If I paid attention, I could see how much they wanted because I could see when I’d gotten off track. My eye became attuned to their nearly imperceptible micro expressions, the slight narrowing of their eyes, the withdrawing of the corners of their mouths.
They wanted me to do more than I wanted to do. They wanted to persuade me, to cajole me. They wanted me not to want to do anything other than what they wanted from me. Or they wanted me to resist and then concede. Or they wanted to be submissive and for me to dominate them.
They wanted to see me come, even when they weren’t going to come themselves. Because if they got off, it would be over. If they came, they had to go home. Or, they’d tell me, it was because they just loved to give pleasure. Like those men who are always bragging to anyone who’ll listen that they love to go down on women, that they get off on getting her off.
If they didn’t want me to come, they wanted me to make them come. And they wanted it in a very particular way. They wanted me to suck them this way or to fuck them slow or hard or at alternate speeds. They wanted the door unlocked so someone else could come in. Because they wanted me to suck another guy while we fucked.
They wanted me to squeeze their nipples.
Harder. Not that hard.
That felt good. What did you just do? Do it again.
They wanted me to precome.
Do you precome a lot? When you’re really excited? Oh, yeah, I bet you really leak.
They wanted me to come.
Do you come a lot?
No one asked if I came just a little. They wanted a gusher. They wanted me to come like I meant it. And they even knew where they wanted it. They wanted me to come on their faces, their chests, their beards. Come in their hands. Come in their mouths.
It was a lot to want from someone who had just walked in the door. Maybe they wanted me to be like someone they were with once, or someone they wanted but could never have, a fantasy to which they’d jerked off a million times.
Of course I wanted things from them too. Once I saw that, I had to think about the whole list and why I wanted those things, all while trying to stay hard and have something resembling a good time.
79
I WAS SUPPOSED TO MEET MALCOLM AT THE BAR OF THE Old San Francisco Steakhouse, a place famous for a swing dangling from its thirty-foot ceiling where an attractive girl performed at intervals, swinging until she made it high enough to ring a bell hanging from a roof beam. It had also earned some renown for providing each table with an enormous block of Swiss cheese upon being seated. Malcolm and I had spoken about the place on the phone one night. I told him I had read it was closing down. We agreed that it was a kitsch institution, although I’d never been there, and he had only been once years earlier for a business lunch, when the swinging girl had been out with the flu. It seemed like a perfect place to meet, where it was a given that neither of us would run into anyone we knew. And it seemed nice to go right before it closed forever.
I felt anxious and reluctant, but I envisioned an air of festive abandon at The Old San Francisco Steakhouse in its final days that I hoped would carry over to us and fill us with the same. I arrived on time, and saw Malcolm already seated at the bar. All day I had taken comfort in the fact that he didn’t know what I looked like. But he happened to be looking at me the moment I saw him, and he recognized me recognizing him. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, and I smiled back.
I walked over to him, and he held out his hand and shook mine. Then he rose and put his arms around me. Malcolm was taller than I had imagined him. He was wearing a pressed white shirt, tailored black pants, expensive leather shoes, and a beautiful wristwatch. He smelled like sophistication itself, something very subtle, a light cologne, or maybe he had just been burning a candle at his house.
I felt silly by comparison, in dark jeans and a buttoned-up short-sleeved shirt, smelling of Irish Spring and Speed Stick deodorant.
“You should have shown me your face sooner,” he said, pulling away to look at me. “You’re handsome, you know it?”
“You just have low standards,” I said.
“Oh, please. Follow me. I’ve got a table waiting.”
I followed Malcolm and saw his nice back and broad shoulders. He weighed about twenty pounds more than I expected, but he wore it well. He was an attractive guy. It was true that he seemed different than the cop and the guys at the arcade. But he was handsome and kind.
I looked around and saw that The Old San Francisco Steakhouse wasn’t a bustling carnival in its final days. Though a pianist pounded out lively music on a big, black piano near the bar, the famous swing hung limp. The cavernous restaurant was less than a quarter full, and the wait staff wore what were obviously the toned-down who-cares versions of their usual uniforms. Vests without ties. Ties without vests. Their white dress shirts dirty or with sleeves rolled to the elbow.
We sat down at a table, and a waiter came and dropped a giant cutting board with Swiss cheese and two big menus.
A few minutes later, we both ordered beer and steaks, and looked at one another smiling and unsure how to proceed.
“Is this as bad as you thought?” he said.
“Worse.”
“Not really.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m glad to meet you. I just hope it doesn’t change things.”
“Everything changes everything. But I’m glad to meet you, Sam. I really am.”
“I’m glad to meet you too. Do I look how you thought I would?”
“Not exactly. I like the way you look more than I thought I would. I mean it, you’re handsome.”
“I am not. Not as handsome as Ethan the bellboy, I bet.”
“Let’s not get into that again. Tell me, are there any updates about the cop and the kid?”
“Not really. The cruise is next week, and they seem to be getting better, so I guess they’re going. I did something I shouldn’t have done and deleted an email from the kid to the cop.”
He shook his head. “What could you be thinking when you do this stuff, Sam?”
“I don’t know. I just got so frustrated the other day. It was really stupid.”
“You definitely can’t go on like this.”
“I know. It felt really bad.”
“Is the six months up?”
“Practically, yeah.”
“You think you’ll be able to move on soon?”
“I guess I might not have a choice. I thought if I held on hard enough something would change and things would swing in my favor, but now it looks like it’ll never happen.”
“Yeah, that’s the way it goes sometimes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just have to figure out what to do next.”
“I think it’ll be good.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Like maybe you’ll get another job. Something that requires more of your brain.”
“That would be good. Anyway, let’s not talk about me the whole time. Is everything going okay in Boston?”
“Yeah, things are great actually. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s been such a huge project, but I’m feeling good about it, and I’m going to get a big bonus, which is always good.”
“So it’s almost over?”
“Yep. Which is perfect because Ron is really tired of living in different places. Neither one of us are cut out for the long distance thing.”
“You still feel good about Ron?”
“Absolutely. Ron’s great. I’d really like to introduce the two of you sometime.”
“Like that would ever happen.”