We’d both start to moan and he’d lean in to me, resting his forehead on my shoulder as I still stroked his cock and he started to spasm. He’d cum all over my stomach and my own cock and then he’d start stroking me faster. He’d drop to his knees and I’d look down as he’d poke out his tongue and swallow my about-to-blow cock. I wouldn’t believe it and I’d be beside myself with lust and excitement and I’d be so close and about to empty my nuts down his throat, about to coat his tonsils with my load.
And I’d cum hard into the empty locker. My cum made a thumping echo as it hit the floor of the hollow metal locker. I didn’t care who heard; I was lost in John Doyle cock heaven. I kept stroking with my eyes squeezed shut and all the images of sexy John Dole would fly through my head like a slide show set to super-fast speed. Then I’d get my breath back and compose myself. I’d tuck in my cock and lick the cum off my fingers. Then I’d leave the gym, leaving my load of cum there to either dry up or be found by some other random, and hopefully hot, guy.
That was a whole other fantasy I used to masturbate to before bedtime: the hot thought of some hot stud, either straight or bi-curious or whatever, opening the locker to change and finding the pile of cum on the floor. The guy would be turned on and would look around, unsure if anyone would see him, and a little scared knowing what he was about to do was wrong. Then he’d scoop up some of the cum, taste it, and then rub it over his own hard cock and jerk off with it as his lube.
13
Dinner With Fat Lizzie
Tommy and Lizzie both know about the blog and about the book. Lizzie said she’d castrate me if I didn’t make her thin, beautiful and fabulously dressed when I wrote about her. The thing is, she is all those things so it’s not like I have to lie, but I did like to tease her. The other day we were having dinner and she said something that pissed me off, not in a major way, just something trivial—I don’t even remember what—and I was like, “That’s it. Your character just gained twenty-five pounds and has a terrible complexion.”
She looked crestfallen, like I’d just killed her puppy or something. I laughed and told her she’d better be nice to me or I’d move on to disfigurement. She gave me the finger.
That first night we were out for dinner at this Italian place we used to love in college: Things are always so much better in your memory. I mean it was good and all, but why three diet-obsessed, carb-fearing New Yorkers thought it would be a good idea to go for Italian food is beyond me. Lizzie either eats plain fish and steamed vegetables or a salad, and while Tommy and I will indulge a little, it was rapidly becoming summer and bathing suit weather. So we were there for dinner, not really eating, and we were talking about this book.
“You’re going to need to have so much sex this weekend to fill up a whole book,” Tommy said.
Lizzie rolled her eyes and without actually uttering a word said, “What else is new?”
Ignoring Lizzie’s incredibly verbal eyes, I was like, “Not really. Well, I mean, I hope so, but I’m going to write about some of the old shit; The memories of some of the hot sex I’d had or wanted to have.”
“Yawn,” Tommy said.
“Trust me,” I said, “it won’t suck.”
Then, out of the blue, Lizzie said, “Do you know what thread count your sheets are?”
“Huh?”
“Thread count,” she said, as if I was dense. “Do you know what they are?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They’re nice and soft. Why?”
She started to tell us about Duffy, the slightly intellectually challenged stockbroker she’d been dating and how she hated sleeping at his house because his sheets itched her. She was like, “I’m not being a princess either; they really are, like, awful. When we have sex and he’s on top of me I get, like, rug burn from rubbing against the sandpaper sheets.”
“That’s kind of hot,” Tommy said. “I never knew you were into pain.”
Another roll of the eyes. This one said: Why am I always surrounded by stupidity? “I’m not into pain,” she said. “That’s the whole fucking point. How do I tell him that he needs new sheets?”
Tommy was like, “Why don’t you call Carrie Bradshaw and you and your Sex and the City friends can have an episode about it. You know Charlotte’s dealt with this before.” Tommy always teases Lizzie about her perfect, debutante-like life and about her world-tragedy-caliber problems like her masseuse double-booking on her.
“Fuck you. I’m serious,” she said.
“Why don’t you buy him new sheets?” I suggested. “Like a present.”
“We’ve only been dating for two months.”
“So? Is there a rule about when you can buy someone sheets?”
“Can you ever buy someone sheets?” Tommy asked. “Isn’t that like in the whole here’s-a-new-vacuum-cleaner-for-Mother’s-Day kind of camp? Who the fuck wants sheets as a present?”
“Have you seen Lizzie’s sheets? I’d take them as a present. They’re like more than my rent each month.”
“It is kind of weird,” Lizzie conceded, “buying someone sheets. It just makes such a difference during sex; having it on good sheets, I mean.”
Tommy started singing a line from that Rufus Wainwright song, “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”: “A little bit heiress, a little bit…”
“Whatever,” she said.
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