There it was. A new message from Tucker H. His breath caught in his chest as he read the words, his eyes devouring each one.
Donovan’s Oyster Bar, 6:00 pm. Tonight, if possible. I don’t want to wait. I want to stare into those beautiful eyes.
A slow, disbelieving grin spread across Keith’s face. He read it again, and then a third time, the words sinking in, each one a perfect, glittering gem. Tonight. I don’t want to wait. Beautiful eyes. He let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy, a sound so out of place in his meticulously curated space that it made him laugh. He spun around the living room, a dizzy, euphoric dance that ended with him collapsing onto the couch, the phone held tight against his chest as if it were a holy relic.
But the euphoria was immediately followed by a jolt of sheer panic. He glanced at the clock on his cable box. 4:17 PM. Two hours and forty-three minutes. He shot up from the couch, his mind racing. Donovan’s. He knew the place. It was nice. The kind of nice place where you didn’t wear the same button-down shirt you’d worn to a job at a washing machine plant, even an office job. He needed a shower. A real one this time, not the quick, post-orgasmic rinse he’d taken earlier. He needed to shave. He needed to figure out what to wear.
Oh, and he needed to text back a reply. He wrote three messages and deleted each before writing, ‘Tonight works for me.’
He sprinted to the bathroom, shedding his cleaning clothes as he went. He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand it, the steam quickly fogging up the mirror. As he lathered his face with shaving cream, he caught his reflection in the glass, a wide-eyed, grinning idiot with a face full of suds. He couldn’t stop smiling. He shaved with meticulous care, his usually hasty movements replaced by a surgeon’s precision, not wanting to risk a single nick. Under the hot spray, he scrubbed every inch of his body, using the expensive, sandalwood-scented body wash he usually saved for special occasions. This, he decided, was the most special occasion of his life.
Out of the shower, he stood before his closet, a towel wrapped around his waist. This was the real challenge. His wardrobe consisted of work clothes—polo shirts and khakis—and college clothes—worn-out jeans and band t-shirts. Neither seemed right for staring into beautiful eyes at an oyster bar. He pushed past the hangers, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he saw it. Tucked in the back was his “interview suit.” A dark charcoal grey that he’d bought for a job fair senior year and had thankfully never had to wear. It was a little formal, but it was all he had. He pulled it out.
He chose a crisp, white dress shirt and a simple, dark grey tie. As he knotted it, his fingers trembled slightly. He put on the suit trousers, the fabric feeling stiff and unfamiliar. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on his closet door. The suit was a bit boxy on his lean frame, but it would have to do. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to coax it into some semblance of style. He looked… presentable. He looked like an adult.
He checked the clock again. 5:22 PM. He had to go. He grabbed his wallet and keys, giving his apartment one last, sweeping glance. It was perfect. Spotless. Ready. He took a deep breath, the scent of his own cologne filling his lungs—a spicy, confident scent he hoped Tucker would like.
The drive to Donovan’s was a blur of nervous energy. He parked his sensible sedan two blocks away, not wanting to be seen pulling up right in front. The evening air was cool, and he felt a shiver of anticipation as he walked toward the restaurant. Donovan’s was all dark wood and soft, amber lighting. Large, potted ferns hung from the ceiling, and the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware created an atmosphere of intimate sophistication. This was definitely a step up from the local sports bar.
He stepped inside, his heart pounding. The hostess, a woman with a sleek black bob, smiled at him. “Welcome to Donovan’s. Table for one?”
“Actually, I’m meeting someone,” Keith said, his voice sounding surprisingly steady. “Dr. Hamilton.” Keith tried to smile. “Tucker.”
Her smile widened knowingly. “Ah, yes. He’s already here. Right this way, please.”
She led him through the dining room, past tables occupied by couples and small groups, all bathed in the warm, golden glow of candlelight. And then he saw him. Tucker was seated at a small, secluded table in the corner, away from the main thoroughfare. He wasn’t wearing his white doctor’s coat. He was in a simple, black V-neck sweater that clung to his chest and shoulders, highlighting the lean lines of his body. His blond hair looked even softer in the dim light, and as he looked up from the menu he was perusing, his blue eyes found Keith’s.
The world seemed to slow down. The noise of the restaurant faded into a dull hum. All Keith could see was Tucker’s face, the way a genuine, breathtaking smile transformed it, lighting up his eyes and making them sparkle. He stood up as Keith approached, a gesture of old-fashioned chivalry that sent a fresh wave of warmth through Keith’s chest.
“Keith,” Tucker said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that was just for him. “You’re here.”
“Of course,” Keith breathed, feeling his own face break into a wide, helpless grin. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
The conversation flowed as smoothly as the white wine Tucker had ordered, a crisp Pinot Grigio that tasted of green apples and summer. There were no awkward pauses, no desperate scrambling for topics. They talked about the drudgery of final exams, the peculiar satisfaction of seeing their names on a diploma, and the surreal feeling of being officially “in the real world.” Keith spoke of the rhythmic hum of the assembly line at the washing machine plant, a world of spreadsheets and inventory numbers that was stable, if not thrilling. Tucker, in turn, described the grueling, caffeine-fueled marathon of optometry school, the endless hours spent studying the intricate anatomy of the eye.
“You know,” Tucker said, swirling the last of the wine in his glass, his gaze fixed on Keith over the rim, “it’s funny. All through my clinical rotations, I heard stories from other students. Patients asking them out, slipping them their numbers, leaving suggestive notes on the back of their charts.” He shook his head, a small, wry smile playing on his lips. “I had none of that. Not a single one. I was starting to think I was invisible.” He set his glass down, his blue eyes locking onto Keith’s with an intensity that made his breath catch. “I guess I just had to wait for someone special.”
A wave of warmth washed over Keith, so potent it was almost dizzying. He felt a blush creep up his neck, but he held Tucker’s gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face. The check arrived, a small black folder placed discreetly on the edge of the table. Keith reached for it, but Tucker’s hand shot out, covering his. His touch was warm, his fingers firm.
“Absolutely not,” Tucker said, his voice a low, playful rumble. “I asked you out.”
Keith laughed, covering Tucker’s hand with his own. “You picked the place, but I asked first. Remember, I propositioned you in a clinical setting. I feel I owe you at least dinner for the emotional distress.”
They engaged in a good-natured tug-of-war over the check, their laughter drawing a fond smile from a nearby waitress. “Okay, okay,” Tucker finally conceded, raising his hands in surrender. “We’ll split it. But I’m warning you,” he added, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “next time, I’m getting it.”
“Then I’ll get the one after that,” Keith countered instantly.
They both burst out laughing, the sound easy and genuine. “Look at us,” Keith said, shaking his head in amazement. “We’ve already got three dates on the books, and we haven’t even finished the first one.”
As they left the restaurant, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the warmth inside, Keith cleared his throat. “You know,” he began, “I believe the original deal was dinner and a movie. Although,” he glanced at his watch, “it’s a little late to head for the theater.”
Tucker stopped and turned to him, the streetlights casting a golden halo in his blond hair. He gazed into Keith’s eyes, his expression soft and open. “I have an idea,” Keith said, his heart thumping. “We could go back to my apartment. We could find something to stream.”
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Tucker’s face. “That sounds perfect,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Keith’s apartment was exactly as he’d left it: immaculate and bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp. “Make yourself at home,” he said, feeling a fresh wave of nervousness. “Can I get you a beer? Or more wine?”
“A beer would be great,” Tucker replied, his eyes already scanning Keith’s movie collection on the shelf.
When Keith returned, Tucker was holding a case, a look of genuine delight on his face. “No way. You have It Came from Outer Space?”
“I’m a huge sucker for old sci-fi,” Keith admitted, handing him the bottle.
“Me too,” Tucker said, his grin widening. “I even like the cheesy ones; although, this one is not cheesy.”
They settled on the couch, not too close, but close enough that Keith could feel the heat radiating from Tucker’s body. The film’s familiar, dramatic score filled the room as the alien ship crashed in the Arizona desert. They fell into an easy rhythm, commenting on the special effects and the earnest, over-the-top acting. When Charles Drake appeared on screen as the handsome, no-nonsense sheriff, Tucker nudged Keith’s knee with his own. “Okay, I have to say,” he murmured, “for a 1953 sheriff, he’s not bad looking.”
Keith chuckled. “He’s a fucking stud, and you know it.”
“Not as good looking as the guy sitting next to me, though,” Tucker added softly.
Keith’s heart skipped a beat. He turned his head, and Tucker was already leaning in. The space between them vanished. The kiss was tentative at first, a soft, gentle press of lips that tasted of beer and possibility. It was everything Keith had imagined and more. Tucker’s hand came up to cup the side of his face, his thumb stroking his jawline, and the kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more searching. Keith’s own hands found their way to Tucker’s chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
The kiss broke for a moment, both of them breathing heavily. Tucker’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with desire. Without a word, he reached down and grasped the hem of his own sweater, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. Keith’s breath hitched. Tucker’s chest was lean and defined, covered in a dusting of pale blond hair that swirled around his pecs and tapered down to a narrow trail disappearing into his waistband. It was, Keith decided, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“My turn,” Keith whispered, his voice husky. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his fingers clumsy with anticipation. Tucker watched him, a hungry look in his eyes. When Keith’s shirt was open, Tucker reached out, his fingers tracing the line of dark hair that spread across Keith’s own chest. “Yes,” Tucker breathed, his gaze reverent. He leaned in and kissed Keith again, harder this time, his tongue parting his lips as his hands roamed freely over the warm, hairy skin of his chest.
Their kisses grew more urgent, a frantic, delicious dance of lips and teeth and tongues. Hands explored, mapping the landscape of shoulders, backs, and stomachs. The air in the room grew thick with need. Keith could feel the hard, insistent pressure of Tucker’s arousal against his thigh, and his own body answered in kind. It was Tucker who made the first move, his hand sliding down Keith’s stomach, his fingers hesitating for a breathless moment at the waistband of his trousers before dipping lower. He palmed Keith through the fabric of his pants, a slow, firm stroke that tore a ragged gasp from Keith’s throat.
Keith arched into the touch, his head falling back against the couch cushions. He mirrored Tucker’s actions, his own hand seeking the hard heat straining against the zipper of his jeans. They found a rhythm, stroking each other through the layers of clothing, their kisses becoming messy and desperate. The world outside the apartment ceased to exist. There was only the sound of their heavy breathing, the slick slide of their tongues, and the building, intoxicating friction of their hands, bringing each other closer and closer to the edge.
The friction of their hands, separated by the frustrating barrier of denim and cotton, was no longer enough. A silent, unspoken agreement passed between them in the heat of a kiss. Tucker pulled back first, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his blue eyes dark and glazed with lust. He stood up, his gaze never leaving Keith’s, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. The sound of his zipper being lowered was impossibly loud in the quiet room. He shucked his jeans and his briefs in one smooth motion, kicking them aside.
Keith’s breath caught in his throat. He had seen other men before, in the locker room at the gym, in fleeting, impersonal glimpses. But this was different. This was Tucker. And he was fascinated. Tucker’s penis was beautiful in its entirety, but what captivated Keith was the fact that he was uncircumcised. The soft, delicate hood of his foreskin rested partially over the head, a mystery of anatomy he had only ever seen in pictures. He stood up, his own movements clumsy with urgency, and quickly shed his own clothes until they were both standing in the warm lamplight, naked and exposed.
He sank to his knees before Tucker, his eyes level with the object of his fascination. He reached out a tentative hand, his fingers gently tracing the velvety skin of Tucker’s shaft. He could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle throb of his pulse. With a feather-light touch, he took the foreskin between his thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it back to reveal the glistening, sensitive head beneath. Tucker let out a sharp gasp of pleasure, his hands coming to rest gently on Keith’s shoulders.
Emboldened, Keith leaned in. He stuck out his tongue and gave the exposed tip a slow, deliberate lick. The taste was clean, slightly salty, and entirely Tucker. He swirled his tongue around the ridge, then used the tip of his tongue to tease the delicate opening of his foreskin, pushing it back and forth with gentle, wet strokes. Tucker’s fingers tightened on his shoulders, his breathing growing ragged. “Keith…Oh, Keith…”
Finally, Keith parted his lips and took him into his mouth. He was warm and hard, a perfect weight on his tongue. He began to move, establishing a slow, sensual rhythm, his hand stroking the base in time with the movements of his mouth. He could feel Tucker’s hips beginning to rock, a shallow, involuntary thrusting that signaled his approaching release. Just as he felt Tucker’s body tense, his thighs quivering, Tucker’s hands gently but firmly pushed against his shoulders.
“Stop,” Tucker breathed, his voice strained. “Wait… not yet.”
Keith pulled back, looking up at him in confusion, his lips swollen and wet. Tucker just shook his head, a small, breathless smile on his face as he guided Keith to stand. Then, he sank to his own knees. It was Keith’s turn to gasp as Tucker’s hot, wet mouth engulfed him. There was no hesitation, no tentative exploration. Tucker took him deep, his tongue working magic that made Keith’s knees feel weak. One of Tucker’s hands gripped his hip, holding him steady, while the other cupped his balls, rolling them gently. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a white-hot surge that built with terrifying speed.
He lost all track of time, lost in the exquisite sensations. They went back and forth like that, a delicious, agonizing dance of bringing each other to the very brink of ecstasy before pulling back, switching roles, and starting all over again. The floor of the living room became their entire world, a landscape of tangled limbs and desperate kisses. The final time, with Keith on his knees again, he could feel the control in Tucker’s body finally begin to unravel. Tucker’s hands were tangled in his hair, his hips thrusting with abandon. “Keith… I’m… I’m gonna…”
Keith didn’t pull back. He held on, taking him deeper as Tucker cried out, his body convulsing as he released into Keith’s mouth. The taste was unexpectedly intimate, a warm, salty flood that Keith swallowed without a second thought.
Before he could even process it, Tucker was pulling him up, kissing him deeply, tasting himself on Keith’s tongue. Then he was pushing Keith back onto the couch, descending on him with a renewed hunger. It only took a few moments of Tucker’s skilled, determined mouth before Keith felt his own orgasm cresting, a tidal wave of pleasure that broke through him with a strangled moan. He spilled himself into Tucker’s willing mouth, and felt the gentle, rhythmic swallowing as Tucker took everything he had to give.
They collapsed onto the couch, a sweaty, breathless tangle of limbs. For a long time, the only sound was their panting as they struggled to catch their breath. Tucker shifted, curling up against Keith’s side, his head resting on his chest. Keith wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. They lay there, kissing softly, lazily, the frantic urgency replaced by a deep, sated contentment. Each kiss grew slower, more languid, until they were just pressing their lips together, their bodies heavy with exhaustion.
“We forgot to pause the movie,” Tucker finally said. “And, I should probably go.” Tucker murmured the words against Keith’s skin, though he made no move to get up.
“No,” Keith whispered, his hand stroking the damp, blond hair on Tucker’s head. “Stay. Please.”
Tucker propped himself up on an elbow, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. “I want to,” he said sincerely. “But I need to go home. I have to be ready for work tomorrow.”
A pang of disappointment shot through Keith, but he understood. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Me too. The world would stop if I weren’t there to keep track of the parts we need.” He ran a finger down Tucker’s arm. “But… tomorrow? After work?”
A brilliant smile lit up Tucker’s face. “Absolutely,” he said, leaning in for one last, lingering kiss. “Count on it.”
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