Borrowing Just

Chapter 3: StrangerBear

Chapter 3: StrangerBear

Armin left my apartment, which allowed me time to relax. I took a long nap, tossed a few grapes into my tummy, and then decided to write an article for my editor, Robert Teeson, of the City Speaker, a small and liberal voice in Pittsburgh that expressed local politics, current events, alternative sports, arts, and leisure. My current article was on a gay writer named Jake Harding. The piece explained the author's history, hobbies, family, lovers/partners, and his current gay mystery titled Little Lost Boy.

Bored with my apartment, I focused on the new coffee shop on Bessner Lane, which was only two blocks away. The drip was cozy, friendly, and a queer man’s delight. There, I decided to have a Guatemalan brew and churn out my 500 words in the process.

Settled in a low-back chair with the hardest seat imaginable on the planet, Kayson served me my chosen cup of coffee at a two-person table. The queer Jamaican smiled from ear to ear, stood over me for a second or two, and said, “Benry Noir, the writer at work.”

“It’s really not writing,” I confessed. “It’s more like putting facts together on paper. There’s hardly any creativity or slant involved.”

“You make it look like writing.” His brown skin shinned with such beauty, and his cerulean-colored eyes shimmered with zest and zeal. Kayson used to be a professional rugby player in Jamaica. Here, he served the best coffee and tea around, which he sometimes gave me for free.

Eventually, he scuttled away and left me to my article. I processed one hundred words, pondered a few thoughts, word choices, structure, and built something solid on my laptop, tapping away at the keys.

Someone to my right in the drip was watching me. I turned my head in their direction and saw that a Just Marr look-alike sat in a Danish modern chair with his legs parted and a cup of coffee in his right hand. Hungry for his attention, I winked. He winked back. And before I knew it, the man was sitting across from me and started complimenting on my blond hair and bottom-of-the-ocean blue eyes.

StrangerBear was smoking hot, I concluded. He had dull blue eyes, a curly blond haircut, broad shoulders, a tight tummy compiled of pumped abs, a five-eleven frame, and thick legs in a pair of ass-snug jeans. I licked my lips, complimented him on his sloped nose, and said stupidly: “Aren't you a sweet looking Pop-Tart?”

An hour later, I was underneath the stranger, naked and compressed to his mattress. He pounded his uncut nine inches into my tight bottom, pulled out, pressed it inside again, and huffed repeatedly over my right shoulder. I felt his chest and muscular weight against my back. Each c**k-pump was like being trampled by an elephant—rough, and not at all elegant, powerful blows. I clamped my fists to his white sheets, gritted my teeth, and felt my d**k ride against the bed, building friction, a greedy orgasm, and explosion.

Sweat connected his chest to my back. His closely shaven beard brushed against the back of my neck and my right cheek.

“Alan,” escaped the stranger once as he pumped me. Truth was, I would have found it completely odd that he had called me by someone else's name, but I was under his s****l care, which was amazing, and seemed to enjoy his ride a little too much.

“It’s Benry,” I mumbled, correcting him.

He really didn’t give a flying f**k what my name was and panted and moaned overtop me. The guy banged my bottom with his passion, held my arms down against the mattress with his own arms, and grunted, “I’m going to shoot.”

It wasn’t my concern, to speak the truth. I was too busy enjoying his d**k inside my rear. I had already blown my load against his queen-size bed seconds before, and smeared sticky come on his fresh sheets. To humor him, I whispered, “Do it. And don't be shy about it.”

After he pulled his d**k out of my ass, removed its condom, and stroked himself off three consecutive times with both palms (I viewed that action over my right shoulder, mind you), his white come sprayed against my back, one of my shoulders, and in my hair. Numerous groans escaped the man and more come splattered against my skin. I swear, a vat of the s**t covered my body, drowning me.

Post-sexed, I showered. StrangerBear had the cleanest bathroom I had ever seen in my entire life. After my shower, I slipped back into my clothes and studied him in semi-sleep on his bed. His eyes were partly closed, as well as his lips, and he had a weak look of pleasure smeared over his bearish face. The c**k between his legs was limp and motionless. In his sleep, he murmured, “Alan, your money is on the night stand. Three hundred, right?”

What the f**k was he talking about? Money on the night stand? Three hundred dollars? My attention was drawn to the three hundred dollar bills on the walnut night stand next to a paperback copy of Naked: Musings from a Broken Heart by Willem Schutte. And then it struck me like a wall that StangerBear thought I was a guy by the name of Alan. A hustler of all things, hired to spend some c**k-time with him. No wonder he called me that strange name during our heated connection just a half hour before.

Okay, I admit now, greed and laughter took over my entire body. I humored StrangerBear and said, “Yeah, three hundred.” Then, I snatched up the money from the night stand and stashed it in the front pocket of my jeans.

StrangerBear said from his bed, “Don’t tell Vicky we f**k around like this. She’ll divorce me and take all my money.”

So, the Just Marr look-alike was married and played straight with his wife. I wondered what other secrets he had, but decided it was time to go. I responded to his demand with, “It’s all business, man. Thanks for the f**k. I hope we can do it again sometime soon.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

A minute later, I walked out of his apartment with my iPad strapped over my right shoulder, three hundred bucks in my pocket for a fantastic s*x-romp with the beefy, and a smile of happiness on my face.