PREFACE

 

I hadn’t started kindergarten yet when my mother received a Christmas gift from Aunt Mary.  She was thrilled.  I was puzzled.  It was a small, wooden, slightly egg-shaped thing that was painted to resemble a person.  The way my mother gingerly handled it, I knew that it was not a toy.  She took off the top and revealed a smaller object inside that was another, smaller, egg-shaped person.  My amazement continued until she exposed a third, smaller object nestled inside.  All three were painted to look like different people.

 

My mother let me play with it only if she was there to supervise and ensure that I didn’t break it or get it dirty.  She said it was a matryoshka, a Russian nested doll, and was quite valuable.  I wanted to name the three little people Johnnie, Jimmie, and Bobby but my mother said that since the “little people” were Russian, they should have Russian names.  I didn’t know any Russian names so I accepted my mother’s suggestions—Boris, the biggest; Sergi, the middle one; and Igor, the smallest.

 

As I grew up, my fascination waned and I turned my attention to my other toys and games.  I gave it scant attention as it sat on the mantle in the living room.  In time, I lost all interest in it and virtually forgot about it.

 

When I was a senior in college, my parents divorced.  Dad had found another woman and moved in with her.  Because of my dad’s infidelity, the judge awarded my mom the car, the house, and all the furniture.  Dad left with only his clothes and personal belongings, never to be seen again.  I missed my dad; he was a very good father when I was a child.

 

Only three years later, my mother died of breast cancer.  As the only child, I was left to settle the estate.

 

After the funeral, I was clearing out the house in preparation for its sale and I found the set of nested dolls.  I almost threw it away before remembering my mother telling me it was valuable.  I packed it in a “keeper” box with the thought of selling it later (if, indeed, it was valuable).

 

 

THOUGHTS ON A LONG DRIVE

 

Days later, having hired a realtor for the house and an auctioneer for its contents, I loaded five boxes of “keepers” into my SUV and set off on the three-hundred-mile trip to my home.  While driving, I mentally reviewed the contents of the boxes: legal papers I had to save, jewelry that could be sold, lots of photographs in albums and frames that chronicled the life of my family ... and the nested dolls, the only sentimental item I saved.  What to do with that?  A sudden realization startled me.  That odd little knick-knack symbolized the life I had been living since puberty.

 

The matryoshka triggered my thoughts as I drove home.

 

The outermost doll—I recalled its name, Boris—symbolized what people saw when they looked at me.  It was the public persona that we all erect to create a favorable impression on others.

 

The next smaller doll (I struggled to remember its name — Sergi.) represented the thoughts and opinions that I kept to myself because disclosing them was risky.  How can you tell a friend that you think he’s a dork?  What would be the result if you told a teacher she’s boring or ugly or too demanding?  How could you express your sadness over your father’s disappearance when it would only amplify the pain your mother felt?  Wouldn’t it be cruel to tell your mother on her deathbed that you wanted her to die so her suffering would be over?  There are many things we say or do everyday that are deceptive in order to protect our own self-esteem or avoid hurting others.  There are many more things that we DON’T do or say for the same reasons.  That second little doll lies hidden inside the outer shell of our self.

 

And deeper still, there was a doll—with the unforgettable name of Igor—that corresponds to what we really are, the core of our being.  Igor is buried so deep inside the others that we may not know it’s there.  If we do catch a glimpse of it, it may be disturbing because it is quite unlike our outer shell and we often deny its existence.  In my case, the third little doll was my homosexuality.  At first, I had only vague hints that he was there.  I was about thirteen years old and passing through puberty.  My penis grew much bigger.  I soon learned that playing with it brought thrilling sensations.  That caused me no concern at first.  Gradually, however, I became aware that stimulating my penis was not something to talk about.  My parents were somewhat puritanical, insisted on complete modesty, and did not tolerate any discussion of one’s “private parts.”  Consequently, I kept my Igor a secret.

 

By age fifteen, having taught myself how, I was masturbating frequently—in the bathtub, sitting on the toilet, or lying in bed at night.  I began to worry.  It wasn’t pleasuring myself that troubled me; it was the images I conjured up in my mind.  They were inevitably of other boys—naked and usually with very hard cocks.  I had heard other boys talk about queers and fags in extremely derogatory terms.  That caused feelings of shame, guilt, and depression because of my attraction to (obsession with?) other boys.  Was I sick?  Abnormal?  Was I a degenerate queer that other boys talked about with such venom?

 

Igor, that innermost part of me, would not be still.  He appeared more and more frequently, offering me increasing levels of pleasure as I continued to masturbate.  He even clamored for attention when I saw handsome boys in school or in my mind’s eye.  I found myself imagining (wishing for?) another boy stroking my penis and my doing the same for him.  I sometimes thought (but never when I was stoking myself to orgasm) of the scorn I had heard from other boys who obviously hated queers.  At those times, I was disgusted with myself and hated the Igor within me.

 

From age fifteen to seventeen, I found it increasingly easy to listen to Igor, my inner self.  I could fantasize about other boys while masturbating without the shame, guilt, and depression that had previously haunted me and that had been difficult to cope with.  I kept my Igor beneath my two outer shells and unleashed him when I was alone and wanted the gratification of an orgasm.  But he appeared, unbidden, whenever I saw an attractive boy.   My self-discipline improved to the point that I stopped worrying about my fantasies that had evolved into many forms of sexual exploration and intimacy with other boys.  I had finally admitted to myself that I was gay but I knew my Igor must be diligently shielded from the view of my family and friends.

 

Half way home after my mother’s funeral, I turned my attention to the future.  I’d made it through college and three more years living independently as a virgin.  But I was lonely, frustrated, and craved companionship.  I no longer had to fear disappointing my parents by telling them they had a gay son.  My mother was gone.  I hadn’t heard from my dad in years and didn’t even know where he lived.  I had no family to embarrass. 

 

That was a pivot point in my life.  I resolved to actively seek a companion to share my life with.  I would set Igor free.  By keeping him imprisoned, I was denying myself the joy I was sure was possible.  I was less sure how to go about it but I was determined to live my life quite differently.

 

 

WHERE TO FROM HERE?

 

When I arrived home, I unloaded my SUV.  I stacked the boxes of papers and photographs in the hall closet but I retrieved the nested dolls and put the little curio on the nightstand next to my bed.  It would remind me of my happy childhood and would also motivate me to change my future in a way that would lead to a different form of happiness.

 

Over the next few weeks, I was able to resume my routine: working by day and relaxing in the evening.  I also spent a lot of time puzzling over how to seek and find a companion but none of my ideas seemed promising.  I didn’t want to cruise the gay bars and risk what I perceived as scoring a few transitory escapades with men who were interested only in a one-night-stand nor did I want to worry about STDs.  I rejected the notion of finding someone in a gay chat room for similar reasons.  I assessed the possibility that one of my co-workers or friends might qualify as a candidate for partnership but, alas, they were all either married, obviously straight, or simply unappealing.

 

I had been exchanging email messages with the author of several stories posted on the internet.  It started with a simple compliment I sent after reading one of his particularly good stories but grew over time to several email exchanges of thoughts, opinions, and personal histories.  He was far more forthcoming than I about his life and told me that he was openly gay while I confessed that I was still in the closet.  He told me more about himself and his experiences than I was willing to divulge about my own.  Because I had been closeted, I very carefully withheld any information that might reveal my identity.  I apologized to him for that and explained my reasons.  He said he completely understood.

 

Serendipity came to my rescue.  While our emails to each other had been a pleasant diversion, I received one from him that included, “It’s too bad you’re not ready to come out.  I’d like to meet you.  Don’t get me wrong.  My only reason is to have a pleasant conversation.  I have no expectations beyond that.  Oh well.  Maybe some day.”

 

He had, without knowing it, opened the door to my closet.  Was I willing to walk through it?  Was this perhaps the opportunity that I had been seeking?  What harm would there be in a friendly conversation?  Either he or I could still decide whether to meet again and perhaps pursue a relationship.  I delayed replying to his email while I considered the possibilities.

 

What did I know about him?  I knew his name, Carlos Garcia, his age, 28, and that his parents came to the U.S. from Nicaragua when he was a baby.  He was the resident manager of a large apartment complex.  Did that mean he fixed leaky plumbing or did he spend his time supervising a staff?  And did it matter?  I knew that his family was wealthy and his father owned the apartment buildings.  So much for the ordinary details; more significant was that he had had at least three partners — two brief relationships while in college and another, longer one with a Navy officer who got transferred to the Far East.  The college affairs I could attribute to raging youthful hormones but I was encouraged by his commitment to a long-term partner and by his confessing to a long period of depression over the breakup.  Clearly, he was not someone who played the field.  I concluded that he valued monogamy, which was reflected in the stories he wrote that usually focused on love and loyalty.  He had experienced gay sex.  That was both good and bad news.  If we did more than meet for conversation, I would worry that I couldn’t perform in bed well enough to satisfy him.  On the other hand, I could learn a lot about intimate lovemaking from him.

 

He lived in San Diego, about a three-hour drive from my home in Santa Barbara.  I could easily visit him on a weekend, staying in a motel so as not to appear too eager to go to bed with him.  Even if nothing developed between us, it would be a thoroughly interesting visit.

 

There seemed to be no good reason not to meet him so I composed a carefully worded reply:

Carlos:

 

You’ve been patient and understanding with me when I refused to give any information that would identify me.  I’m grateful for that.  My circumstances have changed, however.  I’ve decided not to hide from others and from myself any more.  I’m gay and will live as a gay.  As a result, I can tell you that my real name is Tom Hunter and I live in Santa Barbara, not too far from you.  Your last email said you’d like to meet me.  I’d like that, too.  Perhaps I could drive down one weekend.  We could have dinner and a conversation.  I understand and agree with your intent of just meeting and getting to know one another with no purpose beyond that.  Let me know if you’d like to meet.  And tell me what would be a convenient time for you.

 

Tom

 

Less than two hours later I got a reply.  He said he was delighted, suggested a time—seven o’clock on the following Saturday—and included the name and address of a restaurant in the Old Town section of San Diego.  I immediately sent my acceptance of his invitation and made a reservation at a nearby motel.

 

The three days I had to wait until Saturday seemed to pass too slowly.  Was I eager?  Absolutely!  It would be my first “date” as a gay man.  I knew nothing would likely happen on a first date but it was a promising first step in my new life.

 

 

MEETING CARLOS

 

Saturday dawned and I awoke as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning.  I kept reminding myself that it was only dinner with a new friend but in the back of my mind I harbored the hope that it would develop into something more meaningful.  (Was Igor talking to me?)  Immediately after lunch I packed a few things, loaded my overnight bag in the SUV, and headed south down I-5.  It was only a three-hour drive but I didn’t want any traffic delays to prevent my meeting Carlos at seven.  I could check into the motel, freshen up, and kill time before going to the restaurant.

 

The closer I got to San Diego, the more uncertain I was about having dinner with Carlos.  We had corresponded frequently by email and it had always been cordial and often revealing about our thoughts and opinions.  Consequently, I felt I knew him quite well.  But we had never talked in person.  What if I made a complete fool of myself with stupid comments?  Suppose I acted like a young teenager on his first date and tried too hard to make him like me?  I was able to shake off my nervousness only by remembering what my dad had told me when I tried out for the baseball team in high school and was afraid I was no match for the other boys.  “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.  I replied that I wouldn’t be selected and he asked another question.  “Would that be the end of the world?” and promptly answered his own question.  “No!  As long as you do your best, I’ll be proud of you for trying.”  I convinced myself that if meeting Carlos isn’t followed by a continuation of friendship, there are other gay men in the world.  I can’t expect a home run on my first time at the plate.

 

I found the motel, checked in, showered, and dressed for dinner.  Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about what clothes to wear as Carlos had said I could recognize him in a blue blazer and no tie.  I drove to the restaurant, eagerly anticipating the meeting but somewhat nervous.  An artificially pleasant but somewhat arrogant host greeted me at the door.  “Good evening, sir.  Do you have a reservation?”

 

“No,” I replied.  “I’m meeting Mr. Garcia.”

 

“Very good, sir,” he said, now considerably more friendly.  “This way, please.”

 

I followed him to the back of the restaurant to a corner booth with high seat backs that made it into a private nook amid the bustle of the rest of the dining room.  There sat the most handsome man I had ever seen—jet black hair, piercing dark eyes, and a smile that melted my heart.  He promptly rose to greet me.  I extended my hand to shake his.  He grasped it and pulled me into a hug!

 

I stood there awkwardly, embarrassed that other diners would see us and mutter to each other about the two queers in the corner booth.  I couldn’t help it.  It was habitual.  I had fought to hide my secret for so long that I bordered on the paranoid.  He sensed my discomfort, released me, and said, “I’m so sorry, Tom.  I shouldn’t have been so forward.  Not at our first meeting.  It’s just that I regard you as an old friend even though we’ve only exchanged email.  I should have known better.”

 

“No apology necessary,” I managed to say.  “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

 

He had already ordered the wine (for which I was grateful since what I knew about wine wouldn’t fill a small goblet).  When the menus arrived, he recommended the house specialty, which was even better than he had promised.  While the meal was very good, our conversation exceeded my hopes.  We joked and laughed.  There seemed to be an almost immediate rapport between us.  Within minutes, I felt very comfortable and at ease.  I found myself telling him things about my background and feelings that I’d told no one else.  But I didn’t mention Igor.  He might think that to be weird.

 

As we left the restaurant almost two hours later, he said, “You’re not driving back to Santa Barbara tonight are you?”

 

“No,” I replied.  “I’m staying in a motel and will go home tomorrow.”

 

“Good!” he said.  “Then you’ll have time to stop by my place for brunch before going home.  There’s probably a lot more we can talk about.”

 

I thought it was significant that he didn’t even hint at spending the night together.  My lack of confidence took control of my thoughts.  Did I not measure up to his standards?  Was I not worth inviting to bed with him?  His comment about more to talk about was difficult to interpret, however.  Did he really enjoy my company?  Did he have thoughts like mine that perhaps our friendship could develop into something more meaningful?  Whatever it meant, I was not inclined to decline his invitation to brunch.  “I’d like that, Carlos.  Where do you live and what time should I be there?”

 

He reached into the glove compartment of his Lexus and pulled out a sales brochure for the apartment complex.  “There’s a map in here.  I’m in the first building on your right as you enter ... number 101.  How about ten or so in the morning?”

 

“I look forward to it,” I said honestly.

 

He looked at me briefly as though there was something else on his mind.  “We’re friends, aren’t we, Tom?”

 

I thought that was an odd question but answered, “I hope so.”

 

“Good!” he exclaimed.  “That gives me permission to do this.”  He wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.  Whether it was the wine, our being out of public view, the rapport we had developed over dinner, or all of the above, I enthusiastically returned the hug.

 

Driving back to my motel, I tried to convince myself that the parting hug was nothing more than two people expressing friendship.  I tried to temper the euphoric feeling of his embrace.  I couldn’t recall having been hugged.  My parents loved me—until dad took off with some bimbo—but neither of them expressed that love physically after I turned five or six years old.  Carlos’ hug was a completely new and extremely pleasant experience.  But it was no reason for false hopes.  A goodbye hug is not a prelude to sex.

 

But what if something might develop?  Wouldn’t it be great if he and I ....  “Damn you, Igor!” I muttered to myself.  It was just like him; planting carnal thoughts in my conscious mind.

 

<><><><><>

 

I found the apartment complex easily.  It was decidedly upscale.  Carlos’ apartment was elegantly furnished.  I began to wonder if I was out of my league in thinking of my new friend as a potential partner.  He was not at all, however, pretentious but was (genuinely, I thought) cordial, friendly, and in no way affected by his luxurious life style.  And he was the perfect host by making me feel welcome and comfortable.

 

The brunch was excellent and we talked for more than an hour afterwards.  But I had a long drive ahead of me so I said, “Thanks for the hospitality, Carlos.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the visit but I want to be home before dark.”

 

“I’m glad you came,” he said.  “We’ll have to get together again.”

 

“I’d like that,” I replied, trying to sound sincere but not too eager.

 

There was another, longer hug at the door as I left, one that I fully enjoyed.  I had a great time but was unsure of several things.  Had his invitation to visit been little more than a courtesy?  When he suggested we do it again, was he merely being the gracious host?  Was he just being nice or did he really like me?  Would I see him again?  I even dared to wonder whether we might be more than friends.  The odds were slim, I concluded.  I was not poor but there seemed to be a huge difference in our financial resources.  There was also the distance between us; one of us would have to relocate, which could be a problem.  And finally, he had occasionally mentioned his former partner and how much he missed him.  I took that to mean that he was still in love with him and was mourning their breakup.  I couldn’t compete with the memories of his lover.

 

Still, I had a thoroughly enjoyable time in San Diego and if we could only be email friends that would have to do.

 

My doubts were dispelled when I got home and found an email from Carlos.

 

Tom:

 

Thanks for visiting me.  I hope you got home safely.  I was disappointed that we had so little time together.  I felt I knew a lot about you from your emails and that prompted me to suggest we meet.  I’m very glad you came.  You’re even more interesting than I had thought.  I would very much like to get together again.  Soon!  Only this time, don’t stay in a motel.  Stay with me.  If you can, come down on a Friday night and stay until you have to return late Sunday.  We’ll do more than have a couple of meals together. [grin]  Am I being too brash?  The truth is, I hated to see you leave.  Something clicked between us.  Before you answer, let me assure you that I haven’t been with anyone since my partner left.  Maybe you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.  If you feel the same way, let’s plan another weekend.  If you want to decline my shameless suggestion, please consider continuing to be my “email buddy.”

 

Hugs, Carlos

 

I read the email over and over, scarcely believing what it said.  How could I be so lucky?  It hadn’t been that long since my decision to seek a companion and Carlos was inviting me to spend two nights with him.  He didn’t mention anything about sex but that was clearly his meaning.  More significantly, he was implying that we might be partners.  Well ... not exactly.  He said MAYBE I’m the one.  I’ll settle for that!  And I’ll do whatever it takes to earn his affection.

 

I fired off a reply that I hoped wouldn’t sound too lustful; I didn’t want him to think I was interested only in sex but I hoped it would be clear that I welcomed his interest in me.

 

Carlos:

 

I can’t tell you how pleased I am with your email.  Do I feel the same way?  Absolutely!  You said exactly what I was thinking.  I hated to leave today and allowed myself to think that I might return for, as you said, “more than a couple of meals.”  I’m flattered that you would consider a guy with no experience whatsoever as a weekend guest.  Is next weekend too soon?

 

Hugs, Tom

 

It was late Monday evening and I had not heard from Carlos.  Had I misinterpreted his invitation to return?  My pessimism and lack of self-confidence was pulling me into a deep funk.  I checked my email (for the umpteenth time that day) and BINGO!  There was one from Carlos.

 

Tom:

 

FANTASTIC!  Next weekend is NOT too soon.  It’s not soon enough!  I can’t wait to see you ... ALL of you. [grin]

 

Hugs, Carlos

 

It would be a cliché to say I was deliriously happy but the fact of the matter is: I was.

 

 

IGOR VICTORIOUS

 

Five minutes after leaving work on Friday I was driving south toward San Diego and the experience I had craved in lonely secrecy for too many years.  I was so eager it was all I could do to obey the speed limit.  My cock would occasionally respond to my anticipation of what awaited me.  I tried to concentrate on the promise I had made to myself not to be too impatient for sex and let Carlos take the initiative.  With no experience at all in gay sex, I would have to let him lead me in unknown and surely extraordinarily pleasurable acts of erotic male union.

 

I rang his doorbell and the door opened immediately.  “Come in,” he said.  “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to see you again.”  Once inside, he pulled me into a hug — not the relatively chaste hug of two friends but one where he was grinding his crotch into mine.  Impulsively, I kissed him.  He returned the kiss enthusiastically and our tongues were soon thrusting into the other’s mouth.  It felt wonderful.  I let myself enjoy the moment without giving thought to what pleasures might come later.

 

It was a long kiss but ended too soon.  “I have dinner almost ready,” he said.  “It’ll take just a few minutes to warm up in the microwave.  I imagine you’re hungry.”

 

“Yes,” I replied and boldly added, “And hungry for you, too.”

 

He laughed.  “It’ll only take a little while to eat.  But we’ll have all night to enjoy each other.”

 

I started to clear the table after the meal but he said, “Leave it.  We can get it in the morning.  Let’s go to bed early.”  Without waiting for comment, he took my hand and escorted me into his elegant bedroom.  The king size bed had a mirrored headboard.  On the opposite wall were mirrored closet doors.  The effect was obviously intended for maximum visual stimulation while engaged in recreational activities on the bed.

 

We hugged and kissed again, pressing our bodies tightly together.  “Let’s get naked,” he whispered into my ear.  I needed no encouragement.  We both stripped our clothes off and dropped them haphazardly on the floor.  My cock had already started to swell during the kiss but the sight of Carlos’ exposed body accelerated the growth of my hard-on.  His body was superb —- broad shoulders, muscular chest with a sprinkling of hair around dark nipples, a flat abdomen with a trail of hair leading down to a thicket of black pubic hair, and an impressive cock that dangled in front of pendulous balls.  It seemed time froze as I stood there admiring the epitome of masculine beauty before me.

 

He broke my trance when he jokingly said, “I’m glad you like what you see, Tom, ‘cause I like what I see.”

 

I stammered my reply.  “It’s just that ... well ... I’ve seen naked guys before ... but you’re ... ah ... you’re magnificent.”

 

He grinned his appreciation and guided me onto the bed where we embraced, kissed, and pressed our crotches together.  After several minutes of that, he cooed, “Ready to get down and dirty, Tom?”

 

“Oh, yes!” I replied but then felt compelled to say, “Ready and willing but I’m not so sure about the able part.  You know I’m a virgin.  I don’t know what to do ... or how to do it.  I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

 

“Thought of that already,” he said.  “So if you don’t mind, we’ll start with a little demonstration.  Just lay back, relax, and enjoy.  I’m going to worship your wonderful body.  I’m going to take you places you’ve never been.  Because this is your first time, I’m going to do everything I can to make it memorable.  May I do that for you?”

 

“Yes, please,” I said, grateful for his empathy.

 

His hands, lips, and tongue began to work their magic on me.  He roamed from my ears to my neck, and down to my chest where he lingered, stimulating my nipples until jolts of sensation shot throughout my body.  He then descended downward until he reached my navel.  I was unable to control my moans of delight.  Abruptly, he moved down to suck on my toes and slowly kissed and licked his way up my legs.  When he reached my inner thighs, I thought I might pass out from the erotic stimulation.  He took my balls, one at a time, into his mouth and massaged them with his lips and tongue until my mind was devoid of all thought except the extraordinarily erotic feelings that permeated my being.

 

But the arousal that had become the master of my consciousness increased yet again as he began to finger my asshole.  It became another source of surprisingly pleasant stimulation.

 

When he licked his way up the shaft of my steel-hard cock, I was trembling with a level of pleasure that I never dreamed was possible.  He teased me by flicking the sensitive helmet with his tongue.  It sent me into fits of sensual overload.  My cock twitched violently with shock waves radiating throughout my body.  My moans became loud squeals of agony as the urge to cum built to a crescendo.  His moist lips enveloped my manhood and I couldn’t control the inevitable result of his skillful stimulation.  I was powerless to warn him and multiple volleys of hot cream erupted into his mouth accompanied by my primal screams of ecstasy.

 

When my heart rate slowed to normal, my breathing became more regular, and I regained awareness of things other than the explosion of sexual release in my groin, I settled down into a state of blissful contentment.  Carlos by this time was lying next to me, pressing his body tightly against mine.

 

“Oh my gawd!” I groaned.  “That was wonderful!”

 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Carlos purred.  “I enjoyed it, too.  You’ve got an awesome body to go with your winning personality.”

 

“I’m sorry.  I should have warned you about cumming.  But I was on another planet somewhere.”

 

“That’s exactly where I wanted you to be, Tom.  And don’t worry about cumming.  I wouldn’t have done anything differently.  I wanted your cum.  And it tasted great.”

 

“Can I taste yours?” I asked more because I wanted to than merely to return the favor.

 

Carlos assured me that I didn’t have to but, without saying anything, I began to give him the treatment that he had given me.  I’m sure I was not a skillful but I’m equally sure that I enjoyed roaming all over his stunning body.  I was nervous when I took his cock into my mouth.  When he had done that to me I was lost in my own orbit of sexual gratification and wasn’t paying much attention to his technique.  Still, I did my best and it seemed from his moans that it was satisfactory.  I rubbed his asshole as I sucked and relished the taste and feel of his erect manhood.  It took longer for him to reach climax but that was okay because it allowed me more time to savor what I was doing.  A fleeting thought passed through my mind.  My high school and college buddies spat out “cocksucker” as the ultimate insult; they didn’t know how good it can be.

 

In the midst of my pleasure, he bucked his hips and forced his cock deep into my mouth.  I felt several blasts of his hot cream hit the back of my throat.  He then relaxed and let the last few dribbles coat my tongue.

 

We lay together with arms and legs intertwined, blissfully content to press our bodies together.  We spoke very little.  There was much I wanted to say — thanks for unquestionably the greatest experience of my life, my deep affection for my new friend, and more.  However, we both seemed to enjoy the simple yet meaningful embracing of each other.

 

<><><><><>

 

For the next three weeks, I spent every weekend with Carlos, experiencing all forms of sexual intimacy.  I hated to leave for home on Sunday evening, and missed him throughout the week.

 

One my next visit he had a surprise for me.  We were cuddling in bed on Saturday morning after another round of superb sex when he asked, “Would you be willing to move in with me and be my partner?”

 

I’d thought of the possibility frequently.  We seemed to have gotten along very well together.  I felt that I loved him and would certainly be happy as his mate but I hadn’t dared to tell him that. 

 

“I’m more than willing, Carlos.  I’m convinced we’d both be happy together for the next hundred years.  However, I have a concern.  I have a very good job in Santa Barbara and I don’t know if I can find employment in San Diego.”

 

“I’m aware of that,” he said.  “And I may have a solution.  My dad, as you know, is a very successful businessman — always on the lookout for something to invest in.  He’s been considering buying an accounting firm here in town.  The owner is retiring so he’ll have to find someone to manage the place.  I’ve told him about you and about your degree in accounting with a minor in management.  He wants to interview you for the job.”

 

“You told him about me?  About US?” I asked, worried that his father may not approve of his son’s gay lover.

 

“Almost everything,” Carlos laughed.  “I left out what we do in bed.  But my parents know I’m gay.  They don’t like it but they accept it.  If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be managing this apartment complex.  Dad also knows that we would be living together as a couple.  As long as it doesn’t interfere with business, he doesn’t mind.  I didn’t say so but I think he’s afraid I might move to Santa Barbara if you don’t move here.  That would disappoint him.  So what do you think?  Are you interested in a new job, a new home, and being my life partner?”

 

There was only one answer I could give.  “YES!”  I gave him a passionate kiss in gratitude — mostly for asking me to be his partner but secondarily for the possibility of a job.

 

“Great!” Carlos said.  “Dad will stop by here this evening for dinner; Mom is in Nicaragua visiting relatives.  If I know my dad — and I do — he’ll want to interview you tonight.  When he gets an idea, he likes to move on it quickly.  I can’t help you with the technical stuff — the accounting jargon and practices — but I can tell you how to impress my dad.”

 

We spent the rest of the morning getting me ready for the probable interview.  He told me that his dad’s priorities were profit, ethics, technical competence, and client satisfaction.  Acting as his dad, Carlos put me through a series of mock interviews.  He followed each with a critique of what I said right and what I should have said.  With his coaching, I felt reasonably confident that I could at least survive the interrogation and, with luck, have a new job.

 

I knew Carlos was a good cook but he outdid himself in preparing dinner.  The conversation over the meal ranged from casual chitchat to exchanging information about our lives and backgrounds.  Carlos began to object when Mr. Garcia told of his son’s childhood misdemeanors but relented when he received a stern look from his father.  Following desert, Carlos offered to clear up and suggested that his father and I adjourn to the living room.  I would have helped with the chores but I knew it was a ploy to let his father interview me.  Thanks to the coaching and practice earlier in the day I must have made a good impression because I was offered the job after only thirty minutes of questioning.  Of course, I accepted.

 

“Let me be clear about two things,” Mr. Garcia said.  “First, you’ll have a major challenge at first because at least two of the twelve employees in the company expect to be named manager of the office.  You’ll have to be careful if you are to win their trust and respect.  Do you think you can do that?”

 

“I’ll do my best, sir.  Thanks for the warning.”

 

“They’re top performers and I’d hate to lose them.  And a manager.”  His meaning was not subtle.  I’d be fired if I couldn’t keep the two wannabes.  But without missing a beat, he continued, “My second concern involves you and my son.  I understand you’ll be moving in here with him.”

 

“That’s right,” I replied, suddenly even more anxious about his approval of my being his son’s gay lover.

 

“I don’t understand why men turn gay,” he said.  “But I’m a realist and know that it happens.  As long as you and Carlos keep your private lives private and there are no problems with either of your jobs, I’m willing to overlook your unusual relationship.”

 

I chose not to challenge his statement about men “turning gay” but promised that he would have no cause for concern.

 

“Good!” he said and abruptly moved on.  “My acquisition of the firm will be completed in three weeks.  Will that give you time to wrap up your current job?”

 

“Ample time,” I replied.  “I’ll give my two weeks notice on Monday.  Is there any information about the employees and clients that I can study in the meantime?”

 

He smiled.  I hoped he was impressed with my wish to be fully prepared for the job.  “I’ll put together a package and give it to Carlos.  You can pick it up on your next visit.  Not that you’ll want to study it while you’re here,” he added with a sly grin and rose to leave.

 

His departure was quick, allowing only enough time for me to thank him for the opportunity.  Alone with Carlos, I let my elation burst forth.  I seized my lover in an embrace and said, “Hot damn!  I got the job!  I’ve got you!  Life is perfect!”

 

We made our way to the bedroom where I was especially loving to the man who had become the center of my life.

 

The end.

 

Author’s Note:  My thanks to Iatia for meticulous editing and continuing encouragement.