The Man Across the Aisle

I think I noticed them coming in because most of those who had come to this book festival program were middle-aged women. There weren’t too many men in the audience, and these were the only ones who clearly, at least to me, were a couple. They came in from the back of the room, on the other side of the seating area from where I sat on an outer aisle seat, not anxious to be recognized. The program was entitled “Spontaneity,” which I was later to laugh about, and featured three books in which spontaneous action had been key in the plot line.

My eye immediately went to the younger of the two, the obvious submissive, although he wasn’t really effeminate. It was just the way the two reacted to each other that told me the older man was the dominant. That always was included in my immediate assessments; I was a dominant.

The younger one was gorgeous—at least I thought so from the first glance. I saw them standing briefly before taking seats across the center aisle from me and one row up, the perfect spot for me to easily glance their way every few minutes or so. He was shorter and trimmer than the guy my mind was calling Daddy. I was struck by how tanned the younger one was and the grooming of his hair, a dark auburn, curly, and rising more on the top of his head and rather closely shaved on the sides. I only saw him full face in the moment when they turned to enter the row across the aisle, but he was movie-star gorgeous. He gave those who moved their feet to let the pair cross to the middle of the row a killer smile. They responded warmly. He was wearing form-fitting blue jeans, well worn, lighter at the knees and crotch that elsewhere, and a black Polo shirt, which, again showed off the curves of his body beautifully.

The older man—Daddy—was taller, more bulky, muscular. I wouldn’t say he was good looking—not by any means—but he had a commanding presence. His hair was thinning on top and he probably would go to fat in the near future if he didn’t keep up going to the gym. His muscularity indicated he still did go to the gym, though. He was probably about my age, looking at fifty in a couple of years. He had a bored look about him, except when he looked at the younger guy. His gaze then was proprietary. He didn’t look all that happy to be here with his boy toy on display. The idea to come to this book festival program obviously had been the younger man’s, who was looking around the room with interest. I willed him to look in my direction, but, if he had, it wasn’t when I was looking. His daddy looked straight forward as if he wasn’t at all comfortable sitting in a crowd of intent women with gray or graying hair.

I must admit that I didn’t pay much attention to the program going on at the front of the room either. I tried, but I continually found myself glancing over at the younger man across the aisle. Not once did I see him look back at me, though. His attention seemed to be rivetted on what the three authors and the program moderator had to say about how spontaneity wormed its way through their very disparate books.

It was for that reason—that I hadn’t caught the younger man looking behind him and across the aisle—that I was surprised when, as the question-and-answer session was over and we were moving into the book-signing phase, which was my signal to head for the back door, I heard my name called, turned, and found the man of my recent dreams standing in front of me.

“Mr. Sanderson? Neal Sanderson?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said. “Have we met?” I added, aching to find that we did know each other, that I knew he was a gay submissive and that he, in turn, knew I was a gay dominant. As it turned out he had surmised that.

“You probably didn’t see me, but I was in the program yesterday that you were on the panel for—the one called ‘Strangers in Paradise.’”

“Ah, yes, thanks. That one was pretty crowded. No, I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.” He had no idea how sorry I was I hadn’t seen him there. But that I hadn’t had probably saved me from screwing up my presentation and had saved me a night of pining and speculation—a night I now probably would be having tonight. That panel was on the first day of the festival. I had a different book at a program on the last day, so I was staying the week. The program the previous day was more crowded than this one and included more men—more gay men. It did, I was sure because of my book. The program lumped together books on encounters of the protagonists on foreign vacations. My book was of a gay writer looking for encounters to write about, going to Bali to find them, and finding them there. The other books weren’t gay books, but mine was and had attracted a somewhat different audience than most did at book festivals. Still, I thought I should have been able to pick this gorgeous man out of the crowd.

At least I didn’t have to establish sexual preferences. There would be no dancing around that pole in this brief conversation.

“I’m Clay. Clay Adams,” he said. “I’ve read all of your books. I loved your new one.”

“Why, thank you, Clay,” I said.

“How did you enjoy this program?” he asked. “The subject, Spontaneity, really appealed to me. I love being spontaneous. I get that from your books too—your characters act so casually and spontaneously. I really like that.”

“Yes, well, they say that writers write best what they know best—what they are most like,” I said. I was catching on. I recognized when someone was coming on to me. I looked around the room to see if I could see Daddy. He was standing over by the back door, looking a bit uncomfortable. But he wasn’t looking at us. His loss. We were jostled by a couple of women trying to get past us to where they were selling books at the back of the room and I reached out and took Clay’s forearm in mine to steady us both. He smiled at me. I didn’t take my hand away and he showed no indication of wanting me too.

“I really would like to talk about this further with you,” he said. “Are you at the book festival for much longer?”

“I have a program on the last day, so, yes, I’m here for the duration. Yes, we could meet and . . . talk . . . more, if you like.”

“Are you staying near here?”

This program, indeed many of the programs, were being held in the conference rooms of this hotel. “Yes, I’m staying right here, at the Sheraton,” I said. Would he, or wouldn’t he?

He did.

“Will you be in later tonight, say at 10:00?” he asked.

“Yes, I will.”

“What room?”

I told him. “But aren’t you here with someone?” I asked.

“Not a problem,” he said. “He knows what he has to do to get what he wants.” I didn’t pursue that further. I didn’t want to make it a problem if it didn’t have to be.

* * * *

As we fucked in my hotel room, I realized that Clay wasn’t as young as I’d thought he was when I saw him at the book festival programs. His hair had gray in it, which is probably why he’d had the sides shaved so closely; the tan hid blemishes, although not any serious ones; his skin wasn’t supple, although he’d worked hard to keep it taut over his trim musculature; and he may have had some cosmetic work done. He still, though, was a good ten years younger than I was—or than his daddy was—he’d taken superb care of himself toward the middle years, and he was an expert at the fuck. That alone was probably why his daddy was so possessive of him. That was enough for me during two hours of alternately sensual and rigorous sex.

He wasn’t either a dishrag or an obstacle in the rhythm of the fuck. We were equals, him giving as much as I was taking. I was seemingly in full control, but he was guiding us to where we each got maximum pleasure out of the coupling. That we came almost together was more his doing than mine. It was in this that I could fully appreciate that he wasn’t as young as I originally thought.

He gave a great blow job and seemed to thoroughly enjoy receiving one and in moving his body languidly and to moan and sigh appreciatively as I glided my hands over him, discovering, working, making love to every square inch of his curves and crevices. If the tan was augmented from a bottle, it at least was natural in that he’d worn a Speedo when he’d acquired most of it and the tan lines from that, leaving his pelvis and crotch white, were a fetish of mine that drove me wild. I held him in various positions with my hands gripping and stroking him along the tan line while I was deep inside him, giving him a good fucking.

He was an expert in athletic and sensual positions, sitting in my lap, skewered on my erection, facing me, as I sat at the foot of the bed, gripping his waist, and Clay slowly gyrating on my lap, leaning back to where his shoulder blades pressed into the carpet, his arms extended in a completely open, vulnerable, sacrificial position, and he murmured, “Yes, Daddy, just like that. Fuck me good,” while I pulled him on and off the cock. I fucked him good.

The thought that I was fucking him—that I was in control—was a mirage. He let me believe that initially, but he slowly took control and used my cock from the bottom to pleasure himself. Much of the time, he just held me steady and he did most of the movement. I became his joy stick. He was voracious and vigorous. He drained me dry and made my shaft totally his, for his pleasure.

He deftly changed positions, cantilevering out from me, as I still sat at the foot of the bed, holding steady for him to do as he liked with my cock. His slim legs streamed back around my hips, his toes dug into the mattress, and me gripping his wrists, pulling his arms back taunt, and, using the leverage of his toes, he fucked himself on my shaft.

As I lay on my back, near to exhaustion but not wanting it to end, my balls aching from my building third ejaculation, Clay rode my cock in a cowboy position, facing me initially, the palms of his hands pressed into my pecs, but before the last liftoff, turning to face my feet, the palms of his hands gripping my knees, as relentlessly, with an ever-quicker cadence, rising and falling, rising and falling, on my shaft—draining every last drop of cum out of me. At the end I mustered the strength to raise my chest, embrace him, palm his belly with one hand, and jack him off with the other, as feet folded back along my hipline, he continued to rise and fall, rise and fall on my cock, to first my ejaculation and then his, his jerk and flow picking up from where mine had ended.

I fell back onto the bed, and, screwing his passage around on my cock again, Clay stretched out on top of me. In glorious exhaustion, we both dozed. When I woke, he was gone. He left when I’d lost my erection and didn’t have another drop of cum to contribute.

Alone in thought, I could not accept any responsibility for taking advantage of a younger man I fancied. Clay had picked me out, seduced me, and used me for his own pleasure. I wouldn’t help but assume that he did the same with his supposedly controlling daddy. It was possible that he hadn’t even read all of my books as he said he had. It was possible he just liked the way I looked. That wasn’t an unpleasant thought, though.

* * * *

I saw him—and Daddy—three days later at another book festival program. I was sitting on the outer aisle in the same meeting room where I first saw him and he entered with Daddy. They took up the same seats they had before, across the aisle from me and one row up. Once again, I spent more time looking at Clay’s profile than I did paying attention to the panel discussion. As before, he didn’t turn his head to see if I was there. He’d made no effort to contact me since the night we’d fucked half the night away, trying and mastering several exotic positions.

He was still with Daddy.

At the end of the panel part of the program, as the crowd was milling around to move into the buy activity at the back of the room and the author signing activity at the front of the room, I heard myself being addressed.

“Mr. Sanderson. Neal Sanderson?”

“Yes, that’s me.” I didn’t really expect it to be Clay. The voice was higher than his. The young man who addressed me was younger than Clay was—probably only in his mid-twenties. He was a handsome, trim young man. He was perhaps a bit effeminate, but he seemed to be alone—and on the make.

“I attended your panel discussion on Strangers in Paradise a couple of days ago, and I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed the book. I’ve read all of them. They are so affirming of the lifestyle that can be had.”

“You mean casual gay sex?” I asked. “And, yes, I remember you from that program. You were a standout.” I wasn’t lying. I did remember him, and I had marked him as arousing. He’d made me go hard.

His face lit up in a big smile to hear that I remembered him and was attracted to him. “Well, yes. I like your themes of getting it where and when you can.”

“You believe that as well too?” I asked. “Just grab for the golden ring when you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you indeed?” I asked. “Well . . .”

“Ross. I’m Ross Gould.”

“Well, Ross Gould, I’m staying here at the Sheraton. Would you like to come up to my room tonight?” He obviously was offering and he was highly fuckable.

He beamed at me, clearly in ninth heaven.

“What I write is how I live, Ross. You want it and can get me hard, you’ve got it.”

He remained standing there, beaming at me.

This time it was me providing the expertise and calling the position shots. But Ross did quite fine, although he seemed surprised at what I demanded and took from him—and how many times I could do it at my age.

He had smooth, supple skin on firm muscles, great flexibility. He was a heavy panter and moaner as I glided my hands and tongue over his curves and into his crevices He gave great head, shuddered when receiving it. His body showed nicely defined tan lines from a thong bikini, begging for me to “Fuck the hell out of me. Shit, you’re huge.”

I did; I was. He was fresh and sweet. He opened and stretched with difficulty, but he was a trooper. He wanted it and he got it.

He especially liked what I call the Flying Dutchman—him stretched out, face down, his torso extended beyond the foot of the bed, and me mounted on his ass and riding it hard, gripping his wrists with my fists, bowing his back toward me, as solidly saddled on his buttocks, I fucked, fucked, fucked him.

Ross was in the audience, beaming, for my last panel session at the book festival. I hadn’t broken him. My bed would be warm for my last night at the book festival if a better offer didn’t come along. Neither Clay nor Daddy showed up.

I didn’t care. Spontaneity and casual hookups. No worries, no games, no entanglements. You want it and you can get me up, lay down, spread your legs, and take it hard and deep. And then walk away without regrets. That was what it was all about. That’s what I wrote about. Read what I write; what I write is what you get. That’s how I lived.

I wrote about older, experienced men, like me, covering younger, seeking men, like Ross, fresh young men wanting to learn from me, awed by the opportunity to be laid by a gay male novelist, ready to savor the exotic sex positions I could teach to them.

Was I being heartless, cruel, totally wrapped up in myself? Well, certainly selfish, but was I the only one in a coupling who was being selfish? When Clay and I fucked, wasn’t he being selfish too—and Ross? Weren’t they getting what they wanted? Yes, of course they were. They both went into bed with me willingly this week. Clay used me for his pleasure as much as mine and went back to Daddy. He was as happy with it being temporary as I was. And that was fine with me.

I looked out at Ross in the audience, beaming up at me. He would willingly go with me tonight too, and he knew I was leaving tomorrow. He was better for what we did—what we’d do tonight too—then if it never had happened. How would I take him tonight? What new positions would I introduce him to? What memories would I leave for him to savor?

We all made our choices, and we all took our pleasures as we pleased.