Read the story 'Four Times In Room 230' by Daniel M. Jaffe. (And if you're a fan of Jaffe, take a look at yesterday's post for another of his stories from his collection Jewish Gentle.)
I hear you from around the corner, from behind the wall, your voice soft and firm, telling another man to turn around. I eavesdrop for moans.
Others walk by me, muscular men, lean men, who size me up in the shadows of Chicago’s baths, who notice the hair coating my chest, my pudgy waist; they sashay quickly past.
I hear a sigh from around the corner. You or the other? I reach beneath my white towel, excitement growing at men’s sounds. I think to steal a glance around the corner, but you might want privacy in this public space; some do; I don’t wish to annoy because, even though another occupies your maze-lair now, later the chance could be mine.
Whether or not we actually meet, I decide, you will be the memory I leave with tonight, the grizzly wraith I’ll conjure when, later at the hotel, I telephone my lover back in Boston, when I make him playfully envious of my night’s harmless romp.
From behind your corner steps a man, tall and hairless and thin. Oh. Is that what you want — smooth and lanky? I haven’t a chance.
Then you emerge, tall and thick, hair covering your full chest, your solid belly, brown hair tangling down somewhere behind the towel. And yes, a beard, yes.
You walk, notice me, stop. You stop still. Stock still, two arm-lengths away. Your eyes, I see your eyes seeing mine and you stand there still. Maybe? Maybe I should — ? Or maybe you’ll slap my hand away, mock with a laugh?
Hell, I’ll take the chance.
I step forward, reach out, graze the back of my knuckles against your chest and . . . you move toward me. I splay out my hands, fill each with hairy flesh, your nipples hard against my palms, your hair entwining my fingers, and you reach out to me, stroke my upper arms, reach around me, pull me close, bend your head down to nuzzle the hair swirling on my left shoulder.
Your Fuller Brush beard against my shoulder, my left, then my right. “Turn around,” you whisper and I, usually resistant to command, obey without question. You reach your arms, your hands around me; my nipples between your thick fingertips. Ahh. Gentle nuzzling, beard against back of neck, tongue in my right ear, my left, and someone else, some unknown hand reaches out in the darkness to grab at my hard-on meant for you, he squeezes — did you know? Your arms around me, your thick arms, your arms pulling me close, you pressing against me, all of you against me, around me. A whispered invitation to your room.
I disengage from the anonymous groping hand to follow you, watching as you lumber just a bit side to side and stomp, your feet thumping against the indoor-outdoor carpeting, your calf muscles flexing, your butt now tightening, now releasing beneath the white towel, fine damp hair filming your back, light brown hair to match the ponytail half-matted with sweat.
A cold, late December night, but Room 230 is warm.
Inside, towels off, I reach up to embrace you. You look down at me. Your thick mustache against mine, your wet lips covered in soft bristle, your tongue reaching to soothe.
You want to know — do I like massage? Is oil okay?
For you, this Yogi Bear with blue eyes and gentle touch, I lie face down, my eyes blinded by pillow. So unlike me, usually wary and guarded and closed, to lie on my belly for a stranger, to lie vulnerable, unable to see an approach from behind.
You kneel over me, straddle me, your heavy cock and balls brush my ass, I hear the rub of your hands together warming the oil. You begin with my shoulders. Ahh. Gentle and firm, strong, deep, ahh. Shoulders and back and butt, your fingertips along my butt, gently inside and — oh oh oh, tongue replacing fingers, beard against my ass, tongue deep, oh oh oh — then your hands on my thighs, on calves, on feet. You lift my feet one at a time, take charge of my feet as if to assure yourself I won’t run away, you fill your mouth with my feet, toe by toe, your tongue in between, your beard, the bristles.
Violin tremors. Chocolate ice cream chills.
Your mouth between my toes then up my calves, your tongue, again my butt — oh God — and up, your tongue along my spine, your beard, you take my arms between your hands, my thin hairy arms between your thick fingers and you . . . do something . . . some rubbing or squeezing or kneading, I can’t even tell, but my fingertips feel ready to ejaculate blood.
“Are you relaxed?”
You roll me onto my side then, I open my eyes to see you lie down facing me on the narrow cot. I want to feel all of you, your body, I nuzzle your eyes and your beard and taste your massage-oil lips, your tongue with the flavor of my butt, and I clutch your face, probe my tongue deep into your mouth so deep it drags out half my chest, I fill you with me and you squeak, a little river-otter squeak of delight, your blue eyes squeezed shut at the force of my tongue against yours, my hands filled with your beard, me shifting us both so I lie on top of you, rubbing hairy chest against chest, kissing you, not pulling away, not letting you pull away, breathing your breath, filling your lungs with mine, your arms around me, your hands grabbing my ass, our cocks against each other and you, you whimpering sweet surrender and trumpeting conquest: “Fuck me.”
A moment of preparation — me kneeling, sliding it on, lifting your heavy legs to my shoulders — slipping in. I tell myself I should focus on the tingles, the sensations of your hands on my chest, my cock inside you, but it’s your face that fills my mind, your beautiful face, your hair, your beard, your chest, your eyes again squeezing shut, your head snapping right and left, your moans, your groans loud now from the gut, your growls, you not caring who in other rooms, in the hall, on upper floors might hear your howls and roars and we are two bears rutting a winter summons and challenge to spring.
Your sounds wane to whispers, I slow, your eyes open and you tell me I’m the most this in the world, the best that, and again I gently pound my belly against the backs of your thighs, filling you as deeply as I can, slowly now. I thrust. Your eyes shut. Again the moans. And again the roars and you gasp, motion me to stop. You’ve come twice, without even touching yourself.
Your thighs down, I lie on top of you, satisfied that you’re satisfied; you look away and say the most romantic phrase I’ve ever heard: that if you stare into my eyes, you will come yet again.
We shift so I’m on my back, you’re on your side, your head resting on my chest, your hand playing with my gray hairs among the brown, and I hear that same joy whimper as before, I hug you closer.
“I’d fall asleep on your chest,” you say, “but I’d lose my heart.” This is a statement, but also perhaps a question, a tentative request for permission.
I so want you to fall asleep against my chest, to lose your heart to me, but I’ve no right, holding, as I do, the heart of another back home who holds my own. What is this need to forage and hunt when the larder is full?
So we talk. You of your home in Seattle, me of home in Boston, his home and mine. You whimper again, perhaps in residual joy, perhaps in regret. I’m sorry and I’m glad.
You’re a cellist, you explain, come here to Chicago to audition for the symphony the day after next; I’m here for a conference of literature professors, will leave town tomorrow. A chance encounter. You say: if your relationship ever ends, not that I hope it will, but if . . .
Sweet sweet sweet.
What is this capacity to share so with a stranger, to feel tenderness toward a furry wanderer amid shadows? To meet and within minutes to trust, to place ourselves in each others’ hands, to trust our bodies, our eyes, to trust the perimeters of our hearts?
We kiss again, you make me hard. You caress my balls as we kiss and I suck in your tongue, vacuum your mouth while your finger enters my ass, index finger or thumb or both or more. Inside me, I feel you inside me. I pump my cock with my hand and instead of the usual quick surge to Everest, I rise slowly to foothills, then higher amid brambles, your fingers inside me, your hand, maybe your arm, your shoulder, your head climbing in while I rise to a ledge, hear moans, my moans, feel your ponytail tease the tip of my cock, and my back arches for you to crawl up inside me, pound me, fill me up and up and up until peak after peak after peak.
I’m in a swirl of darkness, feel only the heaving of my chest, then you pull out your hand, I hear you stroke, you come onto me.
I gasp, breathe deep, sit up, sit up straight, try to clear my head. I stare into your blinking eyes, pull your head down to my lap, the back of your head on my lap, your face looking up at mine, your lips, I graze your bearded lips, our eyes lock, you whisper, “I see your heart behind your eyes,” you reach down to yourself and . . . a fourth time.
You are amazed at your fourth time. I am amazed at your fourth time. To come four times, you are not bear but lion. To be able to inspire such vigor, I feel myself lion as well.
More whispers and caresses, nipple tweaks and hugs, sincere declarations of how special and what a fantasy. Completely sincere. Sighs. Exchange of addresses on matchbooks.
A final kiss. Final for now, we say, knowing it’s likely final for always.
I leave Room 230, shower and dress, bundle up, leave the bathhouse, take a taxi through the windy cold to my hotel.
I could have invited you to the hotel with me, could have tempted you to count beyond four, could have tried for a record of my own. But if I had, if I had made you risk losing your heart, if I had risked losing my own, if I had lost it, how could I then telephone my lover, as I’m now about to do, and make him smile at an honest, lusty tale?