by Rob Rosen
Now shirtless, I could see more plainly how well Dave had weathered the years. Salt-and-pepper hair, matching the hair on his head, covered his trunk-like torso, and though his pecs sagged somewhat, they were still thick with muscle. Likewise, the definition of his abs had been erased by time, but his stomach, I was pleased to see, had not expanded. He could, in fact, still be described as a muscle daddy.
What he couldn’t be described as was my type. I always preferred men my age or younger. Dave was similarly inclined. “I’ve always liked younger men,” he’d quipped on our first date. He was fifty-seven then; I was in my mid-forties. When Heath Ledger appeared on that Vanity Fair cover, I was over the top of fifty.
I was even more shocked when I put my hands on his chest and saw the hair on my arms. “I’m going gray.”
“What do you mean going, Santa?” Dave chuckled, fingering my evidently white goatee.
I kissed him to change the subject. It was a tender kiss, the type of kiss that kindled romantic feelings rather than sexual. But the kiss heated quickly, going from romantic to lustful in seconds. Dave, shorter than I, reached up and put his hands around my neck, digging in his fingers as he held me to his lips, pushing his tongue against mine.
My arms encircled him, holding him tight against me—so tight my stiffening cock struggled uncomfortably between our bodies. Dave reached down and took hold of my swelling organ, his eyes going from my dick to my eyes and back again. With his free hand, he took one of my wrists and, without saying a word, started walking backward, leading me to the sofa.
I stood before him while he shucked off his shorts. His huge cock jumped forward. I didn’t consider myself a size queen, but I couldn’t help but be impressed. I reached for it, hungry to put it in my mouth, but Dave pushed me onto the sofa.
“Not yet,” he singsonged, kneeling between my legs.
I leaned back against the sofa cushions and moaned deeply, my body enveloped in pleasure as my cock was enveloped by Dave’s experienced mouth. He took my cock all the way down his throat, held it, then slowly released it an inch at a time. I tried to watch him suck my dick—I wanted to watch, to see my cock disappear into his mouth—but then another wave of pleasure overcame me and I closed my eyes, riding it blindly.
Dave lifted my legs up from the floor. I took the hint, and brought them up to my chest, wincing as my knees made a noise that sounded like a rope about to snap. My cracking knees, however, were quickly drowned out by my ecstatic groans as Dave tucked into my ass.
“Oh-yes-oh-yes-oh-yes,” I panted mindlessly, my body trembling as Dave’s tongue tunneled into my asshole. He chewed delicately on the rubbery contours of my rosebud, biting just hard enough to make it twitch.
He stopped abruptly. “You’ve got a beautiful ass,” he said, working two fingers into my hole.
“It’s all yours,” I sighed.
Dave removed his fingers and leaned into my parted thighs, his shaft resting against my spread asscheeks. His cockhead pushed against my balls, drizzling them with precome. “It better be,” he replied.
He fucked me then, needing little more than spit and his cock’s juices to enter me. I grabbed on to the seat cushions and shut my eyes, enduring the uncomfortable tension of his entry. And then he was on top of me, his cock buried inside. The tension eased into pleasure.
We kissed sloppily, going after each other’s mouths as if the other man’s lips were prey. Dave squeezed my shoulders, his grip tightening as he fucked me in hard rhythmic thrusts. My hands traveled down his sweat-dampened back, then lower to the rise of his ass, caressing his buttocks while searching for his hairy hole. Before I could finger him, though, Dave picked up the pace, and I had to wrap my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life as he pounded my ass.
“I love you so much,” Dave said, the words coming out in a throaty groan, while his balls slapped against my quivering butt.
My reply came out as an adenoidal grunt: “I love ungh!”
Dave was now slamming into me, putting his full weight behind every thrust. The sofa banging against the wall provided a backbeat for our sharp cries, deep moans, and whispered obscenities.
“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” Dave hissed, gripping my cock.
Thump-thump-thump.
“Ah . . . I’m so close,” I moaned, trying to hold back the rising ecstasy by sheer force of will.
Thump-thump-thump.
Dave was pulling on my cock, jacking me off in time to his thrusts. “C’mon, give me that load,” he said, his mouth contorted in a strained rictus.
Thump-thump-thump.
I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to open them for fear of seeing the old man again, for fear that what I was experiencing wasn’t happening. I kept my eyes closed for fear that when I opened them, it would all be over. As long as my eyes were closed, I could hold on to the sensations coursing through me, enjoy them regardless of whether I was dreaming or on drugs or going insane. As long as my eyes were closed, I was getting a hot fuck from a man who loved me and whom I loved in return. At this moment, it was real and it was the only reality that mattered.
Then that reality burst, exploding in thick white jets of come. “Oh, yeah, baby,” Dave growled, pumping my cock with his fist.
My body jerked and twitched, each orgasmic tremor seemingly stronger than the last. Then, in one final shudder, I was limp, breathless and satiated, hearing nothing but my heartbeat.
Thump-thump-thump.
I slowly opened my eyes.
I was in bed. Alone. It was morning, the sun so bright that it seemed to punch its way through the slats of the window blinds.
Thump-thump-thump.
Someone was pounding on the front door. Equally frantic pressing of the doorbell followed the frantic knocking. A man’s voice shouted: “C’mon, I know you’re home. Open up.”
I got out of bed and headed to the closet to get my bathrobe, shouting for my visitor to wait just a minute.
Next to the closet door was the dresser, and on top of the dresser were photos. There were four of them: one of me taken during a Gulf Coast vacation in the ’70s, on display because it showed off my body in its prime, even if my hair made me cringe; another photo showed Dave, stretched out in a chaise lounge on the patio, asleep, his boner ill-concealed in his bright yellow Speedos. Another photo was of Dave and me, together, taken during a trip to Majorca to celebrate Dave’s retirement, the two of us burnished by the sun and looking happy—and ignorant, Dave finding out six months later his days were numbered.
I heard glass breaking and, moments later, the back door opening. “Jim?” a male voice called. “Jim? Jim! Goddammit, Jim, answer me!”
I remained motionless, not even bothering to speak when my visitor—Mike from next door—rushed into the bedroom. My eyes were stuck on the fourth photo displayed on top of my dresser, a four-inch by six-inch snapshot of my sister and her two kids, who were now married with kids of their own. Standing among them, wearing a grin with which I was all too familiar, was an old man, trying in vain to hide the wrinkles on his face behind a snow-white beard.
“Shit, shit, shit!” cursed my neighbor.
I turned to see Mike at the bed, frantically trying to revive the old man who lay there. I wanted to tell Mike he was too late, but knew he couldn’t hear me; no one could. So I stood there silently, staring at the old man on the bed, realizing I would never see his face again.
LOVE ON THE ROCKS
Rob Rosen
I’d been in the bar for a couple of hours. It was a slow night, a Wednesday. Work had been tough. I had a big problem that wasn’t getting solved any time soon, so I needed to unwind, forget my troubles, get laid—not necessarily in that order. But the place had been relatively empty, slim pickings at best. In other words, when the lights were raised and they got ready to close up, I wearily downed my drink and went to the back to use the facilities before my drive home.
Guess I was in there longer than expected. “We’re closed already,” t
he bartender said when he noticed me returning. “Sorry.”
“No sweat,” I replied. “Just taking a leak.” I headed out and noticed him staring at me in the reflection of the front window. I turned and smiled and nodded. He returned the smile with one of his own—a big toothy number that caused the skin around his eyes to crinkle. He had two huge dimples and laser-intense blue eyes. I hadn’t noticed them before, the bar being dark up until that point. “Have a good night,” I said, reaching for the handle.
“Still got about an hour to go. Gotta clean this mess up. It’ll be tomorrow by the time I’m finished.”
Seemed like he was chatting me up. Fine, I figured; I had nothing else to do. “Yeah?” I said. “Sounds lonely. Want some company?”
The smile widened. “Don’t you have someplace better to be?”
“Better than this? Are you kidding?” The bar was a dump, but he was cuter than hell. I’d take my chances.
“Suit yourself,” he said, motioning to the stool I’d been sitting at. “Your seat awaits you, sir.”
I turned around and sat back down. He put a shot glass in front of me and poured. “Scotch. On the rocks.” He poured himself one, too. “Name’s Scott.”
“Todd.”
We shook on it, lingering a little longer, not wanting to break the human contact. “‘Excuse me,” he finally said, and ran to the back room. He returned a couple of minutes later. He’d changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top. “My cleaning gear,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Nice,” I said. It was as gross an understatement as was ever uttered. The tank revealed sinewy, muscled arms and a matting of chest hair that poked out over the neckline, that and a tuft of hair just above the top of the shorts, which were so snug that they barely left anything to the imagination. And, trust me, I had ample imagination to go around. Though, judging by the package inside those snug shorts of his, not nearly as ample as him. In any case, he noticed my staring and shot me a wicked grin.
He started cleaning the area behind the bar first. “All the cute guys in here, and you’re going home alone? How come?” He had his back toward me as he emptied the trash cans. All the better for me to see his hairy, muscled calves and even hairier thighs, not to mention the cutest little butt this side of the Mississippi. Heck, let’s make it both sides and call it a day.
“I’m not all alone,” I corrected. “And the cutest guy is right here.” I pointed his way.
I downed my scotch. He poured me another. “Sweet-talking the bartender, huh? It’ll get you far.”
“Not sweet-talking; telling the truth.” I took a sip. “And how far exactly will it, to quote, get me?”
He winked, his neck flushing crimson. “Go pull the blinds down and cover the pool table for me, and then we’ll see just how far.”
I did as I was told. A few minutes later, I returned to my seat. Scott had rewarded me by taking off the tank. “Gets hot in here,” he said, with a smirk. The guy was hairy. Way hairy. And lean as hell. He had flat pecs and thick, rigid nipples, those washboard abs you usually only see in underwear ads, a six-pack with a seemingly extra set of cans. While he cleaned the bar, they tensed and trembled.
“How come I’ve never seen you in here before?” I asked, removing my shirt as well. He looked over in mock alarm. “What?” I said, with a grin. “You were right; it is hot in here.”
He started unloading the dishwasher as he answered my question. Even his back was defined, with just a slight spread of fur above his nicely rounded ass. “Started here a week ago. Moved to the city two weeks ago. Thought this was as good a place as any. Gotta work nights until my career gets going.”
“Career?”
He turned and smiled again. “Modeling. Did some in college. Thought I’d make it full-time.” That explained the body. And the face. “And you?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I replied. “First . . . ” I held my glass up and shook it. “Empty.”
He sauntered back over and held the bottle above my glass. I grabbed his hand before he poured. He looked up and locked those crystal-clear eyes of his onto mine, which is when I got up off my stool and leaned in. The bottle was set back down on the bar.
“Hey, Scott,” I said, nearly in a whisper, leaning in even farther. I felt the cold bar press against my stomach. He leaned in as well, until our eyes were mere inches apart.
“Yeah, Todd?” he said, which also came out in a whisper.
The eyes stayed open. Our lips touched. His were soft, like silk. Like cotton. Like heaven. They parted to allow our tongues to swirl, to tango. I sighed, just slightly. The eyes closed. We pressed harder, kissed firmer. He smelled like booze and sweat, with just a touch of deodorant and cologne. It was a heady mixture, to be sure. His sigh echoed my own. The kiss got soft again. Tender. The eyes, at last, re-opened.
I finished my sentence. “Got any Bailey’s?”
He laughed, pulled away, then returned with the bottle and poured us both a shot, again on the rocks. “For you? Anything.”
“Man, the staff here sure is accommodating. Never noticed it before. Guess I gotta start coming to this place more regularly.” I took a sip. It was cold and sweet, with just a mild burn. I added, “Anything, huh?” and set the glass back down.
Again the red crept up his neck. “Wipe down the tables first, and then we’ll see.” He handed me a clean wet rag, and added a kiss for good measure. Nix that; make it great measure.
It was a small bar, with only six tall tables. Pretty much everyone stood around or leaned against the wall. It didn’t take long to clean them off. Quickly done with the task at hand, I returned to my stool, took another sip of my drink, and watched him count the bills and close out the register.
When he was done, he looked up at me with that glorious smile. I motioned him back over with a wave of my index finger.
“Now, about that anything.” First, I pointed to my nearly empty glass. Obediently, he filled it back up. Next, I pointed to his shorts. “Off,” I said.
“What would the department of health say about that?” He grinned and played with the elastic band just below his waistline.
“I’m sure they’d give you passing marks. Now, off.” My breath grew faster and my heart rate quickened, chest pounding all the while, crotch right along with it.
He acquiesced. Slowly. The shorts crept down, revealing a trimmed black bush, then an inch of the base of his cock, then two. Until only the head was hidden and, soon enough, not even that. I’d been holding my breath the whole time. When he kicked off the shorts, I finally exhaled. Now he was naked, save for his sneakers and socks. His cock dangled down and just slightly out. He had a semi-woodie. Even softish like it was, it was a good five inches, with balls that hung far lower.
“Better?” he asked.
“Almost.” I indicated that he should turn around. He did. The ass was even hotter without the material covering it. It was hairy and firm, with two concave indentations on either side.
“Better?” he asked, again, only with more of an edge to his voice, a low rasp.
“Almost. Put a foot on the keg to your right.” He did as I asked. “Now, lean forward and grab the edge of the counter.” His butt was now pointed at me, as were those mammoth balls that swung down so low that they could’ve been in their own zip code.
“Better?” It was almost a whisper this time.
“Almost. Reach back and spread the cheeks.”
With both hands, he reached around and spread the hairy cheeks apart. The hair trailed inward to reveal a hairy crack and a pink hole that winked out at me. With his index finger, he touched the chute, smoothed it, caressed it.
“Nice touch.”
“Yeah, thought you’d like that. By the way, I have something for you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I asked, all the while unbuttoning my pants and sliding down my zipper. Ziiip.
“This,” he replied, reaching back around to his front and pushing his now hard cock through his legs. H
e pressed it up so that the fat mushroom head could rub against the hole.
“Nice,” I said. “Turn around. Let’s see it.”
He took his foot off the keg and turned around for me. The cock was even bigger this way. Seven inches, easy. And thick. It pointed up. The meaty tip glistened with an opalescent drop of precome.
“Slap it,” I said as I yanked my pants down around my ankles, then my underwear, to reveal my own six, even thicker inches of meat.
He slapped it; it bounced down and then up, as did his hefty balls. Scott moaned. The sound of the slap and the moan filled the room and my ears like a symphony. My cock grew even thicker, wetter. I pulled it, gave it a couple of tugs, sucked the salty spooge off my fingers.
“Don’t be stingy with that,” he said, moving toward me. Walking around the bar, he noticed my state of almost-undress, not to mention the thick cock in my hand. “Mmm. For me?”
“Yep,” I said, releasing the beast and guiding his hand to it.
“Best tip I got all night.” Our lips met again, firmer, with more urgency this time. He pumped my cock with his fist. I returned the favor. The eyes stayed open, yet again. The blue was jarring, mesmerizing, enticing. It drew me in like a cold pool on a hot day.
“You taste good,” I said.
“Yeah?” He grabbed the bottle of Bailey’s off the bar and tilted it over his fat cock. The tan liquid dribbled down and over. “Have some.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I jumped off the stool and sank down to my knees. His crotch now smelled awesome, like Bailey’s and sweat, funky and sweet. I licked the alcohol off, sucked the remainder, and sunk my mouth down and around his curved cock, until he buried it down my throat. I gagged, backed up an inch, then swallowed again. And again. I was hungry for it. I kept sucking and sucking, finally tasting his bittersweet precome instead of the booze.
I got down on the ground and lay on the cold, hard cement floor. “Stand over me,” I said, and he did. “Now, feed me those balls of yours.”