. . . Talking dirty with a dick in your mouth is a challenging, though frequent, request. I use my hand to jerk him off, my tongue focused on the tip, while occasionally swallowing the whole thing, rattling off a steady stream of variations on “I love your cock!” and “give me your cum!” He takes a bottle of poppers from the table next to him and holds it to his nose for a long inhale. Within 15 seconds he explodes, his head falling back. I’m not even vaguely hard.
I pat his thighs and announce I’m making a quick trip to bathroom. It’s as cluttered as the rest of the space; dandruff cures, pain relievers and hemorrhoid ointments lining the shelves. The tissue box is wrapped in a knitted baby blue cover. I splash my face with water, take a swig of mouthwash and dab the precum from my dick with some pink toilet paper. I’m not sure what the next task is; whether he wants to cum again, just watch me jerk off, or something else. When I return, he’s back at the table, cigarette in hand.
Self-conscious of my flaccidity, I pull my underwear on, returning to the chair in front of my Budweiser. There’s an envelope lying next to it with my name written on it; presumably my fee. According to the clock we still have 25 minutes. He seems content to make conversation, almost as if nothing has happened. He asks me how long I’ve been working, what I like sexually, if I have a boyfriend. He tells me he hires a guy at least once a week, sometimes twice if work is exceptionally stressful.
Just before the hour is up, I casually announce I should get going. He looks a little sad, but then perks up and says, oddly formally, “well that was a pleasure. Hope to see you again.” I find my way back into my clothes, grab the envelope off the table and tuck it in my bag. He’s waiting to hold the door open for me and there’s a slight moment of awkwardness as he offers to shake my hand like we’ve just inked a business deal. I can’t help but laugh at the gesture and I step closer to him, wrapping my arms around his waist as I give him a kiss on the lips. As I step away he’s beaming wider than he has all night.
I continue to meet the MOB regularly. Sometimes I’ll see him three or four times in a two-week span, then hear nothing for months. But he always comes back. The sessions are always the same; five minutes of sex with close to an hour of conversation broken up on either side. As we continue to meet, our talks become deeper. We recount stories of unhappy childhoods, freaky sexual encounters and broken hearts. I offer advice on cleaning his cassette deck (the cigarette smoke is causing his tapes to skip). He buys me a new wallet for Christmas.
The dynamic initially perplexes me. Why repeatedly drop hundreds for what amounts to little more than masturbating with someone else in the room? But it gradually dawns on me that the sex we have is incidental. What he’s really paying for is the conversation. While he’s seemingly content puffing away on his cigarettes, hating the world and waiting to die, he can’t do it completely alone. However much of a crotchety misanthrope he pretends to be, even a Miserable Old Bastard needs a little companionship sometimes.
(Photo by Tony Fong)