Chinese Takeout

[Note: This story is unusually short because it was written to an exercise with a limited maximum word requirement.]

“I don’t know what I should get.” Looking at the old Chinese woman at the carryout counter, with the order pad and a pen at the ready wasn’t giving me the answer. “The House Triple Delight or the Sizzling Beef and Scallops maybe?” She gave a slight smile. Either she approved or knew I’d picked out two of the more expensive dinners.

I turned my head enough to see the good-looking Asian guy in my peripheral vision. I read the specialty names off the menu again, slowly, and watched him. He gave me the nod.

“The Sizzling Beef and Scallops then, I think,” I said, giving the woman at the Ming Dynasty takeout restaurant the order. “And two egg rolls, please,” I added. The Asian guy nodded and gave a slight smile. The two other patrons in the restaurant were Asian too, either ordering or picking up. I guessed I’d come to a good takeout if Asians ordered here. The place had been across town from where I lived. I’d never used this one before.

“Twenty minutes,” the woman behind the counter said, as she turned and schlepped off in her flip-flops to the line of kitchen counters running right behind her. A cook, another Asian, took the order. Both cooks looked Chinese. A very good sign.

“Fine, I’ll be back.” I said.

I left and walked around the corner to an all-night convenience store I’d seen when I was looking for a parking place. I stood in front of the refrigerator section, looking at a bank of iced beer six packs. Putting my hand in the case, I touched a pack of Coors and looked down the aisle. The same Asian guy was there who I’d just seen in the Chinese takeout. He just looked at me, but I saw a slight nod when I moved my hand to the Budweiser.

Fifteen minutes later, having put two six-packs of Budweiser in the car, I was back at the Chinese takeout and my order was ready. I’d parallel parked across the street from the restaurant and took the street crossing slow, looking both ways. It was after 9:00 p.m., and it was obvious they rolled up the sidewalk in this part of town much earlier in the evening. I gave the street a good look up and down when I was pulling out of the parking spot and drove a little slower than usual home. It was only a twelve-minute drive—I lived in a small, dull town where I had to drum up my own adventure. I’d made quite clear I drove a red Mustang, having stashed the beer there and all before returning to the Chinese carryout. There wasn’t much of a chance of misunderstanding what car I was driving in.

* * * *

The Chinese guy called himself John. I took that with a packet of salt. They always said their name was John, even when I was the john, which wasn’t my name either. He gave a superior blow job, though. In the bedroom, I lay on the bed on my back and he worked his way down: lips, throat, stopping to nip at my nubs, on down my sternum, belly, and into the thatch. He took time to kiss and lick my inner thighs before taking my balls in his cheek and humming to my lyrics of “Oh, shit. Fuck, yes.” When I was hard and throbbing, he deep-throated me. Clutching and squeezing my butt cheeks, he held me close, his captive, as he went down on my cock, sucking my bulb and flicking the piss slit with his tongue before sliding his lips down the shaft. I came quickly, yodeling my satisfaction.

He did a professional job on me. But then he was a professional. He was the best I’d had from this service. I wondered if the nationality made it special. Maybe so. It was exotic.

After we’d rested a bit he straddled my pelvis, slid his channel down on my cock, which he’d worked up again in a lubricated hand job, and rode me in a cowboy, giving me a view of his slim back and clutching butt cheeks, split by my shaft, as he palmed my knees and rose and fell on me.

Before either of us came, I took control back, rolling over and putting him under me, running my hands down his inner thighs to coax his legs open, which he accommodated with a low, guttural laugh and a string of what I took to be some coarse Chinese dialect.

“Say it in English,” I murmured. “It sounded dirty. I want to hear it.”

“I said, put it in me, big boy. Fuck me hard.”

So, I did, putting him in a missionary, with his heels rubbing the back of my calves and his fingers digging into my shoulder blades. I took my time, getting my money’s worth, giving him all of it, and fucking him hard, deep, and long. Afterward, exhausted, I slept.

He was sitting at the kitchen counter, smoking, just in his briefs, when I came out of the bedroom. The food cartons and beer cans were on the dining table. There, of course, had been four times what we could eat in the boxes advertised for two. The food was great, but I hadn’t thought to stash it in the frig before we got frisky, so what was left would have to be trashed. Our clothes were strewn between there and the sofa, where I’d first fucked him.

“So, will you call me for takeout again sometime?” he asked, with a small smile.

“You betcha,” I answered.