Home-shot photos of Jake’s towel-wrapped torso were currently attached to Mascskorpio and Muscgymdude, the to-the-point generic names chosen for two commercial sex site profiles to reveal relevant material—that his was an upper-echelon physique and disposition that would seek gratification with similar bodies that measured up. Why be coy or falsely democratic, Jake had thought when inventing these guises. Between the two profiles he expected to line up a suitable few options; he’d keep the programs running for an hour and comb through the mail then. While Jake was aware that the search might be fruitless, his gut said go. Failing that, he could try another site. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of choices online; any could be activated with a few screen taps.
Normally Jake preferred to reserve his juice for a bigger bonanza and rarely wanted the sort of expedient assisting to orgasm he’d find in a park—stand, gesture, unzip; be back on the road in short minutes. The compressed efficiency of hasty sex had its natural merit—like sneezing it demanded no time and blasted out the pipes, equally crude and effective—but Jake was partial to sex as sport; in part, the spark resulted from being immersed in unknown conditions and improvising to control the outcome. It didn’t pan out every time, of course, but the successes were considerable and a cooling splash over the sporadic stings of failure. Today he was wound up; a quick park session made sense. He was fully cognizant that five minutes of masturbation would unscramble the circuits; he resorted to that only in dire circumstances—even a quarter-adventure had greater appeal than the warmth of a solitary hand.
He rubbed his eyes lids at the last of what seemed like hundreds of stoplights of the morning. Dehydrated a tad, he suspected. After work and dinner yesterday he’d stopped by The Recovery Room. Dark-paneled and lit with ultra low-watt bulbs amplified by a long wall of beveled mirrors, the place was a magnet for a professional crowd that drank from the celebrated cocktails menu. Fashionably cool, it would have been called yuppie years ago. The men there checked expensive watches often and laughed with toothy, faintly predatory smiles, watchful of their pretty, carefully-tended women—whom they regarded as integral parts of their social profile.
At the bar Jake had met, shaken hands with, and sized up Antony, “no H, man.” Clean-shaven with shaggy hair as black as Jake’s, he was shy despite the outgoing appearance, a guy who lacked—and desired—the wolfish aggression of the other men. Jake responded positively to the man’s soft give and pictured Antony’s reluctant mouth accepting his tongue and, later, the slow and progressively deeper thrusting of his dick.
Antony, “in finance, but breaking into real estate,” introduced Jake to Krysta—“that’s with a K and a Y,” Antony said with a grin, igniting Jake’s hope—a freckled blonde day trader whose small frame was blessed with an ample, gravity-defying rack.
The couple talked about work evangelically, as though they believed real estate and day trading were necessary, soul-saving subjects; Jake began to feel that he’d stumbled into the convention of an accounting cult. What the fuck, he thought. The pair was young and active, so they ought to have more to spout about than condo prices, interest rates, and the housing market’s crazy rollercoastering.
“What do you two do for fun?” Jake decided that the conversation would benefit from shepherding. “Besides hanging out here with the beautiful people, that is.”
“Krysta and I started snowboarding last year,” Antony replied.
“Cool.” Jake looked around. Maybe this venue was a shade too indirect for his drives tonight. Or, he’d shown up before alcohol had lowered inhibitions.
“And we’re really getting into traveling.” Krysta’s perky addition confirmed the couple’s von Trapp wholesomeness and that, disconcertingly, they weren’t following his lead. “We went to Jamaica in February! It was great!”
Jake had pondered alternate options.
Bored with the lack and the glacial proceedings, he said, “Excuse me for a minute. Beer.” He pointed downward, intending the physical detail to direct their eyes and to signal a reluctance to keep on with the office lunch room chit-chat. He emptied the green bottle in a gulp.
The walls of the toilet were covered in hexagonal brass tiles and dark weatherbeaten-effect planks.
Antony came in as Jake washed his hands. “Man, it’s like yawning. Now I have to go too.” He faced the wall above the urinal, reading a page of sports scores tacked behind glass.
Jake waited at the black stone sink. Testosterone and impatience were edging him toward reckless disregard. “What do you two have on for later?”
“Later?” Antony seemed surprised. “It’s a weeknight.”
“Oh, I see. I was hoping to get some tonight.” Jake smiled widely, inviting this new acquaintance to join a conspiracy.
Antony approached the sink. “Oh, I see. You mean us. No, man, you’re way off base. Jeez.”
“Oops.” Jake said. He figured the situation didn’t need defusing, but kept his tone confident. “I misread you, the both of you actually, man, no sweat. Forget it. I just thought…” If something was going to happen, there was no chance it’d be tonight. Alone and with a few drinks in his bloodstream, Antony might cave.
“‘I just thought’? What made you think anything?” Within Antony’s indignation, Jake caught an undertone of curiosity.
“A vibe, that’s all. Hard to define. Don’t sweat it. My mistake. Obviously I’m not a psychic.” The words he’d initially planned—“We could take turns on Krysta, then maybe you’d let me tap that too”—remained stowed away. There were limits: Antony didn’t look like a fighter, but you could never tell a guy’s reaction when intuiting his ass and territory were threatened. “I’ll see you around, man.” Offering a handshake was no option, so Jake nodded a goodbye.
Jake left the bathroom and made a beeline for the exit. He knew when to concede defeat. Approaching the rain-beaded car he mumbled, “Everything in moderation, Jakey.”
Normally Jake preferred to reserve his juice for a bigger bonanza and rarely wanted the sort of expedient assisting to orgasm he’d find in a park—stand, gesture, unzip; be back on the road in short minutes. The compressed efficiency of hasty sex had its natural merit—like sneezing it demanded no time and blasted out the pipes, equally crude and effective—but Jake was partial to sex as sport; in part, the spark resulted from being immersed in unknown conditions and improvising to control the outcome. It didn’t pan out every time, of course, but the successes were considerable and a cooling splash over the sporadic stings of failure. Today he was wound up; a quick park session made sense. He was fully cognizant that five minutes of masturbation would unscramble the circuits; he resorted to that only in dire circumstances—even a quarter-adventure had greater appeal than the warmth of a solitary hand.
He rubbed his eyes lids at the last of what seemed like hundreds of stoplights of the morning. Dehydrated a tad, he suspected. After work and dinner yesterday he’d stopped by The Recovery Room. Dark-paneled and lit with ultra low-watt bulbs amplified by a long wall of beveled mirrors, the place was a magnet for a professional crowd that drank from the celebrated cocktails menu. Fashionably cool, it would have been called yuppie years ago. The men there checked expensive watches often and laughed with toothy, faintly predatory smiles, watchful of their pretty, carefully-tended women—whom they regarded as integral parts of their social profile.
At the bar Jake had met, shaken hands with, and sized up Antony, “no H, man.” Clean-shaven with shaggy hair as black as Jake’s, he was shy despite the outgoing appearance, a guy who lacked—and desired—the wolfish aggression of the other men. Jake responded positively to the man’s soft give and pictured Antony’s reluctant mouth accepting his tongue and, later, the slow and progressively deeper thrusting of his dick.
Antony, “in finance, but breaking into real estate,” introduced Jake to Krysta—“that’s with a K and a Y,” Antony said with a grin, igniting Jake’s hope—a freckled blonde day trader whose small frame was blessed with an ample, gravity-defying rack.
The couple talked about work evangelically, as though they believed real estate and day trading were necessary, soul-saving subjects; Jake began to feel that he’d stumbled into the convention of an accounting cult. What the fuck, he thought. The pair was young and active, so they ought to have more to spout about than condo prices, interest rates, and the housing market’s crazy rollercoastering.
“What do you two do for fun?” Jake decided that the conversation would benefit from shepherding. “Besides hanging out here with the beautiful people, that is.”
“Krysta and I started snowboarding last year,” Antony replied.
“Cool.” Jake looked around. Maybe this venue was a shade too indirect for his drives tonight. Or, he’d shown up before alcohol had lowered inhibitions.
“And we’re really getting into traveling.” Krysta’s perky addition confirmed the couple’s von Trapp wholesomeness and that, disconcertingly, they weren’t following his lead. “We went to Jamaica in February! It was great!”
Jake had pondered alternate options.
Bored with the lack and the glacial proceedings, he said, “Excuse me for a minute. Beer.” He pointed downward, intending the physical detail to direct their eyes and to signal a reluctance to keep on with the office lunch room chit-chat. He emptied the green bottle in a gulp.
The walls of the toilet were covered in hexagonal brass tiles and dark weatherbeaten-effect planks.
Antony came in as Jake washed his hands. “Man, it’s like yawning. Now I have to go too.” He faced the wall above the urinal, reading a page of sports scores tacked behind glass.
Jake waited at the black stone sink. Testosterone and impatience were edging him toward reckless disregard. “What do you two have on for later?”
“Later?” Antony seemed surprised. “It’s a weeknight.”
“Oh, I see. I was hoping to get some tonight.” Jake smiled widely, inviting this new acquaintance to join a conspiracy.
Antony approached the sink. “Oh, I see. You mean us. No, man, you’re way off base. Jeez.”
“Oops.” Jake said. He figured the situation didn’t need defusing, but kept his tone confident. “I misread you, the both of you actually, man, no sweat. Forget it. I just thought…” If something was going to happen, there was no chance it’d be tonight. Alone and with a few drinks in his bloodstream, Antony might cave.
“‘I just thought’? What made you think anything?” Within Antony’s indignation, Jake caught an undertone of curiosity.
“A vibe, that’s all. Hard to define. Don’t sweat it. My mistake. Obviously I’m not a psychic.” The words he’d initially planned—“We could take turns on Krysta, then maybe you’d let me tap that too”—remained stowed away. There were limits: Antony didn’t look like a fighter, but you could never tell a guy’s reaction when intuiting his ass and territory were threatened. “I’ll see you around, man.” Offering a handshake was no option, so Jake nodded a goodbye.
Jake left the bathroom and made a beeline for the exit. He knew when to concede defeat. Approaching the rain-beaded car he mumbled, “Everything in moderation, Jakey.”
[The third and final part of the chapter will be published released shortly.]
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