What's For Lunch, Baby? by Lev Raphael
“You know, all my other middle-aged gay friends are griping about their saggy butts.” Nicole slides into the cracked pleather booth seat opposite me in the diner filled with laughter and the savor of 20th-century house specialties--paddy melts and spicy fries--which we both always order.
It’s noon and the servers seem to glide between tables as if they were wearing inline skates, making the big square room feel somewhat hip despite its worn, bland brown-and-beige décor and mock-terrazzo floor in the same colors. They’re all twentyish men and seem ordered from a catalogue: tall, lean, beautifully morose. And they all go commando so you can tell who’s cut and who isn’t. I’ve never asked the manager if this was his idea or the servers’ but it makes lunch an extra-enticing meal. Nobody has ever complained.
Nicole and I check the servers out each time without, I hope, being obvious. My favorite is the only blond and he looks naturally fit, not augmented or chem-charged in any way. Six feet or a bit more, he’s newish and his eyes are green and blue. That’s right, one of each. His name tag says he’s Dustin and he has the high, tight round butt of a hockey player. It makes my mouth water every time I think about it at home and I jerk off sometimes three times a day imagining lying on top of him and rubbing my cock along his super-tight ass crack. Frottage is my current kink—and nobody’s tried to make that illegal. Not yet anyway.
Dustin is also clearly uncut and that intrigues me. My ex- taught me how to handle a sweatered cock and despite our years together, I relished what felt like a surprise or gift whenever he was hard and I started on the very long foreskin that still covered the head even when he was fully erect. It was like an unveiling as I would slide his foreskin back slowly, so slowly that it sometimes could make him cum before I could even start to lick and suck.
***
A former dancer and model-turned-decorator-turned-AI mitigator, whatever that means, Nicole is a blast of color today: frothy, shoulder-length red hair, lime-green skirt and twin set worn ironically (how does she do that?), pink cheeks, blood-red nails. She’s a Leo and always makes a show-stopping entrance.
“So tell me about your butt.” She’s arranging her old-style cutlery and unfolding the black cloth napkin in her lap with precision. We love nostalgia and never have virtual lunches.
I blush at her question. Lately, despite years of working out with a trainer and even getting a Brazilian butt lift, I feel like my ass is somehow drifting away from me like beach sand in a subtle breeze. It’s a quiet calamity that I’ve kept to myself. Even though I’ve always been skinny, for some genetic reason my ass developed into very squeezable globes when I was a teenager, and running kept it that way for years. Until now. My late forties.
Men have loved my ass since I was legal, wanted to drag me into a shower to lovingly soap it up, slip a finger or two inside, then fuck me right there, hard, as they pinned me to the shower wall, grabbing my hips like this was their Last Chance Fuck.
I loved being dominated that way, but it was even better when we were dried off and they would use their tongues to make me as wet as possible with licking and probing, and boy, some dudes have really powerful, long tongues that help you mount that stairway to heaven. A tongue like that can be as hot as a great cock--if the guy knows what he’s doing (somebody should publish Rimming for Dummies).
“Where’d you go?” Nicole asks, frowning, which only makes her more delectable.
I reply to her previous request with what I hope is a quip: “You can’t put in what God left out.”
She nods and starts to gripe charmingly about her job, using words and phrases that could be Hungarian for all their comprehensibility. Then she shifts to clearer territory: her boobs and gravity. I commiserate.
We can say anything to each other. Well, almost. I subscribe to a number of froterotica listservs under a pseudonym and from an end-to-end encrypted email service. She doesn’t know any of that.
When lunch comes, I dive into the fries that are so flavorful and crisp you could weep. My ass be damned. I’m with my best friend for twenty years, eating the best diner food in our town.
We eat silently for a while, awash in pleasure. Then Nicole leans forward and says, “I think Dustin has been checking you out since I sat down.”
Eyeing Dustin discretely, I realize it’s time for me to dominate. I guess that’s called an epiphany. I need to find out when his shift ends, if he’s into what I am—or even close—and I already see him lying face down on my purple sheets with my cum splattered all up his back and into his hair. I may be middle-aged but I can still shoot quite far, and when I jerk off lying down it even goes flying past my head. Maybe I’ll just straddle him when he’s on his back and show off my fireworks. And then knock on his back door because I have always like second helpings.
Dustin is suddenly at our table asking if everything tastes good and when he glances to my plate he says,
“It looks like you need more fries.”
Oh yes, I do, I really do.
Lev Raphael's recent fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in The Smart Set, Spellbinder, The Gay & Lesbian Review and dozens of other online and print journals. He grew up in NYC but got over it when he fell in love in and with Michigan.
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