2:36This is the first gay erotic story that I ever published online. It was created for Drawboy, who shares my love of coffee shops, and has been both an amazing friend and valued support system.
*Story contains M/M relations and graphic sexual situations.*
See him? He's the guy at the booth there, sitting by himself. Cute, no? Just look at the way he leans into the novel he's reading, like he wants to jump right into the story. And it's not just that book either. This is... what, number six or seven now? Science fiction and horror mostly, but one of them was a romance - one of those historical guy/girl things, if the cover could be trusted. He's not straight though. I know he's not. Because it's not always novels clutched between those long, thin fingers. Sometimes it's just outright smut. And they're men on those covers - men with well-defined muscles and sassy haircuts, men with brilliant smiles and come-fuck-me pouts. Men who put my skinny arms and cock-eyed grin to shame.
I think my favourite thing is his hair. That tousled dark blonde mess makes me want to growl. I know... I know... he highlights it. So what? I think it looks good. Nothing at all like my own hair: long, dark, stringy, and held back in a perpetual ponytail. His hair says, I'm classy, I'm fun, I'm a go-getter. Mine says I work in the service industry.
I take his coffee order everyday at lunch. He's not one of those guys that come in and spills off a perfected list of half-shots and flavour blends either. He takes his time, as long as the line-up isn't bad, and carefully picks something off the menu board. He likes to try the new stuff and has a tendency to point and say, "What's that guy (or girl as the case may be) drinking?" The only thing I've seen him show a distinct distaste for was Chai tea. He likes lemon bars, onion bagels with cream cheese, and toasted tomato and alfalfa sprout sandwiches on sliced whole grain, as long as you don't over-toast the bread. And when he orders he flashes this shy little smile that coaxes out a tiny dimple in his left cheek.
I've been in love with him for four months, give or take. It's funny, when he first started coming in I suffered through an inordinate number of burns. Coffee, steamer, boiling water, toaster - it didn't matter. If it got hot, and he was around, I managed to burn myself on it. It got to the point where I thought I was going to have to stop looking at him when he ordered just so I didn't end up in the emergency room.
Stop looking at him... like that could ever happen. I can't even tell you how often my eyes drift over to see what he's doing, my mind obsessing about what he does outside of here. Or, better still, to run wild with fantasies about running into him in the bathroom or coming across him at a concert. I've seen him read, write, text, draw, fiddle, and simply drift. I know he can't stop himself from playing with a thread that hangs. I know he nibbles on the inside of his bottom lip when he's thinking. He taps his foot when he listens to his iPod and he has a terrible sense of rhythm. I've watched him smile, frown, pout and lament. I've even seen him casually scratch his ass or shift his balls. Let's just say if the man was pay-per-view, I'd be bankrupt.
He either has a late lunch break or really early release time, which is nice because most of the lunch traffic is gone by the time he shows up. 2: 36, almost to the second, Monday to Friday, and he stays for an average of forty-seven minutes. He likes button-up shirts in blues and whites, blue jeans, and Converse in a rainbow of colours.
He is polite, sweet, patient and unassuming. And as frustratingly quiet as a church mouse. He might ask what kind of nut is in the muffins, but he doesn't ask you what you thought of last night's game. He'll nod politely at the register tally, but he shrugs off casual questions if you dare to ask. An enigma. A stranger. A fantasy.
Until this past Tuesday.
There's something about a Tuesday afternoon (and I'm not just saying that as a tribute to the Moody Blues). For some reason, no matter what's going on outside our sparkly clean glass doors, in this little spot of the world Tuesday afternoon tends to get this quiet surreal quality to it. Like the whole place is lounging.
I had been flipping through college brochures which my father had so kindly left for me on the kitchen table. We can read that at his not-so-subtle way of saying 'it's been three years since you graduated and you still work at a coffee shop - do something with your life, you loser.'
I, contrarily, have the opinion that twenty-two is not so old. I have no interest in jumping into the rat-race and taking off running. Wall Street does not beckon me. Thanks just the same, but I'd rather not chafe my soft, pasty palms trying to climb the rough ladder of success. Besides, I like working here. I enjoy my job. The pay might suck, maybe I do always smell like a big old coffee bean, but I honestly don't care. I've got a nice boss, I usually get to work alone, and I meet hoards of people. I'll have plenty of time to be miserable when I get older.
I flipped pages, the clock ticked, and seconds dragged as though they were weighted with lead. It was raining sluggishly so the shop was a ghost town, we were regrettably all out of cinnamon buns which had become my lunchtime staple for the last few weeks, and I was not relishing the conversation I was going to be forced to have with my dad when I got home that night. But despite all the negativity, I was feeling good. Because it was 2:24. And that meant in twelve minutes my life was going to have purpose again.
Stalking can be a very meaningful existence, don't you know.
Something must have caught me subconsciously because I lifted my eyes from an overly amped-up description of an applied arts program just as the sky let loose. Drizzle became downpour in such a sudden blast that it looked like God had loosed a massive bucket of water. Furious precipitation charged city concrete, beating down everything in its path. Grass, flowers, all manners of things green and upright instantly flattened. The streets darkened, ditches seemed to fill instantly, and rivers raced over the pavement. I stared, mesmerized, while the city emulated the watery alleyways of Atlantis.
"Wow," a soft voice beside me said. "Someone most certainly pissed off Mom Nature, didn't they?"
I damn near fell off the stool I'd been propped on. Now, I realise that he had to have walked through the door. I know the man does not have magical powers. (Okay, perhaps I have bestowed him some in the odd fantasy here and there, but for the most part the man is as real as you or I.) How I managed to miss him, even as captivated by the rain as I must have been, was beyond me. Yet there he stood, shaking out an umbrella and presenting me with that wee dimple, on the other side of the counter.
I love a man with an umbrella. As corny as it sounds, it just so looks so damn classy. Add that to the half-soaked jeans clinging to his legs, and the drops of water dangling from spiky ends of hair curling so damn devilishly from the moisture and ya... wow.
I struggled to get a grip, to close the mouth that was probably hanging open like that of a gutted fish, and failed miserably. Silently I handed him a fresh bar-towel. "Oh," he smiled. "Thank-you!" He dabbed water from his face, his hair, his arms, and I silently vowed to not only steal, but subsequently save that towel until the end of days.
"Not even an umbrella will save you out there," he continued. "I feel like a drowned rat!"
My heart just about burst out of my chest. I mean, my God! He was talking! He was talking to me! He was talking to me about the weather!
When he bent over and used the towel to squeeze water out of his jeans I swear that I actually felt my silenced whine rattle itself back down my throat. He righted, handed back the towel, and I tucked it under the counter, gently setting it aside for its upcoming indictment into the shrine I would now have to build. Then I simply stared at his grey-blue eyes; eyes that seemed to mirror the sky that was drenching the earth.
He titled his head. "Are you all right? You seem a little off today?"
Off?! I seemed a little off? I wasn't the one who just underwent a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree-personality switch. On the contrary, I was always a bumbling idiot.
I gently cleared my throat. "No, I'm good. You just... surprised me I guess."
"Oh, ya." He grinned. "You were watching the rain. Pretty cool, isn't it?" He stared out the window for a minute. "Kind of makes you feel a little insignificant doesn't it?" He turned back to stare at me and I melted into a gooey mess on the floor. Figuratively, of course.
He looked around the shop. "Quiet in here. I've never seen it so dead." He smiled back at me. "Looks like I have you all to myself."
I gaped. Had I been able to find my tongue I would have gladly told him that I would have forcibly removed any and all other patrons up to, and including this moment, had he simply thought to request it of me. Without hesitation.
He frowned at my silence. "I'm just kidding. Of course."
Damn. I found my voice quickly. "No, no, don't be."
Once again he tilted his head. "Don't be kidding?"
I blushed four hundred and ninety-three different shades of red. "Silly. Don't be silly."
He stuck his hand out and I stared at it blankly, confused. "I'm Logan," he said.
Oh, God! He told me his name! After four months of nothing but pleasant orders and gentle directives to please ensure the toast was not overdone... he finally told me his goddamn name!
"An... An," I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Anthony." I continued to stare at his extended hand while my brain processed the concept. He had his hand out because he wanted to shake my hand. Not hand me money or take back change. Not to pass steaming liquid or frozen frappes. To press palm to palm and formerly introduce one to another. Oh. My. God!
"Is everything all right?"
I flipped my gaze from Logan's hand to his eyes. "You... it's just you... well..." My hand itched to reach for his. And why I hadn't yet, God could not even know. "It's just, I mean, you know... you never talk to me. Ever. Never ever."
He frowned above his smile. "I talk to you every day."
I snorted. "You order every day. You never talk to me."
Logan pulled back and I instantly regretted my smart-ass mouth. He ran the rejected hand self-consciously through his damp hair. "Well, you know, it's usually pretty busy in here." His eyes roamed the empty shop. "And I just... don't... well, I don't like people knowing my business for one. I kind of keep to myself. Besides," he grinned, "if I'm gonna get shot down hitting on the cute coffee guy, I'd rather not have it be in front of a dozen other people."
I fucking knew it! The words tumbled out before I could halt them. I meant them as a statement. A confirmation. A fuck-yes! They met the space between us as a timid question though. "You're gay?"
Logan's eyes flew back to mine. "Oh. Oh! I'm sorry! I guess I just kind of thought that you were... well, I thought you were looking at me before... you know what, never mind." He chuckled nervously. "Doesn't matter."
My words were mere breaths. I don't know how he heard them. "I am."
He made a pleased hum that just about liquefied my knees. Then he reached up and tugged on his ear. "Not to mention the fact that you're ridiculously young. I don't like coming across like a creeper."
"Twenty-two," I whispered.
He frowned. "You are not."
I nodded like a mute fool. Where had all my clever comebacks gone? Where was my charming wit all of the sudden? Good genes, righteous upbringing, clean living... the normal responses for a scoff over your age. I had those comebacks down to a science since I had the not so pleasant opportunity of using them all the time. But for some reason the only thing I could imagine myself doing was running for my wallet and showing him some I.D. "No, I really am."
Just like that. Oh. He gives me, 'Oh'. What the hell did 'oh' mean?
"Well then," Logan said, extending his hand once again. "It's a pleasure to meet you Anthony." Wait and make him ask me a third time? I think not! I reached for his hand.
Our fingertips brushed first, I remember it exactly, as I was doing my best to record a mental play-by-play of the event at the time. I'm not sure, however, who pulled off the tease. I think it was me that made the elaborate show of sliding our hands together as slowly as we did. I think it was. But it might have been him. Hell, maybe it was both of us. When we finally clasped hands - his palm cool and dry, his fingers slim and long - I had the briefest moment to think about how perfect his grip was before the shop shook with a crack of thunder. Everything electrical died around us. The neighbourhood slipped into silence and darkness. My very first thought: Hallelujah, God really does love me after all!
"Damn," Logan said calmly. "I wanted lunch."
"I can," my tongue fumbled over the words. "I can still give you something. To eat." Which I meant literally: cookies, brownies, the infamous lemon bars, you know? Seriously, I did. He was the one whose mind jumped directly into the gutter.
He lifted an eyebrow. "I have no doubts about that at all."
I blushed. My knees startled to tremble. He was flirting with me. Logan, oh-my-God-I-finally-knew-his-name, was freaking flirting with me! I tried desperately to quench suddenly parched lips with a tongue that had gone just as dry. "I should lock... the door."
"Lock?" he looked over at the door, confused. "Why? Oh..."
I swiped my tongue across my lips again. "It's not really... safe. With the power off. No alarms. Or telephone. And there's..." I looked around the shop, "no-one else here so... better off. Locked."
I stepped around the counter before I could change my mind, all but ran to the door, and snapped the lock. My boss never came by in the afternoon. Besides, I couldn't be expected to make coffee without power. Or use the cash register. Or cook. Right?
With my back pressed against the front door I watched Logan walk towards me. "Ah. Um. Anthony, you know I was kidding, right?" He stepped closer. "I mean we don't even know each other."
Pshaw. He might not know me but if there was one thing I could clarify, it was that I knew him. Like the back of my hand.
"You read fiction," I said breathlessly, studying his eyes as I spoke. "Sci-fi and the scary shit. But every once in a while you like a romance. You have a preference for men with dark eyes and body hair. Loud women frighten you. You like children and dogs. You eat your soup when it's too hot to enjoy but you won't eat it at all if it gets cool. Nor will you eat bread crust. Monday's make you moody but Friday's depress you for some reason. You wear Beckham cologne every day except Wednesday's which lends me to believe you either go somewhere special, like a hospital or nursing home, or you have a client that hates scents. You over-tip when you're cranky. You highlight your hair."
He didn't say anything as we stood in the dark and stared at each other. "I have more," I whispered.
Logan bridged the space between us with a single step. He reached out tentatively, brushed my cheek, then surprised the hell out me by leaning in and kissing me. An out of the blue, blow my mind, how in the hell do you get the nerve to kiss a stranger like that, heart-stopping kiss. Warm, firm lips pressed against my own with the gentle exploration you only get from another person once - that very first time. It was slow and sweet and long. It was perfect.
He pulled back with a half-drugged expression. He held my chin and used his thumb to trace my lower lip. "I knew you were watching me."
My body reacted to his touch with its own set of process. My lips fell open and my tongue darted out. A quick breath rushed from Logan's mouth when I teased his thumb with it. Warm spit cooled on the tip of the appendage while he stared at it, dumbstruck. "Come back to the office with me," I suggested.
Logan bit his lip, his eyes continuing their intense review. "Are you sure? I don't want," he hissed when I put my teeth around the waiting digit. He started again, "I don't want to take advantage..."
I moved forward, pulling his hand away and crushing our bodies together into another kiss. Mine was much more aggressive, more consuming. It was all about letting him know that I wanted this more than anything in the world. No. More than want - I needed him. For four months I had played with him in my head. For four months I had wondered what it would be like to actually touch him, taste him, to feel his body. And here he was.
I spun around him, yanking him by the arm, and dragged him behind me - past the serving bar, past the washrooms, to the door marked 'Employees Only'. A quick flash of my security card under the scanner and the door clicked open. He followed me into a room that was darker than Hell. "Damn," I said into the black air. "This isn't going to work."
"Hold on." The familiar jangle of car keys sounded and suddenly the room behind me glowed with blue-white illumination. "Pen light," he chuckled and laid it face out on top of two filing cabinets, wedging it into the little valley where they met.
Logan turned, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked around the room. "Wow," he said. "This is kind of awkward." I wondered if he was blushing. He sounded like he should have been. In the light it was hard to tell, but in my mind's eye I painted on a blush. And it was cute as hell, considering he was the quieter, older, assumedly more level-headed of the two of us.
Luckily, I know the golden rule of good stalking. Never give up the chase - don't give your prey a moment to stop and think.
I stepped forward quickly and reached for his chest, palm flat, fingers apart, and paused. I looked up. "Can I?" I did my best to throw a nice purr into my voice. Logan's eyes flicked down and hovered on my hand. "Touch you?" His lips parted when I began to trickle my fingertips over the cotton without waiting for his reply, huskily repeating the question. "Can I touch you Logan?"
He nodded with the awestruck expression of a child watching fireworks for the first time. So I did what my father says every twenty-some-year-old young man does when given an inch - I took a mile. I let my fingers trail all the way from chest to denim. Logan's breath caught, he reached for my hand, and even as he made to still my explorations I started to kneel. "Oh, fuck," he whispered.
"Fuck, yes," I murmured right back. Four months. Four frigging months of day-dreaming, jerking and night-sweats; I was damned and determined to make the most of what I was being granted. I palmed him through his jeans as I worked the stiff button. I watched his face in barely-there blue light as I forced down his zipper.
"W-wait," Logan stuttered, his body belying his tongue as he leaned back against the desk and shifted his hips so I could peel damp blue jeans off skin.
"Do me a favour," I laced my fingers into the fist that gripped the edge of the desk like it was his last ditch effort at survival. "Undo your shirt for me."
"My-my shirt?" he asked, and his hand fluttered through the air as though confused by the request.
"Mm hmm," I directed his wayward limb to the buttons that hid him from view. Logan leaned further, resting his weight fully on the desk and began to use shaking fingers to dislodge uncooperative fastenings. I grinned as his attention was caught and held by the task, and used the moment to familiarize my tongue with the head of his cock.
"Ah," Logan's hands faltered. His eyes flew to my own. We locked gazes and I smirked up at him. Four months. I slipped the head of his cock between my lips and swallowed him without preamble. Logan bucked into the slide, I fought away a gag, pulled back and then repeated the move. "Fuck," he sighed, "Anthony, fuck, yes!" His hands circled the back of my head.
Chuckling I let him fall from my mouth. "Logan," I scolded, "your shirt!" I nuzzled into the soft, trimmed curls above his shaft. "Let me see you." He groaned, but released the hold, and fingers once again found plastic buttons. This time those fingers were swift and determined.
My first sight of his upper body is one I will remember for a long time: slim, defined, his skin glowing in the odd lighting. "Nice," I sighed and reached up to map that beautiful torso with my palm. While I traced and teased him with hand and fingertip, I leaned forward and took him back into my mouth.
"Oh, God," Logan moaned, his head falling back. "This is exactly how I thought you would feel."
My belly flipped at his admission. Me? Me! This man that I had been creeping for one-third of a year had actually thought about what it would feel like to have my mouth on his cock?! I groaned against his hard flesh and pushed him into my throat again. I didn't even care when his hands fisted my hair. Or when he pressed himself deeper. His taste was unbelievable, his scent intoxicating, and the only thing I needed was the sound of his breath and the feel of his hard dick on my tongue.
"Shit," he hissed, "Anthony, my god!" Every word was registered, every click of his tongue and pant that rushed past his teeth. I made sure to taste each inch, to let my tongue search all of him, just in case I never got to do it again. I didn't stop, not to rest or gulp back air. I relished every wet smack of lip and gurgle of spit.
He was no longer leaning against the desk - he stood straight up with his grip buried in my hair, my ponytail loosening in long strands around my face. And he watched me. Logan, beautiful fucking Logan, watched me suck his cock with the intensity of a hawk over a freshly ploughed field. His thighs trembled underneath my resting palm, his balls tightened, a strangled sound tumbled from his throat as he tried to pull away.
I held him, forced myself to throat him again, ignoring his warning. He growled, "Anthony! I'm... fuck! You're going to... my god! I'm going to..."
The trembling in his legs grew, his muscles responded by tensing, and my scalp smarted with the strain from his grip. With a hoarse cry he threw his head back, thrust one last time, and held himself inside my mouth while he came.
Hot fluid pulsed into my throat, but I didn't pull away. I took everything he gave, using my tongue to coax out more, humming contentedly on the overly sensitive skin just to feel it buck and twitch.
When I finally released him, Logan fell back against the desk. I ran my hands up and down his thighs, soothing muscles and trying to calm racing blood. Yes, I was hard as a rock. Yes, I would have loved nothing better than to continue playing all afternoon. But as he opened his mouth, as Logan breathed the words, "That was amazing!" everything electronic came to life around us. Lights blared brilliantly, the printer shifted, the monitor buzzed and the computer beeped. Talk about your perfect timing.
"My god," I grinned. "You're beautiful!"
He blushed, laughed, and reached for my hand to pull me to my feet. I thumbed at the door. "I uh, have to go... work. Power's back."
"Hmm," Logan nodded, "I noticed." He smiled. "First..." He pulled me to him and kissed me. One of those long, deep, Harlequin-worthy ones. Nice to see he had no aversions to the taste of cum, not even his own. I was liking this guy more with every passing second.
It was the phone that separated us. My boss. Freaking to make sure everything was all right. Logan tucked himself away while I wandered with the portable, soothing my boss, unlocking the door and dumping stale coffee to start replacements. After ten minutes of blah, blah, blah, and coffee filters and grinding, and restarting steamers and mixers and blenders, I hung up the phone with a heavy sigh.
Logan was sitting in one of the lounges, gazing through the window, sprawled out like a well-fed cat. I grinned at his expression. Me: I did that to him.
He turned his head like he knew I was watching. But then... hadn't he? All along? I poured him one of the new coffees, a hazelnut and mocha blend and added a touch of cream and two sugars. I set it on the counter and smiled. "You still want that sandwich?"
"Yep," he nodded. "Toasted."
"I know," I dropped two slices of whole grain bread into the appliance. "And don't over-toast the bread."
"Mm hmm," Logan mumbled agreeably. I brought the sandwich and the coffee over and set it down on the small table beside the lounge. "Thank you," he smiled and I gave him one back. I turned away but stopped when he caught my wrist. "So will I get a chance to return the favour?"
I laughed. I don't even know why. Relief? Gratitude? Maybe even disbelief. "I'd like that," I said, speaking through a grin that probably rivalled the one sported by the infamous Joker.
The bell at the front door announced a new customer and he let his hand slip off my arm. He tilted his head in that I'm-oh-so-fuckable way. "Promise?"
Promise? Did I promise? Was he kidding me? I did more than promise - I insisted!
It's been four weeks. Four of the best weeks of my life actually. 2: 36 still comes and goes. I'm still greeted by a shy and quiet smile. He still keeps to himself for the most part, and no matter how many times I tell him that I know, he's going to feel he needs to tell me not to over-toast his bread. Although sometimes I surprise him now. Last week I put Swiss cheese on his tomato and alfalfa sandwich. He ate it too - and didn't even complain. And guess what? Now he orders it with Swiss cheese all the time. Mostly though, life goes on just like it's done for the last four months.
Until 6:04. Because at 6:00 Logan stops being a computer systems analyst; it's when I stop being the coffee guy. It's when we rush to meet each other at the corner so we can walk home together. It's when we get to laugh about customers and clients and talk about the weather or the hockey game. 6:04 is when we get to hold hands and kiss each other until our lips swell.
6:04, I have decided, is far better than 2: 36 could ever be. 6:04, in fact, is my new most favourite time of the day. I think it will be for a while.
Copyright © 2011 AF Henley