1
"Phil?" my wife yelled up the stairs, the words I dreaded every Saturday morning since Spring had arrived. "Are you going to try to find my dishes today?"
"Sure babe," I replied, not looking forward to wading through all the junk in the garage, looking for some special family china in one of dozens of look-alike boxes. We said our goodbyes and she left for her twelve-hour-plus shift.
We had moved hastily to downtown Boston, to take advantage of a first-year surgical residency for Julie. I work online, and luckily we had no kids and didn't have to worry about school districts. We rented a brick townhouse within walking distance of her new job. The building was so old that I think the British had shot it up during the Revolution. As with all structures in this 'working class' neighborhood, it had been added on to and renovated several times. The backs of the houses were a jungle of small courtyards, passageways and carriage houses, all brick, and some had common roofs, separated by a breezeway beneath. Most of the alley that sat behind our house and the similar dwelling next door was hidden from view at all angles, especially because of the three-story, monolithic, windowless hospital heating plant behind us. The narrow passageway would have made a good crime scene, except that it was dead-ended by a new concrete wall on one end, and blocked by a shipping container at the other. Only our two adjacent houses had access. Weeds, an old wheelchair, boards and trash were the sole occupants, I saw through a dirty window as I began to comb through the brown cartons.
About a half hour into my search, I was startled by someone in the alley. I looked out the window and saw it was the old man from next door. I didn't know his name, and I had only had a few polite conversations with one of the young mothers in the house, Elena, whose English was heavily accented but correct and precise. I say 'one of the young mothers' because I think there were three families living there, at least eight kids, plus the grandparents.
Immigrants from Eastern Europe, they were quite loud during the day but quiet at night, and I had traded respectful nods with the young fathers, who were sometimes curbside, arguing on their cell phones and working on their taxis, apparently their livelihood.
So I look out the window and the old guy, who was gray, nearly bald, and about sixty I guess, dressed as always in polyester pants and a faded dress shirt, lit a cigarette. No big deal, I didn't blame him for wanting to escape the chaotic house full of screaming kids. Luckily the little hellions hadn't discovered the alley, apparently a locked door kept them out of his quiet space.
I was about to turn away and continue my search, when I see his hand reach down and appear to unzip his pants. Just great, I thought, he's going to add a stale piss stench to the musty smell already present in this damp area the sun never reaches.
My angle of view was from the back, more or less, and suddenly I saw his arm moving back and forth.
The old guy was jerking off
!
My pulse increased. Yes I'm married, but I secretly still like dicks sometimes. The urge comes and goes. I look at gay porn or videos of guys jacking it once in a while, and my wife's long hours at work were making our sex life erratic, so I felt adventurous this morning. Just about anyone would keep watching, I told myself.
I had 'experimented', as they say, in college, before I met Julie. I was drunk at a boring year-end hall party that was mostly guys. In a case of mistaken identity, I guess, a guy came over to me and said into my ear that 'his friend Hunter said I gave great blowjobs'. I didn't know anyone by that name. It may have been a ploy by him alone, or he may have been sent by someone as a practical joke. Regardless, I had enough alcohol-induced bravery that I laughed and said 'Okay'. We went up to the roof access level of the dorm's stairwell and I extracted, yanked and sucked on the guy's nice, thick six inches until he filled my mouth with jizz. I never saw that guy again, and there were no repercussions to my reputation as far as I knew. I enjoyed that adventure to the point of posting online, but chickened out on answering any of the few replies. I wished I had been sober during that first blowjob, so I could recall every detail and nuance as I thought about it when jacking my own meat sometimes.
So back to the old man, he was hammering away, and in a few minutes I saw several streams of sperm splatter onto the brick pavement. He zipped up, mashed out his cigarette with his worn black dress shoe, and left. I looked at the time, and wondered if it was a daily or weekly routine with him; I would have loved to watch him do it again. Judging by the amount of fluid he expelled, I was betting it had been at least week since he last shot a wad.
Not thirty minutes later I found the dishes Julie wanted. I repacked them with some old newspapers on top, and stuffed them back into the pile of boxes. Suddenly I wanted to spend
more
time in the garage. A later inspection of the outer passageway revealed quite a few cigarette butts, so his habit, at least the smoking part, was more frequent than I thought.
2
I wasn't able to escape Sunday morning, and things got busy with my job during the next week. I didn't get much time to think about the old man until Saturday morning again, when I was alone once more.
Sure enough, about ten o'clock, he appeared in the alley, lit up and began to stroke his meat once again. This time I could see everything. His cock was golden brown, with thick veins crisscrossing it and a large, uncircumcised mushroom head.
I was enjoying the show, and instinctively thought about my lips surrounding it, when it occurred to me that
maybe he would let me suck it!