Slow Drip

Judd was over for a quickie (just over three hours) last night, and in between rounds of pounding and making out and all that other good stuff, we were chatting about his recent, ill-fated, month-long relationship with a twenty-four-year-old bottom ("I really don't know why it didn't work out." "Dude."), and then he mentioned, as if in passing, that he'd been at Starbucks at around 7am that morning and had been cruised by a guy whom he groped quickly in the bathroom and parking lot and then took back to Judd's place for a bit of slap and tickle. Or whatever the kids are calling it these days.


Naturally, I was in awe: "Man. You are bad ass. Bad fucking ass." Even though if any ass got fucked in that encounter, it was much more likely Judd's than his, um, date's. Then we spent a while discussing the details of the pick-up (i.e., everything between walking into the Starbucks and driving out of the parking lot), but we got off topic when I asked him what he usually gets at Starbucks, and he tried to explain to me what a quad was. It's tax season: I'm intimately familiar with the quad, though I'm impressed that he fits his quad into a grande. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given how eager he always is to take a grande between his quads. (Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week.)


Apparently, Judd hadn't cruised anyone in a public place in some (many, perhaps) years, and I gather that Starbucks isn't as popular for anonymous hooking up as is, say, Home Depot, but perhaps I should be a trifle less oblivious when I'm next ordering my venti. But I only go to Starbucks when I'm in desperate need of caffeine, so being alert to the possibilities of dark-roast love seems unlikely. One of the afternoon baristas is awfully cute, and I may have fantasized about what he and I could do after hours with a locked door and the whipped cream canister, but I generally daydream about that sort of thing when I'm back in my office, after the caffeine has kicked in. That is, if it works at all. One of my associates stopped by my office the other day to ask if I was ok. "You look sleepy," she said. "Listen," I replied, "at this time of the year, I only have two looks: sleepy and asleep."


Last night may have been the first time when I didn't fall asleep while lying with Judd. Normally, we have sex for ninety minutes, we fall asleep, we chat for a while, we fuck again, and then I hold him while we chat some more until he finally follows through on his threat to get dressed and go home. But last night, as happens a lot lately, I pounded him intensely and thoroughly for an extended period, but I couldn't cum. So we chatted and made out some more, but I didn't fall asleep. I fucked him a second and third time, but I still didn't cum. He wanted to cum, but he was having some trouble making it happen, so I had him lie next to me, his head by my feet, and we jerked each other off while I told him about how I used to do the same thing with my best friend when I was thirteen or so. I managed to make it very erotic, but he still didn't cum until he took matters into his own hands, and I put three fingers from one hand back inside his ass and pressed his prostate as hard as I could. It was intense.


I had already worked his nipples nearly as hard as I've ever worked anyone's. He responded very favorably to that, but after an extended chewing, it finally got to be too much. I have, though, received several texts from him today telling me how horny he is and how he keeps rubbing his sore nipples, which is making him even hornier. He asked me what he should do, and I gave him the obvious response: "Go to Starbucks." And when he texted back that he'd tried that already, I gave him some additional advice that's always sound: "Wear tighter jeans."


I hope he wasn't angling for a return invitation tonight. I mean, I'd invite him back, but if he wants to come over, he should just come right out and say so. He's usually busy Saturday nights, so I assume he's not free unless he tells me otherwise. Also, I'm a little bit exhausted today, and another night of extended pounding (I mean, seriously, why can't I just cum after ten minutes, like everyone else?) might be more than would be good for me. I think that tonight might be a good night to make some soup, read a book, watch a movie, and not chase boys. Besides, Nike texted me three times last night while I was fucking Judd. He's probably spending tonight with one of his girlfriends, but if not, I can always have him over for some head. Not making plans is the closest I come to leaving my sex life in the hands of fate.