August 14, 2011
In 1999

Sitting on his couch and he brings me a beer.  He’s talking to someone on the telephone, the receiver cradled between his shoulder and ear.  He opens the twist-off bottle and hands it to me and I take a sip.  He sits next to me.  Whoever he’s talking to, it must be family (he’s going on about a birthday party for “Nan”).  He’s naked and I take another sip.

I flicks on the remote and the television comes on.  He hits another button and he mutes it, and sets the remote between us and I wonder if that means anything.  On the television screen is an orgy scene, one girl and half a dozen naked men.  The girl, on her knees, she looks like someone’s wife and isn’t attractive.  The men on the screen, inexplicably, are.  They queue to take turns fucking her ass and/or her mouth.  It’s about as titillating as it sounds, but with one hand on his cock and the other rubbing my shoulder, he’s still talking on the phone.

After every man on the screen has had a turn at the girl, he slides over, closer to me, listening to the other person speak through the phone, and he takes a hand under my shirt and begin pinching a nipple.  I set the beer bottle on the floor near my feet, and lean back.  His other hand comes to my belt and clumsily undoes it.  He mouths something to me I don’t understand but think he wants me to take off my shirt and I do.  He smiles and mouths the same thing.  He touches my bare chest and his hands aren’t rough.

He says into the phone things like, “Well, okay then…” and, “It’s getting late…” and maybe I don’t want him to stop his conversation.  I keep checking my watch; I told him I needed to be gone by five and it’s nearly four-thirty now. The woman on the television has been replaced by a very young looking boy and the men all smile to each other, each of them naked and hairy and their erections in their hands.  It’s like knowing a car accident is definitely going to happen and stopping to watch it unfold.  He grabs me by my jeans’ belt loops and stands me before him, his face flushed for some reason.

I’m having second thoughts when he’s pulling down my pants and boxers and begins fondling me.  Pinching here and there, planting kisses, sniffing me.  Her turns me over and says into the phone that he’s not going to make it tomorrow somewhere.  His hands aren’t rough but they’re not gentle when spreads my legs apart, my right begins to cramp immediately.  He says into the phone he has to go, can he call back in a few minutes.  For a moment, I think this will be everything.  My dick responds to his touch despite the distance between us.  I think how it is I’m here, right now, in this position, naked, a strange man’s hands all over me.  Not how I got here, not in the real sense of the words, but how the decision to be here passed my brain as a good idea.  These aren’t second thoughts.

He breathes deep and sighs and I hear the distinct click of the telephone.  On the television screen, the boy is being double penetrated and has come on his face.  He says, “Ready?”

During and after, he says all these things at various intervals:

"Fuck."

"Just what I need."

"You’re so tight."

"Baby."

He’s as bad as the porno still playing as I put on my sneakers and lace them up. 

He’s sweaty and his chest hair is matted to his slick skin and he looks oily.  Twenty minutes ago he hangs up the phone, now he’s picking up again, inviting me to some Chinese food.  “It’ll be here in a few minutes,” he says.  I say I have to go.  He smiles.  As he’s dialing, he wanders off into his bedroom.  On the television screen, the men from the orgy scenes from before are all jerking each other off and I wonder where they find the strength.  They’re someone’s sons, I think, and I feel guilty.  He comes back and sees me watching the screen.

I can come over again whenever I want, he says.  He says he’s sorry our time was cut so short.  He says he likes me.  He says maybe we can go away for a weekend.  His wallet is in his hands, the phone back on his shoulder.  He digs out a twenty and says into the phone, “Can I have the number three and number ten for delivery, please?” and I see a picture of his two kids and his wife in his wallet.  I say sure and glance back at the screen and two men come at the same time and everyone else just look disappointed.  I say thanks and leave him, walks out, close the door behind me, and I think this isn’t the worse way to begin hooking up with married men over the internet.

It’s 1999.

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