Two lonely and sexually frustrated twenty-somethings find themselves on a late-night subway from Brooklyn: Dylan, a long-haired, bearded, lanky dude with a seductive smile; and Kyle, a younger, strikingly handsome blond wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood raised. Their eyes meet and after a couple of stops they exit the train and find themselves in Dylan’s studio apartment where sexual lusts are sated. The older sex partner gets the surprise of his life when the younger man in the hoodie reveals his dominant side and the encounter fulfills both horny dude’s fondest desires.
The next day, exhausted but exhilarated after multiple orgasms in various positions, with and without bondage, spankings, and sex toys, Kyle departs. He’s smiling broadly and wondering if Dylan will find the secret message he left behind.
The tall, lanky, swarthy, and seductive young man in his late twenties−for a trait he instantly brought to mind−entered the F train on the New York City subway system at Fifteenth Street and Prospect Park in Brooklyn, then languidly settled on the bench along the window-wall, shiny navy-blue nylon track suit encased legs sprawled out on the dirty floor in front of him. There were several distinguishing features about the character including: scraggly brown hair hanging like a veil over his face, still damp in the crown−possibly from a hasty post-sexual encounter shower; a scruffy, several days old, beard on his tanned face completing his disheveled appearance; and, scuffed white sneakers with laces in Gordian Knots and crushed heels, indicating a lazy habit of slipping on the shoes without untying the laces. Curly brown hairs cascaded from the torn neck of a grimy tee-shirt under the soiled New York Yankees jacket he wore. His half-opened eyes discreetly scanned the occupants of the subway car and alighted on another passenger already settled on the rickety car’s bench.
The selectively noticed youth, in his mid-twenties−whom I, as omniscient observer, dubbed ‘Handsome Young Man’−was equally tall though significantly thinner, with light brown locks protruding from the front of a spotless light gray hooded sweatshirt zipped up to conceal any other shirt. His legs were covered in tan denim, tapered sharply to emphasize the tight fit and ending in a trendy pair of brown canvas loafers worn without socks. He rocked unhurriedly to music from his earbuds, relaxing from a night at the current Manhattan ‘in’ gay club. Was he coming from a trick’s apartment? He seemed displeased and I read his thoughts. All the way to Coney Island−the fucking end of the subway line−for a hottie with the world’s tiniest prick. A total disaster! I’ve seen bigger pinkie fingers. He wanted to fuck me so I said “Why not?” He did buy me drinks all night, and it was so small it couldn’t hurt. Shit, the damn mini-cock kept falling out of my hole, not in deeply enough to stay. I left and am frustrated with painful blue balls.
The guy in the hoodie had downcast eyes which appeared to be focused on his cell phone, occasionally his eyes furtively darted around the subway, eventually spying the attractively unkempt new rider. Despite his less than enthralling episode with the twink he encountered at the club, the younger man is intrigued by the unorthodox appearing possible hustler. The club goer spotted the scruffy older man looking at him. Both quickly looked away−repeatedly. On the third instance, the long-haired man’s smile annoyed the younger male. Does he think I pay for sex? The fourth smile came and he relented and smiled back, raising an eyebrow to indicate interest. The pair then exchanged meaningful nods in a kind of gay telegraph. The man in the Yankee’s jacket tipped his head toward the door at the Jackson Heights stop before rising and moving to leave the train. The other younger man followed quickly, scrutinizing the unkempt looking young man’s ass as they walked up the stairs to the street. I hope he’s not rough trade−the way he smiles tells me there’ll be no money exchanging hands−but I don’t like giving a blow job and ending matters unsatisfied. I want a piece of the firm, rounded butt ahead of me.
While the preppy youth was assessing the punkish looking man’s assets, the latter is thinking too. He seems the friendly sort , maybe too compliant for my tastes, but hey… I’m horny and the John last night was a real bust. Fell into a drunken stupor with my still soft prick in his mouth−couldn’t get it hard with his half-assed sucking. Feeling dirty, I took a shower, then grabbed two fifties and a twenty−my usual price, plus tip−from his wallet before leaving for the subway.
On the sidewalk outside the subway station, they caught up together. “Glad you caught my message and followed. Name’s Dylan; fucking parents were hippies and thought Bob Dylan was the greatest.”
“Hi, I’m Kyle. No special reason for the name.”
The pair shook hands and, awkwardly silent, stood on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes before Dylan spoke. “I’ve got a studio apartment on the next street.” He pointed left. “It’s nothing fancy but has a large sofa bed−already opened in case I got lucky. Unfortunately there’s no elevator and I’m on the fourth floor.”
“Then it better be worth the climb.”
This book was added to our catalog on Friday 23 June, 2017.