. It was the familiar feeling of dread and anticipation. I knocked on the door with my knuckle. I heard footsteps approach and the door opened.

"Paperboy" I said, offering the two bundles.

"Thanks," said the man.

He looked to be in his middle fifties. He was of modest height but had a powerful torso. His hair was thinning and he had cropped it short. Close shaven. Full sensual lips. "Why don't you come in?"

"Thanks" I said, a little breathless. Thoughts of flight ran through my mind as he led me through a formal dining room and into the wood-paneled kitchen. The house was one of those built in the 1930's, and the floor plan had not changed much. A close-in house, two story, designed for another era. He turned and pulled two coffee cups from a cabinet over the sink. A small color TV murmured in the corner under soft warm yellow light.

"My name is Rick. Would you like cream and sugar?" he asked.

"No, thanks. Black is fine. I go by 'Jerry.'" He poured from the Mr. Coffee and then led me through a door and back up the hallway to the living room. He sat on the couch and I joined him, sitting properly two feet away. The conversation began awkwardly.

"So, what are you looking for?" he asked, matter-of-factly, as though strange men came to his door every day looking for something personal. His voice was smooth, his vowels were oval. He wore shorts and no belt. I said I was looking for a friend. That began a monologue for him, and I listened to his soft voice. He told me about his life there in Alexandria. He was an entrepreneur. He had invested wisely. He had no day job, save to manage his portfolio. He was a bit of an Auntie, I thought, though his arms and shoulders were powerful, like a collegiate wrestler. He smoked, and that was a relief. I noted my fingers quivering as I lit one of my own. The coffee was strong and good, and we eventually had another cup. I began to turn my thoughts to escape. Once again I was acting out the pattern. I was getting further along, but decided that it was the anticipation rather than the consummation that was the excitement for me. I was moderately surprised to find Rick was a Republican, I don't know why. We talked about politics. I glanced at my watch and told him I was grateful for the coffee and really had to be going. He smiled as we rose and he walked me to the foyer.