by J. M. Snyder
“I forgot. Get the phone before I sic Cecile on you.”
When I frown down at him, he raises his voice. “Cecile?”
“Fine.” I pick up the phone. “Tech support. This is Noah.”
“Noah? Danny Clements from upstairs.”
Becky’s boss and head of the development team. Joel calls him Emperor Palpatine and does this mock ‘Heil, Hitler!’ salute whenever they run into each other in the hall.
I don’t really know the guy but he’s higher up in the company than me and that equals respect in my book. Sinking into my chair, I clear my throat and hope my voice sounds professional. “Mr. Clements. Yes. Hello.”
He’s curt and to the point. “I need you up here like yesterday.”
I roll my eyes. I hate going up to the Dark Side, with all the programmers who glare at me. I’m the one who hears the customers complain about their software, like it’s my fault they can’t write stable code. “It isn’t anything we can fix over the phone?”
Danny sighs—I know it’s bad if the head of development can’t fix it. Isn’t that sort of their job? Or at least their software. Maybe he just doesn’t have the time. I don’t even want to know what it is that’s fucked up now.
“One of our new hires got a shitty system.” What else is new? “He can’t get Windows up now and I’m busy with the lockdown deadline. It won’t take but a half hour, I’m sure. Just get him out of DOS and cut his damn hands off so he can’t fuck with it again. A half hour, Noah. You can spare that.”
“You gotta talk with Cecile,” I tell him. “I’m already in deep with her as it is. The last thing I need is to wander the halls without a pass while the phone rings off the hook.”
I don’t know why I bother protesting—I already know how it’ll go. Danny holds more sway than Cecile and I’ll be heading upstairs before long.
“Patch me through to her.”
I do, and then I straighten my desk, waiting. I hear Cecile’s phone ring, I hear her answer it, and I can hear her argue but she doesn’t stand a chance. When she hangs up the phone, I already have my headset off. “Noah,” she calls out, not even looking up at me. “Development. Be back before five.”
“No fair!” Joel cries, standing up. “I want to go to the Dark Side. I feel the Force calling me—”
“That’s your damn hormones,” I say. “You just want to go flirt with your girl.”
Joel gives me a pitiful look but it’s not my call and Cecile isn’t paying him any attention. “I’ll kiss her for you.
“You better not,” he growls before he plops back into his chair.
I laugh as I leave the office. Maybe now I can ask her myself about the guy whose number burns in the pocket of my jeans. I’m dying to know who he is, and I’ve already decided I’m going to call tonight whether or not I know his name. Joel’s right, for once—I can’t let this one slip by.
* * * *
As the elevator opens, Becky looks up from her desk in the main reception area. I smile and lean over the counter, but she’s got her headset on and by the way she holds up one finger, I know she’s talking to someone. Halfheartedly I listen to her one-sided conversation, waiting until she’s free so I can ask her who that boy is and where Danny needs me, in that order.
While I wait, a young man walks by, tall and cute, with tanned skin and darker hair, a smarmy grin, and an oily laugh. He winks at Becky in a smug way I just know would set Joel off. “Steve,” Becky mouths.
“Not my type.” Then, because she spoke to me first I assume she’s able to chat, so I ask, “What about that guy from yesterday?”
She points at the headset and looks away, concentrating on the call.
Fine. I can wait.
But apparently I’m bothering her, because after another minute or so, she covers the mouthpiece and whispers, “I’m going to be a while, Noah. It’s Jared’s computer that won’t come up—last door on the right.”
“Can I just ask you—” His name?
She shakes her head and turns away, speaking into the mouthpiece as she says, “Yes, I’m here.”
With a sigh, I head down the hall. A glance at the clock shows it’s already after four. I’m thinking if I can just get this computer up and running, if it’s just a quick fix like I’m praying it will be, then I can make it downstairs and meet Joel outside for his break. Then I’ll see the guy again and talk to him myself. He gave me his number, didn’t he? He said he thought I was cute.
At the end of the hall, the door on the right is slightly ajar. I knock as I ease it open. “Jared?”
Can’t wait to see what this kid looks like. He sounds adorable on the phone but I’ve thought that before…and I’ve been disappointed. There was the one guy in sales who had a throaty, sexy voice and sounded like Sean Connery over the phone—I couldn’t wait to hear from him again. Whenever he called, it made my day. Then I finally met up with him at the company picnic and he looked like Ed McMahon. That memory still makes me shudder.
There’s no one in the office. I look around, noticing the Darth Maul poster on one wall—didn’t I call that one? I knew he’d be a Star Wars fan. He and Joel would get along great.
Walking around the desk, I find the computer already turned on, the screen staring at me like a black hole, one little blinking cursor the only sign of life in the machine. I sit down in the chair and groan when I see the processor—it’s an ancient Pentium, rebuilt and reconfigured, the same damn machine they gave me when I first got here, too, so I already know it’s going to be a bitch to fix.
No wonder Danny wanted me. He knows I can at least get this thing up and running until they give the poor boy a new computer. Or until he quits. This is what, his third day? And he’s having a shitty time, I’m sure, with this piece of crap.
As I lean over to reboot the computer, I hear someone enter the room. Without looking up, I flip the reset switch on the UPS. “Hey,” I say. The door closes softly and I figure this is that Jared kid Becky can’t stand. “I’m from support.”
“Hey yourself.”
That voice, it’s him, the boy whose number I have, him. Oh God. I bump my head on the underside of the desk when I try to sit up too fast.
Suddenly he’s leaning down over me, hands rubbing through my hair as if to rub the pain away. I can smell the cologne I caught the first day I saw him outside, and this close, his scent envelopes me. I see concern written across his face, shining in those dark eyes like pools of ink in his face, tugging those pinked lips into a cute pout. This is Jared?
Please God, yes.
Now his hands are on my head and back and he’s helping me stand. When he looks at me the way he does, I can’t remember to breathe. “Are you okay?”
I think I nod.
“Noah, right?”
“Jesus,” I whisper. I can’t believe he’s here, talking to me, touching me, me.
He grins and I can’t help but smile back. “No, Jared,” he says with a wink.
Becky says he bothers her? Damn, I’d love to have him bother me whenever he wants. Where do I apply for that job?
His hands are still on the small of my back, the crook of my elbow. With an adorable shyness, he ducks his head. “I’m glad they sent you.”
I notice the emphasis on the last word and feel my cheeks heat up. I open my mouth to say something, anything—I want you, I need you, I love you, I’m not picky—but the only thing that comes out is, “This computer’s ancient.”
His smile falters. Great. I finally meet the man of my dreams and all I can talk about is a stupid computer. This isn’t Bill Gates I’m trying to impress here. I sound like a bigger nerd than Joel and his Darth Vader act.
I open my mouth again but it seems I can’t even think anymore, not when my whole body’s kicking into overdrive and threatening to shut down because his fingers are rubbing tiny little circles into the small of my back that make my throat swell with sudden lust. Computers are a safe topic, I decide. Still, it takes a lifetime for me to string t
ogether the question, “Are they getting you a new machine?”
He shrugs. “If they’re going to send you up here whenever it gets wacky on me, maybe I should keep this old thing.”
His voice is low and husky and so much closer than when he’s on the phone—is he breathing into my ear? My knees weaken and I drop down into his chair, which creaks beneath my sudden weight. In a daze, I turn back to the monitor, which has begun to scroll through processes as the computer reboots in safe mode.
Jared leans against the back of the seat. My hands shake when I reach for the keyboard; the arm draped behind me presses against my back, then I feel strong hands on my shoulders. I can see his reflection in the monitor screen—he’s staring at me, not at my reflection but at me, and his nose nuzzles against my hair, just above my ear.
With a sigh, he whispers, “You didn’t call me,”
I turn and he’s right there, his face inches from mine. I stare at those full lips that grin slightly—they’re so damn kissable and he’s just gorgeous, the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen, the sexiest…why didn’t I call him?
Because you didn’t know his name. “I was going to call tonight.”
My gaze is drawn to his mouth. When his tongue licks out to wet his lips, my own mimics the motion. With a faint smile, he leans closer—his hands now rest on the arms of the chair, trapping me here, but there’s no place I’d rather be.
I’m glad I’m not looking in his eyes because then he might be able to read my thoughts, and he’d see just how wicked those are right now. He’d see the images I have of him and me naked and sweaty and pressed against each other in his office, in his chair, on his desk, on the floor and in the elevator and…
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch the hem of his shirt where it’s tucked into his jeans. I feel the muscle beneath my fingers, smooth and thick and hard. It emboldens me, giving me the courage to look him in the eye. From the way he smiles at me, I know he must be thinking the same things. “My roommate’s going out with his girl later,” I say. “What are you doing tonight?”
He leans in, closer. With the briefest of kisses, his lips brush mine, silky and soft, and when he pulls away, I slip my fingers into the waistband of his jeans to keep him near. I want another kiss, I want him to touch me again, I want him to never stop smiling and never stop looking at me like he is right now, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can fill him up.
“You get off at eleven?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’m breathless and aching, and I tug at his jeans until he leans down and kisses me again. I catch his lower lip between my teeth and nip gently. His eyes slip shut and he moans softly. I’m already hard for him.
“Maybe you can pick me up?” I can’t believe I’m the one asking here. Go, me. “We can go back to my place. If you want.”
He answers with another kiss. When I see Becky I’m going to tell her she was wrong about this one. He’s not a pain in the ass—he’s adorable and tastes sweet like candy; his hands are strong and he smells so good.
He’s what I’ve been holding out for all this time, I just know it. And I found him on my own, so she can stop trying to hook me up with anyone else. This is the one I want. Him.
I can’t wait until later when I can make him mine.
THE END
Blurring the Lines
I meet him the way I meet all guys—online. His e-mail stands out from the rest because he doesn’t use a name but initials. RC, like the cola. Who goes by that?
The message is short and almost formal. I want to inquire about your services.
As if my ad online doesn’t spell it out. But I get this a lot—guys putting out feelers, curious and interested but not quite ready to commit. For every e-mail I get asking me to pencil in a date and time, I get another three or four with questions. It’s almost like they’re trying to talk themselves into an appointment.
That’s what I call it, an appointment. Like going to the dentist—it’s nothing I really want to do, and if I could avoid it, I would, but I can’t, so I just get it over with as fast as possible. I’m a broke-ass guy in my mid-twenties with a college degree who can’t get a damn job that pays above minimum wage, so I have to make ends meet somehow, right? I can think of worse ways to pay the rent.
So I cut and paste the body of my ad into the first message I send this RC character. I don’t even try to pretend I don’t by adding something new. In its entirety, it reads:
Straight white guy, disease-free, looking for donations from gay men interested in hooking up. Seven inches hard, circumcised, nice ass. See photos. Suck me for $50. I suck you for $100. No ass-play. No BDSM. No weird shit. Full nudity OK.
I hit send and don’t think about him again. I have a half-dozen more messages in my inbox to respond to, and the night is still young. On a good weekend, I earn more getting blowjobs from complete strangers than I do bagging groceries down at Shay’s. Any guy can do it, just lie there and let someone else suck his cock. Maybe let him fondle my balls a bit, or bend over so he can stare at my butt while he jerks off.
It isn’t sex. I’m not gay.
* * * *
My ground rules are simple. I don’t tell anyone my real name. I don’t ask for theirs. I don’t meet them in public, and they don’t come to my house. I go to theirs, and I see the money up front before either of us undress. We do whatever it is they’re paying me to do, and I don’t stay any longer than an hour.
Some contact me again. If they didn’t gross me out or aren’t too weird, I agree to another appointment. But I don’t like to meet anyone more than three times. After that, it’s harder to stay strangers. By then we sort of know each other, and some start asking for a discount—like what, frequent fucker miles or something? No.
I can always find another guy eager to pay for my services. My inbox is full of e-mails waiting for replies.
I don’t think about RC again until he sends a second message. Like his first, this one is almost old-fashioned. May we schedule an appointment? An afternoon would work best for me.
He doesn’t give a date, so I suggest Tuesday at two. I include my cell number in the e-mail, and tell him to text me his address. Then I promptly forget about him until our appointment.
* * * *
The part of town he lives in is called Windsor Farms. If it sounds upscale, that’s because it is. I inch my battered 1982 Toyota Corolla down the leaf-covered streets of his subdivision and feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. These homes are on two- and three-acre lots, sprawling mansions set back off the road with landscaped lawns and cobbled driveways. Not for the first time, I think maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to quote my prices to new clients. I should get their addresses first, look them up on Google Maps, and hike up the rate if they live like kings.
RC’s home is tucked away in a cul-de-sac that is probably considered little in his neighborhood, but my whole city block would fit in his front yard. I pull into his driveway like he instructed in his text—all the way in, easing my car down a narrow lane between his house and a privacy fence, then turning into the paved space behind the house so no one will see me from the street.
When I get out of the car, I lock it out of habit, then chuckle at myself. Who’d steal it? Some of the people who live around here drive vehicles that cost more than what I paid for all four years of college. No one’s going to look twice at my piece of crap.
A long porch leads to a screen door. I can see inside—an island in a kitchen, marble countertops, steel appliances that look brand new. Down a short hall is a flat-screen TV larger than the longest wall in my living room. A leather sofa faces it, and I catch a glimpse of the back of a man’s head. Short-cropped dark hair, and when I knock on the side of the door, he turns and I see a trim beard, a very manly look. He sees me and grins, his eyes sparkling.
He sent a picture in his e-mail so I already know what to expect, but to be honest, I thought he’d used a photo of a sexy model in some luxurio
us country home. I didn’t think he’d really be so…well, so perfect.
When he stands, I notice he’s bare-chested, and the hair on his muscled pecs is the same brown-black as that on his head and face. He wears a low-hanging pair of sweatpants that leave little to the imagination and nothing on his feet. As he approaches the door, his grin is contagious and I can’t help but return it. “Hey,” I say as he opens the screen door wide. “RC?”
Of course he is. “You must be Mike,” he says.
Up close, his eyes are the palest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. I almost correct him—actually no, it’s Greg—but then I remember my rule about never telling them my real name and I just nod instead. He holds the door for me to step inside. To say I’m impressed would be an understatement. This dude is rich.
Still, I’m pleased I manage not to sound awestruck when I tell him, “Nice place you have here.”
“It’s home,” he says.
Must be nice.
He closes the screen door behind me, then shuts the back door for good measure. For a moment I almost believe I’m just here to visit—we’re friends and he’s invited me over to watch the game, maybe, and we’ll eat pizza on his leather sofa in front of that big-ass TV. Then his smile widens and his eyes heat up as he looks me over, and I remember we’re not friends. The lust I see when he looks at me says as much.
But he’s a gracious host. “Are you hungry?” he asks. That’s a first. “Or do you maybe want something to drink first?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. We can just go in the…I don’t know, the bedroom or something? Unless you want to do it here…”
“What? No, no.” He laughs, a throaty sound that reminds me of summer thunder. One hand runs through his hair, but it’s too short to really muss up. It rises up off his forehead in a sensual sweep. “This is sort of my first time doing this.”
I find that hard to believe. “Come on, really? A hot guy like you—”