My stories are autobiographical. I have changed a name here in there to respect the privacy and rights of others.
Chapter the First: Cruising for a Bruising
It was an online service on which one could post advertisements for all manner of things: gigs for musicians, electronics and computers for sale, houses and apartments for rent and for sale, and, yes, for hook ups. A recent change in law that targets sex trafficking has led to the demise of those hook up ads. But my hook up ad led to the demise of my closeted life.
"Seeking Latino or Asian."
That was the caption of the ad I placed on the list. In the ad, I explained that I was a closeted, married, white male bottom looking for an Latino or Asian top for discreet encounters. At the time, I made no mention of marijuana, because I had never smoked weed (or ever been drunk, for that matter). I also expressly stated that I was attracted to younger men, but not looking for anyone that could not legally consent to sex.
Placing adverts on the list produced a lot of dross ... lots of responses from guys asking if I was exclusively a bottom, guys that couldn't host, etc. Eventually, though, I got an intriguing email from Carlos. He included a photo, and told me a bit about himself.
Like me, he lived in Northern Virginia. Unlike me, approaching my 50th birthday, he told me he was 19. We exchanged emails for several days. Eventually, I got that email that I'd begun hoping for.
"Hey Kyle, I've got the house all to myself until tomorrow. Would you like to come by this afternoon?"
I wrote back promptly.
"Carlos, I'd love to! I just have a couple things to clear out here at work and then I can leave. How about 3 pm?"
I worked in DC, he lived out past Tyson's Corner in Northern Virginia. If I left work around 2:30, that would work perfectly.
He wrote back immediately, gave me his home address, and asked me to park up the street from his house.
Chapter the Second: Meeting Carlos
By 2 pm, I'd gotten everything done at work that I needed to do. So I took some personal time, getting myself prepped in hopes that Carlos might be willing to fuck me. Once ready, I got in my car and headed out.
Traffic on I-66 was heavy but moving well, so I arrived in Carlos' neighborhood right on time.
"Damn," I though to myself, "Carlos' family must have some money." The homes were all modern, large, and on 1/2 acre wooded lots.
I rang the doorbell, as Carlos had instructed.
He opened the door almost immediately. He reached out and grabbed my arm and pulled me in.
"Quick, I don't want snooping eyes seeing you!"
We walked through the house and down to the large basement. At the bottom of the stairs was a nicely supplied bar, then a large open floor. On one side of the room, there was a collection of couches, and a large screen television. A Kesha music video was playing on the screen.
At the time, I didn't know Kesha from a hole in the wall.
Carlos stepped over to the bar and grabbed a couple bottles, one of vodka, the other of Sprite. I noticed shot glasses and Red Solo cups on the bar.
"Ummmmm," I said, "are you old enough to be drinking?"
Stupid question, right? I mean, I was aching inside. Aching with desire to be naked with Carlos. He was, honestly, my beaux ideal. Don't ask me why, but I am crazy attracted to Latino guys. I was born in New Mexico, my earliest playmates there were hispanic, and many of my school friends in grade school in northern Virginia were Cuban immigrants. In any event, brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, smooth brown skin. These things really cranked up my yearnings.
Carlos laughed. "My mom bought this vodka FOR me," he claimed. "And I told you, I'm 19!"
At this point, I think he decided I was feeling that things were a bit sketchy. He pulled out his wallet and flashed me his ID. Sure enough, he was 19.
"Anyway," he said, "Let's have some drinks!"
We hadn't talked about drinking, and I wasn't a drinker. Like I said before, I'd never been drunk in my life.
Carlos poured two shots and then poured Sprite into the red Solo cups.
"Bottom's up, Kyle," he chirped, and he slid the shot glass of vodka over to me.
I hesitated only a second, thinking to myself, "what the hell, just one, right?"
I followed Carlos' lead, slugging back the shot and then following with the Sprite. As I set down the red Solo cup, though, he was making his intentions plain by filling my shot glass to the brim for a second shot, then re-filling his own.
"Here's to new friends," he toasted. Our shot glasses clinked and I tossed back another vodka.
He grabbed the bottles and carried them to the couches by the television. I followed.
The Kesha video was over. He used an Xbox controller to scroll through his music library and selected another Kesha tune. He sat down next to me. The warmth of the alcohol had settled in my stomach. It robbed me of thoughts about why a handsome young man in a family of means would want to spend time with a guy literally old enough to be his dad, and one that more resembled Hank Hill than Mr. Clean.
Carlos stood up, but stood close by and poured us a third shot each. After we tossed them back, he began dancing. There was a floor to ceiling post, holding one of the ceiling joists. He leaned back against the post and ground against it. He shimmied down the post and back up it again. He kept up this very lewd, and very seductive dance until the song ended.
When he sat back down, he told me I needed to relax.
I was wearing a three piece suit. He had told me he loved a man in a suit, so I wanted to please him.
With his right hand, he reached over to me and pushed me backward on the couch.
Then he leaned in and kissed me. Just a light, almost tentative kiss, on my lips. His kiss drew a gasp from me.
