Brandon is proven he, too, can be "turned." Meet his "match" in older Tom.
"So did you get your shower, young man," Tom asked.
"Yeah, finally fresh and settled," I told him. "A 12-hour day in the lumber yard has come to a close, and I need to unwind."
"Unwind? I bet. You seem like your ass is kicked," he said as we talked over the phone.
We touched base on one of the hookup sites I usually check when I need a quick nut, as I checked the site prior to leaving for work. I did my shift as one of the foremen of the yard and not once did I look at my phone. He happened to message me when I got home, and I warned him I needed to take a shower after the day me and my crew had freezing our asses off. I gave him my number, and he had the best timing as he called when I finished.
"I see your profile, and it says you work as a lead foreman of machinists? How the hell are you in the line of work? You're so eloquent in the way you speak? You're super handsome. How the hell are you doing manual labor," he asked.
In all my profiles I mentioned how I once was a college football player that majored in print journalism, giving a little background to see I was more than a good fuck. I read Tom's, as we forged an instant connection from the fact of he being a former college professor, one that just retired after 40 years in the profession, still an emeritus at the big time, educationally elite college not too far from where I lived in Durham. He pondered how I could go from being a writer, to someone who got their hands dirty in a place full of perceived deadbeats, but I explained I liked using my hands, and that the lumber yard paid good money, with good people I worked beside.
"Mr. Dogooder. I'd love to have you over to my place, maybe have a couple glasses of wine," he said.
"Tom, I'm beat, dude," I told him.
"You not in the mood to play company tonight? I'd really appreciate your presence, young man," he said to me. "I can guarantee it will be worth your while."
I had to reread Tom's profile as it stated "emphatically a top." I mentioned this, as I was trying to convince this man that I was not a bottom, or anything close to the sort.
"I enjoyed being the guy getting sucked, or demanding another man to lend me his ass for my pleasure," I said to him.
"The latter I don't qualify, but the former, oh, that's a bet if given the opportunity," he said. "I got this wine I just purchased, and I don't wanna drink it alone, so if nothing else, come have a drink with me?"
He sent me a photo of the cabernet. He scored cool points for I mentioned in my profile that I enjoyed drinking good wines, so he knew I was one who indulged in classy spirits.
"Tom, I'm tired," I told him, giving him one last warning.
"No you're not. You're horny, or else you wouldn't be talking to me. Come over. Can stay the night if you like. We don't even have to have sex," he said to me.
I decided to take another shower "just in case something would happen," put on some clean workout gear, then hopped in the truck to his place, as he lived 40 miles east of me in the boonies. It was early winter, and the temperatures seemed to be 10 degrees cooler compared to where my apartment was located. It was also much darker, for he lived in the country, an area that had no street lights, street lamps, and used the moon as illumination as you heard nothing but dogs howling and chickens clucking in the distance. I parked at his place as he lived in a one-story, preserved wooden home on a raised foundation, surrounded by what seemed like millions of crops of corn. He was in the door, his five foot nine, 200 lb. frame turning out the porch lamp as he wore a robe, jeans and slippers, despite how cold it was.
"Who wears a robe over jeans," I asked.
"A white guy that does what he wants at 70 years old, young man," he told me.
I walked inside his wooden home as I heard the creaks in the hardwood floor. The place was warm, orderly, clean, with a fire place burning and reeking of freshly baked cookies and potpourri. He had a large, flat screened television turned to a Judge Judy episode. The place just looked comfortable.
"Okay, so you can give me a kiss," he said.
He shut the door behind me, then hugged me, kissing me next as he had his robe open to expose his gray chest hairs, and dad bod pectorals.
"Gawt damn boy, you're tall," he said, for I was six foot five, 280 lbs. "Nice, big boy. I like it. Gon' and siddown."
I would, and became nervous as I wasn't sure what the night would bring.
"Kid, are you trembling? Relax, get comfortable, please," he suggested. "I'm not gonna bite you, unless that's what you want? Want anything to snack on with your wine?"
