Reunion on Staten Island

Staten Island Buddies

Two high school jocks reunite after ten years

This story is entirely fictional and original. All references to people and places are imaginary despite their apparent reference to reality. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. This one is a little longer than a short story, but I decided not to do it in chapters. © 2024, Brunosden. All rights reserved.

-1-

I'm on a much later boat home than usual. There is only one more after this one--or it's a flea-bag hotel on the Battery. I only wish the cause had been a celebration, a pro-game, or a date. But, no such luck. The partner I work for had dumped an "urgent" matter on my desk at six--as he left. He expected a memo by morning. I grimaced and looked at the clock as he pulled on his coat. "That's what we pay you the big bucks for, Kyle." I thought to myself that three years of this kind of servitude was already too much. And I probably faced another two or three more before I'd know whether I had won the lottery for partnership. I was one of the few "non-Ivies" in my cohort. So the chances were slim and only prodigious hours and the lightning strike of a client generation event would change the odds.

There were others still in the office, but most had guaranteed rides to Jersey or uptown even if they left really late. I was the only associate living at home on Staten Island. So after the last boat, there wasn't any way to get home. No subway. No taxi.

This was the second time this week. I had to get home, even though no one was waiting for me--Mom would head for bed early after gluing herself to the LED for hours. But, I had an early appointment tomorrow with my trainer. Being a law associate and staying in shape in New York were not easy. But, workouts and staying in shape were essential to my sanity.

I leaned against the rail, watching the lights of the Financial District fade in the mist. It was a damp and cool evening, sort of nice after the indoor lighting and air-conditioned stale atmosphere of the office all day. Fog was certainly going to set in before dawn. And, even in late spring, it can be cool on the River.

I sensed another person nearby and glanced at a pair of leather-shielded arms resting on the rail next to mine. I thought I recognized the guy. I looked over again (quickly and carefully--one does not make eye contact on public transport in the City). I was pretty sure it was an old friend, Billy Thorpe. Ten years ago, we had been on the Curtis Warriors. I was QB; he was a receiver. He was All-State. I wasn't. We had been close friends. We were both mongrels--with Italian moms and Irish dads, like so many of our classmates.

Actually we had been very close--even stroke buddies when we bunked together on a few away games our senior year, after a few beers--we were both adults under New York law. Nothing more had happened. And I hadn't had any experiences with guys since then. I had gone on to college (Colgate) and law school (NYU) while he had entered his father's contracting business. I didn't know he still lived on the Island. His hair was much longer and his face more mature and chiseled, but he retained the handsomeness and enormous body of the jock I remembered. He was still capable of turning heads.

"Billy, is that you? It's Kyle Maddox."

"Fuck, I didn't recognize you. You're a fuckin' suit, now! What are you doing on this barge? I thought you had emigrated from the Island for good." (Islanders often felt they lived in another country, and the City often treated our borough that way.)

"Going home. I slave on the Battery at Fuller & Brush, but I'm living temporarily with my Mom. Pop died last year, and she needed some help coping and wrapping things up before she moves to Ft. Lauderdale to be near my sisters. So I left my roommates in the Village and moved home."

"Sorry to hear about your Dad. So you're an Islander again?"

"Only for another coupla' weeks. I'm lookin' for a place downtown. The hours and commute are killin' me. Mom is leaving for Florida soon. We think the place sold last weekend. We'll know in a few days after the inspection. How about you? Still working for your family? Married? Kids?"

"Yeah, nah, nah." He always answered direct questions monosyllabically. Then he added a bit of update, "We're the main sub on the new tower on Battery Park Plaza. I'm the project manager now. I've got a coupla' hundred guys working for me, erecting steel, pouring concrete and setting windows and spandrels. We get the building up and enclosed. Then others move in to do the utilities and interiors. We had an accident this afternoon, and I've been filing reports for the last six hours, or I'd be home in front of the game by now. This City! Fuckin' bureaucracy! I've explained the same facts at least a dozen times on a dozen different forms. There wasn't even a fatality. I think I've got every agency in the City on my neck."

"They wouldn't fit. It's still so short!" He laughed as our familiar banter kicked in. He was so bulked up, that he had almost no neck. "Where are you living, Billy? I never see you on the boat."

"I bought a triple-decker on the East Side." (To Islanders, East Side always meant the famous two mile long boardwalk on the east side of the island, not the tony Manhattan Upper East Side.) I've spent a few years fixing it up. I live on the top floor and have tenants on the two lower floors. My parlor window and front porch must look out at where you work. Fuck, I bet that you've seen me standing naked in front of that window, smoking a weed and beating off. I'm usually home before now from the 4:30. And enjoying my beer and relief."

"I have to confess. I don't have a telescope. In fact, I don't even have a window. I've got a cubicle. And I never get the 4:30." I smiled and decided to tease a bit, "If I remember correctly, I'd need a very powerful scope to see your tiny dick anyway. Even if I wanted to."

The old camaraderie banter had returned so easily. I could tell he was about to return in kind. I could see the counter-insult forming on his lips. (He always had been a little slow on the uptake.)

At that point, a jolt signaled that we had docked. It was time to walk the few blocks to Mom's place. We disembarked, said our goodbyes, and Billy turned the other way. "I only live two blocks up this way. It's late. But how about we have a beer and shoot the shit tomorrow or Friday? I'd love to catch up--even if it's all lies. I'm at 301, Apartment C."

"Sure. I'd like to catch up. Friday works. Is 7 okay?"

"See you then. Hand me your phone. I'll put in my number." I did so as he handed his to me.

"Nice to see you again Billy. We sure were some kind of trouble, weren't we?" He laughed and walked off. I followed his "I-own-the-world-swagger" for a bit with my eyes: his jean-clad ass was still small and tight and his shoulders were even wider than I remembered, accented by the black leather short jacket. Then, I realized my dick was stiff. What the fuck? Has it really been that long? Was I really that hard up? That I was perving on a guy that I hadn't even seen naked for ten years?

Mom had left dinner in the fridge to be micro-d and gone to bed. I ate and headed in also, setting my alarm for 6:30 to meet my trainer.

I had a terrific workout the next morning and another long day at F&B. (Generally nicknamed by the associates as "Fuckin' Ballbusters".) But, I put in the time to be sure I could leave at closing on Friday. I was looking forward to seeing Billy again. We had been glued together as friends and the ringleaders of on-campus pranks. I got home around 6:30, quickly showered and pulled on jeans, a tee and a Knicks hoodie--deciding to go commando. Hell, the weekend was starting, and I didn't need to go in tomorrow. I felt free and good. Seeing Billy again had reminded me that I had been nearly a monk for almost ten years. (Well, I had sowed some oats--well okay, wasted some seeds--in college before the law school grind and once in a while in New York. I did say "nearly.")

I looked in the mirror. I liked what I saw: dark hair, professionally cut short and gelled, big dark blue/purple eyes set in a slim ruddy face, thin nose--very Roman, a decent physique with a flat, almost concave gut and narrow hips. My upper arms filled the tee sleeves nicely. I knew I looked good. I took after my mother and had cultured the Italian stallion look--the gigolo, not the prize fighter. Too bad there were so few people to appreciate it.

I walked the five minutes to Billy's place. He had fixed it up nice. Brightly colored Victorian with all the gingerbread-- even if it was mostly plastic copies. River-front porches on all three levels. But the front yard reflected the neighborhood style and was totally out of character: tiny yard, fenced in wrought-iron with an Italianate fountain. Fuck, did he think he was in Napoli? He's not even full Italian--only on his mother's side. And she was blonde and from the north, not a real Italian. (Most New York Italian immigrants were of Sicilian stock, like me, and dark.)

I rang the bell, was buzzed in and climbed the two flights. He opened the apartment door as I hit the landing. "Welcome, Kyle," he muttered as he handed me a longneck. He had already started. I could tell. I followed him around and to the front of the apartment, to the porch and the glider. I guess he was proud of the view--although facing in this direction, we weren't out there to watch the sunset, except maybe reflected in the windows of the skyscrapers across the river.

Billy had on an old Giants tee (he always had been a fan), two sizes too small, faded and torn, revealing wide shoulders and slab-hard pecs and tight sweat shorts, displaying his impressive package and thick muscled thighs. When he moved, the tee rode up, exposing a photo-worthy eight pac. He was barefoot. Did he think summer had already arrived? His long dirty blonde hair had been recently washed and was tied in a ponytail. And he had a gold stud in one ear. A deep orangey tan suggested he had been visiting the tanning parlor. He looked good, relaxed and out of place. He belonged on a Malibu beach. But, he swaggered like he owned the City. He looked me up and down carefully, like he was considering a used car purchase and motioned me to the glider.

Billy was much bigger than I was. The glider sagged under his weight. He was probably 6-4 to my 6 even and 220 to my 175. His muscles were popping. I guess he had been to the gym after work, an easy indulgence for one who typically gets off work at 4:00. He had the guns of a construction worker who also worked out. And the thighs of a football player who had kept in shape.

"So no family?" I began.

"I've dated a bit, but nothing serious. Dad is on me all the time. He wants a dynasty. Not going to happen. At least not soon. Fortunately, I've got a few sisters who are popping them out like toast. A few dates went a few months. But classy women are looking for Joe-college-types, not construction managers--even if I out-earn them big time. And I'm not into dumb sluts."

"I go to St Martin every winter. Lots of action. And I can pretend I'm someone else. Ladies and guys. Orient Beach is nude. The girls lounge on towels projecting their breasts like howitzers, expecting an invasion from the sea, and the guys parade down the sand flopping their dicks to and fro. After high school, I decided that I could swing both ways, but not at home base. I don't have much trouble picking up one-nighters in the Islands. But, I'm much more careful around here. How about you?"

"I started football at Colgate, but I wasn't good enough. Joined a frat. Liked to party. Never went beyond the second date with anyone. Did okay academically, but didn't make Rhodes Scholar." He laughed. Neither of us had been "A" students. "Since I've been working, I don't have time to piss, let alone date. I've been a fuckin' monk for months. And since you, what is it, ten years ago?, I've never touched a guy." He noted that I was staring at his body with occasional glances at the shorts which had tightened as he sat.

It was getting a little cool, so Billy suggested we go inside. Before we sat on the modern leather sofa facing the view, he went in and brought out another couple of bottles. It was warm inside, so I had pulled off my hoodie. My tee pulled up when I did so, and I noticed that he was looking. This time he sat very close. We stared out the window for a bit. And a minute later he had his arm around my shoulders. "Are you going to make the first move? Or do you want me to? I'm assuming you didn't come here just to drink and shoot the shit."

I was floored. It had been ten years. And I'd been in the apartment less than an hour. He didn't know me from fuckin' Julius Caesar--and he was essentially asking if I was gay. Implying that I was "still" gay and ready to stoke with him.

"Billy, I don't know where you're headed. Actually I do know where you're driving, but I'm not even in the bus yet. It's been a long time--ten years. We were much younger and dumber. And all we did was jerk each other off. I'm not ready to go any farther--at least not yet."

"Sorry, I misread you. I've been moving along that highway, and I've picked up a number of passengers along the way. But, if that's how you want to start, I'm okay with that." He sat back and slipped off his shorts and fluffed up his cock. Apparently he thought I was referring back to our mutual jerk days and was ready for a reprise. He was hard, and bigger even than I remembered it. Maybe 8 inches and thick. Dark. No hood. But a drop of pearly liquid was already on the slit, sparkling in the deep red. His dick was entirely uniform--no mushroom head, no hood, almost no corona, no taper, no curve. It looked a little like a NYPD baton. Only the popping blue veins gave it any personality. He started stroking it, and it got even a little larger.

"Your turn, Kyle."

I guess my words weren't clear enough. "I wasn't suggesting that we jerk together, Billy. That's for teens."

"Just give it a try. Do it for me. Nothing that happens in this apartment goes beyond this place. I'm gonna jerk, and I'd really like some company. I've been watching you. I know you're interested."

I sat silently for a few seconds--it seemed like hours. Then I took another deep swig of the Bud and relaxed back into the downy pillows. Oh fuck, why not? I hadn't rubbed one out in a day or two. I unbuttoned and pulled down my jeans.

"I knew it. Commando! You were expecting something. Don't play innocent with me, boy."

My own cock was a little longer than his, but mine had a slight curve up and right, and I was hooded. (Boys definitely notice these things--even if they don't note the color of her eyes.) "Fuck, on you, the same size looks way bigger. Now I remember; we called it your "banana." And don't tell me you don't want this. You're hard as a rock." He reached over and fisted; then he pulled back, spit into his palm and was back. He started to slide. Fuck that felt good. It had been so long. Having someone else fisting your shaft was such a good feeling.

I reached over and matched his strokes, using his precum, to lube him. It was just like the old days. Two guys, sitting next to each other, drinking brews, and stroking. Intending to see who shot first and who shot farthest. It brought me back a full ten years. Soon he stopped, faced me and pulled me around. His legs stretched under me. We scooted together, raising my knees to get closer. By then our cocks were only inches apart. He grabbed them both and again started stroking both. His legs moved further under me--ostensibly so our cocks could get closer. He pulled his cock into a kiss position and pulled my hood over his so it looked like we shared. He called it "docking"--a word I had never heard apart from the Ferry.

I was close and I thought maybe he was too. We were both leaking clear pre-cum. When it was my turn to frot, he reached behind me and drew me into his lap, and my legs went to either side of his waist. A few seconds later, he pulled me up into an embrace and our lips touched. So I leaned in and took his lips. This was a new experience--kissing a guy. At first he tasted of brew. Then it got hotter. I tightened my arms around his bull-neck. I drew us together and our tongues started to dance, not polite like with a girl. More like wrestling. It was all just automatic. A minute later, he pulled his tee off and then mine. Then he massaged my pecs and squeezed the nipples. He brought them to hardness. He fell back on the sofa, pulling me with him.

Then I felt it. His cock had slipped under my balls and was resting in my crack. He'd obviously done this before with others. It was way too smooth. This was his seduction routine. That was obvious. But, we were both so aroused and so close that I let it go. It was his sofa. If he wanted to spunk on it, that was his decision. That sausage felt real good sliding between my buns. If he wanted to get off while rubbing my ass, I guess that's okay. I had done it between tits before, and it was nearly the same.

Then he stopped. He reached around me to pull me up higher. Our chests collided, and I could feel his hard cock again between my cheeks, but this time, the head touching my rim. I hadn't really had time to think about what was happening. It felt so good to be holding and stroking a hot warm body. "This is really uncomfortable, Kyle. Let's move. My big king is waiting. You are so hot. I need to show you some tricks." He stood and moved his arms to cradle me. My legs moved around his waist, and his dickhead was poised at the entrance. Fuck, he was either gonna drop me on his dick and fuck me right here or he was gonna carry me like a babe to his bed. Then I panicked. I wasn't ready for male on male sex. Foolin' around is one thing; fuckin in bed--or getting fucked in a guy's bed was something much more. Nothing but a toy or a girl's finger had ever been in that chute. It might hurt. And even if it didn't, it was choosin' to be a fag.

"Put me down, Billy. I just remembered I promised Mom to take out the garbage. I've gotta' go."

He set me down quickly. "I guess I misread you. I thought you wanted this as much as I do."

"Billy, I've never done this before. I'm not a cock tease. If you want me to rub you off, I'll do it right now. I don't think I'm ready for anything more. Aren't you supposed to buy me dinner first? Or maybe hand me a corsage? Or at least ask?" I laughed to defuse the situation.

Then, as he stood there with his proverbial hard dick in his hand, I redressed quickly and left.

When I reached my room, there was a txt: "Sorry about tonight. I misread you. When you're away from someone for ten years.... Don't be mad. I'd like to be buds again. Wanna try again tomorrow? I won't touch you unless you ask. I'll be at Mario's Pizza at 6 tomorrow if you're interested."

It took me a long time to get to sleep. First, I jerked myself off to cool things down. Nothing had challenged my plans for the future before. What plans? I didn't have a girl. Fuck I'm almost 29, and, with rare exceptions, the only flesh my cock feels is the palm of my hand. Is it because I'm so busy? Or is it because I'm really into guys--and afraid to do anything about it?

Mom is leaving in two weeks. I'll be back in the City and living alone, working crazy hours. Is that all I want from life? I've known Billy since kindergarten. We certainly don't need to review family histories and CVs before we can decide whether we have a future. Future? Fuck, he's not asking for a future. Neither am I. He just wants to fuck around. No strings attached. To have a little fun. Fucking a guy doesn't make you gay. This is the twenty-first century boy; not the dark ages. This is New York. Guys do guys all the time. Welcome to the metro-sexual universe.