Sunset Boulevard, Part I – A Gay Erotic Series
I hadn’t expected her to be there. He didn’t mention it.
When he invited me back for dinner, I saw the expression around his mouth – his full mouth – the half smile, the glance up and down my body, resting in a very obvious way on the front of my jeans, the way he put his hand on my shoulder, the way he glanced back at me as he stepped out of the door – and I got totally the wrong message.
Admittedly, when he had started working at the company a couple of weeks earlier I had immediately thought he was straight.
I trusted my gay-dar implicitly – it had never been wrong before. Well, um, actually it had been… twice. But that’s a different embarrassing story.
This guy, all six four, big biceps, rippling abs through his slightly too tight t-shirts – 95% cotton, 5% spandex – he was straight.
It was the way he walked, like his balls were too heavy for his jockeys – and the shoes. Bad choice of shoes. No self-respecting gay man I knew would wear those shoes. At least not with his chino’s. I mean they were Prada, high fashion, and would have cost me more than my month’s rent. And, by the way, how could he afford them on what they were paying us?
They were amazing shoes – but the way he was wearing them was just wrong. Definitely a straight man.
Well, I know that’s an insulting cliche on straight and gay men, but what can I say? No gay man I would want to be seen around would wear those shoes with those trousers.
Confession; when I first saw him I wasn’t looking at his shoes. My focus was a little higher up the body. When he walked in for the first time, it was the jaw, the stubble, the muscles, the confidence. When he turned around… what can I say? You could crack walnuts between those buns. I’m not joking – he was like a Tom of Finland cartoon.
Okay, so he was obviously a manic gym bunny – but it wasn’t doing him any harm. My eyes weren’t complaining either.
But he was straight.
I remember thinking, “OMG, what a waste.”
Half the girls in the office seemed to think he was so hot, he must be gay – I had to disabuse them. Silly girls.
And then silly me.
Friday, it’s seven o’clock, it’s getting dark outside, we’ve just finished our presentations to the big cheese – the boss leaves, we sigh a breath of relief, the office vodka bottle comes out, we all take a couple of quick ones on empty stomachs – the girls leave and it is just him and me.
He gives me that first funny look. He just eats me up with his eyes, head to toe. And then toe to head – and he spends a lot of time at the place where my thighs meet.
I get excited. I can’t help it. I have a thing for guys who eat me with their eyes. Must be the delicate ego or something. But it is like a switch gets flicked – and suddenly I’m aroused.
I felt myself growing right under his gaze – and as it happened, that’s when his lop-sided grin started.
And I’m sure he mumbled, “Impressive.”
The vodka had hit me so I wasn’t entirely sure I heard right.
He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and I thought, oh no he’s leaving. But then he took two steps towards me.
I could see a flush of blood move across his neck and face – and as I looked at his muscular neck, I could see the pulse in his carotid artery. His heart was going like a sledgehammer! Must have been up at 128 bpm – Jesus, we could have run an EDM set off his chest.
My heart, by contrast, stopped. I swear it stopped.
I mean when a hunk you’ve thought was straight for two weeks – when you’ve had wet dreams about him for a fortnight, knowing that he’s going to be out of your reach until hell freezes over – when that guy eyes your package, and steps towards you and looks like he’s going to faint from desire – I mean it was like Gone With the Wind meets the Wizard of Oz and my brain couldn’t decide if I was Scarlett and he was Rhett, or I was Rhett and was going to bugger Dorothy. To be honest, I couldn’t give a damn. I just wanted him.
Then he did that strange pat on my shoulder. I felt his hot Vodka breath on my neck and mouth – I’m afraid I might have drooled.
And then he said, “What you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. I tried to sound cool, it came out a bit high pitched.
He didn’t seem to care – he just stared at my tumescence again
“Come for dinner?” He said. But it wasn’t really a question – because he pushed a card with his address into my quite sweaty mitt.
“Nine o’clock,” he said, “Just come as you are.” And he was gone.
The office door clicked behind him.
My heart remembered to start beating again.
Nine o’clock. I had about an hour to get ready.
I thought of rushing home – but it wasn’t enough time.
In the end, I stripped off in the office toilets and washed and found a spare t-shirt in the bottom drawer of my office desk.
I felt somewhere between a giddy school boy and a stallion with no morals.
I was going to have him.
I was already running through the joy I would feel when I was back in the office the next day and those buns passed my desk, and the girls glanced at him with lust and only I would know that I had taken him. And I was fantasising about accosting him in the office supplies cupboard, bent over the laminator, and then I realised I was running late, and I had to sprint for a cab.
I got to his place.
It was an imposing sandstone thing in W2. The first thing I thought was, “How the hell can he afford an apartment here on what we get paid?”
And then I saw that there was just one large bell outside. This wasn’t apartments.
“What?! The whole fucking house!”
The door opened and I hadn’t remembered touching the bell. And there he was standing. Had he been waiting for me and watching through the window upstairs?
He looked like he’d just got out the shower – damp hair and bare feet. It was a good look on him.
He kind of grabbed me around the shoulder with one of his arms and half carried me into the house.
I could smell sweat on him – fresh sweat. Like he was scared or excited or both.
And then she came in.
She smelt of money. And now I got it all.
She was at least ten years older than him, but it could have been nearer twenty. She’d had a bit of work – but it was very good. I approved. I plan to have a little jowl work done when I hit around forty. Just something to keep it tight and clean, you understand. I was quite tempted to immediately ask her for her surgeon’s details.
But there were obviously other things on her agenda.
She leaned against the doorway – she was backlit – the light shone through the diaphanous thing that she had draped over her – and I could make out the suspenders and the lace underwear – the light caught her voluminous hair that had been combed out just right – she took a puff on a long cigarette and let it out in a steady stream. Oh, she was good. Very Gloria Swanson. I nearly applauded, and I’m sure she would have made a great fag hag.
Unfortunately, there was something else on her mind.
A sidelight caught the whites in her eyes and they were fixed firmly between my thighs.
He put a glass in my hand – he held one too. He knocked it back in one. I did the same. Vodka. Stoly. It hit the back of my throat and crawled like fire slowly into my belly.
That was my cue to turn tail and run the fuck out – fast.
But maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he looked – because I felt a very very strong palm against my ass – it just held its place there.
And he leaned down and whispered into my ear,
“Let me show you around. It’s quite a place.”
He took my hand in his. It felt good.
She seemed to have disappeared. Maybe she was just a figment of my anxiety – a manifestation of my doubt that I could ever catch a guy like this.
He led me through a huge hallway – oil paintings on the wall – I thought I recognised a Matisse – Persian rugs on the floor – Venetian glass in cabinets. This wasn’t a house, it was a fucking Jean Cocteau fantasy.
And then we were going up the stairs, and there was his Carotid Artery doing its thing again – I swear I could hear his heart thumping in his chest.
He got to the top of the stairs, let go of my hand, and without a pause, he pulled his Merino wool crew-neck over his head.
Now my heart stopped again.
He belonged in one of the glass cabinets with the Venetian stuff. He was beautiful – quite simply, beautiful.
For a moment my libido disappeared and I just gawped in wonder at his chest, his stomach muscles, the slope of his obliques diving into his low-slung jeans – the slim line of dark hair dripping from his navel and beneath the waistline of his Calvins.
He took my hand and stared into my eyes.
“Come,” he said.
“Yes please,” I thought.
And he led me down a dark corridor and into a darker room.
It was almost pitch black – but at the far end of a room the size of a tennis court there was a tiny patch of light.
I could see there was a bed there – the flicker of a small candle bounced off a mahogany bed – there was something on the bed. My eyes tried to adjust to the light – but before I could see clearly, there were hands on me. His hands.
He was pulling at my t-shirt. Pulling it up. I let him.
Then his hands were on the belt of my jeans – his hands were shaking – his breath was coming hard – he was all thumbs.
“Let me…” I began, but he just pushed my hands away and ripped at the belt, and I could hear some stitching tear and struggled to keep my balance, and he grabbed me to stop me tumbling and I felt his warm chest against mine and his hands under my armpits and then suddenly I was in the air…
He was carrying me. I’m not small – I’m not light – he’d picked me up like a doll.
I floated in this elevated position towards the bed – his chest was now against my bare back – and against my buttocks I could feel his cock through his jockeys. It was hard – and as best as I could discern with the nerve endings of my butt-cheeks, of perfectly acceptable proportions.
To be honest I would have been quite happy to be suspended in this unusual flying position for the majority of eternity – with the anticipation of delights to ensue – never fully requited, admittedly, but with that wonderful perfection that our imagination gifts us and life rarely confirms.
But we arrived at the bed and he lowered me down in the most delicious of movements – very Nureyev – and I felt the unmistakable sheen of seven hundred thread Egyptian cotton, with my face on the sheet I read an embossed label on the underside of the pillowcase, cotton by Signoria Firenze Raffaello – I nearly came immediately – my ass was proffered up towards him and if he’d touched me, I think I would have gone off like a Roman candle, but something else touched me.
Next chapter coming soon…
JoJo Monroe is a writer, actor, director, producer – working mainly in the movies – mainly in Hollywood (using a different name). But he has also worked as a gigolo/walker, a fashion photographer/model, a war journalist and, most scary of all, a parent! His work is available on Amazon.