Yesterday was my turn to park in the gated parking garage at work, rather than in the busy Hawthorne street (portland), and as I was tentatively typing out our little ten digit code we all share to get behind the fence, my coworker (wearing normal clothing instead of the required coat and badge getup) came up to my car and knocked gently on the passenger window.
I was a little hesitant at first, because despite our only glimpse of a relationship being entirely professional, the man was tall and loud and carried a picture of himself standing next to george strait in his ugly crocodile print leather bound wallet. He didn't talk politics but I knew the majority of what would be coming out of his mouth if he did; he came from a Christian heritage, and as far as I could tell kept religion higher than all else in his family.
That being said, I waved at him and he looked behind my car before motioning me into the lot.
Went in, parked next to one of the slots not taken by the blind commission people who shared the lot with us, and opened my door. He didn't move though, he just waited for the gate to close before coming up, arms crossed from the cold to talk to me.
Now, I like Portland. It's a nice visit here and there, but most of the time I'd rather be left to my own devices in a quieter place. Portland did have a lot of gay advantages, though; clubs, lgbt-based open houses and gatherings. It's a nice outing and occasionally I'd take a few friends out on the street and live a little.
I didn't feel unsafe, or repulsed at all by living my own life out in public.
Despite my conjuring efforts to ignore his sense of entitlement, when this 6'5/6'6 white boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a fascination for old country comes up to me, arms crossed and lips flat, I wasn't really expecting to be honored as a proud gay. I was more expecting him to pull one on me, to be honest.
Don, that's his name, asked me if I had a key to the basement. I said I did. I took him down there, without saying anything, turned on the light, and the following interaction goes as follows:
"I hope you don't see me as a threat."
"I know you think I'm some proud colonialist or something, but I can actually appreciate your sense of nihilism."
"Aren't you devout, sorry, I know you follow a church somewhere on the pearl district that restricts a lot of free thinking"
"I use it more as a getaway."
I left it at that: he could accept my way of life, probably did not want any part of it, but recognized me as a person nonetheless.
He opened a metal crate labeled with some of our older labeling font, so I didn't have a clue what it could've been. Don was in his early 30s, only worked here for eight years (that's three my senior) so apparently his interests in history spread more from colonialist America to 80's/90's OSHA, if he knew exactly where to find these old, I'd-be-worried-if-they-still-worked laser tubes.
He pulled one out and blew a bunch of dust off of it.
Conventionally, I immediately recognized the solemn haste and pain, and almost unknowing pain, in Don's words. In his demeanor, his typically furrowed brow turned soft, his cream complexion seemed pale and though I knew it from the cold, it was almost translucent, both physically, and in a crest, harbored type of manner. He was reserved when he wanted to be, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice the times he'd settle down and show more fatherly or boyfriend-like instinct in his actions than most great men I know, the only times I actually felt discomfort or, in most cases, a radicalized sense of hate for the guy, was when he was talking with our other coworkers his age; they were the same type: loud, country-bumpkins who followed suit on any republican candidates, and mellowed in the likes of of John Prine and Playboy mags.
Without any conviction in his remaining attitude, though, Don was still a self-loathing heterosexual.
"I wouldn't worry about the rats," I looked up at him, then around the dark, except for a tug-light-lit room hastily.
He tilted the hefty metal crate towards me and pointed his phone flashlight down in the bottom. Feces.
"Oh, well Mark (our boss) has some repellent."
"Don't work." He shook his head and motioned for me to follow him into a deeper part of the basement. It was dark and this time there was no tug-light, only the smell of unfurnished wood and the great big man standing directly behind me. The room was so small and the air so thin, I couldn't squeeze my way through these plastic storage containers and dusty crates, presumably also filled with more lab equipment.
He blended his knees in a squat and turned on his phone flashlight in order to look, or show me, a patch of fiberglass eaten by mice, and, worseyet, the devil's cat-killer. Seven little squares of it, none with bites taken out of them.
A drift of air smelled like old spice when he bent down so quickly.
"Put these down here weeks ago after finding the wall all chewed up, fuckers got around them and chewed it up even more. Completely ignored the poison."
"Why do you have to kill them, why not trap and relocate?"
He looked up at me from over his shoulder and tilted his head before turning it to a shake.
"Didn't your dad teach you anything about pest control?"
I bit my tongue and looked down.
"He wasn't around much growing up."
"Explains a lot."
I shook my head and turned to walk out of the room, heard him start to laugh and his feet shuffle to stand up, but then boxes shift and make a screeching sound, I turned around and he had fallen on the floor. Hair in his face, cross necklace chain exposed from his open collar, and midriff showing this sharp yet shallow line of messy brown strokes up from his waistline.
"Damn," he whined and then showed a hasty expression on his face.
I walked back over and held out my hand.
"Didn't think you were that old,"
He shoved it away.
"Don't touch me,"
We parted ways after I went upstairs and changed into uniform, then he a few minutes later.
The day felt rather surreal, because I saw him, alone, typing out on an old Dell laptop with his big hands, probably a little less than twice as big as mine.
I thought about his little conversation starter, what he meant by it, and if he really did mean what he said.
In some cases, this sense of reliance on earning a sense of, presumable forgiveness, is a product of an overly-observant, or already hurt being longing for something the object of their affection has already achieved.
Although I liked to imagine, and look over occasionally to his big metal desk, he'd stare at the data samples laid out for him in excel or another part of the suite and see the ballpoint pen, the same type in my hand that looks so big, resting so graciously as merely a toothpick in those massive caricatures. He puts the cap end in his mouth, just behind his two front teeth, and backing into his gums, then he'd smile and, when I first started this job, it would send shivers down my back.
I guess, in some way or another, the idea of being with this hurt person does bring water to my lips and blood to my dick.
Toward the middle of the day, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, stand up and walk to the men's room. I stood up, followed him and went in a few seconds after he did.
He unzipped at the urinal closest to the wall, and i took the one three down from him.
He looks over at me, then back in front of him and huffs.
"Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous?"
He didn't say anything.
"That you hate me for just being myself,"
"I don't hate you." He started his stream.
I started mine.
"It seems like you hate me." I said after I finished.
I walked over to him, and he kept looking at me and looking away.
I put a hand on his shoulder and his face turned a light pink color. He stopped peeing but didn't move. He looked down, and then I saw his problem. The man was hard, probably started with a semi and my touch just transfixed his yearning dick.
I slowly moved my hand down his left shoulder, bulging bicep, and forearm.
He breathed heavily as my index finger moved slowly over his hand, and then threw his head back, and I watched his once-loathing face now contort and turn bright red as I pet over his shaft.
I kept moving my finger over him, and then slowly, he took my hand in his, already holding his hard cock, and stroked it with me.
I kept watching his face, he bit his bottom lip until it turned white, and his speed got faster before he came over my fingers, his hand, and into the urinal. It couldn't have been more than a minute. He had it built up. Whether it be the pent-up frustration, or something he's always wanted, he came quickly, and then without looking at me, zipped back up and left without washing his hands.
I did, however, wash my hands. I then pushed my semi back into my boxers and zipped up.
When I came out, he pushed past me, carrying his keys and his white coat blew across me, leaving me left with the short but distinct smell of semen and old spice, must have been cologne.
He stumbled to the door, typed out the same short code I did this morning, in order to escape this little temple-esque building.
I was not concerned. I've seen the face of a confused man, men, women, it's never not a clear sign of an epiphanic moment. He was about to go home and drink, or go home and lay in bed, turned to the wall for hours, and then refuse to eat when his wife asks him the inevitable "what's wrong, sweetie?" And he'll think,
"Am I really this miserable monster?" But reply
"Nothing honey; hard day at work is all."
It's a mixture of both sadness and realization. The trick is to understand what the realization is.
When I got home, and boiled myself some penne for a too-short amount of time just to pour cheese atop it and eat it quickly. I got a message, left on my work number; we have them up on a cork board for emergencies.
It was a quick excerpt from the Bible. And it was spoken in a rushed, almost heathen-like tone, by none other than the devil himself.
"Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit—-kingdom of God? Don't be deceived: neither the sexually immoral,—nor men who practice homosexuality, will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you-washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our—" the line cut off.
I went to bed that night feeling a bit uneasy, a bit pressured to call back and leave a message for his wife about his secret desires, but refused myself that trauma and instead relished in the sweet release of sleep.
The next morning was a Friday. I woke up to another message, this time left from a different number, but the man's voice was still cold, and even in a soft tone you could tell he was still on edge and even sounded a bit depressed.
"I just want to make it clear- I'm not sure what you did to me yesterday, but I- it's not something I want to take part of but- I couldn't help feeling some type of way when you touched me like that,"
I held the phone to my ear and thought about his red face, his sharp, bulging and muscular arms, and the short, defined little breaths that escaped him while I stroked him to his pleasure-filled end.
Make no mistake, I disliked the things he said, his ancient beliefs and ugly views under Catholicism. I only sought to relieve him in some way that actually relieved myself as well.
I called back.
"Hello?" His voice was raspy, it was about 7:20 or so, and I would've thought he'd be at work by now, I'm only running late because I considered this experience more worth my focus.
"Hey." I heard him shuffle, like bedsheets, and imagined his wife sleeping next to him.
"Do you want to come over?"
I didn't hear anything. I told him my address and hung up the phone.
I was afraid he wasn't going to show up, it took him probably two hours to arrive at my door, and even then, he didn't knock. I had to discover he was there through the Ring doorbell app.
"It's unlocked," I whispered through my phone.
I heard the jingle of the knob, and then the door gently push open. There he was, tall, with the same scruff on his chin as yesterday; he normally shaved that 5:00 shadow, but there was something so masculine and intoxicating seeing him battered up, not shaven, he probably didn't shave under his arms, either.
I walked into the laundry room and stood a little more than a foot away from his face.
There was something about the smell of Old Spice and the sight of a broken man that gave me this destined feeling. This smallest loss of innocence, and his loss of religion, it was almost euphoric.
We stared at each other for what couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he stepped fully inside my little, bottom-floor studio, and shut the door behind him.
He opened his mouth to speak, but just let a deep breath escape his half-opened mouth, and trailed me with his eyes, landing on my loose Nikes.
"How do you do it?" He didn't even look up from my crotch area.
"It's not even you," He finally looked up at me, but avoided eye contact.
"I think it's just the stimulation."
"Of another man?"
He closed his eyes and looked away, almost cringing at the answer.
"It's a different feeling, is all. I'm not a faggot for feeling a way I can't-you know, can't control."
I nodded, half-heartedly. This gross sympathy was something I could only pretend to feel for him.
"I don't even know what I-" I reached out and put my hand to the side of his torso, slowly tracing down his hip bone and felt the waistband of his underwear, then the cold of his below-room-temp hand graze lightly against the back of my own.
I looked up at him. He was staring at me.
I don't know if it was the chill of his presence, or the haste in his words, maybe even just the stature of his build, but I kissed him.
At first, he just kept his lips flat, but then he puckered and kissed back.
His lips were soft, a bit chapped, but soft. And his beard was scratchy and smelled like the rest of his body. I took a long breath in through my nose just to catch it all.
I felt his left hand trail down my arm, then down to my own torso. It was one of the most romantic feelings I've ever felt for another person, just standing there in his arms, I wish I didn't feel this sense of both pride and exhilaration thinking back on it. He was probably seven inches taller than me, and standing there with him looming over me, breathing this unsteady pattern, it made me bloom.
I kissed the outside of his armpit, and he began undoing his top buttons.
He soon revealed this beautiful, surprisingly-less-hairy-than-I-thought would be chest. I kissed his collar bone, and down the little patches of hair leading down to his happy trail, which I also unbuttoned to reveal.
I licked his hip bones, and felt around his growing bulge. I could tell he wasn't massive, probably bigger than me, though.
I moved my tongue slowly across his bulge and moved my hand up his leg, feeling goosebumps arrive as I did.
"Bite it," I looked up at him and he blushed slightly.
I kept licking at his bulge, but took it in my mouth before unzipping him. That made him let out a strong breath from his mouth.
After thoroughly kissing up and around his cock, it was evident he was precumming something awful. Although not terribly vocal, his hands made fists, and his legs occasionally shook when I licked around his bush or kissed around his balls.
When he came, he pulled me off his cock and went to town, spilling on my lips, and grabbing my hair tighter as he shot. He tasted salty and sweaty and, I think it may have been from pent-up rage.
When he left, it was around 9. He spent a little time in my bathroom after I blew him, and I thought he was taking a shower, but thinking back, he might've been jerking off.
I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and it's really been sort of a problem for me, thinking of these things he's said to me in the workspace, and the juxtaposition of that between my apparent feelings for him.