The last Saturday of busy season is always an uncomfortable day for me. People who do their own taxes or who go to H&R Block or a similar service probably think of doing their taxes as a short, albeit painful, experience, but for clients who pay between $1,500 and $3,500 to have their 1040s prepared, the individual process stretches out a good deal, and when there are fifteen hundred such clients (plus, in many cases, the much larger work of preparing their business returns), more complicated processes come into play. The upshot of all this is that if a client doesn't have all his information to us by March 15, we reserve the right to file an extension. And if a return hasn't been prepared internally by April 5, we don't guarantee that it will get reviewed in time to meet the deadline. And all that means that there's a sort of rolling wave of work in the office. The preparers are rushing to submit their work for review by April 5, and then I and the other managers have a very rough week from April 5 to April 11 because we have to have the returns to the assemblers or we have to calculate what clients need to pay in for extensions and get them to send us checks. So most of the preparers have been in a relaxed mode for the last week, and the seasonal preparers have said goodbye, and up until yesterday afternoon, I was reviewing and calculating like mad because even though we have the cutoff dates, if something misses a deadline by a day or two, we still want to get it out so that we can bill the client for the work. But now, the administrative staff still has a very, very tough weekend ahead of it, and I'm pretty much done. But I have to come into the office because someone might have a question, and even if no one has a question, if I don't come in, people will talk.
The end of busy season is a bit like falling off a cliff. Our practice is not as seasonal as many, and I have plenty to do pretty much all year, but the transition from too much to not quite enough and from no life to evenings free is always difficult. This weekend stretches out the difficulty, so I get to think about what falling off the cliff is like. And, mostly, it's just not pleasant.
But. At least I was able to leave at 5:15 last night, which meant that I was able to make some unnecessary underwear purchases and get my hair cut and still make it to my buddy Brad's birthday party. He'd decided only Tuesday or so that he needed to celebrate, and I already had plans for later in the evening (plus I'm exhausted), but I hadn't seen him in a few months, so I told him that I'd stop by for a drink and to wish him a happy birthday. The invitation had said no gifts but that we could bring a potent potable if we wanted something specific. Longtime readers will remember that I very seriously disapprove of bring wine as a gift for the host. Unless you're very knowledgeable about wine, bring it shows a lack of imagination and hints at desperation: "I didn't know what to bring, so I did what everyone else did and went to a wine store and guessed. I hope it doesn't suck."
But I did want to bring something, and I didn't want to violate the no gifts instruction, and, as luck would have it, I had to pick YFU up from her ballet rehearsal relatively late Wednesday night, so on the way to the hall, I stopped at one of the county liquor stores and picked up a bottle (ok, two bottles: the cobbler need not go barefoot) of Plymouth London Gin, and then on the way home, we stopped at the supermarket, and I got a small bottle of very large stuffed olives and a lemon. When I got home, I put the Gin in the deep freezer in the garage, drained the brine out of the olives, took some strips of zest off the lemon, slide the zest into the olive jar, and filled it with Lillet and stuck it in the refrigerator. Then last night, when I'd showered and dressed, I put the gin and the olives in a gift back and took them over to Brad's.
I usually dread parties where I don't know anyone other than the host, but I remembered that the first time Brad and I met was when he came to our holiday party a week after first chatting with me on gay.com, so I wasn't really in a position to complain. And I had a great time. The gin and olives went over very well, and we were soon all sipping martinis. Plus, all of Brad's friends look kind of like him, meaning that they're all very tall (I'm 6'0, and I had to look up at everyone, until about an hour in, when two guys who were shorter than I arrived) and very thin. Plus, they were all older than me, and that can only be a good thing. I'm not sure it's always a good thing to be lusting after every guy at a party, but the fact that they were all doable combined with extreme fatigue kind of took the edge off.
Anyway, after ninety minutes or so, I excused myself to go home, where I'd made arrangements for Christopher to come over and have (yes, another) martini, fool around, and help me with a submissive. Christopher and I fool around just infrequently enough for me to be pleasantly surprised every time we do. I forget that he likes kissing as much as I do, and I forget that he likes having his nipples worked insistently at a moderate intensity. And since we're both tops, buttsex is off the table, and we concentrate on other things, to great effect. As always, we made out some in the foyer, then I poured us each a martini and we chatted for a while then made out for a while and so on. I mentioned that a boy was due at 10:30, but that he might not show up, and Christopher said, "Just as well," which I was thinking, too. I usually feel some sort of obligation to line up a bottom or two when Christopher is coming over, but I should probably do that less often. It's true that the last time he was over, we had a really fun fourway (with rotating talent), but on Friday night, we're both usually tired, so it might be better to enjoy each other's company. But then, once we get started, we always seem to be going at it like crazed weasels, and when there are other guys over, we go at it like crazed weasels and then fuck, which is really hot.
Anyway, I took Christopher upstairs, and we had a really great time. The boy had said he'd be there at 10:30 sharp, and I told him to call when he passed a certain intersection, about five minutes away, so when 10:30 came and went, I figured I'd been stood up, and I was cautiously glad. "Cautiously" because these guys sometimes still show up, only late, totally blowing my schedule. Really, would it be so hard for them to send me a text message? Anyway, Christopher and I kissed a great deal, and I sucked on his nipples for a semi-extended period of time (somehow he'd managed to get anti-perspirant on his left nipple, but I didn't let that stop me because I, readers, am dogged in my pursuit of the nip) while I very lightly played with his cock. He tried most of the same stuff on me, but my nips are dead, so I just kept pulling him up for more kissing. Then I went down on him for maybe five minutes (a long time for me, if you need reminding) and he went down on me for an indeterminate period of time during which I struggled to remain awake because I was so sleepy and it felt so good, though more in a comfortable than an orgasmic way. Then, finally, I sucked his nipples some more and he finished himself off by hand. He always cums so hard. I love that. He tried to get back to me, but I just wanted to lie there and hold him, and kiss occasionally.
All of which was ruined by my phone ringing at 11:00. It was the boy, telling me that he was ten minutes away. I was glad that I hadn't cum, but I was annoyed that the boy was late and hadn't called until after Christopher had cum. We lay there for a few more minutes, then I grumpily got up and put some clothes on and went downstairs to wait for the guy. Another ten minutes passed, and Christopher came down, dressed. He'd told me when the guy called and when I was getting dressed that he would just stay and watch for a while, but he got tired of waiting, and who can blame him. He's not the sort to get annoyed, and he did, after all, have a really fun berber with me, and he was sleepy even before he came over, so leaving made sense. And since I hadn't told the boy that he'd be there, it wouldn't really matter.
After a few more minutes, I figured I'd been stood up. This was not a huge surprise: this boy has been saying for months he wanted to be dominated, but he never followed through. We'd never scheduled an actual appointment before, but he'd always seemed very skittish (29 and married). Still, he was coming from DC, so he'd driven maybe 45 minutes just to call me and then bail at the last minute. I really didn't care until an hour later when I saw an email from him, saying that he'd bailed because "it didn't add up" because my voice "didn't match [my] age." What the fuck kind of excuse is that? I'd told him I was 43, and I certainly don't sound any older than 43. And I'm a bass, so I don't sound like a kid. Clearly the boy had just been frightened at being so close to actually doing it and had panicked, but it wasn't my voice. I might have sounded distracted since I was horizontal when the call came in, but, well, fuck that. Maybe I'm a little sensitive about my voice (which, by the way, is great), or maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of his excuse, but apathy briefly gave way to anger, and I roundly abused him in a reply. He deserved it, of course, but I hate it when my sangfroid slips. Or I notionally hate it: it felt kind of good last night, and now it's just something that happened.