Failed Connections

I was having trouble picking him out on the field. He’d sent me photos—if they had really been of him—so I had an idea what he looked like, although, to tell the truth, it wasn’t his face that surfaced in my mind from those last photos he sent. I knew he had dark, curly hair and he was six feet and built like a god. But from the stands here in the Denver Dynamites’ Castle Rock indoor soccer field, I couldn’t tell the players apart very well. He was a forward, he’d said, but I didn’t know soccer very well. I couldn’t tell where the players stood on the field, although I assumed that meant he was out in front, down the field, positioned into Denver’s playing field. So, I concentrated on the players there. Any and all of them looked good to me from this distance.

Buddy Wright had taken good care of getting me this seat in the stadium. I’m sure it was a good one. It just didn’t put me close enough to the field to pick out the players’ faces. I knew from his photo that he had a scar line running across his cheek from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, which looked dashing and intriguing to me, but I couldn’t see their faces. He knew I was here in the stands. When I had entered and had shown the usher my ticket, he’d addressed me by name, handed me a copy of the thick, glossy program of the Denver Dynamites–Baltimore Blasts’ pro indoor soccer league game here, south of Denver, and said it was compliments of Buddy Wright. The usher treated me as royalty, treating me like a friend of Wright’s even though I hadn’t met him yet. I was pleased to see that Wright’s entry in the program, which he’d dogeared and had his action photo circled, checked out with the physical attributes he’d given me on the Internet—although of course the program didn’t say or show how hung he had been promised to be in the photos.

I didn’t go to the Internet dating sites very often, but when I’d done so this time, I was looking for something unusual. I had been stuck in a succession of local men who proved to be mostly interested in me for my money and for access to the ski resorts I owned at Breckenridge and Vail. None of them had mentioned my slim body and somewhat androgynous looks and how that affected their interest in me. As our e-mail exchanges had deepened, Buddy had done that. At the beginning he’d talked about sports and his interest in bow hunting, most of which went over my head. I was a nearly forty-year-old urban dweller focused on ski lodges.

When we got down to exchanges on sex—what we liked to do; what we wanted to do—he’d commented on my photos and how I turned him on. He commented favorably on the boyishness of my equipment and the slimness of my hips and mentioned how tight I must be, whereas the men I’d gone with before avoided talking about that. He even asked me for my hip measurements, and noted surprise and pleasure that my hips were only two more inches than my thirty-two-inch waist. He was particularly complimentary about photos of me in silky slips and black stockings. He told me how much he needed sex, how he needed to dominate and exhaust his partner sexually to stay in tiptop shape to play his sport.

He had asked me if I had any trouble taking a big cock with such narrow hips. I answered that, yes, I had a little trouble sheathing a big cock but always had managed and that it excited me to do so. I initially thought this might turn him off, but it seemed to arouse his interest even more. I had no idea what he considered a big cock other than I knew he had one from the photos he sent. Primarily, it kept my interest in exchanging e-mails with him that he wanted to talk sex with me this baldly. I stroked off nicely just from the e-mail exchanges.

The messages of others, once my status had been revealed, didn’t get beyond talking of skiing and ski lift tickets and hotel space and of the parties I had access to up in the mountains. And then when I did hook up with them and took them to the parties, they cruised beyond me.

Of course, much of that might be because I had gone for the much younger, beefcake guys who would, in fact, be impressed by my ski resort properties. It might also be that the image of an avid skier didn’t go with a slim, androgynous look with lingerie and black stockings. I was pushing forty. The blond boyishness was getting to be more bizarre than attracting, I suppose. It was becoming more obvious that I’d had some cosmetic surgery done.

Buddy had been distinctive in the dating service offerings not only because his Internet exchanges dwelt on sex more than others did and because it was intriguing that he was a pro soccer player but also because his body—in height and weight—weren’t overwhelming. His body was beautiful, of course, but I’d researched after the first hookup and found that soccer players were rarely over six feet and they weren’t heavyweights. They were built for speed and dexterity if they wanted to be a success. It was only an added benefit to find, after we’d gotten more direct in our texts, that he was hung like a bull. And I couldn’t complain about his dexterity and flexibility.

Most of the men I’d gone with, the more hung ones, had complained about my boyishness, how tight I was, and how difficult it always was to get inside me. The feel of being stretched to the limit turned me on, though. It always had, and when a guy was covering me and complaining at the effort it required, I was luxuriating in being stretched and filled. Buddy was the only guy I’d had exchanges with in the online service who spoke of looking for anything like that in a partner. He certainly hadn’t given me anything but compliments on the photos I’d sent him.

There didn’t seem to be many guys who would compliment another guy on the slimness and deep hollows of a guy’s hips in pelvis photos or of his slight breast enhancements—or who asked how it felt to be stretched to the limit by a hard cock.

We hadn’t discussed much further than that, but I was looking forward to it. I had made clear that I was free to travel and could afford it and had mentioned that I’d never been to Baltimore but had checked out the hotels and attractions there—and gotten an idea where the Baltimore Blast’s played soccer. It was east of the downtown area, not far from the Chesapeake Bay. I’d noted that I would like to take a cruise on the bay with him. He hadn’t responded to that then, but I was taking him to dinner after his game here in Colorado and before taking him to my apartment in Brook Towers in downtown Denver, so we’d have something to discuss before getting down to it.

I picked out a player I hoped was him. He was moving with special grace, was obviously one of the better players on the Baltimore team, and seemed to be playing in what would be the forward position. Beyond thinking of him and how hung he was and how interesting his face was—showing he’d once been quite handsome but had been knocked around a good bit, bringing out the sense of power and adventure—I couldn’t really get into the game that was being played.

I did, though, like the idea of having a sexual relationship with a professional athlete. I told myself that an athlete must have unusual stamina. I liked being fucked at great length—by coming before my partner did. I had gone to the online sex dating services in search of being well fucked, not having an escort to a ball, and it wasn’t a pretty face I was after but a man with a sizable hard dick who knew what to do with it and could keep doing it for a long time.

Having a long-distance relationship appealed to me too. I could afford to travel as I liked. But I was looking for more than a one-night stand. I’d searched his exchanges via the dating site and I think I discerned under everything that he was looking for that too. I’m just not sure he realized that. That’s what I’d have to work on pulling out of him—when I wasn’t concentrating on sheathing him, risking being split by him, but waiting to go up to that limit with him.

Near the end of the game, an usher came to where I was seated and told me that he’d show me to the visitor’s locker room, where I could pick up Buddy Wright. It wasn’t just to the door into the locker room where I was taken to wait for him, it was all the way into the locker room, and I was able to watch the players strip down and shower—Buddy had come to the door to greet me when I’d entered the locker room. He leaned into me for a brief kiss and his hands went to encasing my hips, the fingers of both hands spread out toward each other, nearly being able to touch. I felt him shudder and knew he was checking out the hips he’d discussed in detail when we were exchanging e-mails and that he was pleased with what he now found.

He positioned me where I could see all the way into the showers and the locker where he changed. He was, indeed, the player I had picked out on the field and fantasized about, and when he’d stripped off his uniform, while he standing in front of a urinal, cock in hand, pissing; while he was showering; and while he was dressing in expensive slacks and a white silk shirt, open down on his sternum, he made sure that I saw that his photo hadn’t lied—he was hung like a bull. He even cupped his balls and bounced his cock at the urinal for me to see and savor.

I did some looking at the other players on the team. All of them were built like the pro athletes they were—trim and muscular, built for soccer—but I admit that my eyes kept going back to Buddy. He was the sexiest of the lot, I thought, in a knocked-about, thuggish sort of way. But, of course, much of my arousal for him was probably couched in the knowledge that we were hooking up.

I drove him to a five-star steakhouse, The Broker, on 17th Street, which had the male ambience of being in an old bank building and which wasn’t far from my apartment at Brook Tower on 15th Street. I drove him in my Tesla, which I only pulled out of the garage when I wanted to impress. He didn’t mention it and when I did, asking him if he’d ridden in a Tesla before, he simply said “yes” and that he drove an old Mustang. I appreciated his straightforward honesty and lack of vanity.

“I like something classic, classy, streamlined, and functional,” he said. When he added, in a low tone, “like you,” I shivered.

We didn’t do much talking as we drove back into the city and he answered some questions in a monosyllable and fended off the personal ones. That didn’t stop him from being forward, though. He didn’t just grope me as I drove. He unbuttoned my shirt and ran a hand up to cup one of my augmented breasts—not built up so large that they were noticeable under a men’s shirt but more of a handful that most men would have. He thumbed my nipple to hear me moan. Then he unzipped me and directly handled my dick and balls, not showing any disappointment that I was small in that department. I hadn’t lied about that in our exchanges, though. He left the definite impression that the sex was going to be the main event of our evening.

“It is a nice handful,” he said, which made me shiver again. In the restaurant’s parking garage, he made me park in the shadows at the rear of the garage and lay back in the seat while he beat me off and leaned over me, looking into my eyes before moving his mouth down to suck on my nipples. He deftly took my ejaculate in a handkerchief. We had had sex almost right away, demonstrating that we both knew the goal of this date.

After that first flash of heat, he became reticent and, which continued through dinner. He ate ravenously and had no qualms about me paying for everything. He did answer questions, when they didn’t get into the personal or the possibilities for us beyond this evening.

“I noticed that the Blast’s stadium is pretty close to the shoreline of the Chesapeake,” I asked. “You know of any charter boat operations out of there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t go out on the water much.”

“What’s the best hotel near your Baltimore stadium?” I asked.

“I have a house in Annapolis. I don’t go into Baltimore much. I hear the best hotels are down on the Baltimore Harbor waterfront.”

“A house in Annapolis? That’s on the water isn’t it? Is yours on the water? A big one? Do you live alone?”

“You going to eat that last piece of bread?” he asked.

He was more animated on questions of sex.

“I was happy that you look like your photos show,” I said.

“You mean the big dick?”

“Yes, part of it. But I like the rugged look about you. You’re really in great—”

“You’ve seen me now. You going to be able to take me?” he asked, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. Looking directly at me for maybe the first time. “You certainly are slim hipped, just like you said you were. I like that. I like that a lot. You do it much? Stayed tight for your age? I like a tight fit—between slim hips. I like the exotic look of a woman, but not what she usually wants. I’m an anal guy. That’s why I like guys like you. I like to have a firm, close grip on a guy’s hips while I fuck him.”

I gave him straightforward answers, including that I didn’t indulge in this often so I should be tight enough for him. I said I thought, from his size, that most anyone would be a tight fit for him. He seemed satisfied with the answers, but I had trouble getting him to say more than a short sentence on any topic that I was comfortable talking about in a restaurant. He continually brought the conversation around to sex and again said how much he liked a tight fit. Luckily, the ambient noise level was pretty high in The Broker.

When the check came, he made no effort to pick it up, but, rather, turned the first real smile I’d seen him flash at the waiter, a young blond guy with very slim hips and his hair in a bun, who sashayed here and there. The smile was returned, and I wanted to cry out, “He’s mine; I paid for him,” but I didn’t. It was at the moment that I realized who Buddy reminded me of that was sending shivers down my spine. The look he gave the waiter put the name “James Bond” into my mind—not the suave, elegantly dressed James Bond of the Sean Connery movies, but the slightly thuggish, elegantly dressed James Bond of the Daniel Craig movies. I was going to be fucked by the demanding cock of the thuggish Daniel Craig James Bond. I shivered again in anticipation. It would be well worth the effort and expense.

It was only a four-block drive to my apartment on the 39th floor of Brook Towers, which faced the Rockies to the west of the city through a floor-to-ceiling expanse of glass in the living and dining area. I’d paid an extra million dollars for the view of the mountains. I wound up driving around the block multiple times, though, because Buddy unzipped me again when I was pulling away from the restaurant, and this time he went under my balls and entered my ass with a finger. I rolled my pelvis up for him and spread my legs as much as I could to still be driving in evening traffic at dusk in downtown Denver. I wasn’t put off or angry. I was aroused at him forcing a finger inside me and went hard—as hard as I normally did.

“Satisfied?” I asked in a breathy voice.

“Yes, tight,” he said, and my legs went to jelly as he reached my prostate with the tip of his finger. I barely had time to pull into the parking garage under the apartment house and park beside my BMW before I lost all control of my legs and pressed back into my seat in a whimper. He put his free arm across the back of my seat, cupped my head with his hand, and turned my face to him for a kiss, and he didn’t draw away when I touched his cheek and traced his scar with a finger. This was going to be something special, I was sure. The kiss lasted long enough for me to grab my cock and explode in the palm of my hand while he finger fucked me.

I’d come twice already and his cock hadn’t been inside me yet. This date was going to be well worth the effort it took to set it up.

He pulled away from the kiss, and I moved to put my head in his lap, unzip him and suck him off, but in one fluid movement, he’d opened the passenger door of the Tesla and stepped out of the car.

He did remark on the view of the sun setting behind the Rockies when we got to my apartment, but he lost no time in unbuckling and unzipping himself, pulling his trousers and briefs off his legs, and plopping down in the center of a sofa facing the view.

“I’ll be just a few moments. Make yourself comfortable,” I said, and wafted off to my bedroom. When I returned, I was in red lace panties, a red satin slip, black stockings, a garter belt, and red heels. He had taken his full erection in his hand and pumped it up while I had been dressing.

He looked at me and muttered, “Kneel to me. Give me head now. Take your time.”

I knelt in front of him and worshipped his cock with my hands and mouth, raising myself up to heaven at the sounds of his moans as he lay back into the sofa and let me work him. I gave him my best head, doing everything I could to take him all in my throat. There was no way that was going to happen, the concentration with which I went for it—the knowledge that it was going to be inside me, that thuggish James Bond was going to be fucking me—sent me right up the register. I didn’t notice, though, that he was just lying there, waiting until he was at full throb. When he was, he pushed me off him and said, “You got any beer here? And while you’re up, maybe you should get a rubber and some lube. We’re gonna go downtown with this. No more buildup. Want you tight when I fuck you.”

So, I got up and went for his beer, a condom, and a bottle of lube.

I stood in front him as he sat on the sofa. He drank his beer with one hand and felt me up with the other, running his hand up my stocking-clad legs and under the hem of the slip, all the way up to my breasts. After running his hand over my basket and along the waist and leg hems of the panties, he brushed the hem of the slip up above my belly and applied his lips to my navel as his hand snaked around to my buttocks and his fingers worked up from a leg hole of the panties and entered my ass. I rocked on him as he kissed my belly and fingered my ass. I gasped and moaned after stepping out of my panties as he slipped them down and off my legs. He ran a finger back in my passage and took my cock in his mouth and gave me suck, as I held his head in my hands, rocked, and came in in this throat.

“How about another beer,” he said, when he came up for air, “And come back naked,” he called out.

I did it all, returning only in the garter belt, stockings and heels and then he did it all, but not quite how I had dreamed it would be. He took a swig of the beer, put it down on the cocktail table in front of the sofa, grabbed me, and bent me over the arm of the sofa. He wrapped one arm around me, holding me close to him as he bent over me. The fingers of his free hand somehow got lubed and he attacked my hole with his fingers as I writhed under him, panting hard, groaning deep.

“Open but keep it tight,” he kept growling in my ear.

I had no idea how to do that, but it didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t really care what I was doing as long as I didn’t suddenly telescope open.

“Keep it tight; keep it tight.” I did nothing. He did it all. It wasn’t about me. It was about stuffing himself in me, which he did after I slit open a condom packet, crowned him, and lubed us both. When he was deep inside me, he reached around and grabbed my breasts in his hands and worked them while he began fucking me in the ass. Not long into the fuck, he moved his hands to clutching my hips and spreading his fingers over me until their tips almost met. He murmured about how nice that he could almost touch fingers in this grip. From there on out he maintained this hip grip while he fucked me. I had no trouble recognizing that this was his fetish.

After he’d done me in a doggie for a while, he turned me on his shaft, to where we were in a missionary, with my ass on the arm of the sofa, with my heaving, traumatized, but traumatized in heaven, torso streaming back onto the sofa, with my ankles on his shoulders, and with him still deep inside me.

And then, gripping my buttocks in his hands and spreading them wide to give him maximum access while his fingers still spread across my narrow hips, he started stroking me in long, hard-fought thrusts, fucking me hard and fast as I cried out in passion and begging for mercy that didn’t come and that I didn’t really want. When he came, after I’d done so, bringing myself off again with my own clutching hand, he jerked out of me, tore the condom off, and arced his cum on my belly and chest.

Without a word, he gathered up his trousers and briefs and went through to my bedroom and into the bathroom. He closed the door and I heard the lock engage and then the shower start. He didn’t want me to join him in the shower. Dragging myself up from the sofa, I staggered into the bath off the second bedroom and cleaned myself off with a wet washcloth.

It had been brutal and cruel, and it had finished much too soon. It was everything I could have dreamed from a thuggish James Bond. I wanted more. I went back into the master bedroom. I stripped the bedspread down to the footboard, climbed on and stretched out on the bed, shoving a pillow under the small of my back to lift my pelvis up.

When Buddy came out of the bathroom, he was fully clothed. He looked at me and said, “I hope the beer is still cold.” Then he sauntered back out to the living area.

I waited for ten minutes or so and then rolled out of the bed and padded out to the living room. He was gone and the beer glass had been drained.

I wanted him to do me again—properly, in the bed. I needed him to do me again. I wasn’t proud. I’d call him at his hotel. I’d offer him money to come back and stuff me again and to ride me hard. I wracked my brain to try to remember what hotel he was staying at. He’d said it was near here, but I don’t think he told me which one it was. He’d told me so little. He’d answered nearly none of my questions about himself, and those he’d answered, he hadn’t done so fully. When I was asking him about Baltimore, he didn’t take the hint that I was angling for an invitation to come see him there.

All I could remember of what he had said was about his fetish with slim hips and tight fits. I’d met his expectations there and he’d played out his fetish. So, why wasn’t he clambering for a repeat?

The next day I called the offices of the Denver Dynamites soccer team, but they wouldn’t give me any information on any of the players. I called Baltimore, and the offices of the Baltimore Blast weren’t any more helpful. I could send fan mail and he’d answer if he wanted to. I sent fan mail but he didn’t answer. I went on the computer but he wasn’t listed on the dating site anymore.

I even went to Baltimore, to a Blasts game, but that was months later, and he’d moved on. I found he’d gone to the Atlanta Silverbacks. By then, I’d hooked up with Owen through the dating service. He was big cocked too, like Buddy. And he did me well. Not as cruelly and magnificently as Buddy had done me that one time, but well enough. And Owen stuck around. So, slowly, ever so slowly, I became accepting that my one encounter with the thuggish James Bond, as exciting as it had been, was just a failed connection. We had wanted something different from each other.

* * * *

I knew that he’d claimed the ticket and come to the rodeo because each of the riders had his or her own four-seat box for each performance at the Colorado Springs Rodeo, and he was sitting in my box. Even though I couldn’t see him clearly from where I was perched on the chute fence, ready to take my turn on the bull, I knew it was him. I knew he’d still have that interesting scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. I knew that, where it should have marred his looks, which looked like he’d been a few too many fist fights already, it didn’t. It didn’t hide that he was handsome in his own rough way, just as his clothes couldn’t hide what I’d seen in the photos he’d sent me.

He, Buddy Wright, was the only one in the box because I usually invited students of mine from the previous year—my first one as a high school music teacher in the Denver suburb of Littleton—but I couldn’t risk them sitting with a man I’d hooked up with on the Internet, a man I hoped was going to fuck me that day—a man who had seemed obsessed with how narrow-hipped I was, possibly the first time that I thought that been slim-waisted and -hipped was seen as arousing by a man.

I’d gone to an Internet dating service because I was lonely and felt under a microscope in my first year out of college, teaching. I couldn’t hook up with anyone anywhere near Littleton—not as a high school teacher—not hook up with another man. I needed someone at long distance. Not necessarily a one-night-stand. I did want a relationship, but someone who wasn’t living here.

Baltimore, Maryland, was a longer way away than I had been looking for, and I hadn’t shown much interest in Buddy when he first contacted me via the dating site. We’d hooked up mostly because we were both into sports. Our hookup on the Web had deepened because he’d found that I was unusually narrow-hipped. He was a pro soccer player with a Baltimore indoor soccer league, and I’d been riding the bulls since high school. So, that’s where we started. He wanted to talk about bow hunting as well as soccer but he lost me there, and then the discussion moved on to where we both were headed when we signed up for this hook-up site—to sex.

He asked for a photo and I, being self-conscious of my size and my equipment, had sent one from the waist up. I’d been bold enough to send one of me bare-chested, but only from the belly up. He’d remarked on my size, asking me if I was sure I was of age. I answered that I was twenty-one and just small for my age. He responded with a photo of him completely naked. His body was beautiful. He wasn’t tall or bulked up, in keeping with what a soccer player needed—to be trimmed for speed on his legs—but he was hung like a bull.

Along with that photo, he asked me for one of me that showed my lower body as well. I wouldn’t have sent one, but he also spoke of his fetish, which was for small men, especially ones with an androgynes look, boyish equipment and very narrow hips. He said that my photo indicated I was “pretty” and might at least be narrow in the hips. How narrow was I? He made it sound that what he was looking for was exactly what was making me reticent to try to hook up with a guy—what I saw as a turnoff for an athletic guy who I would find arousing. I didn’t think athletic guys who were into guys would be into “girlish” guys like me. There was no question that I found Buddy Wright arousing from his photos and from his e-mail discussions. His was a Mediterranean-type, curly dark-haired god from his photos. A perfect body for a soccer player. The size of his cock was intimidating, but I’d dreamed of taking something like that. The few times I’d had sex with a man, I wanted to be stuffed and stretched to the limit. At his prompting, I revealed this fetish of mine.

In turn, he reiterated and focused in on his fetish for narrow hips and tight fit. When I revealed that I was thirty-one inches at the hips, his e-mails came more often and more intimately. He wanted to meet. He would be in my area. He wanted to fuck me.

I just wanted to be fucked by an athletic stud so bad. I, Toby McLean, the new music teacher at Littleton High and semipro bull rider in rodeos around Colorado, wanted to have someone fucking me periodically. I just didn’t want that want to get connected with being a high school teacher in the Denver suburbs. I was happy that his interests were focusing in on my narrow hips and tight channel.

He had to ask again, assuring me that he had this fetish about narrow hips, boyish genitals, and tight holes. “You say you haven’t done it often, that your partners have always remarked about how tight you are, how narrow your hips and tight your buttocks are. Don’t be shy about that, if it’s true. Send me photos of your pelvis. Also, can you let your hair down in the photo?”

So, I did. There didn’t seem to be any reason not to bring it to a head at this point. Either what I had was what he wanted or it wasn’t. I didn’t hold back. I sent full frontal photos, side photos, photos from the rear, pelvis photos, and even, because he specifically asked, a photo of me bending over, spreading my cheeks, and showing my tight hole. I usually kept my hair in a tight bun at the back of my head, especially when I was in the classroom, but, for these photos, I let it down to reach down to my shoulders. I measured my hips again. Yes, thirty-one inches, I let him know, having checked to find that that, indeed, was a very narrow measurement. It normally should be the same as my chest, which was thirty-five inches and had been, when I thought I wanted to transcend, been augment a bit into something more womanly.

I was afraid he’d think I was a freak and call it all off, but his response claimed he was thrilled. “Can’t wait to hold you steady there between my hands, in the hollow of your hips, and be inside you, and to hold and squeeze your breasts as I move inside you” he’d answered. I masturbated to the image of that.

He messaged back that he would be in Denver, playing a soccer game with the Denver Dynamite indoor soccer team at their arena in Castle Rock, in July and he wanted to meet me—not just meet me; he wanted to fuck me. I told him that the Colorado Springs Rodeo would be going on in July and I’d be riding the bulls nearly every day. Castle Rock was between Denver and Colorado Springs. If he gave me a day he could be at the rodeo, I’d make sure he had a ticket and we could go from there.

“I’m a bull too,” he wrote back. “Confirm you want to ride me.”

I held my hands over the keyboard for a few minutes before I responded. But wasn’t this why I’d gone to the expense and effort to sign up with this dating service—more of a hook-up service? I confirmed that that was exactly what I wanted.

I checked when his team, the Baltimore Blast, would be in Denver in July to play the Denver Dynamite, and, without letting him know, I got tickets to their game in Castle Rock. During the game, I picked him out on the field and followed him. I was looking for evidence that he wasn’t all that he had messaged he was, but everything I could see—although I had to imagine I could see the facial scar—panned out. At the end of the game I found where the visiting players would come out of their locker room and stationed myself there. Maybe I’d catch him there and we could hook up before he came to the rodeo.

But when he came out of the locker room, he was with an older guy, a slim, good-looking blond guy who probably was in his late thirties and who looked like money. What I noticed most was how slim and androgynous, almost plastic, the guy looked—and how narrow his hips were.

So, I wasn’t the only hookup Buddy Wright had arranged in Denver. I felt deflated, but I’d gone this far already. I couldn’t back out now or I’d probably never be brave enough to ever do it again. The guy Buddy left with looked like money, but he looked old. I was confident that I could deal with that. I bet the rich guy wasn’t going to take Buddy to a sports bar where local sportsmen hung out. I’d done some thinking and I found a sports bar in Denver where both soccer players and bow hunters gathered. I bet that would put Buddy into the mood.

Not that I got the chance.

I came out of the chute early in the competition I’d sent Wright a ticket for and stayed on the bull for seven of the eight seconds I had to cling to its back to qualify to go on to the next round. I managed to roll out and away without sustaining any hurt other than to my dignity. I hadn’t gone out in the first round since I’d gone on the circuit. I marked that up to Buddy Wright being in the stands and what I was thinking about what we’d be doing later that night, if the hookup went as planned. So, I was running a good bit ahead of myself there.

At halftime, when the second round of rides by cowboys you had held on for eight seconds or more in the first round would reappear in a second round, I went up to introduce myself to Buddy Wright and tell him what I had in mind for us to do after the rodeo was over. I admitted that I’d gone out early because I was thinking of him and he had the kindness to say he gathered that from looking at my stats in the program. I still had to be there for the finale, I told him. He didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the sports bar I’d found.

“Is there someplace we can go now. I want it now,” Wright said. “You say you don’t have to be back here until the end. We’ve got time. Is there someplace?”

“Well, yes, we have trailer where we can go if we need to rest or take care of an injury that doesn’t require a hospital and ambulance.” I wanted to get across that bull riding was a macho sport.

“Does the door lock from the inside?”

“Yes, and there’s a safety latch so even a key wouldn’t work from the outside.”

“Let’s go there now.”

The trailers were small, more or less one compartment with a kitchenette and john at one end of it. But they did have locks on the door. He pushed me to my knees as soon as we entered the trailer I led him to and locked it, and I was sucking a cock that was every inch as big and thick as the photographs he’d sent indicated it was. While I did that, he was bent over me, undoing the bun at the back of my head and letting my hair cascade down to my shoulders, running fingers under the waistband of my jeans and checking out how tight I was. He made sounds of approval. And then, when he was hard and throbbing, he pushed me back into a chair, and stripped off my shirt, jeans, and jock, leaving me naked.

I wasn’t naked for long, though. He had a briefcase with him, and he opened that now and took out a silky red slip and a pair of red spike heels. He put those on me and, for a few minutes, he ran us hands up under the hem of the slip and felt me up. Then he put my ankles on his shoulders, with my high-heeled feet on either side of his cheeks, bunched the slip up around my waist, bent me almost in two, and attacked my small cock and balls and my hole with his fingers and mouth, having brought his own lube.

I wanted so much to tell him we had time and I had a surprise planned for him that would maybe bring us closer together in the start of some sort of relationship, but he was having none of it. Before I knew it, he had a red silk scarf stuffed in my mouth and he was bent over me, pushing that big cock inside of me, declaring his appreciation for how tight I was and how difficult it was to bottom in me. He was squeezing my hips between his hands, spreading his fingers out, trying to make the fingertips meet. He held me like this the whole time he was pumping me.

As I panted hard, cried out through the muffling gag in my mouth, and dug my nails into his shoulders, trying to push him away at first but then holding him to me when he was in and stroking me and taking me to heaven, he fucked me hard and fast. He turned me, facing into the chair, got behind me, grabbed my hips in his hands again, laughing by being able to nearly touch his fingers while encasing my narrow hips, and penetrated me again. He ran his hands up under the hem of red silk slip and cupped and squeezed my breasts, thumbing my nipples, while he pounded away at me in a doggie fuck.

It was both painful and glorious. He was huge and I was taking him, stretched to the limit, but taking him. It was all about him, but there was pleasure left for me aplenty, and if he’d wanted to take me again in the same way after that first time, I would have loved it. I would have begged for it. But there was just that once.

He'd brought his own condom too. Long after I’d come, he pulled out of me, jerked the condom off, turned me and pushed me down in the chair, tore the bodice of the silk slip open, and came on my chest, rubbing his cockhead on the cum he’d spouted on my breasts. He leaned over and cleaned his cum off my chest with his tongue, squeezing what breasts I had with his hands and sucking on my nipples.

When he’d calmed back down, he pulled his jeans back on, grabbed the red high heels off my feet, unlocked the door, and was gone. That was it. He didn’t come back. and when I tried to find him on the dating service Web site, he was gone from there too. I could have maybe tried to contact him through the Baltimore Blast organization, but I decided “why bother?” All he’d wanted was a quick fetish fuck in a tight hole and a little play with a gender bender. I had hoped for more and now I’d continue looking for more. I’d just chalk that one up to a connection that failed.

* * * *

“There’s a seat free on the exit row, Mr. Wright, if you’d like to have some extra leg room.”

“That would be great,” Buddy Wright answered. The doors were about to close on the afternoon flight from Denver to Detroit, where Buddy would connect to an evening flight back to Baltimore.

“You called me by name. Terry, is it?” Buddy was squinting at the name tag on the cute Delta steward’s chest. He’d already honed in on the young man’s extremely narrow waist and hips.

“I know who you are,” Terry Harden answered. “You’re Buddy Wright, a forward for the Baltimore Blast soccer team. I once played for the Atlanta Silverbacks and I was on the team at the University of Maryland a couple of years after you were a legend there. And not just for your soccer playing.”

“Well, fancy that,” Buddy said, looking at the trim, young steward with appreciation. “By all means, show me where this seat is that’s got more leg room.”

The dance between the two hadn’t started there, in the plane, as the doors were being closed. Buddy had seen the steward approach the departure gate area in Denver along with other members of the flight crew and he had been struck by the young man’s build—a good, firm chest, but his torso tapering down to a very narrow waist and hips. It was enough to make Buddy start to go hard. He’d stared, with lust in his eyes, at the young man, and Terry, sensing the gaze, had looked back and smiled a knowing smile.

The steward told his colleagues he’d be with them in a moment, that he had to go to the men’s room. As he turned in that direction, he looked at Buddy and smiled again. Buddy got the message and followed him into the men’s room. He saddled up to a urinal beside Terry and looked down—and did a double-take. Terry had unzipped and flared his trousers and pulled his cock out. That’s not what caught Buddy’s attention, though. Terry was wearing lacy red women’s panties. He looked at Buddy, winked, folded his dick back into his pants, and turned and left the men’s room.

Buddy had no idea why the other man had shown that he was wearing women’s panties, but he went hard.

As they got into the nearly three-hour flight, Terry kept reappearing to give Buddy, now upgraded to the Comfort zone in the plane, the same service those in first class were getting. There was little question he was coming on to Buddy.

When he delivered a beer to Buddy, turning down, in a whisper only heard by Buddy, the passenger’s offer to pay for it, Buddy, apparently fully aware he wasn’t the celebrity he was getting the celebrity treatment for, asked, “Do you still keep up with all of the soccer arena team players? I’m not exactly at the top of the league in any category.” Before Terry answered, though, it hit Buddy that the steward had said he was a legend at the university for more than his soccer ability. He’d had his fetish for narrow-hipped crossdressers even there. It was becoming clear why the steward had shown off that he was wearing women’s panties. And it couldn’t have been because he knew Buddy would be on the flight, so it must be something Terry already was into. He didn’t know what to say next, but Terry had already moved on with why he knew Buddy.

“But you’re also a bow hunter. I saw you at the competitions in Rockville last year. You were robbed. You did really well.”

“You follow bow hunting?”

“I do it when I have an opportunity,” Terry answered. At that moment there was some unexpected turbulence and Terry, standing in the aisle, swayed a bit—not really enough to think he was going to go down, though. Buddy, at least seemingly, reached out with a hand and steadied the air steward by grasping Terry’s hip, letting his hand palm the hollow of the strikingly narrow-hipped young man. Terry gave him a smile. Buddy wasn’t all that quick to take his hand away. Neither was Terry all that quick to release his smile. As they held there close together, waiting for the swaying of the airplane to stabilize, Terry turned to where only Buddy could see him and unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt, opening the shirt enough for Buddy to see that the steward was wearing a red bra that matched the panties. As soon as he flashed that, though, he had buttoned up again, winked at Buddy, and went off down the aisle. All of this was possible because it wasn’t a full flight. Buddy was alone in the row he’d been moved to.

Near the end of the flight into Detroit, the first leg of Buddy’s air trip back to Baltimore that day, Terry went around with his company cellphone, offering to check on connecting flights and departure gates. When he got to Buddy, he said, “Do you have a connecting flight or does your flight end in Detroit tonight?”

It seemed fairly obvious that Terry wanted Buddy to say he was overnighting in Detroit. But Buddy’s connection to the Baltimore flight was just an hour away, and he wouldn’t have had time to change the flight. He barely had time to make it. So, he gave his connecting flight information to Terry.

“Do you really want to make that flight?” Terry asked, giving Buddy a meaningful look.

“Hate to say that the team will expect me too. Too bad.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the steward said. “I don’t see that flight. Oh, yes, there it is. It’s been canceled. Your layover is now fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen hours? How can that be? It was supposed to be only an hour.”

“Stick in the airplane when it lands unless I’ve gotten back to you,” Terry said. “I’ll check this out with the ground staff and see if there’s been some mess up.” Terry wasn’t acting like he was all that unhappy with the flight cancellation, though, and when Buddy made his way to the front of the plane while the passengers were deplaning, Terry said, “There’s a new flight for you. That’s why there’s a fourteen-hour delay. It’s the next flight you’d want to take to get to where you’re going. Sit over there. You’ll need to go to Delta Help. It’s just down between gates 15 and 17. I’ll walk you there.”

“You don’t need to—” Buddy started.

“Hang tight until we have everyone else out. I’ll walk you there.”

And that’s what Terry did when Buddy was the last one off the plane and the other cabin attendants and the pilot and copilot were walking up the gangway.

“That’s really helpful of you,” Buddy said as they walked toward the Delta help desk.

“They have you scheduled going out a 11:00 in the morning. They had you on a 7:00 flight, but I asked them to change you. A secret there. The 7:00 flight will be crowded with the others who got bumped off tonight’s flight. The 11:00 won’t be fully booked and they’ll upgrade you. I put you in for that.”

“Is that the real reason I’m taking the later flight?” Buddy asked.

“Maybe,” Terry said, with a smile. “Do you have a need to be back in Baltimore earlier?”

“No, not really. I have off tomorrow,” Buddy answered. “But the team buys the air tickets and I’d have to have a very good reason not to make the flights they set up.”

“Your flight was canceled. That’s a good enough reason. But if you didn’t have that reason, would you have another very good reason to do an overnight layover here?” Terry asked.

“I can think of one, yes.”

“Good. Maybe great. Here, they’ll give you a phone number to call for a hotel. They’ pay for the hotel. It might be a fleabag, though. I’ll stick here and help you pick one out that has a room as nice as you can get. I fly into Detroit often.”

“You’ll stick around?”

“Certainly. I don’t have anything I need to be doing tonight—well anything other than what would be fun.” It registered with Buddy that Terry had said “tonight” and not “now” or “this evening.” He gave Terry a knowing smile.

When he came back after consulting at the help desk and before he made a call to see what hotels were available, Terry spoke. “I’ve been thinking. I have a room booked at the Westin tonight—right here connected to the terminal. You could bunk with me. You’d be right here tomorrow morning to make your flight. Westin has its own TSA point back into the terminal. Staying there would cut a good thirty minutes off the time you’d have to show up. I’d be happy for you to use the room. You could buy me dinner tonight. I know of some out-of-the-way restaurant bars in the terminal.”

“Stay at the Westin—in your room?” Buddy gave Terry a slow-burning smile.

“Yes. One room.”

“And one bed?”

“There might be two double beds, but we don’t have to use them both.”

“So, you know from what’s on me on the Internet that I’m gay—and a top?”

“Of course I know. I’m counting on it. I also think I know what you like.”

“That hair you have pinned up in back—do you ever let it down?” Buddy asked.

“If that’s what the man wants,” Terry answered.

They talked for over an hour over dinner in a dark bar that served shrimp baskets with its drinks. They had so much to talk about: life as a pro indoor soccer player, their separate days at the University of Maryland, bow hunting, and checking to see if they had any friends in common. Buddy even opened up about having come out while being on a soccer team, the first time he’d ever done so.

“I think you were close friends with a freshman named Archie when you were a senior at Maryland.”

“Yes, I was,” Buddy said, guardedly. He was, in fact, very close friends with Archie, who indulged Buddy’s fetish.

“He’s Angela now,” Terry said. He went all the way after college.

“I didn’t know that,” Buddy said. “That’s too bad.”

“Why too bad?”

“I’m not really into women—going all the way doesn’t turn me on.”

“That’s a relief to hear, because I haven’t—”

“I know. We were in the men’s room together. I could see what I wanted to see.” They both laughed. “So, you’re not home based here in Detroit?” Buddy then asked.

“No. I never got away from Atlanta. That’s where I call home.”

“You serious about me coming up to your hotel room tonight?” Buddy asked, reaching over and stroking the young air steward’s forearm. Buddy was only three years older than Terry, but he was built larger, and he’d zeroed in on how narrow Terry’s waist and hips were. He couldn’t help focusing on his fetish.

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, I see how slim you are. Have you had many men before?”

“Are you asking if I can take a big cock? Are you telling me you have a big cock?”

“Well, yes. But more than that. I have needs. If you’ve had a lot of men, maybe—”

“You have a big cock, but you want your men to have a tight channel. You want them to suffer a bit in taking you.”

“Yes.”

“And to be wearing women’s lingerie.”

“Yes.”

“And to let their hair down.”

“Well . . . yes. Do you think—?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we? But, yes, when I’m with a man, I want to be filled and taxed. I want to be punished a bit.”

“It’s late. Maybe they’ll throw us out of here,” Buddy said.

Terry laughed. “This is an airport. The restaurants here never close. But I get the message. You want to go upstairs in the Westin now and fuck.”

“Yes, I want to fuck you,” Buddy said. “I think I’ve wanted to fuck you since I saw you walking toward the departure gate in Denver—and that was before you showed me what you showed me in the men’s room.”

“It’s my room,” Terry said. “If you come to my room, I’ll control the fuck.”

“The state you’ve got me in, I’ll take you any way I can get you,” Buddy said. This, in fact, was unusual. Buddy was used to calling the shots, to being in full control.

They went to the air steward’s room at the Westin, and Terry controlled the fuck, an entirely new sensation for Buddy. He hadn’t slow fucked before. He’d been all go in, fire off, and get out with his sex partners before. He started off as if he was going there again, but Terry, admonishing once more “My room; my rules”; pushed Buddy on his back on the bed, sitting at the edge of the foot of the bed; pulled Buddy’s trousers and briefs off his legs; took possession of the man’s cock; and relentlessly sucked him off, not letting Buddy loose until he’d come. Terry was just wearing red lace panties and matching bra. He had red heels in his luggage and Buddy said, “That would be very nice,” when Terry asked him if he wanted Terry to wear them. And then, while Terry was knelt in front of him, sucking him off, Buddy released Terry’s hair and let it fall to his shoulders.

“There, that’s better,” he whispered.

After Buddy had released his seed, it took him some time to build up an erection again, during which they lay, stretched out beside each other on the bed, Buddy’s stroking the hollows of Terry’s flanks. They talked and kissed and groped each other until Buddy was ready to roll over on top of Terry and take him hard. Terry made his move first, however, rolling over on top of Buddy, positioning himself in the cowboy position, facing Buddy’s head, and taking his time screwing himself down on Buddy’s cock, as Buddy grasped the air steward’s hips and spread his fingers, shuddering when the tips met. Terry was as tight as Buddy could have wanted him, and, grasping Terry’s narrow hips between his hands, Buddy let Terry work at his own speed in raising and lowering himself on the thick, long shaft.

Buddy was overwhelmed and completely taken by Terry. He’d never given up control like this before to a man. He’d never been so open in talking with a man he wanted to screw before. He never been ridden like this before, certainly not to the heights of arousal and passion that Terry took him that night.

As he rode the cock, Terry reached back to unhook his bra, but Buddy said, “No, don’t. Leave it on. Reverse on the dick.” When Terry moved around to facing Buddy’s feet, Buddy wrapped his arms around the steward’s sides, ran his hands under the bra so that he was palming the young man’s breasts, and thumbed Terry’s nipples, while the steward arched his back and rode the cock.

They fucked and rested and then screwed again, each time Terry taking charge. Then they slept. In the dark of the night, Terry woke Buddy up, on top of him again, facing Buddy’s feet, screwing his tight channel on Buddy’s throbbing, thick cock. They barebacked, and Terry took Buddy’s cum deep inside him and spouted out onto Buddy’s chest and thighs.

At 6:30 in the morning, the telephone by the bed rang, and, coming abruptly awake, Buddy answered it as soon as he had some idea where he was. It was a hotel wakeup call so that he could make his flight. He hadn’t asked for the call. Looking around when he hung the phone up, he discovered that he was alone. Terry wasn’t in the bathroom either.

Terry had fucked him and left him. In the back of his mind, there was a glint of recognition that he’d done that to most of his sex partners too, but it was only a hint of recognition. There was no immediate evidence that Terry had been there at all, although at last Buddy found the red lace panties under the bed at the corner. Try as he might Buddy couldn’t remember what Terry’s last name had been.

Before leaving for his flight, he called Delta but only got the runaround. When he checked out of the Westin, he’d been stuck with the bill for the night. There was no record of a Terry anybody reserving the room. When they’d checked it, Terry had been the one to go to the desk, telling Buddy to stay in the bar so they wouldn’t know there would be two of them in the room. Buddy realized that Terry hadn’t had a reservation already. The desk clerks showed him who had given a card to hold the room. It had been his own card. Terry somehow had lifted one of Buddy’s credit cards and then put it back later.

He went to the Delta help desk between the A15 and A17 departure gates and asked them if they could tell him who had been the stewards on the flight in from Denver the previous evening. They couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell him.

He was frantic for a while. Terry was the first guy he’d met that he could have had a serious relationship with—and, physically, he was perfect for Buddy’s fetish. He was still a man, but he could dress as a woman and he had the narrowest hips and tightest channel of any man Buddy had fucked.

Back in Baltimore, Buddy couldn’t get Terry out of his mind. He increasingly realized that Terry had treated him the same way he’d been treating his sex partners—screw them and leave them—and he vowed that, if only he could find Terry, he’d be more sensitive to the needs of others. His play in Baltimore suffered and he managed to get himself traded to the Atlanta Silverbacks, where, after striking out in finding anyone who’d known of a Terry on the team, he slowly settled in.

He roamed the gay bars and clubs of Atlanta and the Atlanta airport, looking for Terry. He eventually accepted that that had been a failed connection, and while he roamed the gay district, he met young Jack, who had narrow hips, a tight channel, long hair, a pretty face, black silky lingerie, augmented breasts, and who worshipped soccer players. Buddy worked hard—and, eventually, successfully—to ensure that his relationship with Jack wasn’t going to be one of those failed connections he’d gone through before—all of them, he now accepted, his fault.

Even the failed connection with Terry had been his fault. After that night in the Detroit airport hotel, one of the reasons he’d been drawn to Terry came back to him—that he reminded him of someone from his past, from when he had gone to the University of Maryland. In their earlier conversation in the airport restaurant, Terry had mentioned his older brother had gone to Maryland and had played sports, but that he’d had a rough life after leaving the university and had wound up broken and homeless and on the streets for a while. It was only when Buddy had time to reflect that he realized that Terry looked like—and probably was the brother of—one of the first young men Buddy had taken up with, another member of the university soccer team, and had dropped abruptly when Buddy had managed to have his way with him. He’d had slim hips and a tight fit as well—and he’d been crushed that Buddy didn’t want more than a one-time lay.