Allen came to the window of his Maple Street bungalow and looked out at the driveway at the unmistakable sound of the purring of an expensive sports car. He had arrived in time to see Jack unfold his elegant six-foot-four frame out of the red Porsche Carrera convertible and run his hand through a thick mane of auburn hair with frosted highlights. The man was a real hunk from his Italian loafers sans socks; up through his tight designer jeans that were extra tight over his athletic thighs and bulging crotch; up to his casual, but cashmere and obviously pricey, polo shirt, which showed off his gym-honed pectorals to perfection.
Turning from his car, Jack saw Allen standing in the window, also quite handsome in dark, Mediterranean looks, if smaller of stature and a lot less wealthy in dress than Jack was. Allen's shorts and T were run of the mill, although they showed his body off to near perfection for his size. The most expensive item he was wearing was a red silk jock strap under the white shorts that, purposely, showed through the white of the shorts.
Jack smiled and waved and lifted a wine bottle in one hand—most likely an expensive wine, which they'd have for dinner before turning to beer later. As he'd done before, Jack made an O with the fingers of the hand not holding the wine bottle and, making sure Allen could see the gesture, pumped the neck of the bottle in and out of the O he'd created. Like, no one watching could miss what that meant. He laughed and headed for the door.
Allen didn't know why Jack always did this. They both knew Jack was here to eat Allen's steak dinner, watch Allen's TV, and fuck Allen's ass—in that order of priority. This was Jack's form of slumming. The two had met in a pickup game of soccer at a gay men's sports club. Jack had been the game's attention-getting superjock—until the smaller Allen had shown him up by deftly eluding him and going for a couple of goals. In a fit of pique Jack had cornered Allen afterward in a rarely used row of lockers separated by a bench and fucked the stuffing out of Allen to show him who was boss.
Since then Jack had come to Allen's bungalow on Maple Street nearly every other Sunday afternoon, eaten the steak dinner Allen provided, watched Allen's TV, and fucked Allen to, again—perpetually—show him who the boss was. If anyone had told Jack it also was because he liked fucking Allen's ass, he would have given them a blank stare.
It was no different this Sunday.
They talked a bit through the dinner Allen served at the table in the small dining area forming an L with the kitchen off the living room, but it was mostly about sports and Jack thinking of turning his last-year sports car in for this year's model. It occurred to Allen that he'd never been told where Jack worked and why he had all of this money—and why he kept coming back to eat Allen's steaks and fuck him. They had nothing in common really. Maple Street was literally on the wrong side of the tracks in this town. Jack could be the county judge for all Allen knew. He did know that Jack was at least four years older than his own twenty-three, but that didn't bother him. It just meant that many of Jack's reference points to life weren't the same as Allen's.
Neither had Jack asked what Allen did for a living and why he could afford to live even in a small bungalow like this on the wrong side of the tracks. Allen had inherited the bungalow from an Army officer—Allen's CO in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had been a scary and turbulent place, where one constantly didn't know if there would be a tomorrow and where men lived in combat situations closely with other men. The popular saying was that there were no atheists in foxholes. The parallel saying in Allen's company in Afghanistan was that there were no straights in foxholes—that the tensions and opportunities involved led men to each other for comfort and release. That certainly worked out to be the case with Allen. He was leaning gay anyway before he went to Afghanistan, but Allen's older, combat-worn lieutenant, had initiated Allen at the age of nineteen in one of those foxholes—had fucked Allen six ways from Sunday and made Allen his slave.
To the lieutenant's credit, when both of them had been drummed out of the army, the lieutenant brought Allen back to the States, sent him to college, and then promptly died and left Allen with this bungalow—as well as with a job as a counselor at a half-way house for released prison inmates. His program was especially involved with the gay ones, and he'd been given a membership in the gay men's club where he met Jack because of his work.
Jack had been Allen's first since the lieutenant had died during Allen's second year in college. Allen had gotten some form of affection and plenty of control and direction from the lieutenant. So far that's what he got from Jack as well. He had no idea why he kept waiting to see if there was more that would come his way some day.
Dinner was timed to end before the start of the Eagles and Redskins pro football game coverage on the TV. And the start of the game found Jack out on the sofa in front of the big-screen TV on the living room wall, while, behind him, Allen moved dishes, silverware, glasses, and serving plates from the dining room out to the kitchen. Jack had drunk most of the wine he had brought himself at dinner. Allen pulled a bottle of cold beer out of the refrigerator and approached the back of the sofa with it.
Jack was engrossed in the TV. Allen waited for the end of the kickoff and reached over and slid the cold bottle down Jack's chest. Jack had taken off his jeans, shirt, and loafers and folded and stacked them neatly on the seat of Allen's recliner. This left him wearing only a pair of FU e=fu8 Pleasure Pouch briefs. Allen only knew that because Jack had told him at dinner what designer underwear he was wearing this time and pushed in trouser waistband down to show Allen the logo on his undies, which was Jack's form of foreplay. The play had heated up momentarily when, in turn, Allen told him he was wearing a red silk jock strap of unknown brand that he'd gotten in an adult sex shop.
"It may be strawberry flavored," Allen said.
Jack had made him strip his shorts off so he could feel Allen's jewels through the pouch, but that done, after an exploratory sniff for the scent of strawberry, he'd moved off on another topic.
"Thanks, babe," Jack said, taking the beer. He pulled Allen's hand down to his crotch with the other hand, which also brought Allen's mouth down to his. They kissed, with Allen noticing that Jack's eyes were targeted beyond his head to the TV set, where a commercial was winding down.
"Feel me hard, babe? This is all for you. Half time. I can't wait." He released Allen's hand as the TV coverage returned to the game.
Going back to the kitchen to clean up the dishes, Allen couldn't help but think, If he's so hot for me and can't wait, why are we waiting for half time? Allen wouldn't have minded Jack fucking him on the couch while the game was going. The lieutenant had done that many times. And, what the hell, Philadelphia and Washington weren't even local teams.
After cleaning up in the kitchen, Allen stripped down to his jock strap and came back into the living room with two more cold beers in hand. He handed one to Jack, who pulled him down onto the sofa without taking his eyes from the TV set.
They embraced and kissed and did some fondling, but it was perfunctory, with Jack giving the priority of his attention to the football game and Allen doing most of the fondling. Jack was more of a wham-bang-thanks-a-bunch guy than a fondler.
