More Than Coffee...

'More than coffee' continues the storyline of 'Coffee, .. and maybe more'. For character and plot development it is preferable, though not essential to read them sequentially.

*****

To catch up, I had seen this Personals ad.

"Old man for old man," it read. "Life is short. Need to feel a horny old man holding me tightly. Let us enjoy mutual release of our pent up urges. Be open and honest .. "

'Fuck, that's me,' I had said to myself. 'Old man for old man.' Not exactly me. Or, at 78, maybe it is. I don't regard myself as old. 'Horny'? When am I not? Need to feel a horny old man holding me tightly? Yes. Oh, yes. That I would like. 'Enjoy a mutual release of our pent up urges.' Yes, that too. 'Life is short.' Yes, and no matter what I say about not feeling old, I am feeling just how short life is.

I had answered it, and he answered back. After feeling each other out through a long series of e-mails, no names, no pics, we had decided to take the next step, a coffee date to meet face-to-face.

Surprise, surprise, it turned out we knew each other, regulars at the same gym. Him, a bodybuilder I had long admired, but whom I did not know beyond the usual 'Good mornings' and other comments in passing. Me, well, as it turns out somebody he had long taken notice of, but had not taken it further.

But today the conversation had gotten off to a rocky start. Some assumptions and a show of temper on my part. He fortunately was able to turn it around, opening us up to what, really, we were both hoping to find. Sexual intimacy and fulfillment.

Under the table I could feel the pressure of his knee against mine.

Eye to eye, ball in my court, it was mine to determine how the game would be played.

I reached under the table, groping for his knee, and in his eyes I could see the flicker of a smile.

Then I could feel him groping for my knee, and feel him, strong, muscular, grasping it. Feeling it out, feeling its shape, down over the knee cap, then back up to the top of it, sizing it up, and holding firm.

Our eyes met again. The flicker of the smile now slightly mischievous.

I reach under the table, touching his hand. Immediately he grasps my hand.

"Joe," he says, identifying himself.

"Lawrence," I reply.

"Yeah," he says, "I remember you from television. News at six and eleven, right?"

"That's a good long time ago," I replied.

"You miss it?"

"Every day!" "Those were great years, the sixties and seventies. Not much we couldn't do - and didn't do. Now, well, the bean counters are running the show. Or maybe I should say ruining the show."

"So what have you been doing since?"

"Travel. Corporate and business travel. Used my contacts to build up a clientele doing their travel arrangements. Portal to portal. And some pleasure travel for them as well. Had a staff of twelve when we were going full out. Then wound it down as the internet began encroaching on what we were doing.

"Kept my hand in television at the same time though. Some reporting, in depth stories, some of the stories that took more digging than regular staffers had time for.

"And all the time not out?" he asked.

"All the time not out," I replied. "You?

"Made inspector. Then in the merger of departments it was obvious there were others who would be going up the ladder ahead of me. So I got into Public Relations. Like you, used my contacts to build a clientele. But still do a lot of pro bono for the Department. School safety villages, public speaking, that kind of stuff.

"And all the time not out?" I asked.

"All the time not out," he replied. "Still being careful."

His phone jangled urgently. He looked at it and put it aside. I looked at him, asking him silently if he wasn't going to answer it.

"A fail safe," he said. Then explained, "I put in a couple of alerts that would give me an out if the conversation was going nowhere."

I shook my head, ruefully.

"So the conversation is going the way you hoped?" I asked.

"I think so," he said, "Don't you?"

Under the table his hand squeezes my knee.

"But," he said, "eventually we are going to have to go, and there's one or three things we're going to want to ask. Of a sensitive nature. Aren't there?

I nodded my agreement.

"So why don't we take it somewhere now where the coffee crowd can't hear .. "

' Good idea,' I thought.

".. My vehicle is in the middle of the lot. We can go and talk there .."

'Oooo,' I am thinking, 'this is stepping things up a bit.'

".. Bring your coffee."

We're on the move. "What are you driving?" I ask.

"The Pathfinder right over there."

I chuckle.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"Right next to mine. I'm the Civic DX," I reply, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

I didn't figure him for a Pathfinder, but, yes, when I looked at it again, yes, it was him. Sleek lines, not ostentatious, but boldly masculine, muscular. For him it's an exoskeleton.

We each of us got into the front seats, him behind the wheel as I would have expected, me on the passenger side. He pushed the start for the accessories, and dropped the windows about an each. "In case things get steamy, they won't get steamed up," he snickered.

My heart is now beating harder, in anticipation of what is to come, but not knowing in anticipation of what.

He leans across me, to pop open the cup holder beside me. "There," he said, "you can put your coffee there."

Sitting back up, he drops his hand into my crotch, - 'So what have we got here?', taking a firm grip, at the same time indicating his crotch, 'You want to examine the merchandise?'

I suck in a quick breath. This is moving things along very quickly. But, yeah, I'd very much like to examine the merchandise. I drop my hand into his crotch, and feel him already hard and coming up harder.

One handed, he's working at extricating my cock.

"Commando?" he wants to know.

"Always," I reply.

"Came prepared, eh. Me, too," he says, with an eager chuckle.

"Don't believe in wasting time, do you?" I quip.

"We're not getting any younger," he comes back.

"True," I concur, "True." We've been round this one before.

He's got mine in his hand, and I am gratified that Chubby is coming up harder than he has been in a long time. "Fuck," he says, "You don't know how long I have been wanting to do this."

Which hits me between the eyes. All the time I have been working myself, imagining iteration after iteration what it would be like to work his, it has never occurred to me that somebody might just have the same designs on my number.

I have his, now, in hand, hard, fully erect, it's corolla, shining purple, in full flower emerging from his foreskin, tight around it, the skin alabaster, with one engorged vein extending the length of it. 'Beautiful. One beautiful cock,' I tell myself, 'Just beautiful.'

I slide the skin down, letting it travel back up. 'Beautiful.' I slide it down again, the purple head, shining wet as it emerges, then let it return on its own.

Between my legs I feel him kneading my balls - "Nice," I hear him say, approvingly. He is squeezing them gently, but enough I feel that familiar warning pain deep in my gut. I find his ball sac - leathery - and feel the two orbs within, and roll them in my fingers. "Easy," he says, sucking in a breath. "Sorry," I reply.

"Fuck," he says, "don't know about you, but I have been needing this for a long time."

"You and me both," I reply, and realizing just how much I have been wanting this. Needing this.

"Sully and I - Sully was my buddy. He was my partner - we'd do each other if we were on stake-out, and sometimes when we weren't necessarily on stake-out. Great way to keep warm on a cold winter night."

"Sully, your fuck-buddy?" I asked. My news-hound memory is kicking in. "You were both cops on the beat?"

"Yeah, he was my partner."

'Sully,' 'Yes.' I remember the name, the story coming into focus. Shot by the perp in a take-down. Bled out on the street in his partner's lap before the meds could get to him. Horrific story. The partner a real mess psychologically. We had done a side piece, - not me personally, but the news department - on the partner, and the personal devastation of losing a partner particularly this way.

So this was the Joe. Funny how the world turns.

"I remember the story," I said.

His hand stopped, and he looked at me, cold, sober.

"That was a long time ago," he said. I had trespassed into territory where I shouldn't have gone.

"Nobody since," he said, closing off that conversation.

"You mean 'no buddy?' or 'nobody jacking you?'" I asked. It was an off the mark attempt to bridge to a something new.

"Neither," he said. "This is it."

'Wow,' I thought, then talking to myself, 'Lawrence, it would appear that you have scored. Scored twice.'

He had resumed beating me. And I him.

"Uncanny," he said, "how much you are like him."

"Oh, there's the age difference, I know, - he was younger than me which puts it at .. doesn't matter. But watching you around the gym, your way of doing things, how you talk to people, your form when you lift, how you're always up for spotting somebody, how you are always racking the weights the jerks have left around, it's like watching him. Which may account for some of why and how I was attracted to you. But only some."

'Wow,' I say to myself again. He's really been scoping you out. I take that as a compliment. And a come-on!'

I was enjoying him stroking me. The feel of his hand around my dick. And me stroking him. The feel of him hard in my hand. The little noises he was making indicating his enjoyment.

"Personal question," I said to him. "You don't have to answer if you don't want."

"Shoot," he said.

"Do you consider yourself to be gay?"

Not missing a stroke, he took his time before he answered.

"Am I gay?" he asked in response. "I don't know."

"Am I gay?" he continued, "Does having a fuck-buddy qualify you as gay? For eight years? All I know is I miss him, and I miss it. Big time. Him, and it. Even after all these years. And that is what has me determined that I am going to get me some again before I cash it all in. A buddy, and buddy-fucking."

"You?" he asked.

"Am I gay?" I responded. "Ditto. I don't know. That's all I can say. The word makes me wince. There are a lot of connotations that certainly do not apply to me. And there are a lot of connotations that do apply. Confused? Yes. Always have been, and I guess always will be."

He smirked.

"What?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "Don't you think it is kind of ironic we should be having this discussion just now. When you've got your hand around my dick, and I've got my hand around yours?"

He is now stroking me harder, fist tight, down to the root and back up. And I am stroking his just as hard, skin back, down, then up, over the head. Down, then up, over the head and down again.

He is holding his breath now with each stroke, and I hear a moaning. Low and guttural. One of us. Or both of us. It is me. It is him, too. Head thrown back, eyes closed, in ecstasy.

And then I am thinking we're in the parking lot, for fuck's sake. Anybody can look in and know what we are doing. Well, no, we're above eye level for anybody walking around. But anybody in the second floor offices, particularly with a scope ..

His phone jangles. He opens his eyes and, one handed, he flips back the cover, scrolls to the message. "Okay," he says, "this one is for real. I do have to get going.

"You close?" he asks. I nod my head, affirmative. "OK, let me get you off," he says, tightens his grip and begins whipping it, changes hands and whips it even harder.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I am saying, jerking and twitching in the headiness of it, feeling it stirring in my loins.

"You," I ask, whipping his.

"Mnn .. Mmnn .. Mmnn," he is moaning.

Then, "Fuck," he says, "I'm blowing .. Uh .. Uh .. Uh .. Uhhhh .. " And he is shooting, white, and viscous, splodging out, topping my fist, then running down my fingers.

At the same time, "Whoa ... whoa ... whoa ..." I am saying, and I am cumming all over his fist, and it is running down his fingers.

He's been holding his breath, and lets it out.

"Good one," he says.

He reaches down to the floor, pulls a kleenex from the box, hands it to me at the same time he pulls another, and cleans up his hand.

"Oh, man. Good one," he says, then, "You?"

The orgasm is still playing itself out, one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful, headiest I have experienced in a long time. I take in a deep breath. Responding to his question, "You'd better believe it," I say. I take in another deep breath. "Whew .." I let it go.

I've cleaned up my hand, looking to where I can dispose of the kleenex. "Here," he says, and takes it from me, his fingers touching mine for a brief second. Our eyes meet. His are steady, and I see a deep contentment in them. I wonder what he sees in mine.

Then, wadding the two kleenex together, mine with his, he stows them on top of the dash. "I've gotta fill up. I'll ditch them then," he says.

I look at the wad, his jizz, mine, mingled together. I don't know if the irony of it hits him.

"Okay," he says, pulling his dick back inside his zipper, lifting his hips to repackage it, and zips up. I do the same.

"Okay," I say, "won't keep you. We'll be in touch." I unlatch the door, and get out.

"Just a minute," he says, unlatching his door, and getting out, coming around to where I am, now beside my car next to his. "I want you to hold me. Fully body hug. I want to hold you and I want you to hold me."

"Here?" I question, "In the parking lot? In the open?". He shrugs, 'why not'. "Something I have been wanting a long, long time," he says, and gathers me in his arms, pulling me close to him.

Body to body, he's hard muscled, warm, every inch of him very much the man of my dreams. 'This I like', I say to myself.

Belly to belly, he's hard, and it is throbbing, pulsing, between us. So is mine. 'And this I also like,' I tell myself, mischievously.

Okay, enough of the PDA. When we break, I look around. I can't see anyone paying any attention.

'What's the big deal?' I ask myself, 'This is the 21st century. And welcome to it, Charlie Brown.'

"Thank you," he says.

"Thank me?" I question him.

"Just saying you've made one retired cop one very happy man this morning."

"And you have made one old newsman one very happy old man," I reply, grinning.

"Old!" he snorts. "You're not old." Then, "Gotta go." And looking at me directly, says, "As Rick said to Louie, 'I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.' I'll give you a call." Then he was back in his vehicle and drove off.

I'm trying to place the reference. Right. Casablanca. Bogart and Rains. " ... the start of a beautiful friendship." It would be nice to think so.'