Last Call

After court that day, Tom says let’s go take the edge off. That means happy hour at the swankiest waterhole in town. It means Jack Daniel. I’m not a bourbon drinker, but what the hell, it’s Friday, end of the workweek, and the trial seems to be going well – it’s a federal case – so I’m game.

By the time Tom’s girlfriend arrives from out of town, we’re feeling good, so Tom says why don’t we spend the night, go home tomorrow, rest up, and come back Sunday? Sounds good to me, sounds good to girlfriend, so Tom goes up front and takes care of things.

After dinner at a seafood restaurant we’re back at the hotel. Later that night, ten o’clock or so, we take in the Platters in the hotel’s showroom. They’re not the original group, but they’re good. We have a good time. Music, drinks, laughs. 

So midnight rolls around. Tom says they’re done for the night. I say okay, see you in the morning. But my good time’s not over. Not that I know that yet, but I know where to look for it. Or at least the potential for it, for I’m no amateur at that sort of thing. I’ve been around.

So I’m off to the kind of place where the lights are always low, to where opportunity, if you work it right, often presents itself. Here at the Rivermont it’s called the Timeout Lounge.

I’m at the bar, working on a scotch & soda when he walks in and sits down two stools from me. Looks to be in his mid-20s, maybe a little older. Average height and weight. Nice face. Not a head turner, but no stomach turner, either. We exchange a few words. Says he’s local, just hanging out, how about me? I tell him I have a room. Just me? Yeah, just me.

We’ve chatted maybe thirty minutes when he goes to the men’s room, comes back and sits down right next to me. A little bit after that, he begins throwing out what seems to be a few hints, but I’m not sure about that, so I pretend not to notice.

Finally the bartender announces last call. So, time being of the essence, and now that he’s just a whisper away, he leans in and puts it right out there, says exactly, precisely, what he wants to do.

So we kill our drinks and head out.

I’m on the top floor, down a long hallway, last room on the right. A little more private that way. That’s good, because I know myself well enough to know that it might get loud, especially if he’s good at what he likes to do, at what he has very specifically said he wants to do. But the truth is, even if he’s not all that great at it, well, the worst I’ve ever had was fabulous.

And so that night turned into what I had first seen scrawled on a public restroom wall when I was fourteen and could only imagine. I would not experience it until one night when I was a college sophomore. I hated myself after it was over. I felt dirty. Until later, in other towns, with other guys, I did not. I looked for it, I yearned for it. Giving and receiving.

As it turned out, the guy I met at the Time Out Lounge was a giver. That was all he wanted. And he was good. Real good. That dude was so good he was to fellatio what Fermi was to nuclear fission. And I did get loud. “Suck” is a beautiful word. “Lick” is no less beautiful.

Pits, nips, cock, balls.

He licks and sucks, and licks and sucks and sucks...

I cum. He leaves.

I’m drifting off to sleep when the bedside phone rings. It’s him. He’s downstairs, says the restaurant is open all night, would I like to have an early breakfast with him? Sure.

Later,  we’re back in my room.  

I cum. He leaves.

Again I’m falling asleep when the phone…

How about a nightcap?

This time I’m even louder. I don’t care, it’s motel sex in a high-rise fancy hotel. There’s just something about motel sex. So for the third time I cum; for the third time he leaves.  

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when the phone rings.

Surely not! Besides, I don't think I'm good for another round. So I lie there gazing at daylight peaking around the edges of the drapes while the phone just keeps on ringing. And ringing.

It’s Tom. How about breakfast with him and his girlfriend?

Ugh. “Okay. By the way, what room are y’all in?”

Slight laugh. “We’re next door.”