The Next(11)

And this was a man standing at the window facing my apartment groping his dick through his pants.

What the hell?

I traced his hand to his arm, to his broad shoulders, to his white  collared neck, to his defined jawline, and then to his deep set dark  eyes. They were directed not at my window, but at the window of the  floor above mine.

Holy shit!

Ruben just moved in and was already putting on a show for the neighbors.  What kind of professionalism did they teach those lovelies at  Juilliard, anyway? But I thought Mr. Perfect was straight. He had a  family who had only just exited the door to go play in the snow for the  weekend.

A closeted faggot in Manhattan? That'd be an anomaly.         

     



 

Marzoli's sarcasm rebounded in my brain. Yes, but in all the time I'd  lived here and observed Mr. and Mrs. Perfect, I never once saw anything  to indicate the husband would do what he was now doing.

He pulled down his fly and burrowed through the dark pants to retrieve  his pole. He dangled his fleshy white dick in front of his dark charcoal  trousers. The white meat bobbed up and down at first. Mr. Perfect put  his arms up above his shoulders and braced his hands against the window,  providing Ruben upstairs with a perfectly unobstructed view of his  dick. His trousers inched their way down his thick hairy thighs, then  dropped past his knees to his ankles.

Ruben must have been putting on some kind of performance, because Mr.  Perfect's pole pulsated from a southward pointing direction to a  northward pointing direction without any assistance from his hands. Mr.  Perfect bit his lower lip with his perfect teeth, indicating a desire  that came directly from his groin. I could almost hear a guttural  rasping moan pushing its way through his esophagus and past his moist  lips. His dick thrust slightly forward, hardening and reddening at the  head.

It occurred to me just then that if I could observe this, others could  too. But that was not possible. Perfect's bedroom window was recessed  and flanked by three, tall, fortunately positioned trees. The retail  level of my building had no courtyard windows, and the floor above Ruben  had a wide, unused balcony that prevented any direct views down. I'd  never realized until that moment that Ruben and I had the only clear  view of Mr. and Mrs. Perfect's bedroom window.

Mr. Perfect wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his hard shaft,  pumping it slowly. He moistened his lips with his tongue, his gaze  directed to Ruben's window. His eyelids settled halfway down as he  indulged in the pleasure of his fist reaching the tenderness of his  rod's head and then retracted on a slow tight descent to the base.

I felt my own dick hardening. Was it the sight of a man that caused this  reaction? Or was it the illicitness of the situation that caused it? Or  was it a malicious enjoyment of something more sickly subversive? Was  it the successful and powerful leveled to depravity by the need for  something no position at the head of a board meeting table could  provide? That no conformity to family virtues could provide? That no  trip to the weekend house with the wife and kids could provide? That no  jump in the market could provide? The king jacking off for the hot pawn  across the court meant the king could be had for the price of a pound of  twinkie flesh, and this satisfaction shot my rod to a smug erection.

Wrapping my lips around her nipple and tracing it with my tongue, causing her low moan.

Thoughts of Johanna's body flashed into my brain as I watched Mr. Perfect's stroking increase in intensity.

The warm flesh between Johanna's vagina and her hole.

Mr. Perfect flung off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was  solid and hairy, and his ripped abdomen contracted and expanded as he  jacked his rod up and down.

Was the thing that turned me on the most about Johanna the same leveling  of status? The queen leveled by the tonguing of one of her subjects?  Was that all it had been? Surely more …

Mr. Perfect's fisting had reached a frenzy. He had to be close now.  Through the ceiling, I heard a faint moan. Ruben had reached his climax.  Mr. Perfect responded by suspending the stroking and holding a tight  vice grip on the head of his dick. With the wrenching of his abdomen,  his cum splattered against the window glass. Thick strands of semen  followed the initial onslaught in short firings, striping the window in  white gelatinous lines which immediately oozed down the pane.

You bad, nasty, naughty King!

Mr. Perfect once again let his meat dangle as he lifted his arms and  braced himself against the window with his hands, recovering his breath.  He lowered his head. I could tell by his energy that he would not  acknowledge Ruben again tonight. Shame? Or the inordinate adeptness to  compartmentalize? I did not know, but Mr. Perfect did not lift his eyes  again. Rather, he turned away from the window and went toward the  bathroom, turning the lights off and plunging the room into darkness.  The show was over. Get your purse from under the seat and go home.

My rod had already softened, having made no stops of pleasure along  tonight's train ride. When was the last time I'd had an orgasm? Couldn't  remember.

Marzoli's full lips. His neck. His voice. His gentle dark eyes.

What the fuck!

No!

What the hell was I thinking about a dude like Marzoli for? I'd  fantasized sparingly through my life about man-on-man blow jobs, but  only with some larger-than-life slab of muscle I'd absolutely no  personal connection with. I'd justified those rare fantasies by the need  for novelty and too much wine. There was no pining involved, no more  emotional attachment than one has for bacon.         

     



 

But now … with Marzoli …

He'd touched my shoulder. He'd looked into my eyes. He was so much more  than bacon. I'd be an idiot to think about … about his lips … his chest … his  jawline …

Ughh.

Why the fuck would I choose to entertain the hope for something I may  never get? Why? One more new disappointment … one more new failure … one  more new reason to despise myself … and I just might … who the fuck knows?

If I could, I would re-center by surfing for some straight porn and try  to normalize. Try to let fly some of this frustration. If I had internet  connectivity.

If I could connect.

I swallowed hard, shoved my dick back into safety, and zipped up my pants.

Andrea Bocelli's heartbreak was reaching an epic climax.

Jesus fucking Christ! Turn that shit off!

As if hearing and taking pity, the Princess took one more look at her  doll face in the mirror, tussled her hair one last time, clicked off the  CD player, and departed down the hall. The lights flicked off.

Have a good date, Princess. I hope he appreciates your perfection. He probably won't, but he should. I do.





Chapter Nine

Paul glanced at me with fear in his eyes.

He was waiting for me to cue our escape from the crook of the tree  overlooking Jessie on his knees and the boy standing over him, staring  at us with rage in his eyes.

The boy shoved Jessie to the side.

"Go!" I commanded.

Paul scrambled down to the ground as fast as he could, his feet  searching for branches big enough to sustain his weight. He snapped the  small ones, sending him down several feet as his arms flailed to find  something to keep him from plummeting the rest of the way.

The furious boy darted toward our tree, slowed only by his attempt to  shove his still erect rod back into his jeans and zip them up without  gouging it.

"Hurry!" Paul screamed as he finally leaped five feet to the ground.

My left foot found one branch, and I put all of my weight on it, but it  snapped. I began to fall. I grabbed the root of the branch to catch  myself, but the jagged daggers of splintered wood gouged my forearm,  scraping a thick red line into my skin. All I could do was dig my tennis  shoes into the bark and spread my arms out in the chance that a branch  would catch and break my plummet.

One branch hit my armpit, jolting my body with pain. I swung my other  arm to grasp the branch, clinging fifteen feet above the ground.

"Jesus, Paul! Run!" I ordered.

In the distance, I heard Jessie cry, "Leave them alone!"

Paul took off as fast as he could down the hill toward the stream just  as the angry blond kid reached the base of my tree, the Swiss Army knife  clenched tightly in his white knuckled grasp.

Gentle Debussy arpeggios wafted down through the ceiling.

I woke up in a sweat.

Was it past three o'clock already?

I'd spent the day trying to finish an old song before the sun set. This  song was hardly the result of a burst of creativity and inspiration. I'd  written it two years ago, but considered it too precious and hammy to  put my name to it, so I deleted it, leaving many of the chords  unspecified and the initial slapped-on baseline unchanged. However, I'd  not emptied the trash and decided to unearth it. Indeed, "Paralyzed" had  a cheese factor of twelve out of ten, but anything better was just a  hop, skip, and jump the distance of about twenty Verrazano bridges away  from me.