Union Square Park after midnight feels like a different country. But before that—before anything—there’s always the library.
The table is too cold and the chair is too soft and the light is too bright. These are the things I notice when I’ve been sitting still too long—when I’ve stopped reading and started listening, not to anything around me, but to the dull throb in the base of my neck. It’s 1:17 a.m., and I’m still here. Because I told myself I would be.
My name’s Tripp Derrickson. At the moment, my life is just a little bit complicated. I’m a double major in political science and applied mathematics, which should’ve been my first red flag. People warned me. I nodded and smiled like I knew better. I always do. But somewhere around week four of this semester, I realized that knowing better isn’t the same as doing better—and I’ve been dragging myself across the coals of that realization ever since.
I’m in the corner alcove of the library’s fourth floor, headphones in with nothing playing. My laptop screen is split between a half-finished derivation problem set and a campaign finance dataset that’s refusing to normalize the way I need it to. I could be asleep. I should be asleep. But every hour I spend here counts as proof that I’m holding it together. That I’m managing it all. That the rituals work.
That I’m still okay.
I hear the shuffle before I see him—a familiar gait, sneakers worn flat at the heel. Micah's still here. That surprises me. He usually clocks out before midnight, but something must've kept him. Cataloging, probably. He always says the archive backlog is a joke nobody's laughing at.
“You’re the last one,” he says as he passes my table, pulling his lanyard from around his neck and winding it tight around his fingers. “Gotta lock up in five.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, sitting up straighter, blinking my eyes back into focus. “Thanks for the extra time.”
He just nods—not unfriendly, just tired—and disappears behind the circulation desk. I hear keys, the sound of drawers being shut, the click of the gate being drawn halfway. It's the quiet, practical end to the night I didn't realize I was waiting for. One last borrowed minute.
Micah never asks what I’m working on. That’s part of what makes it easy.
Once he’s gone, the silence feels different. Not emptier—just final. I close my laptop but don’t move. My thoughts stall around the two midterms I have coming up, and how I’m not ready for either one. Not even close. Political theory and statistical modeling. Both on Monday. Both unforgiving.
It’s not just that I’m behind. It’s that I don’t know how I’ll catch up. Every hour is accounted for and still not enough. I tell myself I’ve managed worse. That I’ll push through. But the truth is, I’m afraid this semester is going to kill me.
Outside, the air slices cold across my face as I step off the library steps. I pull out my phone, thumb stiff against the screen, and call a ride share back to my apartment.
The car is warm. Too warm. I press my forehead to the window for a second before leaning back and closing my eyes. Maybe if I dream about statistical modeling, it’ll count as studying. I’ve tried that before. Didn’t work. Woke up convinced I’d finally understood latent variable structures—until I sat down for the exam and realized I’d dreamed the wrong formula. Like my brain was playing defense against itself.
I haven’t trusted sleep since.
We’re half a block from my apartment when I open my eyes again. Without thinking, I tap the screen and punch in a new destination. Union Square Park. I tell myself I’m just passing through. Just a walk. Just air.
But I know where I’m going.
When the car pulls to a stop, I climb out slowly, backpack still slung over one shoulder. The street is quiet in that way only city nights can be—soundless but not silent, shadows moving without purpose. I pass a sign posted at the entrance: Park Hours: 6:00am – 10:00pm. No visitors permitted after hours.
I keep walking.
The trail is dimly lit by old carriage lights—ornamental, mostly, casting uneven halos that don’t quite touch the ground. I keep to the edge at first, hands in my pockets, hood up. It’s not a straight path. It curves and splits and re-joins itself like the whole thing was designed to be disorienting. Maybe it was.
The deeper I go, the more of them I see.
Not many. Not at first. A guy leaning against the railing, one hand in his coat, eyes flicking sideways when I pass. Another sitting on a bench, smoking something that glows faint and red before vanishing. No one says anything. They never do.
Farther down, past the statue and the slope of trees, the quiet gets heavier. More movement. More presence. Men standing. Waiting. Shifting just enough to be seen, but not enough to be known.
And then—off the trail, in the murk between two trees—I catch it. A figure on his knees, shoulders rising and falling in slow rhythm. Another man standing in front of him, one hand braced against the tree, the other in the kneeling man's hair. I hear it faintly: breath, then breath, then a moan muffled low like it doesn’t want to reach the path.
This isn’t a place where you draw attention. It’s a place where you disappear.
I keep walking.
The trail bends again and empties out onto the overlook—a wooden deck, worn smooth in the middle, jutting out just far enough over the ridge to give a clean view of the river below. A chest-high metal railing runs the length of it, cold to the touch, and just in front of that sits a single bench, bolted down and facing out.
At first I think it’s empty.
But then my eyes adjust, and I see the shape of someone already sitting there. Still. Quiet. Shadowed just enough to blur the edges.
I step up onto the deck, the boards giving slightly under my weight. The figure lifts his head.
Our eyes meet.
“Bryan,” he says. Calm. Even.
“Derrick,” I answer.
Obviously Derrick isn’t my name—it’s just a piece of my last name. Maybe Brian is his real name, maybe it’s not. But it’s the name he gave me, and that’s the point. We don’t ask. We don’t correct. Whatever you call someone here is whatever they let you have.
”Didn’t think I see you out here tonight,” he says.
“Didn’t think I’d be here.”
“What are you looking for?” He asks already rubbing the bulge in his pants.
“I think you know.”
He stands and crosses the short space between us without hesitation, like this was always where it was headed. No small talk. No preamble. Just the weight of his presence closing in.
Then his hand is on me—confident, practiced. He slides it down the front of my pants, past the waistband, warm fingers finding what he was already expecting. I’m hard. Already there. The contact pulls a sound out of me, soft but helpless.
He closes his hand around my cock, firm and slow, like he knows the exact pressure I like. I reach up without thinking, brace both hands against his arms. Solid. Warm. Muscle under fabric, and none of it performative. It’s just who he is.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
He leans in, breath warm against my cheek, the weight of his hand steady and unrelenting.
“Who’s your daddy?” he murmurs, low enough it feels private, like a thread pulled tight between us.
I swallow. “You are,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He cocks his head like he didn’t quite catch it—or like he wants me to feel the echo of it in my chest.
“Didn’t hear you.”
“You are,” I repeat, louder this time, throat tight.
He rewards me with a slow, deliberate squeeze—just enough to make my hips flinch and my spine go taut. It’s not pain. It’s direction. A reminder written in pressure that I’m not the one leading this. That I never am, not with him. It says: stay still. It says: good boy. And underneath all of it, it says: mine. I exhale hard through my nose, both hands still braced against his arms like he’s the only thing holding me upright.
“Get on your knees,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
I drop, palms brushing his thighs as I settle. He’s wearing joggers—thin, soft, forgiving. My hands slide up the fabric and around the bulge that’s already thick and straining. I lean in and press my mouth against it, breathing him in through the cotton. Warm. Dense. Male. My lips trace the outline slowly, reverently, like I’m remembering the shape by feel alone.
I hook my thumbs under the waistband and begin to tug, slow and deliberate. The fabric yields, revealing a thick patch of hair, damp with sweat and heat. I bury my face there, nuzzling in with something close to hunger.
“You like that smell?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes, sir.”
I ease the joggers further down, inch by inch, until the thick base of his cock comes into view. I lick along it in slow strokes, savoring the weight of it on my tongue even before it’s fully out. No underwear tonight—just bare skin and heat and the unmistakable press of anticipation.
I look up at him once, just briefly, and then take him into my mouth, slow and full, like it’s instinct.
As I suck his cock, he moans—quiet, controlled, like the sound is meant for me alone. I keep my rhythm steady, lips and tongue working in sync, and in the blur of my peripheral I notice movement.
A few guys drift past—some without a glance, others slower, watching. One pauses just short of the decking. He doesn’t say anything. Just unzips and starts stroking himself, eyes fixed on us like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I look up at him, and he looks right back. Not asking. Not hiding. It’s so fucking hot.
The air between us pulses with heat—unspoken, shameless. My mouth stays full. My throat tightens around every movement. He watches a moment longer, hand moving in rhythm with mine, then tucks himself away and disappears into the dark.
And still, I don’t stop.
“Shit,” he moans.
I can taste the precum at the back of my throat, salty and warm. I don’t slow down. If anything, I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, wanting to give him that edge. After a few more steady pulls, he grabs my arm and hauls me upright in one smooth, practiced motion.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
I pause, breath catching, eyes locked on his.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say, my voice rough with need as I push my pants down and step out of them completely. The air hits my skin, sharp and cool, but I’m too far gone to care. I stand there—exposed, ready—giving him everything he needs to take it from here.
That earns a grin—sharp, pleased. He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a condom and a small packet of lube. He was prepared. Of course he was.
I turn and brace myself against the railing, chest forward, fingers splayed on cold metal. Behind me, I hear the rip of foil, the soft snap of latex. I tense, expecting slick fingers, a stretch of lube—something clinical and fast.
But that’s not what I get.
Instead, I feel a hot breath against me, and then—his tongue.
He eats me out like it’s what he came for. No hesitation. No teasing. Just mouth and hunger and full-bodied focus. Like he means it. Like he’s trying to ruin me before he ever gets inside.
“Fuck—” It rips out of me before I can bite it back. He hikes my right leg onto the bottom rung of the railing, opening me up more, angling me exactly how he wants. Then he dives deeper, tongue working with obscene precision, like he knows exactly what I need and has no interest in rushing it.
I brace harder against the railing, chest heaving. His tongue fucks me—slow, relentless, unyielding—and all I can do is take it. Another moan tears free, raw and high.
“Yeah… just like that,” I gasp, throat catching, hips pressing back into his mouth like I’m chasing the next wave.
As I start to stroke myself, he keeps licking—slow, hungry, relentless—and then I feel it: pressure. A finger, thick and sure, pressing in with practiced ease. I moan, hips twitching forward into my own hand. He spreads me wider, both hands firm on my ass, his mouth and fingers working in tandem like he’s been waiting all night for this.
A second finger follows, stretching me deeper. He licks around them, tongue filthy and precise. I groan, start jerking harder, caught in the rhythm of it—his fingers, his mouth, my hand. I’m getting close. Too close. I stop, panting, afraid I’ll cum before he’s even inside me.
I’m open. Slick. Ready.
“I want you inside me,” I breathe, voice ragged.
He stands behind me and spreads my cheeks again, eyes on everything.
“Damn,” he mutters. “You’ve got a nice hole.”
And then I feel him—thick and blunt—pressing in slow.
“Fuck—” I choke, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.
He braces my hips and drives into me—deep, fast, unforgiving. My hands grip the railing like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth. A moan punches out of me, raw and helpless, as a jolt of heat lances down my spine. It hurts, but only for a second. Then the pain blooms into something sharper, hotter. Pleasure floods in behind it like a wave.
He bottoms out and holds there, grinding slow for a breath that turns my knees weak. I feel every inch of him. It nearly breaks me.
“Fuck me,” I gasp. “Fuck me harder.”
“Whatever you say.”
I hear the grin in his voice—lazy, wicked—and then he starts to move in earnest, pounding into me with a rhythm that leaves no room for thought, only sensation.
Another man steps onto the deck—ten feet out, maybe less—and his cock’s already in his hand, stroking slow and steady.
“You guys are fucking hot,” he says, voice thick with lust.
Something about being watched—being seen like this—sends another rush straight to my cock. I start jerking myself again, matching Brian’s rhythm.
“You like what you see?” Brian throws over his shoulder without slowing.
“Fuck yeah.”
Brian picks up the pace like he’s showing off now. He’s fucking me hard, each thrust a statement. It’s possessive. Masculine. Animal. And it hits me all at once—this is what men do. They fuck. They watch. They want.
The guy watching falters, breath hitching.
“Shit!” he gasps.
He cums hard—at least four, maybe five ropes painting the deck beneath him. It’s filthy. It’s raw. It’s so fucking hot I nearly lose it.
Still stroking, I lean back into Brian, body flush against his, and kiss him hard, open-mouthed, needy.
“Damn, that was smoking hot,” the guy mutters, breathless.
He gives himself one last shake, a final drop slipping loose, and tucks himself back into his jeans. Before he disappears down the path, he glances back over his shoulder.
“I better see you guys out here again.”
“Count on it,” Brian says without missing a beat.
“I’m close,” I say, turning my attention back to Brian, voice tight with urgency.
“Me too,” he groans, thrusts roughening. “Cum with me.”
His grip on my hips tightens as his body goes rigid, one last deep thrust locking him inside me. He shudders, every muscle pulled taut, and I feel it—heat, pressure, the pulse of his orgasm even through the condom. It sets me off.
I let go with a full-body jolt, a volley of cum spilling across the rail and arcing into the open air, disappearing into the dark over the river. My legs nearly buckle.
“Fuck,” he pants, breath ragged against the back of my neck.
“Holy shit,” I echo, still trembling, hands slick on the railing, completely spent.
As Brian slides out of me, the emptiness rushes in all at once—deep, physical, and undeniable. I stay bent forward a second longer than I need to, catching my breath, chest still pressed to the railing.
He strips off the condom, ties it off, and walks it to the nearby trash can without a word. I hear the soft thud as it lands inside.
“I swear it gets better every time,” he says, voice warm, loose with satisfaction.
I pull my pants back on, muscles still twitching. He does the same, slower.
“Next time,” I say, not looking at him.
He doesn’t press for more. Just nods once, sure and simple.
I step off the deck and into the shadows, breath steadying, heart still beating hard enough to count.
It took me twenty minutes to get out of the park and another twenty to make it back to my apartment. By then it was late—really late—but at least it was the weekend. In the living room, I dropped my bag and sank to the floor, leaning back against the couch. My legs were still trembling, and I was sore in all the right places. There was a twitch in my thigh that hadn’t quite let go.
Brian had that effect. Some guys were good. He was better.
After letting my mind wander through the night—replaying moments I probably shouldn’t—I stood, stripped off my clothes, and dropped them in the hamper. The shower was hot and loud, a relief from the cold air outside, though the truth was, Brian had already done plenty to keep me warm. My body still buzzed.
I’d been cruising that park for about four months ever since my buddy Dwight mentioned it to me after the lecture from hell. He said it would help clear my mind. He never told me what I’d find here but once I did find it, I was hooked. At first, it felt like a secret I wasn’t supposed to have—something reckless, something charged. Then it became habit. Ritual. Addiction, maybe. I’d hooked up with plenty of guys out there, but Brian was the one I kept coming back to.
He was masculine in a way that felt settled. Rough when it counted. Gentle when it mattered. The kind of man you don’t take home to your parents because he’s not asking to be taken anywhere. Just older enough to know what he’s doing—late forties, maybe early fifties. Guys like that always knew how to touch you like they meant it.
And I liked that more than I probably should.
After the shower, I dried off, pulled on a clean pair of underwear, and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool, the pillow still faintly smelling like detergent and skin. I’d barely settled when an arm slipped around my waist, firm and familiar, pulling me in.
“Babe—it’s so late,” Aaron mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t give yourself a break.”
“I know,” I murmured. “I’m working on it.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll make some pancakes in the morning.”
“My favorite.”
“I know,” he said, pressing a kiss against the back of my neck. “I’m in the running for boyfriend of the year.”
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” he asks sleepily.
“No big deal. Night, babe.”
He tightened his hold, warm and certain.
Oh—did I forget to mention I have a boyfriend? One who has absolutely no idea about my extracurricular activities?
So yeah, like I said—my life’s just a little bit complicated.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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