Cigars, Whiskey and Baseball

I was out of town and had a few free hours.

There wasn't time to go through the rig-a-marole of CL. Scruff, Grindr or A4A would have to do.

But NYC is a sucky town in which to get laid. In some cities, the closest person to you is 4 miles - and the last if your feed is 20 miles. In NYC, your entire feed (100 folks for non-paying members, like me) can be within less than a mile. The island if filled with fudge packers or packees.

And the problem is, everyone thinks there is someone better out there than those 100 - and it almost stands to reason. Because if you move 1200 feet you'll get another 50 new folks in your feed who are closer. So no one settles on anyone....just in case.

At least that's what I tell myself when out of those 100, no one shows interest. Or no real interest. They might engage, but they rarely follow through.

One responded. He was 3 blocks away. I told him I could be there in 10.

He said he was about to go to the Eagle, but having me come over so he could light a cigar and be serviced seemed an easier thing to do.

I made it in less than 10 minutes and had the doorman announce me.

The man was as advertised:  50-ish, masculine, 6' and 200lbs. He was solid, wearing a grey t-, jeans, cowboy boots and a baseball cap.

On his coffee table were an unlit cigar, his cutter, a glass of whiskey and a remote. The Yankees game was already on and the only light emanating in the apartment.

As I got to my knees, he cut the cigar. He sat down after his cock was out and I went to work. He went to work on lighting the cigar.

Even though my head was in his crotch, with peripheral vision, I could see the light from the torch and the flames that he would make, as he got this stogie going. Soon, the smell would come. It was strong - stronger than most cigars I have smelled. It was a little intoxicating and a little nauseating at the same time.

His strong hands were at my head, not letting me up, not letting me skillfully suck his cock. No, this would be a manhandle job. His movements, his body, his cock, his pleasure. He didn't care that I had excellent cocksucking skills to make him quiver. That wasn't what this was about. It was about exerting his dominance.

I can live with that.

I worked the cock the best I could with my tongue between getting clammed down to his zipper and belt and bush. I could feel the saliva - mine - rolling down his shaft and gathering at the base of his cock.

I could feel the heat of his ash, his cigar, when he would take it out of his mouth and hold it in his hands - either atop of my head or next to my face.

Now and then I'd reach over to the table to get his whiskey for him ("that's a good faggot". He'd take some and then set the glass back. The game was always on in the background - though I never picked up on how the Yankees were doing. My mind was elsewhere.

He was demanding. He was verbal. "cocksucker", "faggot", "bitch", "piece of shit" regularly came out of his mouth. None of it forced - all very natural for him, for me and for our encounter. The hand came out too - which I loved, as I never ever had to prompt that action.

He put the cigar near my nipples. I could feel the heat there too.

I was told I was as good as a pussy. That faggots know how to suck better than women and it was the only reason I was there. He had a wedding ring on, but his profile said 'open relationship'. Who knows.

He did make a point WHILE I was blowing him that as soon as he got off, I was to get out. He wasn't overt about it. He didn't have to be. I was there for one purpose and then was to leave. No fuss. No muss. No strings.

I was told to lick his boots and I did. He wanted to FEEL the tongue. No small feat (no pun intended) to do through heavy leather. But I made those boots wet with my fucking spit. I had to - it was my job.

He (never got a name) played with my nipples like an expert. The plan was never to fuck and I never "prepped" myself for one.  But he did ask to see my hole.

Since I was down on my knees, I didn't feel right about standing up and bending over.  So I lay back, lifted my legs and spread my cheeks. His boot went to the hole. He pressed this tip into my pucker. He stepped on my hole. He stepped on my balls and cock. I said "thank you Sir!".

He kept muttering how good his cock would feel up there, breeding my hole. I never said 'no'. It wasn't my place. I never told him I didn't prep. I might have been fine, actually, just no way of really knowing. Still he never made the move to put cock to hole.

Too bad. His thick uncut cock would have stretched me out a bit. But he booted my ass while he jacked.

Soon I was back to sucking and soon he was delivering his load into my mouth.

He made me clean him up. But as soon as I was done, I was up and out the door, even securing my shorts and putting on my shirt in his hallway.

I made it down 16 flights, nodded to the doorman and headed back into the night air.