Chapter One: Overlooking the Fleet from the 17th Floor
"You're being a bit frisky today," Alex Holden said, peering over a copy of the
LGBT Weekly
and putting his coffee cup down on the nightstand. He'd just noticed that his younger partner, Terry Duncan, was doing his morning aerobic exercises there in the bedroom, beside the bed, in a sparkly red jock strap. It wasn't unusual for the forty-one-year-old owner of a San Diego men's gym to scan a newspaper and drink a cup of coffee Terry had brought him in bed before getting up, but it was unusual for Terry to do his extensive morning exercise routine there in the bedroom, especially while making it evident that he had exercises more of a sexual nature in mind.
In fact, after eight years together, friskiness was rarely a word you'd use for their relationship anymore. They'd been quite an active pair when they first were hooking up. Terry had been a nineteen-year-old dancer with the semiprofessional San Diego Musical Theater. Alex had owned his serious-body building men's gym for five years and was a walking advertisement for the place. It had been a regular David and Goliath matchup, other than that the battles lasted longer, Goliath definitely took charge, and they both won the victories they were after.
Terry still was in the musical theater, working part time as the theater's assistant artistic director as well as prancing on stage, and still spent much of his time keeping his cute little body limber. For his part, Alex still had a body-builder's body—albeit one of a more mature man in his forties.
Over time, though, they had settled down into a domestic, committed relationship that included shared assets, delegated responsibilities, and, more often than not, a same-same sexual relationship relative to what they once had had with each other. They still fucked but not with the same explosiveness, challenge, and variety they once had. If they'd thought about it, the sex flared up a bit when the naval fleet was in, but they didn't think about it much.
Terry's morning exercises didn't usually arouse Alex, but then he usually did it in the spare bedroom in their seventeenth floor Harbor Loft apartment in the Gas Light Quarter of San Diego, overlooking the north end of Coronado Island, home of a secondary naval base of the U.S. Seventh Fleet.
"Come her'," Alex muttered, as he put his newspaper aside and patted his flat, if thickish, stomach. That was a signal between them that the younger Terry would be riding his cock. That's how they liked to start it these days. But their sex times were usually Wednesday and Friday nights, not Friday morning.
Terry gave him a shy little smile, walked over to the bed, climbed up on it, and moved his lithe, slim body over Alex's thicker, more muscular, larger one. Terry stretched out on top of Alex's prone, naked body in reverse, holding himself hovering over the larger man by supporting himself on his knees and elbows. Alex grabbed and separated the younger man's butt cheeks and pulled Terry's buttocks down to where he could stick his tongue up between the cheeks and start preparing Terry's hole for a supersized cock. He ran one hand up under the pouch covering Terry's shaft and fondled the younger man's cock and balls while he slowly ate his ass out and opened him up. He periodically slapped Terry's butt cheek with his other hand. Alex was a bit of a BDSM fetisher—he'd been more so when they first were hooking up than now, after they'd been together for eight years. What had once been bondage, the sting of a whip, and listening for the groan of passion-pain had mellowed into a bit of bondage and a slap or two on the rump.
Meanwhile, Terry worked Alex's cock with his mouth at the other end.
When Terry wanted the cock, he pulled his ass away from Alex's mouth, slid down his body, poised his hole over the cock Alex held erect for him, and sank down on it. At the beginning Alex bent his legs and Terry grabbed the older man's knees and fucked himself on the cock. A few minutes into the fuck, Alex, who liked control and bondage, pulled Terry's arms back, grabbed his wrists, and held Terry arched forward, taking over control of pumping Terry's ass. When they had more time than they did today, he would bind Terry's wrists together with leather restraints and might even use a collar and leash. They didn't often have the "more time" they'd once had, though.
Ten minutes and it was done. Alex had shot his load. In the early days he would have made sure Terry had gotten off, but this morning, he picked up his paper and his coffee cup, and remained on the bed on his back, while Terry rolled off to the side of him, on his back, pulled the pouch of his jock strap under his balls, and masturbated himself to an ejaculation.
After coming, Terry rolled off the bed, checked the gym bag he was taking off to the theater, and went to the bathroom to shower. Time was when the two of them showered together—before sex, during sex, and after sex. But they'd been a couple now for eight years, and, as Terry sometimes reminded Alex, he was forty-one and not getting any younger.
Alex didn't want to feel forty-one, though. And he would have been more aroused to be fucking a nineteen-year-old as he was eight years previously rather than a twenty-seven-year old who one of these days would be forty-one too and would look a little silly doing cartwheels across a stage at that age.
"Your turn in the shower," Terry sang out, as he came out of the bathroom, patting at his toned little body with a towel. "Breakfast in twenty minutes."
At the breakfast table in front of a full-length window overlooking San Diego Harbor, it was Terry's turn to scan the
LGBT Weekly
, although no coffee for him. He was drinking orange juice and spooning wheat germ somethingorother from a bowl. Terry was a vegan and Alex was a carnivore. Terry did the cooking, though, and Alex was snarfing up three fried eggs and four link sausages.
"The fleet's in," Alex said to Terry's newspaper.
"Is it?" Terry answered from behind his paper. "Yeah, I think I read something about that in last week's paper."
"Destroyer Squadron 15, I think," Alex said.
"Is it?"
"You can see them lined up out there beyond Coronado—the naval ships. Tenders are already out there to bring sailors in for shore leave."
"City will be busy," Terry answered.
"You remember that I go up to LA for a meeting today. I'll be back tomorrow, maybe late."
"Yes, I remember," Terry responded.
"I'm taking the Corvette."
"We get better mileage on the Rav4," Terry said, lowering his paper to give Alex a pointed look. The red Corvette convertible was a bit of a bone of contention between the two of them. Terry had made the mistake of saying that Alex wanted them to get it just because he was feeling old—having his midlife crisis. The topic of getting old didn't go over well with Alex these days—especially when Terry combined that with the remark that Alex seemed to be slowing down on the sex. The more practical and economical of the two, Terry, had balked a bit about having a maintenance-demanding sports car in downtown San Diego. They both were busy and barely went out of town. It seemed like Alex went to LA whenever the fleet was in, though. Terry couldn't say much about expense, however. He didn't make much at the theater. Alex was the sugar daddy here. One reason they'd lasted for eight years probably was because Terry recognized that and was the economical one.
"The Corvette needs to open up its jets. It needs the highway workout."
"Whatever," Terry answered. "Since you're gone overnight, I may just stay at the theater tonight. We're putting in the lights for
Guys and Dolls
and we're short on time on that. They need my help and it's got to be finished by tomorrow night."
"Whatever," Alex said. He'd finished his breakfast. "I'm late. Gotta go."
"Leave your dishes. I'll take care of them," Terry said, adding, "like always," under his breath. But he didn't feel in a bitchy mood, so he didn't say it loud enough for Alex to hear, as he sometimes did. Alex treated him like a wife of eight years. But Alex had given him the cock today, and Terry was keyed up in anticipation of a special day anyway. And it was Friday. And the fleet was in. Nothing to complain about there.
Chapter Two: Terry on the Make
He couldn't help humming as he sorted through the costumes in a dressing room at the theater. It wasn't just about what had been this morning; it also was about what could be later. The costumes were going in three piles—those that could go back on the rack and be worn again before cleaning; those that were being kept but needed to be dry cleaned before further use; and those that could be tossed or washed and cut up for other purposes. The box office assistant manager poked his head into the room.
"If the lights are going to be set for the dress rehearsal, Tony out here is going to need some help setting them, I think," he said. "You're the only one around who would know what to do." Then he was gone.
"Shit," Terry said out loud. He'd been trying to avoid Tony. "Shit," he said again in case the otherwise empty room hadn't heard him. He tossed the red velvet dress he was inspecting in the "toss" pile and tromped out of the dressing room. Another "shit" floated in the air as he moved down the hallway toward the stage.
"You got some last night, didn't you, Terry?" Tony, the temporary light man at the theater, said, as the two knelt shoulder to shoulder on the scaffolding and worked on adjusting spotlights on one side of the theater hall. Tony had come in to cover the honeymoon trip of the regular lighting technician. He was leaving almost as soon as he'd arrived, but he was such a hunky top that he'd run through the gay bottoms in the theater company, which the company had in depth, in record time. He had tried with Terry but not yet been successful.
