by Wolfe, Sean
We all tossed back our shots, and then I pulled out my phone. Even though it was only ten after eight, I was afraid I was being stood up and I was beginning to panic. This would not do, so I was gonna call and give this guy a piece of my mind. I’d been hurt more than I’d wanted in the past six months, and I wasn’t about to let this stranger be the next in line. I listened to the voicemail message on the other end, and my heart melted. He had a very sexy voice and sounded so sweet.
“Hey, you hot little angel, you. This is Kyle,” I said, and then remembered we’d exchanged phone numbers but never got around to giving our real names. “Ummm ... I mean, the guy you chatted with online earlier. It’s a little past eight, and I’m just calling to see if you’re still planning on meeting me at Charlies. Gimme a call. You have my number.”
I hung up and looked over at John.
“Aww, sweetie, don’t look so sour,” John said as he turned around to order another round of Tuaca shots. “Those puppy dog eyes look much better when they’re sparkling and not crying.”
“Oh, please! I’m not crying. Especially not over someone I just chatted with online,” I said, hoping it sounded convincing.
Even though I hadn’t even spoken with this guy, I felt there was something different about him. Our conversation wasn’t the usual online bullshit. We didn’t even talk about sex at all. Instead we talked about our work and Latino culture and our favorite movies. He made fun of the fact that I’m Mexican and don’t even speak Spanish and rubbed it in that he was a gringo and spoke Spanish fluently. I teased him about his age and called him a cradle robber for flirting with a boy twelve years younger than him. There was nothing sexual about our chat; it was fun and innocent. And yet my heart fluttered and my cock hardened as we interacted.
“Fuck him, anyway,” I said bravely, trying very hard not to slip into my patented pouting voice. “He’s the one who’s missing ...”
Standing just outside the door, next to the ATM was a guy dressed in jeans and a red zip-down sweater. I was sure it was him. He had his phone to his ear, but didn’t seem to be talking. Was he checking a message?
I grabbed John’s arm just as he was going to toss back his shot. Instead it splashed all across his shirt.
“Hey!” he screeched. “Those aren’t cheap, you know.”
“I think that might be him.” I gripped his arm tighter.
“Where?” John asked, forgetting about the shot.
I nodded toward the door.
“Oh,” he said as he cupped one elbow in his other hand and rubbed his chin. “He’s kinda cute. A little old ...”
“I like a little old. I’m tired of all these twinks who don’t know what they want out of life and don’t know the difference between their ass and a hole in the ground.”
“... a little short ...”
“I like a little short. Makes it easier for me to ...”
“Well, don’t justify it to me, girl,” John said as he pushed me forward. “Go meet your man.”
Preston
What the fuck was I thinking? I thought to myself. I looked at the picture of the guy on the screen. He really was beautiful, and exactly my type. Young, Latino, and with a cocky expression on his face. I’d never been able to resist guys like him. Not that I was complaining, mind you. Though falling for his kind had brought me more than my share of pain and anguish, it had also brought me some of the hottest and most precious moments of my life.
We’d chatted for a couple of hours and really clicked. I’d gotten so used to all the Internet bullshit that I’d almost forgotten what it was like to actually meet and chat with someone who knew how to be real. I popped a boner just from chatting with him ... and we weren’t even talking about sex.
But who was I kidding? He was just a kid, twenty years younger than me. My profile stated I was thirty-five years old, because most people guessed me to be between thirty and thirty-five ... and more truthfully, because in the gay community anyone whose real age begins with anything higher than a three might as well have their age begin with a nine or even a ten. Even with my false age of thirty-five, I was twelve years this kid’s senior. When I mentioned it to him, he said he liked older guys (which caused my heart to tighten painfully), and that thirty-five was the perfect age for him. That made me smile and feel really good ... until I remembered that I was actually the non-perfect age of forty-three.
And now I’d gone and agreed to meet him. Had I gone mad, I wondered as I ransacked my closet for something to wear. I dug to the back of the closet, where I kept my “happenin’ clothes.” The jeans were all strategically ripped and faded, and the shirts were all clingy and made of material undoubtedly manufactured on another galaxy and accentuated my hours-at-the-gym sculpted body. My happenin’ clothes had always been good to me and had gotten me more action than anyone my age had a right to get. And usually with guys whose age really did still begin with a two.
But in my epiphany stage, which had begun a couple months earlier, I’d come to an understanding of who I really was, and that I needed to stop behaving like—and dressing like—and pretending to be—a twenty-something. I needed to be comfortable with my real self. And not only did I need to stop trying to be a twink, but I also needed to stop being attracted to them. It was time I found someone my own age and settle down and grow old with him. But that had proven much, much more difficult than it sounded.
I began to hyperventilate and panic deep inside the closet, among the hanged shirts and folded pants and jeans. I dug myself out quickly, and crawled over to the bedroom door, then looked out into the living room and at the computer screen. His picture was still there, looking at me seductively and winking. Just as I was about to blow a kiss at it, the picture disappeared, and my animated fish screensaver popped up. Nemo looked directly into my eyes and then blew out a big bubble.
“Fuck you,” I said out loud to the defenseless fish on my computer screen.
As much as I wanted to bring out my happenin’ clothes and slip back into a pattern that was very comfortable, I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t turn my back on all I’d learned about myself the past few months. I couldn’t pretend I was half my age. And so, the hot twenty-three year-old Latin boy-god would just have to meet the real me and determine whether I was something he wanted or not. I felt fairly comfortable, after our two-hour chat session, that he would. But I was still hesitant and afraid as I pushed my happenin’ clothes back to the rear of the closet and worked my way to the front of the row of hanged clothes.
I settled on what I’d told the guy I would be wearing anyway, even if it meant he’d be able to spot me immediately and run the other way if I wasn’t what he’d imagined. Maybe that was better. It’d save me the embarrassment of having him look me directly in the eyes and tell me I was an old fart and uglier than Mother Teresa.
So, I pulled the red and black zip-down pullover sweater from the hanger and laid it on the bed next to my favorite pair of black jeans. This particular outfit made me look younger than I actually was, but still older than a college jock. It’d been lucky for me in the past, and I was counting on it again.
I undressed and walked to the shower. Was that Linkin Park I was whistling, I wondered, or MacArthur Park?
I was running a little late anyway, and had to stop at the store to buy a pack of breath strips. So by the time I got to Charlies it was already 8:15. Only a handful of people were milling about in both areas of the bar, and the show was running late, as usual. I took a quick peek around, but didn’t see the hottie I’d been chatting with earlier, so I went to the bar to order a drink.
Just as I paid for my cocktail, my phone rang. It wasn’t the regular ring of an incoming call, but the steady tone that let me know I had a voicemail message. I cursed for the millionth time that my phone didn’t ring loud enough nor vibrate quite vigorously enough to be heard or felt over the drone of loud music and shouted conversations of the bar.
I pulled out my phone and listened to the message as I walked a
way from the bar and over to the more quiet ATM machine. So, his name was Kyle, and he was here. His voice sounded a little sad or disappointed, yet it also had an undertone of anger. I recognized that tone immediately. I’d used it often myself. We Geminis are not known for our mild manner or patience, and I smiled as I took note that this kid really was a true Gemini.
I saved the message because I loved the sound of his voice, and returned the phone to my pocket, then turned around to walk into the Party Bar, where the show was about to begin. It was then that I saw him walking toward me, and thought my heart would explode.
It was HIM. Not just him, but HIM. The kid I’d been noticing ... on the verge of stalking, practically ... for the past year. Why hadn’t I noticed that he was HIM? His hair was a little different than in the picture online, and he was a little heavier. But still! As he walked toward me and smiled, I knew at once it was HIM. Why the hell hadn’t I noticed it while I was chatting with him online? For the past year I’d noticed him almost every time I went out. His piercing eyes and full, pink lips drew me to him like some magical potion. I’d made a point of standing right next to him on the dance floor, or behind him in line for a drink every single time I’d seen him. I’d leaned in to get a whiff of his cologne. And I’d gone home alone and beat off to his face in my mind more times than I cared to count.
And now he was walking right toward me with the most seductive smile I’d ever seen, and I panicked at the thought that our first date would begin and end with him watching me being rolled out on a paramedic’s gurney.
“Hi,” he said, and thrust his hand toward me. “I’m Kyle. Please tell me you’re Gemini_Angel.”
I tried to smile and prayed my eyes were nowhere near as bugged or cross-eyed as they felt. “Hi, yes, I’m Gemini_Angel,” I said as I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “But you can call me Preston.”
His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word above the loud ringing that resonated through my head. When he motioned me toward the bar, I noticed the group of four or five guys watching us intently. I assumed they were his friends, and walked with him over to the bar.
Thankfully, the show started right away. About ten minutes later I felt myself relax a little, and my heart slowed to a normal pace. It might have been the show, but it was more likely the Malibu Rum with Red Bull that I’d milked less than delicately. Whatever the reason, I found myself emboldened and allowed my arm to slide behind Kyle and rest lightly on his shoulder. I reminded myself to breath, unsure how he would react to my sudden move. When he leaned back against me, and rested his hand on my knee, I relaxed and fell into a normal breathing pattern.
Normally I’m a little shy around cute guys, so I really have no explanation as to the events that came next. Okay, so I had another couple of drinks, and maybe that could be the answer. But I prefer to believe I’d found that renewed sense of self and confidence I’d been striving to achieve for the past couple of months. Whatever the reason, I found myself tickling the back of Kyle’s neck, and when he moaned lightly and leaned against me a little harder, I kissed his neck softly.
He gripped my knee tighter. “You really should stop that,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ...”
“Because I won’t be able to stand up if you keep this up,” he said, and smiled as he leaned back to kiss me on the mouth.
His kiss was soft and sweet, and instantly hardened my cock. Some guys—and especially those in their early twenties—are afraid of kissing. They go into it tentatively and cautiously, as if there might be something frightening inside the kiss. But not Kyle. His tongue licked my lips tenderly, then slipped inside. I sucked on it eagerly as he slid it in and out of my mouth.
I cheated, and peeked to see if his eyes were open or shut. Call it a quirk or a pet peeve, but I’ve never been able to tolerate guys who kiss with their eyes open. It always seemed like they were looking around for someone hotter while they were kissing me. Kyle’s eyes were closed and when he gently pulled me closer to him, I knew he was into it one hundred percent.
That’s all I needed, and when I relaxed and let my body rest against his, I felt I was in heaven. I reached down and let my hand rest at the front of his jeans. I immediately found out he wasn’t kidding at all about not being able to stand up in public. We kissed for a few moments then sat back down and behaved ourselves. We were in public, after all, and I didn’t feel we needed to make a spectacle of ourselves.
But that didn’t stop us from being noticed.
“Wow,” a shaved-headed twenty-something kid with multiple piercings said as he walked up to us and kissed Kyle’s friend John on the cheek. “You guys are hot. I’d do you both. At the same time.”
Kyle smiled and squeezed my hand, and I blushed.
“Well, I would,” the guy repeated. “You make a very hot couple.”
Kyle and I looked at one another and grinned. “We only just met about twenty minutes ago,” Kyle said.
“Really?” the punk kid said. “Well, you should be a couple.”
“Oh, please!” John said loudly, and turned to wave his hand at the bartender. “Don’t encourage them. They’re already out of control. We don’t have time for any more. It’s shot o’clock, for chrissake!”
Kyle and I laughed, and John passed out a round of Tuaca shots.
With the sexual tension broken, I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the evening. But when the show ended, I felt sad. It was a Tuesday evening, and both Kyle and I had to work the next day, so I knew it was getting close to time to go. I didn’t want the evening to end, and I didn’t feel Kyle did either.
Sookie came over and excused herself as she grabbed Kyle and pulled him away from me and with her. Kyle laughed and shrugged as he was dragged away. “I’ll be back in a few ...” he whispered as he disappeared around the corner and out onto the patio.
I took the opportunity to get us another drink, wanting to postpone the inevitable as long as possible. When he returned, I handed Kyle another beer and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Okay, so I have a choice to make,” he said as he broke the kiss and took a big swallow of beer.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sookie wants to crash at my place tonight because his mom and dad are in town for a couple of days and staying at his apartment.”
I raised my eyebrow and tried to smile.
“And he wants to leave now. So ... I can leave now and go to my place with Sookie ...”
“Or?”
“Or I can give her the keys to my place and go home with you.”
My heart skipped a beat and I took a deep breath. “Well, I’m not one to pressure anyone,” I said, “but you’re more than welcome to spend the night with me.”
Kyle looked at me and smiled, and my heart melted. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and he darted out the door. A few minutes later he returned, and grabbed my hand as he pulled me toward the door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To your place.”
Kyle
Preston’s place was small, but I couldn’t believe how neat and clean it was. The furniture was nice, there were no dirty dishes on the kitchen counter, no dirty clothes thrown around on the living room or the bedroom floor. He had a really nice wooden four-poster bed and matching dresser, and classy artistic prints of male nudes in expensive frames hanging on the walls.
I felt a little uncomfortable and out of place. The guys I dated were all my own age, and either lived at home with their parents, or in run-down ghetto apartments with roommates, like I did. We slept on mattresses on the floor and kept our clothes in large Glad bags. Our “artwork” consisted of cheap posters thumbtacked onto bare walls. And we had dirty dishes and dirty clothes lying around. That’s just the way it was.
But Preston’s place was different. When he lit a candle on the nightstand next to his bed and pulled me in to kiss him, I instantly felt comfortable and relaxed.
His kisses w
ere like heaven in my mouth. I love a guy who knows how to kiss, and who likes doing it. It didn’t usually happen with the guys I went out with. He undressed me and laid me on the bed, and then undressed himself. I watched him in the candlelight and couldn’t believe what I saw. Yeah, sure, he was quite a bit older than me. I knew that going into the whole thing, and he looked older than me. He still looked hot, but definitely older. But his body was incredible. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, but his muscles were big and toned and bulging in all the right places. Even in the candlelight I saw thick veins running along his legs and arms. I couldn’t take my eyes off of his naked body.
I broke out of my trance when he walked toward me, and I held my breath. Suddenly I wasn’t comfortable being naked. I wasn’t fat by any means, but I certainly wasn’t anywhere near this guy’s league when it came to having a nice body. The only time I ever spent in a gym was a year in high school when I took gymnastics class. But that had been a few years back. I never ate healthy ... it was always the cheapest and fastest takeout available. So I felt a little self-conscious when he lay next to me in bed and leaned in to kiss me.
His kiss forced me to breathe, and when I did, I relaxed a little. Apparently Preston didn’t mind my body. He scooted next to me, wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the lips, and I instantly sprung a boner. He moved his kisses from my lips, to my ears, and then down my neck, and I moaned and wriggled beneath him. This guy was fucking driving me crazy just with his kisses.
He crawled on top of my chest and pinned my arms to the mattress on either side of my head, then licked down my neck and to my chest. He slid his body down so that his ass rubbed up against my hard cock, and licked and nibbled on my nipples. I moaned louder, and tried to squirm under him, but he was strong and kept me pinned beneath him.