by Unknown
Sly Fox, Part 2
Leigh Ellwood
Author’s Note
Part One of this story is available in Sexy To Go, Part Four.
My name is Adrian Sinclair. I’ll spare you the story of how it took twenty years for me to acknowledge my true self, and why I spent two decades married to a woman and smiling through lie after lie in front of family and friends, and strangers who didn’t know or probably give a damn about my inner turmoil. I don’t like picking at scabs, particularly ones which have healed, and no amount of dredging up past errors can turn back the clock.
The too long, didn’t read version of my youth goes like this: I fought my true nature and sadly took people down with me. Coming out proved to be a magnificent and harrowing release of tears and held breath. My ex-wife has been supportive and forgiving, and she enjoyed healthy alimony payments until her second marriage. We meet for brunch for a few times a year so I can visit with her child, my godson. Funny how things work out.
To spare her some embarrassment—yes, she did once fret people might think she turned me gay, but we’re beyond that now—I moved the main office of my real estate agency back home to Archer Beach. Sinclair Realty represents well enough in Dover and other parts of Delaware, mainly through my nephew. Here, in this coastal town where the late Evelyn and Walter Sinclair raised me, I live openly but quietly in the home where I grew up. On Sylvester Street, the LGBT neighborhood, I sell and lease dreams.
When our schedules align, I also sit at my desk and watch Anson Fox pace from his corner cubicle to the printer, zeroing in either on his handsome face or strong hands. We’ve been together for some time, long enough for me to marvel how I can’t remember what work was like without him on the team. He’s not the first man I’ve dated, but he’s played a significant role in what I call my second life.
He’s also my first. There’s a story.
****
We crossed the fine line between friendship and intimacy on a Wednesday evening, several weeks after he moved to town. After dinner at Sly and First and a detour through the midway amusements on the boardwalk, we wound up in one of the more popular landmarks for semi-public sex, the covered showers by the Sylvester Street beach access path. As I think about it, I believe the occurrences of men coupling in the wooden stalls happen more in local legend. Everybody loves a good story, and I’ve enjoyed a few bonfires on that part of the beach but never saw two pairs of feet visible from either shower. To hear friends talk, everybody from the mayor to the minister at the Unitarian church has had a go, and the splinter marks to prove it.
Nobody’s shown them to me, however. When Deacon Rolle, owner of Sly and First, spins such a tale I nod and sip my bourbon. If ever he gathers a group for the story of me and Anson on that Wednesday night, he won’t have received the particulars from me.
That night, Anson and I necked and grabbed at each other, pulling away fabric to find flesh and then stroking each other to climax. It wasn’t the first time I’d touched a man’s cock, but I’d come with my prick against his. Later in his apartment we shared his bed, but it went no further than spooning with no barriers.
His alarm erupted early, and I woke on my side wrapped around him. My left arm was draped over his side, my hand brushing the shoulder bearing into his mattress. Anson continued to sleep with his mouth partly open—I’d suspected in the few times I awoke during the night that he had issues with snoring. A glance at his night table, and the mouth guard case next to his alarm, confirmed that.
I smacked the radio clock and the shrieking silenced. Anson moaned and shifted against me, causing my cock to harden and rub his ass. I kissed his cheek and he smiled, eyes still closed. “You should have put your mouth guard in if you need it to breathe at night,” I scolded.
“It’s not the sexiest thing to wear to bed, is it?” He turned his face from the pillow and those charming eyes open to reveal a blue more brilliant than I’d seen in days. They seemed to tint darker or lighter according to mood, and I took this near crystal hue to mean he still reveled in afterglow.
“I’d rather you sleep well at night,” I told him. “I had a snoring problem once, used to gasp for air at night. Losing weight helped me, but if you need the mouthpiece please wear it.”
“I will. I do. I was a bit distracted last night, is all.” To prove the point he turned to lie facing me and shifted his bare legs. My cock, now hard and aching, came to rest between his closed thighs while his semi-erect prick pressed into my abdomen. “Do you mind if I come into the office a bit late today, boss? I have to, uh, take care of some things.”
I held back my response for a moment, momentarily worried by my morning breath. Anson seemed to sense my discomfort, though, and touched the back of my head. He pulled me in for a long kiss—wet, tongues stabbing, deep sighs vibrating down my shoulders. In one brief second we’d crossed into a new level of intimacy where neither of us cared how the other looked or smelled in the morning. Just one more obstacle to go in order to proclaim ourselves in a committed relationship.
One giant, orgasmic obstacle looming large in my mind. Earlier, during the actual date, I’d confided in Anson how I had yet to engage in full-on sex with another man. There’d been kissing and touching unmentionables in the past, and what transpired between the two of us in the shower stall. He didn’t seem put off by my confession, yet he hadn’t steered me toward that final hurdle either. We lay together in a tight embrace, limbs tangled and cocks stiff and in need of relief.
Anson broke off the kiss and brushed his lips across my jawline. “We’ll go at your pace, I want what makes you comfortable,” he said, as though reading my mind. “So you know, I am ready for you to come inside me any time, but it has to be what you want. In the meantime,” his hand snaked between us and his fingers curled around my cock, “there’s that one ‘thing’ I wanted to take care of.”
“Exactly what is that now?” Like I needed a diagram.
He rolled back and threw off the covers. For a second I wanted to pull back enough to cover my chest but Anson raked a hand over the coarse hair. By comparison, he rocked a smoother, hard body that felt good against mine. “I love this,” he murmured, his mouth now close to my nipple. He licked it until it pebbled. “I want this scratching my back raw very soon.”
I shifted to lie supine, and he slid down and settled between my thighs, eye level to my cock as he stroked the tip. “Have you come in a man’s mouth before?”
I shook my head. No man had ended up in this position, staring up my privates in bed. I volunteered no further information, thinking the short history of my homosexual life would put a damper on our morning. I preferred the present to the dry, near celibate past. What I shared with my ex-wife shouldn’t enter into conversation—of course, blowjobs were definitely never her thing.
“I’d be honored to be the first,” he said.
“Keep talking, and it won’t happen now.” Anson’s thumb circled the tip of my cock over and around again as we talked, every moment sparking another jolt down to my balls. I didn’t have far to go to a climax and couldn’t promise to hold it in. “Please,” I whined.
Anson’s fingers slid down to my groin while his tongue licked upward. He swiped a few times over the crown before taking me into his mouth. I watched my cock disappear as his lips slid down, down, down and buried into my pubic hair. My office manager, Sondra, had once insisted I wax because apparently it’s a thing we’re supposed to do now in order to become fuckable. “Who says I haven’t?” I retorted and left it at that before she played the “show me yours, show you mine” card.
I shook off the memory and focused on Anson. His head bobbed up and down in a rhythm I could set to music in my head. With every slide upward he applied suction to the tip of my prick, then on the trip back he’d massage my balls. It drove me insane, more so when he’d open his eyes to lock gazes. I warned him I wouldn’t last very long, and it took one slow squeeze to push me over the edge. I barely got the first half of the word
come out of my mouth before I cried out and released into him.
He gripped my thighs and sucked hard. His cheeks hollowed and he groaned around my warming cock, letting go for a moment to a sticky, shining display. He licked me clean and kissed me as I fell limp. “I love it,” he murmured. “Can’t we stay in bed the rest of the day? Let the houses show themselves.”
I pulled him up to lie flush against me, and reached for his cock. He hadn’t gone completely hard, and insisted I didn’t have to reciprocate. “I’m slow to start in the mornings,” he explained.
I had Anson by more than a decade. I should have felt flattered to show an ability to stiffen up at a moment’s notice, but maybe I was making up for lost time. I wanted him to enjoy some satisfaction, but he laid a quick kiss on my cheek and rolled away, muttering something about the wet clothes we’d left in his dryer. I had to console myself with a lovely view of his retreating ass.
And settle for waiting for everything else.
****
Work kept us apart for the remainder of the week. He showed properties to prospective buyers, and I helped close on a few condos. On Friday morning my office manager, Sondra, finally broke her silence on all topics relevant to my wading into the dating pool. She brought me coffee and sat before my desk, biting her lower lip so hard I thought the indentations might remain permanently.
I sighed. “Close the door first.”
She complied and quickly returned. “Was it everything you hoped for? Anson is rather yummy, and I’m not much for the blond, blue-eyed type. He looks more like he should be gadding about a country club with a sweater knotted around his neck instead of selling condos to old gay people. By the way, did Charlie tell you she’s planning to give notice?”
“What?” I had enough going on to worry about hiring a new rental property manager. Charlie knew how to woo all the right servicemen—the plumbers, the electricians—to ensure the apartments remained livable during the busy season. I shifted papers on my desk. “I hope it’s an ample notice. I can’t simply replace her.”
“You could give the job to somebody within the company.” Sondra shrugged. I got the impression at first she hinted at the promotion, but I wouldn’t suggest it without reminding Sondra of all the people and assorted crap she had to deal with. After the first two AM call from a tenant to complain about a busted toilet she’d rage in the streets.
“I’ll wait for Charlie to talk to me before I make any decisions. Even then, maybe I can bring in somebody from the Dover office. Why is Charlie leaving, anyway? This is all news to me.”
“I’d tell you, but you’re deliberately moving away from Anson.” Sondra slapped a hand on my desk and leered. “I wanna hear about his tight, luscious ass.”
She wasn’t alone, but I leaned back in my chair and sipped my coffee. She’d gotten the sweetener to cream ratio correct this time, so she deserved some kind of reward. “What passes for second base in gay sex?”
“Hand job.” She spoke over the end of my question.
“Very well,” I said. “So a ground-rule double last night and a steal for third this morning.”
Sondra tapped a long fingernail—pink and blue striped—against her chin. “No RBIs?”
“I have no idea what baseball metaphor to use in answer. Nobody struck out. We just…” Ugh. “Let’s just call it game called on account of work. Speaking of, get back to it.”
I shooed her away to a ringing phone. Sondra went, casting me a tired glance as she walked the short gap, and I holed up in my office until quitting time. I heard from Anson only via texts—the first informing me he’d been approached to sell a condo, the next asking me out for drinks at Sly and First.
I’ll get us a table, but don’t be too long, I replied spot on five. I’m starting with or without you.
Sondra give you grief?
I had to laugh. I didn’t want to know what sports slang they used in their conversation. Probably tennis or fox hunting, given Anson’s old-money Virginia background.
No worries, he added. I’m rooting for the home team, too.
Okay then.
****
I’d known Deacon, the owner of Sly and First, for years. I hadn’t been involved when he leased the property to start his restaurant, but I’ve been a patron since the first day. Every time I take a seat he’s not far behind with a drink made to suit my current mood. He must have sensed my exhaustion this time, however, because he set down a hi-ball glass filled with dark, fizzing liquid.
“Jack and Coke?” I guessed.
He smiled and shook his head. “Stronger. I got some of that new energy cola that’s out, supposed to have three times the caffeine of regular soda. You look like you could use a boost.”
“Thanks. Should I sign a waiver first?”
“Our cook knows CPR. Hey, have you found somebody to rework your website yet?”
I knew what to expect next. Deacon’s good for much more than restaurant management and intuitive bartending. He’s one of these people blessed with the ability to match a person to another person, but not always for romance and sex. Mention a twinge in your back and he has the number of a great chiropractor who comes in every Sunday for brunch.
I didn’t have time for even a one-word answer before Deacon was waving over a handsome young man in an Archer Beach High School t-shirt and faded jeans. No introductions necessary—I knew Shaun Auville from when I assisted with my nephew’s Cub Scout troop many years ago. He’d been tall then, and as I shook his large brown hand I remembered seeing his picture in the paper recently, grouped with other local college graduates.
“Congratulations on getting your degree. Any plans for graduate study?” I sipped my lethal cocktail, feeling every hair on both arms stiffen.
Shaun looked shyly away and fidgeted, as though unsure of where to put his hands. I’d seen the condition in many a young person over the last year—how does one sit still without a phone or tablet to swipe? He had that look. “I may go back for an MBA, but I wanted to get my business off the ground first.” He pulled a stack of business cards from his back pocket and splayed them in small fan. “We signed our first client this week, the Archer Beach CVB, for a complete overhaul of their website.”
“That is impressive, Shaun. Good for you.” I’d always recalled him as bright, though sometimes troubled following the untimely death of his mother. Still, I champion young entrepreneurs, and as I glanced at the logo of Auville Interactive I realized why Deacon arranged for this happy accident.
“I suppose you’ve seen that hot mess of a dot com my office manager created.”
Shaun’s smile spoke the affirmative, as well as a stab at politeness. “Mr. Sinclair, if I may be blunt, you need an online presence worthy of your business. Search functionality for all your properties, instant messaging, slideshows of each home’s interior. You need your domain foremost, registered and attached to the site.”
“Yeah, we’ve been meaning to do that.” The old saying about good intentions echoed in my head. “You don’t really have to sell me on it, son,” I told him. We get busy in buying and selling properties that maintaining a website falls further down the to-do list. “Sondra would happily keep it updated, and work the Twitter and blogging and such, but can you build a platform she wouldn’t blow up with a keystroke?”
“Training is part of the package, and we’ll have you and your staff website literate in less than a day.” Shaun had a messenger bag with him, and he fished for a large tablet. “This is our most recent project, to give you an idea of my team’s handiwork. We’ll be launching it Monday.”
He maximized the web browser to reveal an updated version of Sly and First’s site. Clever of Shaun to show it off here, with a satisfied client serving drinks and hovering near us. I imagined the young man could sit in the restaurant all day and pick up work.
A high whistle of appreciation sounded behind me, and I turned to find Anson standing over us. “Nice work. I love the new color scheme and rotating banners,
” he said, pointing to the tablet. “You know, our site could use a facelift.”
Was this a setup? Shaun and Anson didn’t exchange winks, but both men drove the point home. “It’s definitely worth a meeting,” I handed Shaun my card, “I want you to email me your availability next week.”
“Will do, and here’s our portfolio and package breakdown, everything from site construction to SEO and ongoing maintenance.” He set a thumb drive between us and we shook hands. After shaking Anson’s hand, we said our goodbyes and Shaun ducked toward the exit.
“Clever man,” Anson said, joining me. “Thumb drives aren’t cheap. He just created an ‘in’ with you, because you know he’ll come by the office to collect it.”
“I suppose that’s true. Email is rather impartial these days. He could send an email attachment I’ll never read, but put this in front of me and I’m compelled to humor him when he stops by and asks my opinion. Of course, I have to plug it in and open the files.” I waited and watched as a server set down a napkin and beer bottle by his hand, then added, “I’m not being dismissive. Shaun’s a nice man, and I’d rather give a local boy business than hire out some faceless web firm in New York.”
“But…”
“Oh, there’s no other shoe to drop. Well, maybe I worry about putting money into a new site that goes stale quickly, like our current one is now. We’ll forget to upload new properties or take down ones that have been contracted.” For so long we relied on real estate search engines that aggregated REIN data for the state. People found us via listings from every possible place but our own website.
“That’s what Sondra is for, right? If Shaun trains her, I’m sure she’ll go nuts in her new role as cyber queen. We improve our site, we improve the business.” Anson tipped his bottle toward me. “So here’s to a new era at Sinclair Realty. Maybe we could get Sondra to write a weekly blog about Archer Beach, too. Sell the area for our vacation rentals.”
Nice to see somebody had already decided this course of action. I couldn’t argue with Anson, though. We needed to join the new century.