My summer of sex with Cowboy

After locking the condo, we hump our luggage down to the first floor; then, I stop at the mailboxes to leave a note thanking Mac for the use of his winter residence. Mac has a year-round cleaning service whether someone uses the condo or not, so I didn't feel the need to do anything cleaning-related. 

Outside, Cowboy goes, "Wow, another beautiful day, huh, Zach?" He has a sunburned nose, which makes him look like a little kid. I mumble, "Yep, it is. Let's get our shit in the car, and then we'll grab a bite to eat somewhere."

Sitting against a brick wall near where my car is parked, there's a fellow about my age who appears to be a homeless person. I say that mostly because in front of him is a shopping cart loaded with trash bags filled with, well, I don't know what the bags are filled with. We need to walk past him to get to the car, and while we're doing that, he says, "Could you help out a motherfucking Jarhead who's down on his luck?" 

I stop to ask, "What kind of help do you need?" 

He says, "All kinds. I'm a veteran of foreign wars abandoned by my country." 

Cowboy pulls on my arm, "Come on, Zach. That's bullshit." 

I'm like, "Wait a second," and take some bills from my pocket... a couple of twenties. Holding the money out to the man, I say, "Here, buy something to eat." 

I smell booze on his breath when he says, "God bless you. Thanks, dude." 

Nodding my head, "Sure, no problem." He's wearing an extremely beat-up combat uniform blouse, um, or 'shirt' as most civilians would call it. I recognize the Marine insignia for a Lance Corporal on the sleeve, so I ask, "Where did you see combat?" 

He's stuffing the money in his pocket, mumbling, "Afghanistan, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines Northern Helmand province. That was a few years ago."  

Yeah, more like eight years ago, if I'm remembering that correctly. Taking out my cell phone, I go to Bing and look for information about the US Department of Veteran Affairs, finding a Key West Out-Patient Clinic at Douglas Circle. 

I ask, "Have you contacted the VA Clinic here in Key West?" 

He shakes his head, "Nah, thanks for the generous handout. I'm good now." 

I say, "Why don't you see what they've got to offer? I'll drive you there. It's not far." 

He shakes his head again and points at the shopping cart, "I've got all my shit in there. I'm good." 

I tell Cowboy, "Would you get a pad and pen from the glove compartment, please?" While he gets that, I tell the Marine, "I'm going to give you the address and phone number of the VA Clinic. You can push your cart there in half an hour. As I said, it's not that far from here."

Cowboy gives me the pad and pen, and I write the information on a page, then give it to the young man, "Help yourself a little. See what these people can do for you, okay?" 

He takes the page I've ripped off the pad and stuffs it in the same pocket he stuffed the money, mumbling, "Yeah, sure. Now that you've done your good deed for the day...  fuck off."

No good deed goes unpunished; I know that. I say, "Good luck to you, brother," and walk to the car as Cowboy says, "He just suckered you. He'll probably be roaring drunk in an hour." 

I go, "We don't know that. Yeah, but just maybe, he'll check out the Clinic, if not today, then perhaps tomorrow." You do what you can. 

We put our stuff in my new car. It's a silver BMW Z4 convertible. A bad-ass car in the M40i series of fine German motor vehicles. The kind of car a young, rich guy such as myself thinks he needs. While my trust fund accumulated in my New York City bank account for the four years I was a Navy Seal, Ronny and I spent every penny of our Navy paychecks on luxury vacations during our thirty days of leave each year. Ronny would fuck the girls, and I'd fucked the boys. One time, we hit up a brother and sister combo. 

Yeah, and while Ronny and his brother Cowboy don't look very much alike, Ronny, in his own way, is just as good-looking as Cowboy. Ronny in a more macho, manly way. And he had the greatest 'pick-up' lines I've ever heard. I never used his lines myself, though, and that's because I couldn't sound as sincere as Ronny when saying the bullshit he'd say. He was a great bullshit artist. And, of course, his pickup lines were girl-oriented, too, so they would have been of little help to me anyhow.

That's all in the past, but speaking of bullshit, as I mentioned, I've been finding myself getting bullshit mad at Ronny for letting that no-account scumbag get the best of him. Hell, we were trained in the Seals to disarm an experienced combat enemy in four seconds... and Ronny couldn't handle that druggie? Fuck! It's so unfair of Ronny to have let me down like this! My life with him was ultra-cool, and now it's not. Goddammit, Ronny, we had plans, bro!

Seriously, though, most Americans have no idea how tough you need to be to get through Navy Seal training. Out of one thousand recruits in my training group, only 250 made it through to graduation.  In case you don't know... Seal, as in Navy Seals, stands for 'sea,' 'air,' and 'land,' meaning we needed to be proficient in all kinds of water, air, and land combat situations. You know, jumping out of planes, frogman shit, and all kinds of dangerous actions involving fighting on land as well. Too bad there wasn't any carjacking training.

An example of a training exercise: there was one time we had to swim two miles in the ocean, then get out and run six miles in the sand carrying a 200-pound dummy, and, still carrying the dummy, put on a gas mask and run through a grueling obstacle course, then perform a life-saving medical procedure for a simulated casualty, assemble a sniper rifle, and make an accurate 2000-meter shot, and do it all in under four hours. Ronny could do that, but he couldn't take a piece of shit handgun off a piece of shit carjacker? It makes me furious to think about that.

And I'm still pissed off thinking about it as we eat lunch, which includes two Bloody Mary cocktails for me. I tell Cowboy about that four-hour training exercise to break the silence, which he doesn't believe anybody could do. Then, I'm like, "Doesn't it piss you off that Ronny passed that training but let that scumbag loser kill him?" 

Cowboy looks away, mumbling, "Yeah, it does, but I thought you'd be pissed at me if I mentioned how mad at Ronny I am. Mad at him for what you said... mad because he let that happen."

Huh, I'm not the only one who is mad at him. But, oh Christ, this isn't doing us any good. We're at The Marquesa Hotel in a super classy restaurant, but now neither of us is doing much eating, and we're not talking again either. Swell! 

Actually, Cowboy was talkative earlier this morning. Still, I didn't respond very well because of my hangover, and now, after my harangue about being pissed at his brother for getting killed, Cowboy isn't talking again. Yeah, well, that's been the case most of our time together. The thing is, though, I know we've got to start talking at some point. Talking out things we're thinking would probably be good for both of us. So, what the hell, while drinking my second bloody Mary, I go, "Sorry for bringing up that, um, that stuff up about Ronny. Ah, is that lobster salad as good as it looks?" 

Cowboy shrugs, saying, "It's okay, but I should be paying for my share of our expenses." 

And he could easily do that because he's got a trust fund, too. The Myers are richer than the Pope. Myers, by the way, is his last name, and 'Cowboy,' obviously, is a nickname. His real name is Carson Myers. He has a middle name, too, but I forget what it is. 

Needless to say, 'Cowboy' is an odd nickname, but everyone in his family, extended family, and friends call him that. One night, while drinking with Ronny, he told me about his brother's nickname. Like most nicknames, it started when the kid was very young—in Cowboy's case when he was four. The family went on a trip out west to visit places like the Grand Canyon and whatnot, and the trip included a three-day stay at a dude ranch.

Fuck, I don't know how I remember this, but the ranch was called the 'A to Z Guest Ranch' in Smallville, Oklahoma. That's in the Kiamichi Mountains. Anyway, the ranch offered four luxury cabins for guests, and, oh yeah, heh-heh, as an aside, and this is not exactly shocking, but Ronny's most vivid memory of the trip was seeing an eighteen-year-old cowgirl's tits in an outdoor shower. 

Yeah, he was a 'horn-job' from a very young age. Well, he was thirteen at the time, so that's not too young to jerk off four times a day. Anyway, four-year-old Carson was sort of adopted by one of the cowboys and given special treatment as the 'youngest cowboy' on the ranch. He was enthralled with the experience, and all he would talk about for months after the trip was that cowboy, hence his nickname. And, who knows, maybe that's when his brain fixated on males too. No one can explain exactly how the fuck our brains work.

Finishing my cocktail, I force a smile at Cowboy and mumble, "You want to pay your share, huh? No, no, my handsome friend. You're my date this summer, so I need to pay for everything." 

He makes a 'face' muttering, "Oh, sure, I'm your date." 

Rattling the ice in my glass, I say, "Forget about money; what were your plans for this summer, um, you know, before, ah, your brother died?" 
Cowboy makes another 'face' and then mumbles, "It wasn't my plan in the first place, but it was all set that I'd go on that boring culture trip to Europe that Mom Ladies' Club has been organizing for years. The one that graduates from St. John's Prep experience before college." 

Oh, yeah, that's right. Ha, Ronny and I got out of that, too, but I forget how.

Draining dregs from my drink, thinking about ordering another one, I ask, "Well, how did you get out of that trip?" 

Using his fork, he moves the lobster salad around on the plate, saying, "Dad helped me convince Mom it'd be the worst possible thing for me to do after, um, he died. After Ronny was killed. I'd be a sad sack bringing down the whole group." 

Hmm, his old man always was a good guy. Maybe he also helped Ronny and me get out of the trip way back when. I'm like, "So, your dad thought spending the summer with me was a better option for you, huh?" 

He nods, "Yeah, Dad loves you almost as much as he loved my brother and me." 

That's a stretch. 

Still curious, I ask, "And your mom? What did she think about you hooking up with me this summer?" 

He goes, "Oh, Christ, Mom didn't like the idea at all. She hated it, but... Hey, what the fuck, Zach? We've been traveling together for over five weeks, and you're just getting around to asking me about all this shit now?" 

That is a good point, but it didn't occur to me earlier. I had other stuff on my mind, and, as far as I was concerned, Ronny wanted me to do this, so that was a good enough reason for me to do it. That's a tad insensitive to Cowboy, though, so I make up a reason for not asking about this earlier, "Um, I didn't want to pry. You know, considering everything." 

Cowboy says, "You never pry, Zach, but I wouldn't mind if you did. Pry all the fuck you want." 

Looking around, he mumbles, "And where's that cunt of a waitress? I need another iced tea."

Oh, yeah, sometimes I forget about the Myers family's routine usage of politically incorrect words. Words like 'fuck', 'cunt', and the N-word, and so forth. Europeans use 'fuck' and 'cunt' without thinking about it, while Americans will say 'dammit' and 'bitch'. That is, the more politically correct Americans will use the alternative expletives. Not the Myers, though.

Jeez, Cowboy told me a funny story along those lines when we were smoking pot one night in Montana a couple of weeks ago. He told me the basketball gym at prep school was more or less being dominated by black students, so one of Cowboy's buds challenged the black boys, saying, 'You N-words think you own this fucking gym, but it's for all our usage.' He told me the story as if calling his African American classmates the 'N-word' was acceptable. I thought it was funny that he'd think that, so I laughed, and Cowboy was like, "What...?"

I don't know why I thought of that just now. Oh, it's because Cowboy referred to the waitress as 'cunt'. And, yeah, Ronny routinely used the actual 'N-word' with our black Special Ops teammates. He'd say it the same way they use it among themselves. It's apparently perfectly okay when they say it. A white guy using the actual word could cause big trouble, but not when Ronny used it. It was how he said it that seemed to make it alright with the black guys. Ronny could get away with things nobody else could. He was unique, Ronny was. Unique in that way, and other ways too.

Paying for our lunch, I leave my normal large tip, which I always do because waiters and waitresses depend on tips. Fuck, they aren't even paid minimum wage. 

We head out of town with the top down, and, as usual, Cowboy is fucking around trying to find a music station he likes on the radio. We've got about 1450 miles to travel between here and New Jersey, a big chunk of it on Route I-95 north. I'm planning to take the better parts of three days to get there. No hurry. We haven't been in a hurry during any part of our, um, whatever it is we're doing.

We got a late start, so we didn't even get out of Florida the first day. From Key West, we make it the 230 miles or so to West Palm Beach, and, as I'm no longer in the mood for dumpy motels, I stop at The Breakers Palm Beach hotel and spend $700 for a room that night; and the room is nothing special either. I knew there would be vacancies because late May isn't exactly Florida's prime tourist season.

We check in a little after four o'clock, dump our overnight bags in the room, do what we need to do in the bathroom, and then change into bathing suits. I rent a cabana overlooking the pool and beach, mainly because I think maybe I'll take a short nap. The Breakers is an oceanfront hotel, but it's simpler to swim in the hotel's pool than to deal with sand and a salty ocean swim. 

Twenty-some guests are sunbathing around the pool, and three children under the age of ten are in the pool, preventing Cowboy and me from swimming laps. Swell.

Later, at dinner, I drank too much again but still managed to do my part that night during our sexual activities. The only foreplay, as usual, is me doing a hard spanking on Cowboy's buttocks, spanking him until he squeals like a baby while wishing I was getting spanked. After that, he's so turned on that he almost fucks himself on my boner, humping his ass up with each thrust like a wind-up toy. 

An hour later, we have our second 'go' at it, but in a much different manner. First of all, Cowboy's buttocks are too sore for another spanking, so we skip that. I'm 'doing' him slower with Cowboy on his back this time, his legs spread out on either side of me. And, as I've come to expect, there isn't much participation from him the second time around. Just his moans of sexual pleasure as my six-plus inches of hard 'wood' slides very tightly back and forth in his ass.

His eyes are closed through it all, and I take the opportunity to stare at his pretty face. Oddly, while doing that, I have some feelings of affection for him. Yeah, some strange feelings are beginning to percolate in my brain. If he weren't Ronny's brother, I might 'fall' for this kid. Premium ass, and he's extraordinarily sexy/pretty, um, for a guy, I mean. 

Like Ronny, Cowboy has very little in the way of a beard, so his face has remained unusually youthful. Hell, some nineteen-year-old guys could pass for thirty years old. Now that I think of it, Cowboy's and Ronny's father didn't have much of a beard either. That is a little strange, maybe, but a handy family trait if you ask me. It keeps them youthful-looking; plus, shaving regularly is a pain in the ass. I'm not quite as lucky, although I do have a lighter-than-normal beard growth, and it's not the bristly grizzly-hair-beard most of the guys in our Seal group dealt with daily.

Anyhow, fucking Cowboy like this is okay. Ya, see, before the past five weeks or so, it was a rare event that I'd have an opportunity to share sex with someone as youthful and attractive as Cowboy. The places Ronny and I played in, well, we simply didn't run into many guys Cowboy's age, and certainly not ones as attractive as he is. So, yeah, this has been kind of different for me in more ways than one, and tonight, I'm determined to see how long I can make 'it' last. Mostly, I've enjoyed sex as the bottom with adult 'men,' and I'm kind of missing.

For now, though, I'm making the best of this situation by doing steady but slower-than-normal thrusting, watching my hard cock come out and then immediately disappear into Cowboy's body. In short order, that becomes hypnotic. There are no 'slapping' sounds, just an ambient sound of something slippery squeezing past a small opening, and, of course, there are Cowboy's continuous quiet moans of sexual pleasure. Yeah, he sure does love getting fucked up his ass. So do I.

And, those pleasure moans of Cowboy are very satisfying to me because they indicate he's enjoying the 'ride' and I'm not letting him down. Finally, after I don't know how long, Cowboy's cock gets even harder, and I watch it stand straight up. I'm staring at it now, and it's fascinating to watch the piss slit quivering before squirting out a stream of semen. There isn't a lot of cum because Cowboy had a large orgasm during our first fuck tonight. This second stream of semen doesn't go far; it ends up landing on his stomach, squishing forward to his chest. Sexy!

Without opening his eyes, Cowboy moans and squirms on the bed, obviously reveling in the incomparable pleasure sensations of sexual climax. He didn't even hump his hip when he climaxed. It was as if he, too, was in a hypnotic state. First came his ejaculation, then his moaning, followed by a long-contented sigh, and now he opens his eyes and weakly says, "Please kiss me, Zach."

I've consistently tried acquiescing to Cowboy's wishes during our trip as I'm feeling bad for him losing his big brother and idol, Ronny. So, with that in mind and against my better judgment, I lean forward, my boner still fully inside him, and give him a luscious kiss with our tongues sliding together, and then I suck on his upper lip before kissing him again. While in the middle of that second kiss, my climax comes roaring up on me, and BANG out, it comes, but not far. It's caught in the condom almost instantly. I'm shuddering at this great 'effing climax, my second one in an hour. Like Cowboy's climax, mine wasn't big in volume, but it was really, really sexy/hot, and it felt fabulous. 

I can't catch my breath, so I pull out and lie next to Cowboy on the bed. He snuggles up against me, my arm goes around him, and we drift off to sleep without cleaning up and without saying anything. Dammit, though, just before falling asleep, I'm thinking I probably made a mistake doing that sexy kissing. Fuck, it's like I don't know what the right thing to do is, and it's frustrating as hell. Swell.

The next morning, however, Cowboy has nothing to say about last night's kissing. Hopefully, that means he doesn't think it signified a change in our buddy-sex relationship. It's for the best if we're merely buddy-sex buddies. We're both promiscuous guys, so it's not all that strange that we have this convenient sex together. As a bonus, it gets our minds off what we've both lost: him, an idolized brother, and me, the best friend of a lifetime. There isn't anything romantic in our sex, and it's up to me to make sure it remains so. No more kissing! Not that kind of kissing, anyway.

After mumbling, ''Good morning," we use the bathroom, then stuff our belongings in satchels, and visit the hotel's cafe where I have a coffee, and Cowboy slurps down a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Less than an hour after waking, we're on the road again. The weather is sunny, in the low-eighties, so the BMW's top is down. 

As for conversation, it's not easy yelling over the sound of the wind and traffic noise, so we have an excuse for not talking. We only stop for gas and a quick lunch before driving on and eventually arrive in Savannah, Georgia, 422 miles from West Palm Beach. Coincidentally, we arrived at a hotel almost exactly as we had arrived at yesterday's hotel in West Palm Beach, around four o'clock. All during our time together, I've been driving no more than ten miles an hour over the speed limit because, as I've said before, there is no reason to rush; no one is expecting us to be anyplace.

The first hotel that's convenient to pull into has valet parking. It's the JW Marriott Plant Riverside District Hotel, a name that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. We grab our overnight bags as a kid about seventeen shows up to give me a ticket; then, with the sound of my car's tires squealing, he drives off to, hopefully, park my car, although first, he's probably taking it for a joy ride. Swell.

Going inside, we find that everyone is amicable. They welcome Cowboy and me 'back' although neither of us has ever been here before. I pay a very reasonable $300 for a nice enough room, and, in the room, looking around, Cowboy mumbles, "This trip continues to be a bit more upscale than our previous one, going back and forth from the Atlantic to the Pacific, huh?" 

"Yeah, I guess so. I need to loosen up and get my blood flowing. How about we take a run around town and then a swim before dinner?"

I have yet to suggest something to Cowboy that he doesn't want to do, so we take a piss and then head out to jog around Savannah. Savannah people claim a reputation for world-class hospitality... and grace. I'm good with that, whatever it means. As we jog at a reasonable seven-minute-per-mile clip, we're probably passing historical sights, although I couldn't tell you what they are.

While I've missed working out the past five weeks, I have tried to keep up with my running routine. Not the one Ronny and I followed, though. We would run five miles every day, and I'm only running three days a week now, and less than five miles. Cowboy has difficulty keeping up if I want to run the whole five miles, so I run as long as he's comfortable with it. He's a pretty damn good runner, though. So, yeah, running helps, but I'd love to spend an hour or two on a suspension trainer or just do some free-weight lifting. Unfortunately, none of the dumpy motels we stayed at had a fitness room, and this upscale hotel doesn't have one either. My muscles are beginning to feel spongy and neglected. 

After running over three miles, we're back at the hotel, breathing deeply, and I feel a little better. The pool is too small to swim laps in, so we just cool off in the water and then order a couple of beers from a young, snazzy-looking pool waitress. She flirts with Cowboy before going for our beers. By 'flirting,' I mean she teased him about him being prettier than she is. Plus, she doesn't embarrass him by asking for his ID even though he does not look twenty-one. 

I could tell Cowboy was flattered. Perhaps hoping to hear more from the waitress, he unnecessarily stammered, "I don't have my wallet with me." She chuckles at that since she didn't ask for his ID in the first place. Grinning, she rubs his hair the way you might do to a little kid. I roll my eyes but keep my mouth shut. Let Cowboy handle it. While it's close, she was wrong, anyway... she is prettier than Cowboy.

It took a while for her to come back with the beers, and I know why. I saw her through the open door flirting with a guy at the bar who had a lot more to say to her than Cowboy did. When she finally returns, I sign for the drinks, leaving my usual large tip and even a little extra because she made Cowboy feel good. Then, off she goes wiggling her cute ass with every step she takes. Swell.

Swallowing some beer, Cowboy asks, "What do you suppose she wanted, Zach?" 

I chuckle and mutter, "You know damn well what she wanted, Cowboy. To get you in bed." 

He pretended that was disgusting as he went, "Ugh," and that was that, but he couldn't hide his grin at me, mumbling, "Usually, they're trying to do that with you, Zack."

We only have one beer and then go to our room to shower before dinner. I'm determined to cut down on my drinking, so I have only one martini before a disappointingly tough duck-breast dinner. Then, as we're walking through the lobby, we hear a band playing in the bar. Cowboy looks at me with an expression on his face that tells me he wants to venture into the bar. I don't want to, but I'm like, "Yeah, sure, let's check it out.

We walk in and become part of a surprisingly energetic scene. It's unexpected because a rock band and a noisy, crowded bar don't seem to fit with the rest of this classy hotel. You know, a jazz combo or something like that is what normally you find in a hotel like this one.

Sticking with my promise to cut down on drinking, I order beers and immediately notice a guy looking at me from across the U-shaped bar. He has big teeth, a few too many for his mouth, actually. He's the kind of guy who opens his mouth as wide as he can when laughing, which he's doing now, laughing at something the guy he's with said. 

Gaydar is a real thing, although most 'straight' people don't believe it. Something about the guy with too many teeth tells me he's gay. More than one thing, actually. Him staring right at me is a huge clue, but it's the way he's combed his hair too, and the way he tilted his head doing his absurd open-mouth laugh, and the three or four bracelets on his wrist, but mostly, it's who he's with... a girlie-acting swisher. I've nothing against swisher gay guys; they're simply not my cup of tea, so to speak.

Cowboy is completely oblivious to the guy and asks me, "Do we dare dance together in here, Zach? That cover band is good, and I love dancing." 

I mutter, "No dancing, sorry." Hmm, you know what? I think my subconscious mind was maybe thinking about an urge to fuck with someone other than Cowboy. You know, perhaps a tough sonofabitch, a real stud, wants to fuck me. If Ronny were here, he'd have noticed the guy staring at me and offered his opinion of the guy. I'd do the same for him if the person was female and giving Ronny the eye.

The smart thing for me to do, especially considering my situation of looking out for Cowboy, is to do nothing. Except, huh, I'm feeling horny for a real stud, so I stare right back at the guy. He closes his mouth and says something to the swisher boy. Whatever it was, it made the lad glace at Cowboy and me. He has an exaggerated expression of delight on his face when he looks directly at Cowboy. Hmm, maybe he'll keep my young traveling companion busy while I take care of the stud with too many teeth.

Picking up their drinks, the duo begins making their way through the crowd around the U-shaped bar. I bump Cowboy's arm, mumbling, "Look at the young gay lad coming around the bar with that older guy." 

He looks and then says, "He's probably interested in you, Zach." 

I go, "Nah, he's looking straight at you." 

Cowboy says, "Yeah, he is. Um, let me do the talking." Ha-ha, I go, "Yeah, okay." Then, the stud veers off in the direction of the restrooms. Hmm...

The swisher lad appears to be in his middle teens but must be older than he looks. He squeezes in between Cowboy and the woman standing next to Cowboy. Then, to his credit, 'swisher' apologizes to her: "I'm so sorry, Dear, but I haven't seen my brother in ages." Then, to Cowboy, he says, "You've let your hair grow. I like it." 

I imagine Cowboy has heard better opening 'lines,' but he goes along with the guy's bullshit brother line, saying, "How have you been, brother?" He grins at the kid, who says, "Well, Mom died, ya know, so it's been a tough year." 

Incongruously, Cowboy and 'Swisher' laugh at that and then look sideways at the woman. Yeah, giggling at the news of their fictitious mother dying might get a reaction, but the woman isn't paying any attention to them.

I mutter, "I've gotta take a piss, Cowboy," and then step back, giving him a wink and a pat on his back. Swisher-boy lisps, "Cowboy? Omigod, that's such a cute nickname! Can I play with your lasso?" 

Rolling my eyes, I'm on my way to the restrooms.

Oh boy, picking up a guy in a bar isn't an activity I plan to do when going out. It's best to let things extemporaneously happen. When a possible pickup situation happens, I treat it as a fun time, but with plans to avoid anything 'heavy.' If it gets 'heavy,' I politely pass on it. I mean, I know I can take care of myself physically better than 99% of the guys I'm likely to be dealing with, but why bother? Naturally, after saying that, I think of Ronny not handling himself with that carjacking asshole, so, yeah, there are exceptions to every rule.

The guy with too many teeth isn't in the restroom; he's waiting for me outside it. This potential hookup fits into a scenario that leads to successful ones for me. What I mean by that is there wasn't any diddling around. It happened quickly. First, his eye contact was an obvious invitation, and then he took immediate action. In this case, by heading for the restrooms. The guy was obviously thinking... if I'm interested, I'll follow him. Then, we'll see if we have anything in common hookup-wise. 

As I mentioned earlier, I don't have a convincing line of bullshit, so I don't even try that. Instead, I always say something innocuous, like, 'Hi, I'm Zach, what's up?' and see what he has in mind.

The man has a nice smile on his face as he watches me walk up to him. Then he beats me to my opening line when he says, "Hey, I didn't know if you'd follow me. I'm glad you did. I'm Joe Smith." 
Joe Smith. Oh, another one.

I'm like, "Hi, Joe, I'm Zach. Um, is that your real name?" 

He chuckles and pulls out his wallet, saying, "Yeah, it is. I understand why people might think I made it up, though. I mean, 'Joe Smith' sounds like a made-up name, doesn't it?" 

After glancing at the driver's license, I say, "No, I believed you." Then, to get him talking, I ask, "Um, I was wondering if this is predominantly a gay bar. Do you know if it is?" 

He shrugs and chuckles nervously, saying, "Hell, I don't know. I don't think it is. I'm just passing through on my way to Maryland. First time I've ever set foot in this place." I'm like, "Huh, I didn't think a classy hotel would have a gay bar, but..." 

Joe says, "That would be extremely unlikely. Anyhow, my friend Ricky and I checked into our room ten minutes ago and then came down here to get a drink, and, well, I saw you right away and thought, holy shit, am I going to get lucky tonight? I mean, the chance of seeing a guy as hot as you, and you being gay... well, that's a long shot. You stared back at me, though, so right away, I had high hopes."

Although he's a bit verbose and older than I thought he'd be from seeing him across the bar, he seems like a good enough guy. Glancing at the four silver bracelets on his left wrist, then looking up at his face, I mumble, "Oh, uh-huh. First time in this bar for me too. Um, who's the boy with you?' 

He goes, "He's a student of mine." 

I go, "Oh, yeah? I'm with a nineteen-year-old kid myself. Ah, I wouldn't want him taking advantage of, if you know what I mean." Joe noticed me looking at his bracelets and puts his arm behind his back, "You mean by Ricky? No way. Ricky doesn't take advantage. He's, um, not especially dangerous..."

Not especially dangerous... what the hell does that mean? I don't say anything to that because I want to see what he has in mind. He goes, "Um, yeah, that is, I teach a college art history course. I'm a college professor, and Ricky was one of my students." 

I still don't say anything, and so he goes on, "Ah, one Saturday night, we met at a gay club that's located out of town. Ya, know, so I felt safe going there without being recognized. Anyway, Ricky and I saw each other there, and we pointed at one another like, 'Hey, don't I know you?' That was like two months ago. One thing led to another: the semester ended, and here we are, traveling together."

Nodding, I'm like, "No shit?" but I still don't know what he has in mind, pick-up-wise. I nod, and he mumbles, "Um, yeah, so, um, but that kid with you, he's your brother, right?" 

Shaking my head, I'm like, "My brother? No, why would you think that? He's somebody's brother but, um, not mine." A picture of Ronny flashes past my brain, and I cringe for a second. Joe goes, "What's wrong, Zach? You made a 'face.'" I go, "Nothing's wrong. Whaddaya say we get down to it? What do you have in mind?"

He says, "I was hoping, high hopes again, that you'd decide that. I'm terrible at picking up guys, and, in case you don't know, that kid looks like you. That's why I thought you were brothers." 

I snort out a laugh and say, "We don't look alike. And I suck at picking up guys too." 

He smiles and says, "You don't need to be good at it. You're so hot the rest of us will be scrambling to do the picking-up part." 

Rolling my eyes, I go, "I don't know about that, but I might as well cut to the chase by mentioning that I prefer to bottom, although I've topped a lot, too." 

He says, "No, that's fine, that's excellent. I mean, I'm versatile but prefer to 'bottom'... seriously. And, well, you're so fucking good-looking even if I didn't prefer it, I'd pretend I did... heh heh." 

Hmm, he acted a touch 'swishy' when he said that. It was something in his body language. That's disappointing but not necessarily a deal-breaker. He goes on, saying, "I don't know why exactly, but I assumed you'd be a 'top,' and I was kinda really depending on it. I thought that from just looking at you, I mean, I just assumed you'd be a... Anyway..." 

Oh, fuck. He'd suck as a top, so that's enough chit-chat, too much, actually. Taking hold of his arm, I pull him away from the wall. He's compliant, and we start walking out of the restroom corridor as I'm saying, "Um, shall we visit your room?" Joe goes, "My room? Um, there might be a problem. Let's check what the boys are doing first." 

In the bar again, Joe looks around, mumbling, "Yeah, I thought this would be the case. He's fast, Ricky is, and he's probably got your, um, the cute kid with you in our room already. He probably has both of them naked by now." Swell.

I'm like, "What the fuck? That guy better be cool with Cowboy, or...." 

He goes, "Cowboy? He's a cowboy?" Shaking my head, I mutter, "That's his nickname." 

Joe looks sincere, saying, "No, seriously, Ricky wouldn't take advantage of him. He must have asked, and, um, the two of them obviously agreed to something." 

That fucking Cowboy can't say 'no' to a hard dick. After thinking about it for two seconds, I go, "Let's check your room to be sure." 

Joe hesitates and then asks, "Why? They're both legal age for sex, and I guarantee you Ricky is, ah, well, he's pretty fucking dominant, but he wouldn't do anything unless they first agree to it completely."

Staring at this guy, I'm like, "Dominant? We're going to check on them. C'mon." 

Still being compliant, Joe says, "Sure, if you want to." He follows me to the elevators, saying, "Do you mind if I ask what your relationship with the kid is?" I mutter, "It's complicated," then I ask him, "How old are you?" The elevator doors open, and we go in as he says, "I'm thirty-five; why?" I go, "No reason. What floor is your room on?" 

They have a room on the same floor as Cowboy and me—room 412. At the door to room 412, Joe asks, "Do you want me to open the door?" I put my ear next to the door but can't hear anything, so I mutter, "Yeah, open it." Joe sticks in the card key, the light blinks 'green,' and we go inside. 

Both Cowboy and Ricky are naked except for underpants, which is a shock considering it's only been ten minutes since I saw them both in the bar, fully dressed. Cowboy is sitting on the chair in front of a desk, and Ricky is sitting on the desk. Ricky has women's makeup on, and he's just now finished putting lipstick on Cowboy. Swell.

Cowboy turns to me and says, "Oh, hi, Zach. Ricky won't fuck me unless I have makeup on. How do I look?" 

I can't think of anything to say to that. Joe tells me, "Yeah, that's Ricky's, um, his thing. He goes in for being, ah, well, girlie. Right, Ricky?" 

Ricky has an eye shadow, an eyebrow pencil to highlight his eyebrows, and purple lipstick. He is quick, alright.

Limp-wristed, Ricky lisps, "I'm a girl at heart, but since Cowboy won't top, it's up to me to access my deeper self and fuck pretty Cowboy's ass. First, though, he needs to be girlie too, and I'm teaching him how." 

Cowboy says, "Zach, that look on your face! Hahaha, it's priceless. Excuse me for laughing. I know I should be embarrassed wearing lipstick, but believe it or not, I'm not. Actually, there was a boy at prep last year who insisted I wear a bra before he'd fuck me. Different strokes, ya know?" Swell.

I suppose I'm still frowning or something because Joe taps my arm, asking, "Are you okay with this?" I nod, then reluctantly tell Cowboy, "Have fun," then to Joe, "Let's go." 

We walk down the hall to my room, and Joe mumbles, "They make a cute couple, doncha think?" 
I snort out a laugh and mumble, "Yeah, I guess, but... Well, yeah, they do." I don't add... a cute couple of sissy fourteen-year-old gay boys playing 'makeup.' Ultimately, I think Cowboy is going to be disappointed, though. I can't imagine Ricky has it in him to spank anyone. Not that that's my primary concern at the moment. 

Checking out Joe a little closer, I see his too-many teeth are very white and straight, so that's a plus, but, more importantly, he's a very well-put-together fellow. He's almost as tall as me and, while slenderer than me, he has a fairly tight body, and I can tell that because he's wearing a tight sleeveless t-shirt. No facial hair and no piercings or tattoos; none I can see anyhow. Well, he does have a stud earring, but that's okay. 

So, Joe is basically a clean-cut guy with a short haircut that features a little faggy pompadour in front, ha-ha. His facial features are only average, though, and he appears slightly older than thirty-five, but that's not a problem either. I'm making a bet with myself that Joe's got a hairy body. In my experience, slender guys are hairy, Cowboy being the exception.
It is disappointing that Joe has a tendency for occasional 'gay affectations .' Therefore, he flunks the macho test. On the other hand, his gay affectations pale by comparison to Ricky's, from whom he most likely picked up his own affectations in the first place. Yeah, it is a little disappointing, but life often is. 

I have zero interest in doing any foreplay with him. I just want to fuck his mature male body as a change from fucking Cowboy's younger boyish one. If I need to be the top, I want to fuck an adult, in other words. That's what I need right now. And I'm not implying Cowboy isn't an excellent fuck; it's just that I'm missing the variety of the casual sex buddies I used to have regularly. That's my interest in Joe... variety. 

Inside the room, he immediately pulls off his t-shirt, saying, "You're using a condom, right?" I go, "Do I look stupid to you? Of course, I'm using a condom. No offense, Joe, but seriously, dude." 

He quickly undresses, and his body is pretty good, but, holy shit, he has a tiny dick. As if reading my mind, Joe squeaks out, "I know I have a small penis. It's not my fault, and, anyway, Ricky likes it." 

Really? That's hard to believe, but it's no concern of mine. As I expected, his legs and chest are very furry. I mutter, "I don't care about your penis. Let me see your asshole. Bend over and spread 'em."

He makes a gulping sound as he does what he's told. Yep, a hairy asshole too. I'm like, "Okay, lie over the end of the bed, feet on the floor, and push your ass up high, and when he's done that, I say, "You're going to need to push your pussy-ass up higher than that and keep it up!" 

I haven't taken anything I'm wearing off, and I don't intend to. As I'm pulling a condom from my pocket, I tell him, "At any time, if you want me to stop, um, stop doing anything I'm doing, just say 'stop.' We'll be done then, okay?" 

Twisting his head to the side, looking back at me, he squeaks out, "I won't say 'stop.' You're exactly what I hoped you'd be. I'm so turned on I can hardly breathe." 

I mutter, "In that case, save your breath and don't say anything else. Got it?" He nods his head and mutters, "Yes, Sir."

Christ, I almost laughed in his face when he said, 'Yes, Sir.' Laughing, however, is the last thing I'd do. You see, I don't think any less of Joe because he's adopted a very submissive posture. I do it myself for a dominant top when I can find one, which isn't as easy as it ought to be.And being submissive during sex occurs more frequently than most people realize. That's also true in heterosexual sex.

Unzipping, I pull out my dick and stroke it a few times before rolling on the condom. After giving his ass a hard smack, I again say,  "Keep your ass up! Show me how much you want this." He strains at pushing up his ass, so much so he's now up on his toes. Then, his whole body begins quivering when the lubricated nipple of the condom hits his anus. 

I remind him, "Tell me to stop if it gets too uncomfortable for you," and then ram my cock past both his sphincter muscles, the external and internal ones. Joe screams, "Aah!" but he's considerate enough to scream into the bedspread... a muffled scream. 

Because his muffled scream didn't sound anything like 'stop,' I forcefully pushed my cock the rest of the way in until my crotch was tight against his butt cheeks. Screaming again, Joe flattens himself on top of the bed, dropping his ass as he's struggling, seemingly, to crawl onto the bed. My cock, hard as a stone by now, has pulled most of the way out during his struggles. He still hasn't said 'stop' though, so I grab his hips and pull him back, lifting him mostly off the bed, saying sternly, "Keep that pussy-ass of yours up."

He mumbles something into the bedspread, something that sounds like "I'm sorry" as he's again pushing his ass up. As he's doing that, my boner slides snugly back up inside his body. When my crotch is tight against his buttock again, I hump against him twice and then pull my cock back and immediately drive it back in all the way. He screams into the bedspread again, and he screams when I repeat that procedure a third time. This, by the way, minus the screaming, is called anal fucking. 

The fifth time I do it, he dials back on the screaming, and I finally hear his first moan of pleasure, "Oh, mmm." His rectum opened up pretty quickly, so obviously, this isn't anything new to him. And it's smooth sailing from now on. The long, deliberate full six-inch thrusts of hard cock rubbing over his prostate and spreading the walls of his rectum now have him moaning with every thrust. He goes, "Mmm, mmm, mmm." When he carelessly forgets and drops his ass, I slap the back of his head, and he pushes his ass right back up.

Joe, as an individual, isn't sexually arousing to me at all, but fucking anyone is arousing. I'm enjoying my fuck with Joe, but not enough to remember it after a few days. For now, I'm concentrating on this sex act that's been going on for a pleasant enough ten minutes. Long thrusts, each one ending with a "Slap' sound when my crotch slaps against his buttocks, "Slap, slap, slap." It's fairly quick thrusting with my eyes closed and my hard cock in a haze of pleasure.  
I know it's about to explode, and then it does, and I'm in the process of having an orgasm. It roared up on me, and, for a second in time, nothing else in the universe mattered. Nothing compares to the spectacular explosion of pleasure when semen from my nuts travels quickly, maybe at the speed of light, up and out of my rock-hard penis. In my case, shooting into a condom. Yeah, I'm the one jerking around frantically now, ramming my super-swollen boner in his ass hard and holding it there while I unload my creamy cum. Holy shit... yeah, that rarely disappoints.

I breathe deeply but keep the deep breaths quiet, you know, being 'cool' about it, although that was quite good. Pulling my cock from this wide-open anus I've been using, I mutter, "Nice fuck, Joe... thanks." He flattens on the bed, finally dropping his ass as he goes down to his knees, muttering, "Fuck! Thank you! I really needed that." 

As usual, after a blast of a climax such as the one I just had, I'm slightly dizzy. Pulling the condom off, I head for the bathroom to flush it, saying, "I want to buy you a drink, Joe." Standing, he takes another deep breath and then joins me in the bathroom. Grabbing a fistful of toilet paper, Joe wipes lubricant off his ass, muttering, "That felt awesome." 

We're both feeling good as we wash up at the sink, with Joe adding, "Yeah, a cold beer will hit the spot." 

Beer? He says again, "Wow, though, that was excellent sex, Zach. Jesus, I feel revitalized. I always do after getting fucked as well as you did it... thank you!" 

Yeah, he's a 'talker' alright. Swell. Drying my hands, I feel I should say something nice, so I'm like, "It was my pleasure, dude. We'll have to do an encore sometime, huh?" 

He says, "I was hoping you'd say that." He isn't acting submissive now; his body language, voice, and everything is back to how he was outside the restrooms. It's kind of weird seeing that quick transformation from what I consider embarrassingly submissive to, um, friendly. I guess that's what Joe is—he's friendly.

I'm sensing a weird anxiousness to check up on Cowboy, so I say, "Um, I'll meet you in the bar. I want to see how my, ah, my 'ward' is doing." Following me out of the bathroom, Joe's like, "Yeah? I mean, he's old enough to take care of himself, right? What'd you say your relationship with him is?" 

I'm like, "I said it's complicated. Get dressed. I'll see you in the bar." That's a nice way of telling him to mind his own business.

Walking down the corridor, it occurs to me that I get a lot more sexually aroused having sex with Cowboy. I mean, comparing my sex with Joe, the sex with Cowboy is on a higher level. Topping is not my first choice, anyway. Yeah, but when I do, sex with Cowboy is definitely hotter than it was with Joe, resulting in a quicker orgasm for me. 

Hmm? It's been years since I've had sex with someone I was emotionally involved with. The last four years consisted exclusively of casual sex partners, guys like Joe. Huh, I guess I'd forgotten that sex with someone I care about is simply more special. Am I becoming emotionally involved with Cowboy, though? No, not really.

Fuck, though, I need to be careful here. No way I can let myself become emotionally attached to Cowboy. I've told a million lies, mostly to myself, but I can't lie to myself. The sex I've been having with Cowboy is more meaningful than the casual sex I had with this Joe.  Of course, it could also be a sense of responsibility to do what I said I'd do... looking out for him. Yeah, maybe, but Cowboy's been sexually active without needing my help for years. 

Turning the corner, I see Cowboy and Ricky standing outside the room. They're laughing and doing some grab-ass, and I'm just now noticing that Ricky has the weirdest hairdo. I didn't pay much attention to him earlier. He finger-combs the long hair hanging down his forehead away from his eyes every five seconds. It's brown hair that's very straight, the same length around his head. Huh, it's cut like a woman's hairstyle; um, is that called a 'bob'? It's a lady's hairstyle; I know that much. On the plus side, most of the make-up he had on earlier is gone. 

Ricky's looking at me with a grin on his face, but Cowboy has his back to me, so I jokingly say, "Hey, you two, no loitering in the hall!" Cowboy turns around and says, "Hey, Zach, wassup? Where's Joe?" Most of the lipstick is off Cowboy's face, but I can see smudges of it on his ear and cheek. Oh, so the boys were making out too, um, in addition to whatever else they've been doing. And, this close-up, Ricky is kind of cute in a silly sort of way. I mumble, "Joe is at the bar." Ricky gooses Cowboy's ass, saying, "Well, let's go then, sweet pea." 
Sweet pea? Gag me with a spoon...

While we're all walking to the elevator, Cowboy uses a fake whisper voice, telling me, "Hey, Zach, Ricky has an eight-inch dick." Jeez, maybe his big dick is what determined who was dominant between him or two-inch-dick Joe. The boys giggle, and then Ricky does a girlie wave of his hand, saying, "Oh, you're so naughty for telling him that, Cowboy. The next thing you'll tell him is how much lipstick you got on my long pee-pee-straw." 

I mumble, "Don't be crude, okay?" Ricky giggles again, then says, "Now you sound like Professor Joe."

Cowboy says, "I guess we're acting like nerds. Sorry, Zach, but Ricky's funny." 

No, they're not nerds. They're acting like nineteen-year-old gay boys, and I'm acting jealous. I lie, saying, "No, my fault. I'm sorry for snapping at you, Ricky. I've got a headache, that's all. Ignore me." 

Ricky puts his arms around Cowboy, and they kiss; then Ricky says to me, "I hope you feel better soon." 
Yeah, right...

At the elevator, the door opens, and down we go to the mezzanine level. Walking to the bar, Ricky keeps poking Cowboy in the ass, making them both giggle like girls. It takes some effort, but I resist saying anything.

Joe waves at us from a table. We join him, and he says, "No seats at the bar. I was lucky to grab this table right after the people left." 

As soon as we sit down, a waitress arrives and takes our order. She says, "As a courtesy, I won't ask for ID, but for the record," she points first at Ricky and then at Cowboy, adding, "None of these drinks are for you two, right?" 

Cowboy mutters, "We're twenty-one." She smiles at that, mumbling, "Sure, you are," and goes off to get our drinks. I guess she's inferring the three beers are for Joe, and the double Jack-on-the-rocks is for me.

Yeah, I said I was going to stick with beer tonight, but fuck that. I say, "Thank God at least the band is taking a break." 

Joe nods his head in agreement and then says to Ricky, "I see you got lipstick on Cowboy's ear." 

Ricky snickers and says, "Well, he got it all over my dick, so..." 

Cowboy says, "Yeah, I did, and if I get the chance, I'll do it again." He nods at me and adds, "My bodyguard here won't let me get lipstick on his dick." Ricky taps my arm and giggles, mumbling, "Wow, you're missing something special, Zach." Then, he looks serious and asks, "How's your headache?" 

Swell. A smart-ass swisher.

Our drinks arrive, and Ricky says, "Hey, Cowboy, tell Joe the story about the cool guy who was fucking you at prep school." 

Cowboy goes, "Which one? Oh yeah, Artie. Um, we were smoking pot, Art Kinkaid and me. He'd just fucked me silly, and, um, oh yeah, it was the first joint Art ever smoked. So, he takes a drag and says, 'I'm learning to fly, but I don't have wings.' Then, when he exhaled, he said something like, 'Coming down is the hardest thing.' You know, 'cause he didn't have wings, and he was getting high."

Joe and I look at each other, and then he asks Cowboy, "Are you kidding?" Cowboy and Ricky look befuddled as Ricky goes, "You don't think that was clever of him?" Cowboy says emphatically, "Artie not only fucked me good, but he was always saying cool shit like that too." 

I go, "That's a Tom Petty song. Your clever fuck-buddy was just saying words to a song by Tom Petty." Cowboy goes, "I thought he died." 

Oh, balls...

Cowboy's SAT scores were over 1600, so he isn't dumb, although he often seems so. I think he lacks common sense. I say, "C'mon, Cowboy, you must know who Tom Petty is, um, was." 

He goes, "I heard of him, yeah, but I don't know all his tunes. I couldn't tell you one, as a matter of fact." 

I mutter, "That's hard to believe," and he says, "Zach, can you tell me a tune or two that Chance the Rapper made into hits." 

I shrug, "Um, oh yeah, I see your point." He goes, "Chance The Rapper worked with Donnie Trumpet to release "Surf" which was only the most anticipated mixtape ever." 

I mutter, "Yeah, yeah, thank you, Cowboy."

It's not long before the double Jack-on-the-rocks mellows me out enough that I'm fine, although I could do without Cowboy's growing infatuation with Ricky. Joe, on the other hand, appears oblivious to the young guys' interest in one another, so I assume he isn't as, um, as invested in Ricky as I am in Cowboy.

We order another round, and while drinking it, Joe and I talk politics while Ricky and Cowboy have their own whispery-giggle-filled conversation. I can't remember ever being jealous, but this must be what it feels like. Apparently, I've been taking for granted Cowboy's ability to make me feel important. He made it seem as though I was the experienced hot-shit who he was thrilled to be traveling with and that I fucked him better than anyone else, and blah, blah, blah... But now I see how the first chance he's had to fuck around with someone in his age category; he seems happier than at any time we've been together. 

On the plus side, in one way, it's good because it might mean he's adjusting to Ronny's death while I'm still thinking about it too often. Recently, I've been fixated on thinking things like, what if I had done this, or Ronny had done that? You know, then the result would be different. It would never have happened if we, for example, hadn't split up that night. If I hadn't picked up that hot-looking sexy fucker outside our hotel. If I hadn't... If only this, if only that...

Around eleven o'clock, Joe nods his head at the door with a questioning expression on his average-looking face. I know what he wants, and why not have another round of sex? Draining the last of my second Jack on the rocks, I mutter, "Yeah, Joe, let's do it. First, let me get the check." 

No one argues with my offer to pay for everything as I hold my hand up to get the waitress's attention. Ricky says, "C'mon, Cowboy, drink up. We'll go to the room, and I'll finish turning you into a girlie-boy, and then, I'll fuck you on your back with your legs around my waist." He turns to Joe, asking, "Is it okay if I use the dog collar and some of your other sex toys?" 

Joe shrugs, "Sure, knock yourself out." Ricky gets a fistful of Cowboy's hair, pulling his head back, saying, "You'll be my girlie-doggy-boy tonight, Cowboy."

Frowning, I lay a hundred-dollar bill on the check. That will easily cover the over-priced drinks, leaving our very efficient waitress a well-deserved tip. And, yeah, I'm purposely ignoring Ricky's dog collar horseshit. That sounds like something I might be interested in... heh, heh.

The boys are whispering again, which is just the rudest fucking thing, but they're young, and they don't know any better. Joe and I stand, and Ricky nudges Cowboy's arm, nodding his head at me. Cowboy hesitantly asks, "Um, Zach, ah, Ricky wants me to ask, um... Well, would you be mad at me if I spent tonight with him?" 

Omigod, it takes a concerted effort to remain blasé about that. I cough and then ask Joe, "Um, is that okay with you?" 
He looks thrilled as he goes, "Fuck, yeah!" I say, "Okay, Cowboy, um, but we need to leave kind of early in the morning." 

Excitedly, "No problem. I'll be ready, Zach." 

Fuck!
The boys are hurriedly finishing their beers as Joe and I walk to the elevator. Things like a dog collar and whatever other 'stuff' Ricky was referring to interested me. I say to Joe, "You're into sex toys, huh?" He shakes his head, "Me? Nah, I do it for Ricky; he's the sex toy nut. I just pay for the sex toys, which is why he felt he needed to ask my permission to use them on Cowboy." 

Now I'm confused, asking, "Well, who wears the dog collar and, um, whatever else you've got?"

Joe pushes the elevator button for the fourth floor, saying, "Ricky makes me wear that shit. Dog collar, dildo, ball clamps, and a few other gadgets. He likes being the' bottom,' but he's definitely the dominant one during our sex play." 

What? I go, "I don't think I've ever heard of a dominant 'bottom." 

Except when I've tried it, that is.

The elevator doors open, and two hot-looking twenty-something-year-old young ladies come out. The redhead gives me a wink, murmuring, "Calling it a night already?" I smile at her and get in the elevator as Joe's saying, "It's not all that uncommon for a 'bottom' to be in charge."

"Is that so, Joe? It seems kind of odd that your boy is using his eight-inch dick fucking Cowboy, but he won't fuck you?" 

He goes, "That's right. It's because Ricky thinks I'm a skinny, too-hairy, too-old college professor, and Cowboy is probably the opposite." 

Getting off the elevator on the fourth floor, I shrug, "Well, I don't suppose Cowboy will have any trouble getting into his doggie role. I mean, he doesn't think being spanked is humiliating, so..." 

Joe mumbles, "Well, he's in for a treat if he likes being spanked." 

"Whaddaya mean by that?"  

"Ricky spanks me hard using a ping pong paddle or, sometimes, an old leather belt. Cowboy will get the spanking of his young life. That's if he agrees to it ahead of time." 

Looking at him, I go, "What the fuck...?" Joe quickly adds, "Don't worry! As I've said, Ricky only does stuff like the ping-pong-paddling when his sex buddy agrees to that shit. That's why I said he's never taken advantage of anyone. Cowboy would need to be totally on board with it, or else Ricky won't do it." 

I'm just now realizing that I've never even asked Cowboy about his sexual preferences. He's said many times that I fuck him the best, and I guess my ego accepted that as fact without considering the possibility Cowboy was just being nice about it. Hell, I'm the bottom guy whenever possible, so when he told me he prefers to 'bottom,' that's the last detail I cared about. I've been accommodating him ever since his brother died. And, now I find out he really likes doing oral sex too, and maybe messing around with sex toys, and who knows what else? The couple of times he's mentioned blowing me, I blew him off... no pun intended. 

In my defense, I'm supposed to be looking out for him, not satisfying his fantasies. Sure, I'm fucking him, but he asked me to; it wasn't my idea. And Ronny knew his brother was gay and sexually active, so I can't believe he'd be all that surprised about Cowboy and me having sex this summer... casual buddy sex. And, since that is the situation, why have I said 'no' to oral sex? I'm fucking him, but no oral sex. That makes no sense. I need to have a heart-to-heart talk with Cowboy to find his true feelings about, um, whatever.  

Fuck, I never wanted this responsibility in the first place, but it's only for three more months, and then Cowboy goes off to college. But why the fuck he, Ronny, let himself get killed by that cretin... well, that pisses me off beyond belief! And, I'm starting to get depressed by this entire, um, whatever it is I'm involved with here. Oh, man, I need to get myself together. It's not that complicated. I'll talk with Cowboy and find out what he really thinks about us, um, sexual

Those are my thoughts as Joe and I silently leave the elevator and walk to the room. As I'm using the card 'key' to open the door, Joe asks, "Is anything wrong, Zach? You're looking very serious." Forcing a quick smile, I go, "Oh, no, I'm good. I was just, um, it's nothing."

I've lost all interest in doing this, but what's my choice? The boys are using Joe's room.

Inside, without being told, Joe immediately starts undressing, saying, "Anyway, yeah, I fuck Ricky all the time. He refuses to 'top,' and he told me, right from the start, that that's the way it's going to be. He right away set me straight when we met at that club. So, no, I've never had the pleasure of feeling his long boner up my ass and, haha... I'm jealous that your young friend probably has felt it three times already."
  "Yeah, uh-huh," and Joe goes on babbling, "Goddamn, but Cowboy has only known Ricky for a couple of hours, and he's been getting all eight inches of Ricky's fantastic cock multiple times. And, sure, it kind of pisses me off that, at my age, I'm still susceptible to the green-eyed monster. I'm referring to jealousy, a bitch, but I'd love, love, love to be fucked by Ricky! No way, though."

I'm undressing now, too, muttering, "Dude, different strokes and all that shit, but how about if you hold off telling me the rest of the history of your sex life until another time." 

He goes, "It's just that I'm so anxious to experience getting fucked again, and I get talkative when I'm anxious." I go, "Swell. Um, if you don't mind, I'm going to want some help with my cock this time."

 I figure, while he's sucking my dick, he'll have to shut up.

I point at my pecker, and Joe's body does that submissive slumping again as he murmurs, "Yes, Sir," and he gets on his knees. Without hesitating, he picks up my cock and begins licking and sucking it, then licking my balls until they're dripping, and then back to my dick. I have some initial concerns about all those teeth he has, but he's experienced, so it's no problem. Hell, I've had my dick a hundred times or something like that, and Joe fits into the average blow-job range. That being said, the worst blow-job I've ever had was pretty fucking good, so this is fine. 

When my cock is very hard and pulsating slightly, feeling good, I push Joe's head away, mumbling, "I'm good, nice blow job. Um, since you're already on your knees, drop your hands down, and I'll fuck you doggy-style." Huh, I wonder if my choice of doggy style was influenced by Ricky saying something about Cowboy being his doggy tonight?

Almost bored about this whole deal, I shove my boner up Joe's ass. He screeches and tries to scramble forward, but I've got a good hold on his hips. That, plus the fact he doesn't actually want to scramble away. It was simply his animal fight-or-flight instinct taking over for a second there. I'm holding onto his hips tightly and having no problem at all keeping things under control. Then, holding him in place with one hand, I slap his ass a few times, saying, "Stay still, and get your pussy-ass up!" 

Joe whimpers and does what he's told. Overdoing it a little, I smack the back of his head and again mutter, "Just do what you're told." He lowers his head, becoming very docile and making another whimpering sound. I tell him, "Stop that whimpering, and remember, you can say 'stop' at any time." 

He murmurs, "I won't need to say it." 

Okay then. I begin thrusting my iron cock back and forth in that tight hole between his ass cheeks, and while he yelps in pain, he stays put this time. The yelping becomes groans after a few more thrusts, and finally, I hear a moan of pleasure. It's as if I've 'tamed' any natural survival instinct in Joe, and now that he's completely accepted that he's been dominated, he's docile. It's similar to the process of a cowboy breaking in a wild horse.

Or, did that Cowboy breaking in a wild horse thought pass through my brain because Cowboy is on my mind? Actually, I like that Joe struggled initially, and I wish he had a little more 'struggle' in him. That would allow me to get tougher with him. Sadly, there's zero struggle in him, which I can't relate to. My condom-covered boner is sliding back and forth inside him steadily as he whimpers and moans at the sensations sparkling from his prostate gland. Obviously, Joe is a guy who gets off being dominated almost as much as he gets off from being fucked.  

The harder I thrust my swollen boner in his ass, and the more I smack the back of his head or smack his butt, the more he moans while, at the same time, he tries pushing his ass up further to please me. The 'Slap, slap, slap" sounds of my crotch slapping against his buttocks, plus Joe's moaning at the intense sexual pleasure he's experiencing being fucked dominantly, both those things are heightening the heat of this sex act for me, elevating my interest from bored to casually okay with it. 

The force of my thrusts is causing Joe to take awkward steps forward on his hands and knees until I sternly tell him, "Stop moving!" and he drops his head to his forearms on the floor. I yank on his hips, and he lifts off his knees; his legs are bent, but he's up on his toes. I mutter, "Good, get your pussy-ass up high." He moans and whimpers submissively, complying with my command.

Soon, Joe's body gets stiff, he shudders and groans, "Ahhh... oooh," then he makes a high-pitched sound, humps his hips forward so violently I almost lose my grip on them, and his climax shoots out in a fast-moving cum-stream that mostly splatters against his neck before creamily drooling onto the carpet. Then another weaker stream of cum drops to the floor, and Joe's body loses all its tenseness. 

He moans again, but it's a moan of contentment. He's still acting submissive, keeping his asshole available to me, and now my thrusting has his body jostling as the 'slapping' sounds continue, "Slap, slap, slap." Less than a minute later, the intensity of my orgasm makes me shudder. Omigod! Yeah, I appreciate how submissive Joe was during the entire fuck. I guess it's been a win-win sexual encounter for both of us.

Pulling my cock from his rectum, I glance at the ball of cum that's accumulated at the end of the condom, then smack Joe's hairy ass, thinking, yep, I can top when I need to. As I'm stepping back, now holding the sloppy condom, Joe says, "Jesus, Zach, that was another really good fuck; thanks, dude!" Nodding, I mumble, "That's cool." 

In hindsight, though, that was more or less a routine casual pickup fuck, not even as good as some. Without saying more, we get dressed and go down to the bar, where Joe orders a beer. Hmm, I'm noticing a bottle of Hennessy Paradis Cognac among the bottles on the shelves behind the bartender. So, why not treat myself? I order a snifter of that ridiculously expensive cognac. Joe, not knowing how much this cognac costs, wants to buy this round. I can't let him do that. Professors don't make much, certainly not as much as they deserve. That's true of almost everyone in the teaching profession. 

Actually, I don't know what a snifter of this cognac cost, so I peek at the check the bartender put in front of me and see a $395 charge.... for an ounce! Oh fuck, ha-ha! Joe's beer is $7.00, so maybe we'll split the bill after all. No, we won't! I put my AMEX card on the check.

Joe has been talking about his teaching career and how difficult it can be to teach an especially hot young man, knowing there is no chance of interacting with him outside the classroom. Then, he tells me more about the coincidence of running into Ricky and blah, blah, blab. He's a nice guy, Joe is, but ultimately boring. 

Oh, hell, that's unfair of me. I'm still comparing everyone I meet with Ronny, who is the opposite of boring. Ronny lit up everyone around him, and I'm just now coming to realize I rode on his coattails mostly. He created the adventures we experienced together. Jesus, though, our true asexual friendship 'love' was so strong, so powerful... a friendship love like ours rivals the intensity of almost any other type of love there is.

And Joe probably thinks I'm boring, too. Hell, I'm constantly getting morose thinking about Ronny being dead, and I tend to forget to pay attention to who I'm with. That's another personality trait I need to work on. Anyway, we don't see the boys, so after one drink, we go back to the room, which fortunately has two queen-size beds. As tactfully as I can, explain my aversion to sleeping with anyone, not Joe specifically... anyone. 

Well, yeah, Cowboy is the exception, but Joe doesn't know that. I promised to look out for Cowboy, and he insists on sleeping with me. That's another exception to the rule, you know?

"No problem, Zach. Whatever you say. Ricky won't sleep with me either, so I understand. " 

Still, even though we're sleeping in different beds, it's disconcerting to have a stranger sleeping in the same room with me. That's weird of me...

To be continued...