by Plakcy, Neil
He named a restaurant I’d walked past a few times, tucked away on West Avenue, a few blocks from my apartment. I agreed to meet him there at eight o’clock.
I was on my way back to the trailer when I met up with Adrian. “We’re going to El Rincón after work,” he said. “El jefe is buying the first round. You want to join us?”
El Rincón was a tiny Cuban bar around the corner from the site. “Sure.” I wouldn’t miss a chance to have a drink with Walter Loredo, even if we were surrounded by other employees. But I’d have to make sure not to set off any gaydar vibes with Camilo.
The bar was dark and cool against the hot, bright Florida sun. Adrian and I joined the other superintendents at a table in a back corner, where we drank Mexican beer as Walter lectured us on the world at large.
“Contractors are scum,” he said. “Never let a contractor think he can run your site. Never let a contractor date your daughter or your sister. Never pay a contractor a penny more than you absolutely have to.”
He told funny jokes, held his liquor well, and knew more about the business of building than I thought I could learn in a lifetime. Even after three or four beers, he could unravel the complexities of a thirty-page contract, explain how to build a retaining wall, and cite figures from a contractor’s last invoice. “You hear the one about the carpenter who died on his fortieth birthday?” he asked us.
We all shook our heads. “He got up to heaven, and St. Peter greeted him at the gates with a big celebration, congratulating him on living to be a hundred-fifty years old. The guy looked around and said, ‘But I only lived to be forty.’ St. Peter shakes his head and says, ‘Can’t be. We added up all your time sheets.’”
The crowd laughed. We went through three pitchers, and then Walter pulled the plug. “I need you all alive on Monday morning,” he said. “Anybody need a cab or a ride home?”
Everybody seemed sober enough, and we stood up. I realized I had to piss like mad and made a beeline for the men’s room.
I had my zipper open and my dick out, peeing into a tall white urinal, when Walter followed me into the men’s room and took the urinal next to mine.
Don’t look at his dick, I said to myself. Don’t look at his dick.
“Beer goes right through me,” he said as he unzipped and let loose a stream.
I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been good at urinal conversation. Some guys can keep up a flow of chatter, but not me. I’m too self-conscious, scared that if I stop paying attention to what I’m doing, I’ll end up pissing on myself.
Walter didn’t seem to notice. “How do you like working for me?” he asked. “Be honest, Manny. I want to hear it.”
My mouth was dry. “It’s great,” I croaked, thankful that my stream had turned to a trickle. “I’m learning a lot.”
“I can see that. You’re more than just charming and damned good-looking. You’re smart too, and that’s what really matters.”
He looked over at me as I was shaking the last drops from my dick. I felt it stiffening and hurried to stuff it back into my pants. “Thank you.”
“But you’ve got to think about the future,” he said. “Don’t be satisfied to be a superintendent, or even a manager. Set your sights high. That’s what I did.”
I was careful to keep my eyes on his face, which was turned toward the wall again. “How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you get to be so successful so fast?”
He finished pissing and zipped up. “Hard work and single-minded focus,” he said. “I never let myself get distracted. Eyes on the prize, you know.”
At that moment, though, his eyes were on me with a kind of longing in them. “Sometimes I think back to when I was your age, starting out. What if I’d paid more attention to the rest of my life?”
“It’s not like you’re ancient, Walter,” I said, walking over to the single sink to wash my hands.
He joined me at the sink, sticking his hands into the flow right next to mine. My heart skipped a beat, and I pulled them away as if they’d caught fire.
“Don’t lose track of the rest of your life, Manny,” Walter said as I dried my hands. “You never know when you’ll wake up and find it slipping away.”
“Sure thing, Walter.” I crumpled the paper towel and tossed it in the trash. I thought my dick was going to explode if I spent any more time in such close proximity to him. “See you Monday.”
I hurried out the door without waiting for a response. I glanced down at my crotch and saw, to my horror, that my stiff dick was outlined against the khaki, and there was a wet spot at the tip of my dick, even though I’d shaken the urine off.
I was grateful that the rest of the guys were gone, and hurried through the dim bar and out into the blazing sunshine, squinting against the glare. Had Walter seen my hard-on? And what did he mean, telling me he thought I was charming and damned good-looking? Was that lust I’d seen in his eyes—for me?
Physical Assets
By the time I hit the causeway to Miami Beach, my dick had subsided, but I still had a strange feeling in my stomach—probably the result of too much beer and not enough tortilla chips and salsa. When I got up to the apartment, I scrambled for the bathroom and some privacy.
I didn’t need any reading material; just the thought of Walter Loredo next to me in the men’s room was enough to make me hard. I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, dropped the lid on the toilet and sat down. My dick strained against my boxer briefs, and there was already a big wet spot on the fabric.
I pulled my dick free, closed my eyes and tried to remember that look in Walter’s eyes—had I really seen raw, sexual hunger? Or was I projecting my desire on him? What if I’d mistaken that look? He could have been horny for a woman, and he was already thinking about her.
I imagined him walking into a bedroom, pulling off his polo shirt. His beefy pecs and rounded biceps, the fur covering his stomach. He dropped his pants to the floor. I don’t know why, but I imagined him wearing red silk boxers that clung to his body like a second skin. He pulled his long, fat dick out of them and stood there, stroking it while the naked woman on the bed got up on all fours and presented her ass to him.
He dropped the boxers and walked over to her, his stiff dick bouncing. His ass cheeks were covered with a fine layer of dark hair like his lower arms. He positioned himself behind the woman and grabbed her hips. His butt contracted as he pressed forward into her.
And then the woman was gone, and it was my ass that Walter was fucking.
“You think you can flaunt this sweet ass in front of me, and I won’t take advantage of it?” he said. “Think again, cowboy. I’m going to ride you so hard, you won’t sit down for a week.”
He reached around and grabbed my dick and began jerking me in the same rhythm he was plowing my ass. He talked as he fucked me—how he would make a man of me, make me his bitch, show me how a real man made love.
It was all so real to me. I could smell his musky lemon scent, hear the catch in his voice, feel the way his balls slapped against my ass with every deep thrust. His hand was rough against my dick, his thumb rubbing the sweet spot just below the head.
I caught my breath and saw stars as the force of my orgasm pounded out of me, semen spraying out of my dick and onto my shirt. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the toilet in my bathroom and I was a mess. Hopelessly intoxicated with Walter Loredo, drained and cum-stained and very much alone.
I drank a tall glass of water and took a couple of aspirins, stumbled back to my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next day, though, I resolved to push all thoughts of Walter out of my head. I had a date with a real man, not a fantasy, and I was going to get laid if it killed me.
I took a long shower, making sure to clean my ass really well. If I was lucky Roberto would get his tongue up there, and then his dick, and I wanted to be spick-and-span for him. I dug around in my underwear drawer for a pair of bikini briefs that accentuated my assets, and put on a pair of silk slacks that clung t
o my body.
Roberto was a fancy dresser, so I paired the slacks with a starched white linen shirt with abstract embroidery in a faded bronze color. I thought it looked terrific against my neck and lower arms, tanned from so much time out on the site. I took my time walking to the restaurant, not wanting to get there too early, nor to sweat up in the evening heat.
When I arrived, Roberto was in conversation with the maître d’, who led us to a sheltered table at the back of the restaurant. “How have you been this week?” Roberto asked. “I’ve missed you.”
Then you could have arranged to see me earlier, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “Working hard.”
“I can’t see you on a construction site,” Roberto said. “You are too handsome and too delicate. You should be in an office somewhere, in a three-piece suit.”
I didn’t think that was flattering—I’d had enough of the “pretty” comments from my female relatives. “I can be macho when I need to be,” I said.
“I’m sure you can be.” Roberto smiled, and I felt a tingling in my groin. He ordered us a bottle of wine, and we clinked our glasses together. “To this evening,” he said.
“To more than once this evening,” I said and arched my eyebrows.
Roberto laughed. “You are quite the little rascal, Manuelito.”
As we ate our appetizers, I kicked off my shoe and stroked my toes against Roberto’s leg. He took a couple of deep breaths, but he didn’t tell me to stop.
“What is it that you do, exactly?”
“Wealth management consulting,” he said. “I create customized investments for the assets of non-US persons. They often have complex situations—some family members in the US, some abroad, subject to tax in multiple locations. My clients must have investable assets of at least ten million dollars.”
“Sounds very cool. Maybe someday I’ll have enough money to use your services.”
“Perhaps.” Roberto looked over at me and smiled, then patted my thigh. “You are still very young. Who knows what your future holds?”
We talked and flirted our way through our entrées. The waiter took away our dirty plates and Roberto asked me, “Dessert?”
I lowered my voice. “I’d rather have you.”
He laughed. “Well, that can be arranged. You live near here, don’t you?”
“A few blocks.”
He ransomed his car from the valet and negotiated the local streets over to my building—harder than you might think because of the intersection of roads and canals. I was fidgeting by the time he pulled into a guest parking space at my building. I leaned over to kiss him, and he pushed me back gently. “We are in no hurry,” he said.
I took a deep breath. I could be patient, I thought, especially if I knew my reward was ahead. I led him through the building and into the elevator. We rode up in silence.
“Most of the furniture doesn’t belong to us,” I said as I opened the door to the apartment, praying that Larry and Gavin were still out on the town. “So don’t get the wrong idea.”
“It’s lovely,” he said, taking in the expanse of starlit Biscayne Bay outside the sliding glass doors. “But I’d like to see your room.”
I took his hand and led him down the hall. Once we were in my room with the door closed securely behind us, he wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to mine. I couldn’t get close enough to him; I tried to wrap my leg around his butt and pull him into me.
He was a slow, deliberate kisser. Our lips met, still flavored by the wine we’d drunk at dinner. His kisses were delicate and feathery against my lips. I tried to open my mouth, but he wouldn’t let me at first, pressing them closed with the tip of a finger. Our noses rubbed together, and our cheeks, and I felt how very smooth his were, as if he’d shaved again just before.
I inhaled his scent of bay rum, so old-fashioned and different from Walter’s fresh lemon. He put one hand on the back of my head, the other around my waist. I felt like I’d stumbled into a black and white movie.
After a couple of minutes of kissing, I pulled back and began to unbutton my shirt. “No, please, allow me,” Roberto said.
He leaned close to me, and once again I inhaled his aftershave as his fingers slowly undid my buttons. “You are such a beautiful young man,” he said as he slid my shirt off my shoulders.
I shivered with the suddenness of the air-conditioned air against my skin. Goose bumps rose on my arms as I longed to feel his skin against mine.
He laid my shirt carefully on my desk chair, turned back to me and unbuckled my belt. My dick quivered at the proximity of his hands, pressing forward against my briefs, which felt soaked with precum. I was so impatient to be naked with him, but I forced myself to submit to his careful ministrations.
He spread open my pants and admired the silhouette of my dick against the white fabric. “Ay, qué lindo,” he said, and I blushed. I wasn’t sure if he meant my dick or the whole of me, but it didn’t matter.
I kicked my shoes off and stepped out of my pants. I would have left them pooled on the floor, but I knew Roberto wouldn’t appreciate that. So I bent over in my sexy underwear, showing him my ass. I heard him suck in his breath.
I stood up and turned to him and began to unbutton his white linen shirt. He had a skinny chest, covered with silky black hair, and I longed to run my fingers over it. But I mimicked his behavior, laying the shirt carefully over the same chair as my shirt and pants.
I turned back to his belt, hand-tooled leather with a gold buckle engraved with his initials. I opened it and undid his pants, then knelt. I lifted his right foot, slipped off the loafer, and peeled down the thin black sock. I repeated the process with the other leg.
Roberto stepped out of his slacks and folded them on my desk. We faced each other, and his dick pushed against his nylon briefs, furled up like a snake waiting to strike. I was still hard, tenting my briefs. I skinned them down and stepped out of them, and Roberto did the same.
He led me to my bed, then pushed me down on it. In a moment he was on top of me, all his smooth flesh pressing against me, skin to skin. Our dicks rubbed together as he slid his body up and down over mine, keeping our lips pressed together. It was an amazing moment, one I had been waiting for, but it wasn’t enough. I kept comparing his chest to what I’d seen of Walter’s. Walter’s was so much broader and more muscular, and Roberto’s seemed that of an old man.
I felt my dick soften and didn’t know why. Roberto must have sensed it too, thinking what he was doing didn’t please me. He sat back on his haunches, and his skinny, stiff dick faced me, curved like a banana. I leaned down and took him in my mouth. He tasted clean and fresh, like rainwater with a touch of salt. He rubbed his fingers through my hair and said, “You are so beautiful, Manuelito.”
I responded the best way I knew how, by sucking him until I felt his body start to stiffen, then pulled back. My dick had hardened again, so I squirmed around so that my dick was at his mouth. He began to suck me, and I could tell right away that mine wasn’t the first cock he’d chowed down on. He really knew his stuff—licking me, tonguing my slit, nibbling the mushroom head.
Even so, I couldn’t help thinking of Walter. Was this what he wanted too? Had I read that look in his eyes correctly? I closed my eyes and pretended that those were his lips around my dick. Between that image and Roberto’s technique, I was in ecstasy. This was why I liked older men, I thought. I tried to imitate everything Roberto did, but before I could practice too much, he had me on the brink of orgasm, and I had to focus on things like math problems and women’s vaginas to bring myself down.
It didn’t work. I shot off into Roberto’s mouth, but he swallowed everything I had to give and kept licking me. I squirmed in ecstatic pain, unable to concentrate on getting him off.
Finally he let my dick go. I tried to start up on him again, but he had gone soft, and he pulled me away, up toward him. “But you didn’t…” I said.
“You gave me much pleasure, mi amorcito. Do not worry if I do no
t demonstrate my appreciation so openly.”
Well, if that was okay with him, I thought. I snuggled up to him, our heads on the pillow facing each other, and dozed off. When I woke up, it was two o’clock in the morning and Roberto was gone. He had left his calling card on my dresser, though—Roberto Vicente Medina Arroyo in a curling script. According to the Spanish style, Medina was his father’s last name, and Arroyo his mother’s. He had scrawled xx RVMA on the back. No address, no phone number or business affiliation.
Not that I had expected one. Roberto had been cagey about telling me much about his personal life—I knew his career but not his employer; his cell phone but not his home number; and his e-mail address was through a generic provider.
It didn’t matter to me. He was old-school, after all, the kind of man who didn’t flaunt his sexual orientation. Probably closeted at work and with his family as well. I wasn’t going to marry him, just have some fun.
I rolled over and went back to sleep with the taste of his kisses and the wine we drank at dinner still on my lips. But it was Walter Loredo’s face that remained in my memory.
Site Specifics
I texted Roberto Sunday afternoon before I left for my parents’ house, thanking him for dinner and dessert. He responded with the word encantado —charmed—and his initials once more. I couldn’t figure him out. Was it because he was older that he wasn’t as interested in getting laid as I was?
Maybe he just didn’t like me as much as I liked him. Or maybe I was obsessing needlessly. Roberto had a whole life beyond me, and until I knew more about it, I wasn’t going to waste my time worrying. But as I got dressed for the drive west, I compared him to Walter.
Roberto was at least fifteen years older than Walter, and his hair was thinner and grayer. Roberto was a snazzier dresser than Walter; I couldn’t imagine him in a sleeveless T-shirt and tight-fitting shorts. Nor could I see Roberto with a five o’clock shadow or hair mussed the way Walter’s was after a run on the site.