I gingerly pulled Fraser's arm from across my chest and slowly moved my hips forward to pull my channel off his now-flaccid cock. There was nothing wrong with the length of him—that was his most notable feature for someone looking for sex from another man. He could remain deep inside me flaccid after a side-splitting fuck like we had just had. He was the only man I'd had who could reach deep inside me in a side split.
There wasn't much wrong with his looks and body, either, when his age and work life were taken into account. He was some twenty years older than I was and, being a department head at the Smithsonian Institution who lived for his work, he was soft except where it mattered most in sex. He wasn't fat; he, in fact, could go all day without food in the excitement of a new find or a developing exhibit for the American History Museum on the national mall, which, over the years, had led to him appearing gaunt.
He was tall, dressed elegantly, had once been quite handsome, and was both glib and witty. He had taken me under his wing when I'd first come to the Freer Gallery, across the mall from his museum but also in the Smithsonian system, right after completing a doctorate in art history and museum curating at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. We met at an orientation meeting for new Smithsonian employees. I was straight out of the Midwest. I wasn't naïve in terms of sex. I was actively gay but without hookups yet in D.C.
Fraser had given several orientation lectures for new Smithsonian employees in which he'd been witty and erudite and oh so welcoming. From the first lecture, he seemed to be looking at me as he spoke. We were introduced to each other and spoke sporadically and shallowly in the revolve of a cocktail party at the American History Museum Stars and Stripes café after museum hours. In one of our brief conversation groups, the question arose of whether any of us had tried out a new restaurant in Georgetown. Everyone in the group had, except me. Fraser said I must go—and that I must go that night after the cocktail party. And he would take me there. He said he wanted to know more about the program at Case Western Reserve anyway.
He was sparkling at the restaurant. We had another cocktail while waiting for our food and wine with dinner and port afterward. The conversation was easy and he an expert interviewer. I have no idea when I told him I was gay, but I did. Or when I told him I was unattached and at loose ends so far in D.C. Or when he first put his hand on my thigh under the table. Or when I told him that, yes, I found him attractive.
But I let him drive me home to my small apartment near Dupont Circle, come up to my bedroom, and wow me with how long it took him to uncoil his cock from his trousers and with how far he could put it up my channel. I'd never gone with an older man before, but in the dark, there was just him holding me close from behind, and that long cock of his. He took me quickly and efficiently with little foreplay or postcoidal cuddling. And then he got dressed and went home to his wife.
The next day he took me to lunch, again to a high-end restaurant in Georgetown. He apologized for the previous evening, saying we'd both had too much to drink and that he'd found me overpoweringly attractive. He said his wife, who was a Smithsonian archeologist, was frequently in the field and that they had a marriage of convenience—one that they were both happy in. But, he admitted, he had needs and sometimes acted on them—especially when she was gone. She, in fact, had left that morning for a dig in Egypt.
I sympathized with him, and after lunch, before we returned to work, he fucked me deep with that thin but long cock of his in the missionary position on my bed in my conveniently nearby apartment. He took me quickly and efficiently once again. The previous night had been in the doggy position leaning over my bed. Today was missionary. He had one other position—the side split—and he religiously worked his way through that pattern—doggy, missionary, side split—on Tuesday and Thursday noontime breaks in my apartment. Little foreplay, quick and efficient taking, and not much cuddling afterward—except, when his wife was out of town, he'd sleep in my bed on Sunday nights—one fuck following the pattern and then spooned sleeping in the bed—and give me a lift to the Smithsonian complex on Monday morning.
He had a parking space in a museum garage. I didn't. I took the subway. The Monday morning ride seemed worth the night before. The best part was sleeping with a long cock up inside me.
This was a Sunday night. He'd taken me to dinner—he was quite generous with that perk—come home with me, fucked me once on my bed—in a side split—and gone to sleep with my back burrowed in close to his spare frame, his cock going flaccid inside me.
As long as he was plowing me with that long cock, the coupling was fine. It was so scheduled and vanilla, though, that I was getting restless. I'd been in Washington, D.C., for five months and no one else had fucked me—no one younger than forty or muscular or spontaneous in his approach and carry through, or playful or even cruel.
I had fantasies of rough and cruel.
I had grown restless. I had done research. Research was what I was trained to do. I'd found a specialized subscription gay male dating site on the Internet. And I had paid for a subscription on Saturday, yesterday.
After extricating myself from Fraser, I padded out to the small room that had been rented to me as a second bedroom but that was little bigger than a closet. I used it as a home office. I turned on the computer and opened the homepage of the specialized dating service I'd found. It was specialized because it set up dates of single men with male couples. Threesome dating. The service made no bones about the purpose of the date being sex, and it's profile descriptions emphasized that.
I'd shot my load in an introductory perusal of the site Saturday night just in reading the profiles.
I'd never gone with two men before in a threesome. I hadn't done much of anything kinky before. There were a hell of a lot of sexual arrangements I hadn't tried before. And as time passed with Fraser, being denied anything that wasn't scheduled, vanilla, and over before I had had time to become deeply aroused, I began to feel more and more left out of the excitement of life. Fraser didn't seem to care if I had an ejaculation or not, as long as he did. So, increasingly, it wasn't happening for me every time.
The Web site made no bones about the goal being just dinner and a good-night kiss. The questioning for the profile was detailed and intrusive, although it was formatted mostly in a series of images of this and that, asking me to click on a scale of how much I was interested in this and that. The questions delved deep into fantasies and were constructed so that I was pulling much more out of my concept of desires than I'd even dared give thought to before.
The primary fantasy it brought out of me was being with two men at once. That was enough of a surface desire that I had sought out the dating service in the first place. I didn't know that would attract me when I started to look for something different than I was getting, but I knew it was something that attracted me as soon as I uncovered the Web site.
The questionnaire also was detailed in personal attributes, including both clothed and unclothed photos. I didn't have any trouble responding to that—either technically because I had shared nude photos with men when I was in Cleveland or in the need to hide anything. I had every reason to be proud of my physique, appearance, and equipment. Whereas most of the Smithsonian curators either took long, fattening lunches or ate at their desks while they worked, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I grabbed a quick salad at the museum café and then went to my nearby club and swam laps. On Saturday I worked out. I had kept myself in shape—great shape—while most who worked in my field sank into a mound of work-obsessed, unexercised Jell-O. And everyone told me that I reminded them of that "young movie heartthrob whatshisname," so I felt confident on the looks side of things.
The deal was that singles and couples signaled their interest to the Web site on the basis of the profiles made up from the questionnaires. If matches were found, dates were set up through the Web site, and the couple paid for the hookup.
There weren't that many couples profiled on the Web site that hit all of my buttons. Many of them were older-younger pairs. There were a few, though, that had my cock bobbing, and that evening, while Fraser snored lightly in my bedroom, I pushed the "interested" button on four couples.
