Matt & Timothy

an excerpt



Matt

I first spotted Tim when he had his cute bubble ass propped precariously on the edge of a stool at the outside pool-side bar of the East Eden Hotel and Spa in Miami Beach, Florida. Frankly, I didn't really plan on giving him a second look. He was definitely handsome, with an obviously gym-fit body, but I had a lot of handsome men, with nice trim bodies, in and out of my life when I was on the job, and, now, on holiday. Besides, what kind of guy wore a suit - albeit a stylish Brioni - and a tie - at the swimming pool? Inside the hotel, in the Lion Lounge was one thing, or in the posh Flair Room, when waiting for service in the Stellon Dining Salon, was another. What was with going formal where water-slicked toned-and-tanned bodies continually shook off droplets all around you, like golden retrievers having fetched shotgun-downed fowl from wilderness ponds?

It was his sudden removal of his tie, his unbuttoning of his shirt's top two buttons, revealing an enticing V of hairless tanned skin, and his accompanying sudden smile at Jerry, the bartender, that won me over at the same time he was winning over Jerry; both ignored me. And, I'm not used to being ignored; especially not by Jerry. Not that I made a - "Hey, remember me, over here?" - scene. God knows, my dear Mum taught me better manners. Though, I was on the verge of chucking all good etiquette just as Jerry's fixed gaze detached from Tim's chocolate-brown eyes to glance, finally, in my direction. Quickly thereafter, Jerry managed a smooth glide on over to my small commandeered section of his bar.

Normally, Jerry would linger. We'd already tricked once, and it was the consensus I'd provided him such a good time that he was eager to do it again. At that moment, however, while friendly (he was paid to be friendly, wasn't he?), and taking my order (a Cuba Libre), and filling it - "There you go, handsome!" - he was done with me, in a trice, and back to chatting up Tim. Jerry looked all - "You searching for a tight ass, handsome? I have one!" He tried to appear equally nonchalant about cloth-wiping bar glasses that needed neither drying nor additional shine.

I walked with my drink around the lip of the pool, headed for Yves and our adjoining chaise longues. I became more and more piqued without knowing why, since I'd already decided that I had too many options for sex to bother with any repeats with Jerry during the remainder of my holiday at the hotel, this time around. Jerry had every right to chat up whomever. I'd pretty much made it plain that my interest in him had waned. There was no way it had ever entered my mind, at that early point, to wonder what Tim might have beneath his Brioni suit and tie.

"Why the sour look?" Yves brought me out of my reverie that, by then, bordered on a funk I still couldn't explain. "Jerry short-change you on the rum?"

Yves provided an admittedly nice smile in accompaniment. It looked sincere while still hinting it may have been practiced once too often before one too many mirrors, for way too long, to be truly genuine. Unlike Tim's smile that had been...

"My drink is just fine." I rearranged my earlier abandoned robe and suntan lotion to provide additional room for me to sit down: as if I'd gained a bigger ass during the few minutes I'd been gone. "If anything, he overdosed the alcohol, per usual ... as if he, or any other bartender, does me a favor by getting me drunk on my ass this early in the afternoon."

Yves adjusted the Miami Marlins baseball cap he had reversed on his head and allowed a few more of his corn-yellow curls to tumble attractively onto his forehead. He removed his Ray Ban sunglasses. His emerald-green eyes squinted in my direction while his full and sensuous lips formed a small moue.

"You, Matt, my man, just may be the only gay I've ever heard complain his drink was too strong."

He re-donned his sunglasses and scooted lower in his lie-down so that the well-defined ripples of his washboard belly were exhibited in a crunch for even more advantageous viewing. Renewed straining necks, belonging to more than one half-the near-naked men around the pool, revealed that Yves' usual coterie of admirers was once again out in full force. Yves' repositioning accomplished exactly the additional attention-getting he'd intended.

Across the way, Tim or Jerry had said something very amusing, because they both laughed uproariously. As if I gave a flying-fuck!

I focused attention back on Yves who had turned his attention completely away from me to continue working on his suntan that already complemented his blond hair and green eyes to perfection. There is something admittedly sexy and special about any blond who can tan and not turn red as a lobster.

No denying, especially by me, that Yves was one helluva good-looker. I'd heard rumor he'd even been paid more, by at least two of his dates, than I'd ever been paid. I would have had more information, to confirm or deny, if he worked with me at Jamen Escorts, but he was hooked up with Tyler Venues. While both agencies were suspected to be owned and operated by the very same mysterious underworld "someone," I'd never had that verified to my satisfaction. Whoever our employers, though, they were damned good bosses. I've known hustlers who worked the streets, and that's a genuinely get-old-fast side of our business. Yves' and my escort services took care of everything from our bookings, to money, to rent, to protection. Plus, at least once a year, we were allowed to take a few days to ourselves, like here at the hotel, to do as we damned well pleased, whether for money (no percentage due our handlers), or just for fun.

"Making you horny, am I?" For not the first time, Yves brought my mind back from wherever it was wandering. He smiled. His teeth were so perfect and so white that they were the suspected results of dental lasers. He insisted no one but God had anything to do with it; something about the water where he was born and raised (I'd heard him say California, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, even Bermuda), which had an above-average calcium content. "I mean, that is a hard-on barely fitted into the crotch of your Speedos, isn't it?"

"You and I know a knothole is enough to get me hard," I said. I wasn't sure why I had that particular boner, or when it had swollen onto the scene. "So, no need to flatter yourself."

"What say we finish these drinks, go to one of our rooms, and soften that dick of yours up my tight asshole? Gratis, of course."

My U-Boat 1844 Flightdeck watch told me it was a little after noon. "Isn't Karl scheduled in this afternoon?"

Karl Tambuin was a "john" of Yves who lived in St. Petersburg, Florida, and flew to Miami regularly. It was a relationship that Yves hinted had moved beyond escort-client. In fact, he insinuated there had been serious talk between them of Yves moving in with Karl in St. Petersburg and giving up selling sex in favor of selling, a la Karl, electronics.

"His flight isn't due until eight this evening. I'll be so back to wanting another fuck by then that he won't even know I started without him."

I checked my glass to see how much remained of my Coke and Bacardi. Simultaneously, with my free hand, I adjusted my cock in the snug-fit hug of my swimsuit.

"I've a couple more swallows," I said, not surprised by his suggestion of sex. Though we'd fucked before, I'd never filed him, like bartender Jerry, in my probably-only-once folder. As a pro, Yves had a few things up his sleeve, whenever my cock was up his butt, which kept me interested. No layman, Jerry included, would ever learn such tricks of the trade that saw men coming back non-stop.

I wasn't surprised, either, that Yves wasn't saving himself for Karl's arrival that evening. Although the two eventually would form a tightly monogamous relationship, get married, take up playing house, they didn't, at the time, have me convinced any of that was a viable option. I was under the impression, wrong, as it turned out, that true love was strictly for fairy tales. That all gay men-I, Yves, and Karl included-had our brains hot-wired only for, "Wham, bam, thank-you, man!" One of the main reasons I'd gotten into the sex-for-sale business, aside from the money, and having been steered in that direction by someone who had seen my potential from the get-go, was because I'd always been more than ready, willing, and able to sample whatever potential any sexual arena had to offer.

I noticed, as Yves and I headed for my room, that Tim was no longer at the pool-side bar. Not that I recall being inconsolably disappointed. If Jerry had recovered from Tim's absence (which he so obviously had by having already found someone else, cute and buff, to chat up), then I could, even more easily, do just the same.

Later, not all that long into Yves and my sexual antics, him naked and on all fours on my bed, me kneeling behind him with my condom-sheathed hard cock a piston gone wild up his ass, his anal muscles doing those colon gymnastics that only his asshole seemed able to manage, I was inexplicably having mind-flashes of how it might feel (less enjoyable, I was sure), if it were Tim's amateur ass being worked over by my more and more frantic and forceful sexual pounding.

"Jesus!" This is pretty much all the conversation I was ever able to muster with my cock poked up Yves' ass, on the edge of climax. Yves' butt-hole became a better vibrator than any electronic device plugged into an electric outlet. If anyone, in a similar situation, was ever able to manage anything more, besides indecipherable grunts and groans, I would have been interested in hearing how they managed it. Riding Yves' shapely and rocking buttocks, each and every time, was confirmation that no matter what he was paid by his clients, he was worth every damned penny.

"Fuck me, like only you can, buddy!" he egged me on, as if there was any way on God's green Earth that I was able to do anything else. Whatever conscious control the brain in my head ever had was long surrendered to the brain in the head of my dick. The latter's one and only aim was to see me shoot cum into the condom up Yves' clutching and eager asshole.

When my moment of truth arrived, I rammed my cock, with solid finality, one concluding time into those vice-like anal shudders strangling it as sufficiently as any rippling boa constrictor squeezed the life out of its prey, and my cum-filled balls released each and every drop of my man-cream with such rocket-like force that it's a wonder the containing condom didn't burst under the hydraulic pressure. I didn't have one remaining thought of Tim or even who the hell he was.