"We can do the sandwich, but we don't serve beer here. Sorry. Here's a menu of what we can do."
I handed over the menu, captivated by his eyes. I had thought they were black, but they weren't. They were a dark blue--dark as the blue of the caged tattoo on his chest I was having trouble not speaking to.
"Not old enough to serve beer?"
"No, that's not it," I answered, defensive and a little breathless. "I'm twenty. We don't have a liquor license of any sort. This is a coffee house. There's a beer joint--a roadhouse--out west of town on the cross street two blocks down. But they don't open until 8:00."
I don't know if I would have told him about the roadhouse if I didn't know it was closed. "There's a minimart across the street and at the end of the block where you can buy an iced six pack, but you couldn't drink it in here." Had I said too much? Was I going to lose him?
"You don't look twenty," he said. "I'll have a burger with fries and, I guess, coffee. A big one."
"Anything special coffee?" I asked, pointing up to the menu board on the back wall. I knew I didn't look twenty. Didn't hardly look eighteen. Most of the men I encountered liked that. But I knew, I guess, why I established age right away. As for him, he could be anything from his late twenties into his early thirties. He was solid, not too tall or too short. He wouldn't have to adjust his height when he bent me over.
Now why did I think of that?
And he had a weathered look about him. Probably went from riding the cycle across the country. He had to have come from somewhere else far away. He was much too exotic for southwest Ohio.
"None of that shit, thanks. Uh, sorry. Just make it black--and strong," he said.
"I'll put your burger order in and then come back to make up the coffee."
I must have sounded like a dummy. He had me tongue-tied. I backed off to the swinging door to the kitchen, not taking my eyes off the guy. Still half believing I was hallucinating from something I'd seen in Drummer.
"Hey Phil," I said, as I came through the door just enough to be in the kitchen rather than the café. "Customer out here wants a burger and fries. Medium?" I asked, looking back at the counter. My heart racing to find he was still sitting there.
"Moo, moo rare," he answered.
I sent the word on. I was having trouble keeping a straight face. Here there was this rough-trade-looking dude bellied up to the counter and giving me a hard on, and there in the kitchen I'd caught Phil pushing Jewel, face to wall, up against the tiles next to Phil's office door. Jewel's jeans were off, and he'd been wearing black mesh stockings underneath held up with a garter belt. His feet were in red heels. Phil was fucking him from the backside.
Here was me, suspended between two worlds. Not getting anything from either one--or at least not yet. It would have been comical if it didn't have me wound up so tightly.
"It's the down hour," Phil growled, without extracting himself from Jewel's ass.
What? He thought I was playing a joke? Rattling their cage for kicks?
"Nonetheless there's a customer out here wanting a burger, and we have the 'Open' sign turned on. Want to check it out yourself? An out-of-towner."
I could safely say that. There weren't so many folks living here that I didn't know them all at least on sight.
Phil then did pull out, zip himself up, and turn and walk toward me, giving me a hard look all the time. "This better not . . ." But he didn't get any further, as he could see through the door to the counter now and verify for himself that there was customer. "Oh, for the love of . . . ," he started to say, but then, after taking a hard look at the customer, he turned and headed for the stove.
I thought he was going to say something like no one was sitting at the counter. I would have believed that and it would have halfway verified what I already suspected. This was just too delicious to be real. But I guess that him going for the burger patties told me he could see the mysterious stranger too.
I went back to the counter, just on the other side of the exotic hunk, and, with hands trembling, started to make his coffee. Before the smell of the brewing coffee took over, I could smell him--a musky aftershave, but also the heady scent of man sweat. He'd been on a cycle on the road for who knew how long under the sun. And he was wearing black leather. My mind flipped back to Key West. It didn't help me get control of my trembling hands.
There was a lot of sun and worked-up man sweat in Key West too. And release. A lot of glorious release in Key West.
"You aren't from around here, are you?" I asked. I had to do something to cut the thick silence and my mind flipping off into all sorts of fantasies. Also, the look Phil had given the guy had startled me--sort of like he recognized him. It made me think I should recognize him too. I didn't. I'm sure I would have remembered him if I'd ever seen him before--and subsequently dreamed about him. A lot.
"Just passing through," he answered.
That surprised me and I let him know that it did. "Passing through? This isn't really a passing through town. The town you would have come from would have been Nowhere and the next one you'd reach would be Nowhereelse."
"I can appreciate that. A lot of nothing around here, it appears. I have a bit of business here, though. You don't like being here much, do you?"
"Oh, does it show that much?" I asked. God, I wasn't showing him a bad attitude, was I? It was circumstances just like this that kept me from becoming flouncy, like Jewel. I didn't want to be all girlie and whiny for a macho guy like this.
"It's on your shirt. The 'Anywhere Else' statement sort of gives you away."
I laughed. He smiled. It was going to be OK. "Yeah, the shirt says it all, I guess."
"It also says nice abs and belly button," he said, pointing to what the cut-off T revealed. "Bet you're sculpted nice up top too."
Was he flirting with me? Oh, god, was he putting the make on me? I already was as hard as I thought I was going to get. Yes, I worked my body. But it wasn't anything like his.
"That earring--in your right ear," he went on to say. "Is that a statement in the traditional sense?"
"This earring?" I asked, lifting my thumb and forefinger to the diamond stud in my right ear. There wasn't a matching one in the left. "Traditional sense?"
"Yeah, as in the old signal of an earring in the right ear meaning you take cock. You are gay, aren't you? So, do you take cock? Do you want to take cock?"
"Yes, I'm gay," I said. But, blushing, I turned away. The coffee was screaming that it was ready. And just at the right moment. Or wrong moment. Or whatever. I was beginning to hyperventilate. This had to be a dream. It was all moving too fast--and maybe too far too. Was what I thought I wanted being tested? Is this you, God, testing me?
I turned, still blushing, not able to look into his eyes, and set his coffee mug down on the counter in front of him. My eyes were on the turbulent liquid almost sloshing out of the cup because of my trembling hand. He reached for the hand and held it, maybe to calm me. But it wasn't working that way.
"I asked if you took cock. I've had a long, dusty ride today. I need to get laid pretty bad. I'm tense. I need to give cock, and I don't need a runaround about who will take it from me."
The bell from the kitchen rang. "Your burger must be ready," I said. And fled into the kitchen, where, indeed, the burger and fries were ready. Phil was already pushing Jewel's cheek back to the wall when I came out of the kitchen.
The guy was sitting there when I returned, plate of burger and fries in hand, bottle of catsup under arm. He sat there calmly, completely nonplused, like he hadn't just dropped a "let's fuck" bomb on me, a bit of a smile on his face, and drinking his coffee.
I set the burger down in front of him.
"Yes, I take cock," I blurted out and then found some counter cleaning that cried out to be done and meant I didn't have to look at him.
"They call me Angel," he said, his voice muffled a bit by the bite he'd taken of the burger.
I'll just bet they do, I thought.
"You have a name?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm Casey," I said, turning now, leaning on the back counter, my arms crossed over my chest, letting him take me all in, if that's what he wanted to do. The shock was wearing off me, being replaced with lust and want. The man screamed of Key West--of release. Of good times. "And, yes, I take cock, I just said." I hadn't thought when I'd said it the first time. But since it had been said, I didn't want it to be forgotten.
"And you want to take cock? Mine, for instance?"
"Yes, sure, why not?"
"You're not sure?"
"Yes, I'll take your cock." And then when he just sat there looking at me like I hadn't said enough, I said, "Yes, I want your cock. Yes, I want you to fuck me."
"How much?" he asked, relaxing and smiling.
"Excuse me? I'm not going to pay you to fuck me."
"No, how much do you want me to pay you for your ass? And then how much for more than that?"
I couldn't help but sound wounded by that. I turned away again.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend, just to have the understanding between us quite clear. Have you ever been given a ride on a Harley, Casey?"
"No, never," I answered, turning back to face him again. Not interested in a little misunderstanding that I was a whore getting in the way of what I suddenly wanted. That I suddenly wanted to be a whore for him.
"So, you've never been ridden on a Harley either?"
"Ridden on a Harley, Casey. Fucked on a Harley. Strapped down on a Harley with your butt in the air, a cock working your ass. You want to get out of this town, Casey? You tired of the same old, same old? I can take you to places, do shit to you that you'll remember forever. I'll make you part of that Harley out there and fuck your lights out. What do you say?"
What I wanted to say was how did he get into my mind? How did he know what I wanted--know that that, indeed, was what I wanted from him? But it was all moving so fast, so far. "You move pretty fast. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" is what I said. I moved down the counter from him and worked at taking the coffee basket out of the cappuccino machine and tossing the grounds out.
"I know what I want when I see it," he answered, his voice still calm, matter-of-fact. We could be talking about what he wanted for desert here--the apple pie or the chocolate cake. "And I told you I wanted it too bad to play around getting it. I want to fuck you, and I think you want to be fucked. Fucked in a special way. I think you want to have Clarksburg fucked out of you. I think you're wearing that T-shirt on purpose."
"Sorry, I got work to do," I said, scrubbing needlessly at the counter with a rag. "But it's something to think about." I could just as well have said "bingo."
"Yes, it's something to think about," he said. "Think about the message you have scrawled across that nice chest of yours. For a couple of hours I can take you not just anywhere else, but over the moon." He went back to biting on his burger. It was three quarters gone. I had one fourth of a burger to decide one way or the other. Just how brave was I? Did I believe all the shit I had been saying to Jewel about what I wanted?
"And, yeah, sure, I'm cocky about what I have to give. I have a cock that I could put in your ass and scrub the back of your teeth with."
I grabbed a wet rag, came around the end of the counter, and started scrubbing tables down, getting ready for the 4:00 p.m. crowd. It already was pushing 3:30.
I was leaning over a table when I first became aware of his hot breath on my neck. Next I knew he had slapped the stack of Drummer magazines--the gay male BDSM magazines--down on top of the table I was swabbing. He obviously had gone behind the counter and found them laying there. He came in close behind me, pushing my body forward so that I had to stretch out my arms and dig my knuckles into the table top for support. I was looking out on the deserted street through the front window. How long would it be deserted, though? A shudder went through my body, at least partially, I had to admit, from the thrill of the danger of possible discovery.
"Is this what you want?" He hissed, his finger stabbing at the covers of Drummer.
"Yes . . . I think so," I stammered.
"You think so. I can give you this. I can give you lots of this."
He had his hands on my hips. But they slid around to the front from there and he was working my belt buckle, and then my zipper. And then I felt my jeans and briefs shimmy off my hips and down to my knees. I was huffing and puffing, hyperventilating.
"Nice," he muttered, in reaction to moving a hand around to my lower belly, finding me in full erection, and fisting my cock. "I can do everything you see in those magazines. I will give you a great ride."
"Oh shit, oh fuck," I whined as he began to stroke my cock. And then a more forceful "Oh fuck!" as his fingers went to the rim of my asshole and inside. He began to finger fuck me.
I looked wildly out on the street. A car pulled up across the street and a couple got out of it and went into the furniture store. I was just that far from being seen being sexually assaulted. And there were Phil and Jewel in the back, from whence they could emerge at any moment. It was scary. It was exhilarating. It was so Key West. So much not Clarksburg.
Feeling me tighten, ready to blow, his hand moved down to the base of my cock, where he could get a grip on my balls too. He rolled the balls in his hand and then squeezed hard. Totally turned on, I ejaculated quickly, spouting my cream out on the cover of a Drummer magazine.
He laughed, moving his hands around to cover my pecs under the cut-off T-shirt and nuzzling his face in the hollow of my neck. He bit me there and I gave a little yelp. He laughed again. "You're a sweet little piece. I'll do you six ways from Sunday. I'll do you in Drummer style. What time do you get off?"
Both relief and disappointment flooded in from different corners. He wasn't going to do me right here--at least not any more than he'd already done me. "5:45, I croaked."
"I'll be here. Waiting for you out on the Harley. And just so you know, I bareback. I don't do rubbers. But I keep clean."
Both my arms and my knees gave out as he let loose of me, turned, and strode out the door. I was almost totally spread out on the table top, my bare belly rubbing my own cum into the cover of the Drummer magazine, as I watched him mount the Harley and drive off down the street.
The image of him mounting the Harley segued into the image of him mounting my ass, and I moaned.
No way I was going to do this, though. He was a sadist. He'd latched right into the *Drummer world. Too chicken despite all I had said. Come 5:35, I'd be out the door in the back, into my Honda Civic, and taking back roads home.
This threatened to be way, way beyond Key West.
But it wasn't a question of whether or not I wanted to have sex with him. I'd already had sex with him.