Handjob

The entryphone buzzed but no one said anything when I answered it, so I went to the window, to see a workman leaving the entrance to go down the street.  I opened the window to ask which number he wanted.  Diana keeps her phone off the hook and workmen buzzing her go away if not answered.  He said he wanted to be laid.  “I’ll come back later,” he went on, on my pause to take this in.  “I’m working,” I said, writing out Quentin’s forty-third birthday party.  “That’ll be right,” he said, going back to the door, expecting to be let in.  I went back to the window, opening it to shout, “You have to buzz.”  He did.  I pressed the button which released the outside door catch.  When he didn’t appear, I opened my own door to see where he’d gone.  He came through the stairwell door, “I went the wrong way,” or something such, he said, smiling.  “Are you Ian?” I asked, because there had been an Ian who’d come back for sex after a period of years.  “No, I’m Wayne.”  The name meant nothing to me.  “Do you want me to take my shoes off?”  I’d had people take their shoes off when I had a new carpet fitted on retirement, about eleven years ago.  He looked in his late forties, grey, not bad looking.  He dropped his bag on the kitchen floor, “You’ve lived here a long time.”  He said something about having visited before, as if lately.  “Do you want a condom?”  “No, you said if I was ever passing, and I’m in the neighbourhood, you’d give me a handjob.”  It wasn’t likely I’d ever have said that or used the word, ‘handjob’.  It was most unlikely I had given any man a handjob before the convict with whom I’d more sex than with anyone or, more recently, a one-off with Yvann.  The only handjob per se I could remember before that was the Turk who’d taken me out of Istanbul in his dolmus.  Like the Turk, this man assumed I would be willing to, and he wasn’t wrong.  I felt quite easy about it.  He dropped his bottoms, “I’ve an erection already.”  I went for a towel I keep in the closet, shook it out on the bed where he lay naked on his back.  I took all my clothes off and lubricant from a drawer which I squeezed into my right hand with which I gave him a handjob, periodically spitting into it to improve lubrication.  The saliva was flecked with brown from the hot X bun I was eating when interrupted.  I sat astride his balls to add pressure.  A bit plump, his skin was nice.  He shut his eyes, occasionally raising his head to look, maybe to see his own ejaculate when it would come.  He wasn’t interested in my cock or touching me, keeping his hands away.  “You can stop now,” he said.  “You haven’t come.”  “I did a little.  Can I use the towel?”  “You can use the bathroom.”  “This’ll do.”  He pulled on his bottoms.  “Thank you, friend.”  “There was another boy with you.”  “Martin, I think.”  “How old were you?”  “Nineteen.  Where’s my bag!”  “You put it down,” I was seeing him out.

The only incident that’d come to mind from thirty years or so ago was when Stephen brought two boys back we’d seen while out together and at one point they left the room and then scarpered.  “What was that about?” I’d asked him.  It wasn’t as if we were any danger to them.  I looked out the diaries I had pre-computer and none covered the eighties.  I might have got Wayne’s present age wrong but, if he was a visiting workman at most twelve years ago, he certainly wasn’t thirty-one now.  I’m plumping for the two boys scenario because my unconscious will said one of them would come back if not in the near future.  I’d hoped it’d be the one I liked but my will kept shtum at that point, indicating to me it’d be the other one, another reason for putting the future return out of mind.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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