Thank god the dining room is still open.
I set my briefcase on a small red and yellow table and walk through the tangle of poles and ropes to get to the counter. The cashier comes over from the drive-thru window and takes my order, occasionally turning toward the kitchen to shout. She can't be more than sixteen, but her motions are practiced and sure. One day she'll be good at typing, or knitting, or something tragic like that. It's Valentine's Day and she's working the register, after all. No way she's got anything lined up.
I take my receipt and sit down by my briefcase. I don't even want to think of how long I'll have to exercise to work this off -- maybe I'll skip lunches next week. If I'm gonna hit the clubs next weekend I can't afford to get sloppy. Club guys can be pretty unforgiving, and the days of having someone to kiss my love handles are gone for good.
That's when I notice them.
A girl stands beside him loading bags of goo into the soda machines, and I can hear her animated tone, but not her words. He's laughing at whatever she's saying and stacking the cups by size, stopping to juggle a few before putting them in the right place. Their red cotton shirts stand out bright against the white of the wall beside them, and for a moment I can't help but think of them as animated bloodstains. Not that it's their fault, of course. I've done my time in minimum-wage uniform jobs and I still have nightmares about it, even though those days are long over. No more lonely TV dinners in a tiny studio for me.
He's turning to go back into the kitchen when he sees me looking.
He bids the girl goodbye and comes over, his gait confident and full of pep. I'm very surprised when he's close enough for me to see his face and he's at least thirty. The way he moves and tosses cups made me sure he was a teenager, because who else is that happy to be loading fast food cups?
It's tragic, really.
"Did you need something else?" He's as chipper as a sparrow at noon, and his red cap is tilted at an angle on his head. It must be exhausting, walking around like this all the time, faking cheer for assholes asking for ketchup.
I remember when I was chipper.
"I didn't realize you had chicken fries here." Not my best line, but you can't win them all. "I thought those were Burger King's thing."
"Yeah, we do!" he says excitedly, pointing to a nearby cardboard cutout. The chicken fries are dancing out of the box, bless their hearts. "But we call them chicken sticks for legal purposes."
He laughs at his own joke, which usually annoys me, but on him I like it. He's grinning even though there's a tooth missing in the front of his mouth -- it's like he doesn't even care. I'm a little offended by this act.
Look how happy I am! I'm such a carefree fucking guy! I will now assault your eyes with my gapped teeth!
He's not very handsome, at least not strikingly so. Average face, big nose, waxy skin. His hair is a mousy and unremarkable brown, but his eyes are hazel, so that's something. The uniform isn't doing much for him, but arms are strong-looking and wiry and he's about five-foot-ten. I figure his happy ass will do for a Tuesday night.
"You closing tonight?"
I load as much innuendo into those words as I can, which granted, isn't much. But it seems to be enough for him, because he looks pretty fucking shocked.
"Uh..." He actually shakes his head to clear his thoughts, but I don't mind. I can have this effect on people. "Yeah, I guess I am. Sheila closed last night, so..."
I cast a glance at the girl he was with, who's back in the room, loading more goo. She doesn't look like much of a Sheila, but maybe she had when she was a baby.
"Hmm," I say, disinterested. "Need a ride home?"
He thinks about it, for some reason glancing back at the kitchen. I smirk, opening my briefcase and pulling out a pen. I write my number on a napkin.
"I live nearby," I tell him. They're calling my number so I stand to leave. "Call if you want that ride. Expires at 3 am."
I'm at the counter and grabbing the bag before he has time to respond. I don't bother to wave before the doors close behind me.
*****
He calls, of course.
It's 3:17, but I'll let that slide. "You ready?"
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think so."
"Ten minutes. Be ready."
I pull up after five, sitting silently in the parking lot. He locks up and jogs to my car, his steps as sure as they were the first time he came over to me. The steps of someone who doesn't think life can fuck them over. I imagine his mom dying in a plane crash, or his cat getting hit by a car. Wonder what would happen to his walk then?
He drops into my passenger seat and the door slams with a muffled
whump
. He's grinning and looking around.
"Nice!"
I don't reply.
It ruins the effect, I've found.
"So where do you live?"
"Uh, just that way." He points. "Head up Fall Creek Road."
I do, and start to speak, but he beats me to it.
"You said you live close, but I haven't seen you before. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember."
"I don't go inside fast food places a lot."
He looks around again. "Yeah, I can believe that."
He's not as nervous as I would have expected. I mean, he looks appropriately impressed, but that's it. Usually, the regular guys I pick up can't keep their hands off the dash and the controls, but here he is, cool as a cucumber and bubbly as ever.
"I'm Taylor," he says, again, before I can get any more words out.
"Hi, Taylor." I smile with the corner of my mouth that he can see. "It's very nice to meet you."
My hand creeps it way over to his knee as we pull up to a red light. I trace a circle around his kneecap and meet his eyes for reassurance.
His mouth is hanging open a bit and his breathing is heavier than it needs to be.
He doesn't move my hand, so I do, further up his thigh. He parts them for me, just a little, and I drag a finger across the crotch of his jeans. He just sighs contentedly, resting his head against the back of his seat. I squeeze him a bit and ten go back to gentle fingering. He gets hard slowly under my hand.
The light's been green for a while, but there's nobody behind us, so there's no rush to go. I'm stiffening up just from touching him, but I've always been a tease, so when the first jerk of his hips thrills me and I almost reach down into my own lap, but I don't.
I pull my hand back and grip the wheel, pressing forward. He lets out a barely audible groan, running a hand through his hair. His cap has fallen off and is pressed between his neck and the seat.
"Where to?" I keep my voice even.
He points again, still trying to catch his breath. I smirk, even though he's closed his eyes and can't see me. I like to tease, to feel a hard cock under my palm, but his excitement pleases me for other reasons, too. Not so bubbly and sure now, is he?
I turn off Binford and onto a small side street, then through a gate that doesn't look like it closes.
Chateau in the Woods
is written in calligraphy script on a small sign, though to call a single line of trees "woods" is pushing it. There are condos or townhouses or something up ahead, and Taylor tells me which one is his.
I put the car in park and Taylor grabs my hand and puts it back against his cock, humping my hand. This pisses me off, but I have no idea why -- I was just about to reach for him any fucking way. I push the feeling away and play with him some more, tugging his zipper down and tickling him through his underwear.
He's moaning constantly now, and I can tell he's trying not to hump my hand.
"Been a while, huh?" I put some bass in my voice.
He sighs and nods vigorously. "With a guy, yeah." He's turned on, excited by me touching him, but he's still got a hint of a smile on his face, a smile that doesn't think bad things can happen. I know how dangerous that smile is.
I used to see it in the mirror.
I stop abruptly, and squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to remember. It never does any good.
My cock jumps at the sound he makes when I stop playing with him.
"Let's go inside."
I lock the doors before he's even out of the car; his will lock when it closes. I throw an arm around his neck and drag him up the short stairway, his pants still undone. He fumbles the door open and we tumble inside, and he heads to the bedroom without even bothering to lock the door. I do it for him, very satisfied with myself.
It's a pretty small place, as I expected. There's a small night light behind the sofa, and it casts strange shadows around the room and makes it look orange. There are built-in bookshelves and knickknacks and lots of things that look like they've been knitted. Perhaps he has a girlfriend. Or a mother.
"You coming?"
He's calling from down the hall, and I toss my suit jacket on the couch and kick my shoes off. Let his girlfriend/mother see
that
.
He's already naked on the bed, and I can tell he's been touching himself, though he's not anymore. Even as my cock swells further, it irritates me. He should be more nervous, unsure about me coming over, seeing his place, tiny and pathetic as it is. He's not nearly as hot as I am, and he's a bit too comfortable there, naked, pudgy and smelling of fry grease and strawberry shampoo. He isn't even on his side or crossing his arms in front of his belly -- he's just lying there, legs splayed and cock dripping onto his pubes. My own cock is throbbing at this point, and I'm already walking toward him, but I consider leaving. I actually consider walking out the door and leaving him here to drip to his heart's content in his stupid, cheap orange apartment.
I don't, though.
Instead, I strip for him.
I usually go slow, give them a chance to appreciate it all, but this guy doesn't deserve that. I tear my shirt open and yank the tie over my head. My pants are gone soon after and then I'm right in bed with him, kneeing his legs apart. My mouth is on his neck and his collarbone and then his nipple, and his hands are in my hair, pulling and tugging and moaning. His cock is dragging against my chest as I move down his body and he's dripping like crazy.
He's writhing unabashedly under me, and he's so free and easy and I hate it. I give his cock a long lick from base to tip and he screams, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and I moan when he pulls.
Oh, shit.
I can feel it coming -- myself, I mean. That fucking fluttering has started and I can tell that a few strokes against the sheet will be all it takes. If possible, I'm even angrier at him now. There's a reason I like them to let me take the lead -- shit like this doesn't happen.
I yank his hand out of my hair and move away from him, sitting on the side of the bed with my feet on the floor. See him like this, it's -- I'm losing control, and I need to get some back.
"My turn," I say.
