My partner and I had just moved from a drafty old Victorian in San Francisco to a great 1920s Deco building in Oakland. It was my partner's first day back at work, and I was emptying boxes and settling in. I needed to phone the maintenance guy about a leak in the bathroom ceiling, but I couldn't find the number anywhere. I hoped that when I took the laundry upstairs I would run into someone who would have it.
As I reached the laundry room, I saw that the door to the roof deck stood open. I carried my basket of laundry to the washer and casually turned to look through the door. Brent, the straight guy from the top floor, lay stretched out on a lounge chair, sunning himself and reading. I had met him briefly at a party thrown by a young couple on our floor just the week before. Maybe it was the booze and maybe it was wishful thinking, but when Brent first came up to me that night and started talking, I felt that 'gaydar' thing kick in.
He had left the party early because he was going into the city with some friends. After he'd gone, the other neighbors started talking about the girlfriend he'd been living with when he first moved in, saying what a bitch she was, and how she wrecked his car, and how he finally kicked her out. This was the first time I'd seen him since hearing all the gossip.
He must have been lying in the sun for some time, because rivulets of sweat were running down his chest and beads of it glistened in the hair on his chest and on his thighs. I couldn't see what he was reading -- maybe a textbook -- and he didn't seem to notice me. I dropped the quarters into the slot and poured the detergent into the water that was rising in the tub.
I waited for the tub to fill and start sloshing around before putting in the dirty clothes. As I put in the last of them and closed the lid, I looked up to find that Brent had stepped inside and stood leaning against the dryer next to me. I lifted my eyes to look at him but couldn't help pausing on the bulge pressing against the thin fabric of his baggy trunks. When I finally did look up, he smiled. I felt awkward and froze for a moment. My mouth went dry. I remembered that I needed that phone number.
"Hey, do you know Jimmy's number?" I asked. "I've got to find out about a leak that's started in our bathroom, and I thought it was in my phone, but I guess it wasn't, and I couldn't find the paper it was on either." I heard myself stammering, gave up, and stopped talking.
"Sure. I've got it right downstairs," Brent said. "You about finished?" he asked as he looked at the empty laundry basket I still held in my hand.
"Oh," I said, even more embarrassed. "Yeah." I dropped the basket to the floor beside me.
"Then why don't you stop on your way down, and I'll give you the number."
"OK," I said. He put both hands behind him and pushed himself off the dryer. As he did, I thought that I saw him give an unnecessary thrust with his hips. In any case, he started trotting down the stairs, and I followed.
By the time I reached the landing, Brent was disappearing through his front door. I hurried in and found him standing just inside the door, which he closed behind me. I heard the lock click as he strode across the living room to his desk.
He leaned over his desk, the fabric of his trunks pulling over the squared mounds of his muscular butt, his butt pushed back toward me. My cock stirred, and the pit of my stomach ached a little. I almost started to walk toward him, but I held myself back. Shouldn't I just stand and wait for him to get me the number? Isn't that what a guy would do?
"Aw shit," Brent was saying, still bent over his desk. "I know it was right here." Then he straightened up and turned his head to look over his shoulder at me, his still naked torso torqued and tapering from shoulders to his waist, the hair on his chest matted with sweat.
"Hang on," he said. "It'll only take me a minute. Make yourself at home."
"Uh," I said, feeling at once both lost and too big for the room, as if all the furniture would break if I started moving around. "Uh, OK." I remained standing beside the locked door.
"Damn, I'm a lousy host," he said, walking right by me and into the kitchen, asking "Want something to drink?" He opened the fridge, bending over again to look inside. This time he was in profile, and I could see not only his powerful butt but also the muscular arm and shoulder and the long line of his lats stretching down the side of his ribcage toward the waistband of those damn trunks.
"Let's see: I've got some coke and some tonic -- and sparkling water and OJ and beer --" he said, his head hidden behind the refrigerator door. "What'll it be?" He stood up before I could answer and turned toward me, holding a beer in his hand. "I'm thinking I'll have a beer," he said.
"I guess I will too," I replied. He had already reached in to grab a second beer as he held the first toward me with an outstretched arm. I finally took a step from my spot just inside the door and took the beer from his hand. Our hands met as I took it, but he did not seem to register the fact, and I made every effort to appear not to notice it myself. I dropped my eyes from his gaze so as not to give myself away, but then I was looking right at the sweaty waistband of his trunks and their now obvious contents. There it was, under the thin nylon trunks, heavy and swollen. A drop of sweat fell from his chest onto the thin fabric. I raised my eyes from it and met his.
Quietly he asked, "You like that?"
"Yes," I said, all hesitation gone.
"That's good," he said. "I like it too." As he spoke he slid his hand under the waistband and hauled the thing out, his other hand pushing his trunks down under his balls. When he let go of it, his cock flopped down over his balls and rested on them, nestled in the thick hair. All the while it continued to swell and stiffen. I dropped to my knees and threw my mouth over it. I sucked the whole thing in, feeling his dickhead in my throat and swallowing on it. I felt my face turning red for want of air. Then I pulled off it and gasped.
"Fuck," he said, picking his cock up in his hand, holding the base and letting the top half of it sway back and forth in front of my face. I leaned in, opening my mouth to catch it on the next pass. Suddenly I felt his big hand gripping the top of my skull like a basketball player palming a ball, holding my head just out of reach of his wet cock. I stared at it swinging there in front of me and heard his voice overhead saying "Slow down a second, cocksucker." It stopped swaying, and he allowed the head to come to rest on my tongue, in my open mouth. "Now just close your mouth around it and hold it," he said. Once it was in my mouth, I started to nurse on the head.
"No!" he said, jerking it from my mouth. "I said 'hold it,' not 'suck it'." I still did not take my eyes off it, hanging just beyond my reach, wet with my saliva.
"Now just hold the head of it in your mouth," he said from above. I did as I was told.
"That's right," Brent said, and I could sense his body relaxing, that precious piece of him resting in my wet mouth. "That's good, man. Just hold it there. Feel the underside with your tongue. Get to know it." I, again, did as I was told.
"That's good, man. That's real good," he said. While he was talking, the shaft had stretched out hard. As I held the it in my mouth I could feel the stiffening dick actually pushing me away from him. "See what you did to it? Fuckin' great, man. Go ahead and slide on down it or whatever you want. It's all yours now, buddy."
Yeah, it was mine, and I was gonna keep it. I wanted that swollen thing lodged in my throat till I passed out. I breathed in deeply the scent of all the sweat in his crotch . I could smell how his balls and his big hose had been scrunched together between his thighs as he lay in the sun, soaking in the sweat trapped there by his nylon trunks. It was as if his genitals had been steam-baked, and the heady vapors rising from his crotch hit me like poppers. I sucked on it hard as I drew my head back, dragging on it all the way out the shaft, and then loosened my lips and let my mouth go soft and slid back down to his pubic bone. I sucked it and mouthed it and chewed it and licked it and sucked it some more. I slid my mouth up and down it, wiggling my tongue along the underside as I did. I wanted this guy to know he was getting blown by a man, not some girl who didn't have a clue how it felt.
As I sucked, I reached up and grazed his nipple with the rough callous on my thumb. His dick jumped, and I knew I'd hit pay dirt. This boy was clearly unused to receiving much attention from his partners, whoever they had been. I tried pinching his nipple tight, with a little twist, but this time he flinched and I knew that I was overdoing it. Just when I sensed that he was getting close to cumming, he grabbed his dick and pulled it from my mouth: he didn't want to cum just yet. He wanted more. He held his cock tight, just below the head, like he was choking off any flow.
So, denied his cock, I moved my mouth down to his balls, lapping at them like a dog, letting them roll and fall off my tongue. I sucked the warm sweat off them, one by one. I guess I sucked them too hard, because he flinched again and let his dick fall from his hand. I immediately grabbed it with my mouth, and we were off to the races again.
I wrapped my hand around the slick shaft, moving it in unison with my mouth, back and forth along the length of it. Brent had begun sweating as much as if he were once again lying in the sun on the roof above, and then he shuddered, silently, and flooded my mouth with his hot, viscous seed. I kept it on my tongue and let his swollen prick soak it in in my mouth for a minute. Then I closed my lips tight around his shaft and pulled back, like a squeegee cleaning his dick off, and at the same time milking the last of his cum out of it. When his dick finally fell from my lips I looked up at him and ostentatiously swallowed his load. Then it was my turn to smile at him.
Brent slowly shook his head and said, "Man, you are good."
"And on the first floor," I said. "Any time." He grinned. I rose to my feet and walked right out his door and down the stairs. It took me exactly eight strokes on my own dick to make me squirt my own juice when I got home.
About two weeks later, I was preparing for the housewarming party my partner and I were giving that night. We had invited everyone in the building, as well as a few of our other friends. My partner came home from the grocery store and said that he had just run into Brent, who was moving to San Francisco, taking the last of his things out at that very moment. Brent had said that he was sorry he wouldn't be able to attend our party.
"That's sudden," I said, trying to show my surprise without showing my disappointment.
My partner recounted telling Brent that he understood why he would rather not live so far away from the singles scene in The City. "This place is great for us," he said to me, "but I don't think I'd want to live here if I were single. Would you?"
I had nothing to say. My partner continued. "And guess where he's moving."
I couldn't.
"Remember that loft Randy bought on Church Street? I guess they weren't selling and they're renting them out now. Brent said he got a good deal. Boy, the Castro really has changed, hasn't it? It seems to be mostly young straight kids now, you know?" "Yeah," I said, arranging the crackers and the assorted cheeses on various trays. "Nothing stays the same, huh?"
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