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Marking Time
by Rich D. (richdinmd45@yahoo.com)

***

A young man alone in the city finds his only lifeline 
to the real world is AOL. Will he hook up with his new-
found friend, also alone in the city and staying at the 
same hotel, or chicken out as before? (MM, 1st-gay-
expr)

***

I tried not to think about it. It wasn't easy. I was 
away from home for the first time and homesickness had 
bushwhacked the sense of independence I had expected . 

The telephone rang and I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Martin, is that you?" 

"Yes, Mom." I kept any sound of relief out of my voice.

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I was worried about you. You hadn't called me since 
yesterday."

"It's only 4:40, Mom," I pointed out. "You're not even 
home yet."

She hesitated. I heard road noise in the background 
which meant she was probably still on I-270, heading 
north. I imagined what she was wearing, what her day 
was like, what she and Dad would have tonight for 
dinner. In other words, all things I usually never 
thought about. 

More cautiously, she asked: "How did your interview 
go?"

I didn't compare her to a nagging Jewish mother as I 
had intended. Instead, I moderated my tone. "Actually, 
not bad. The Human Resources guy was kinda cool. He had 
already seen two dozen people for the position but no 
one even near my age. My credentials impressed him."

"Of course they did," she said proudly, which brought 
back my annoyance. I controlled it though. 

"He pretty much let on that I was ahead of the pack, or 
at least high up in the running. I agreed to meet him 
and some other bigwigs for dinner tonight." 

"Oh Martin!" she caroled. "How wonderful! You wear your 
blue suit, okay? No, the brown one, maybe with a blue--
"

"Mom," I warned.

"Okay, okay. Wear what you want to, honey. I know 
you'll make the right decision." She sounded slightly 
wounded. "Just make your best impression, okay?"

"I always make a good impression, Mom. You know that."

Her sigh was very motherly. "I know. You make me so 
proud of you, Martin."

I got her off the phone and unpacked my khaki Dockers 
and my light blue Ralph Lauren shirt and the blue and 
gray silk tie. I wanted to make an impression, but of a 
relaxed and in-command applicant, not an ass-kisser. 
Everyone at that place, secretaries to the mail-room 
kid to the Executive VP's, were a bunch of Class-A 
super-overachievers with 2x4's the size of Saturn 
rockets shoved up their asses. The only cool person I'd 
met that day was Tim, the Human Resources guy--and he 
was probably trained that way. 

I ironed my clothes, took a shower, put my clothes on 
and went downstairs to catch a cab. The hotel was on 
55th Street, the restaurant was on 40th. Maryland born 
and bred, I knew as much about the Big Apple as I did 
Peoria, Illinois. 

I let the doorman flag down a taxi for me and gave the 
driver the name of the restaurant and the address. He 
got there in ten minutes but made enough turns to 
baffle a mapmaker. 

"Thank you," I said, getting out. "Will I have much 
problem getting a cab back to the hotel later on?"

He laughed--even his laughter had an accent--and he 
reminded me that I was white, well-dressed and in the 
best part of town. "You could fall off into the gutter 
at three a.m. and two dozen cabbies would try and pick 
you up." At least that's what I think he said. I tipped 
him five dollars and waved at him when he drove away. I 
like friendly people with a sense of humor--even 
foreigners.

Tim was waiting for me in the bar along with a sharply-
dressed gentleman named Mr. Dyce. Mr. Dyce looked in 
his early forties and had shiny black hair. He looked 
Sicilian. I offered my hand and for exactly one second 
he tried to crush it. I couldn't help but flinch. They 
both laughed. 

"You've heard of The New York Minute?" Mr. Dyce said 
smoothly. "Well that's The New York Second."

I flexed and shook my hand appreciatively. "Don't tell 
me about The New York Hour then," I joked.

Mr. Dyce lifted his hand for the bartender. "Tim tells 
me your from D.C.," he said. If the speed at which the 
attractive young lady reacted was any indication, Mr. 
Dyce came here a lot. Or he owned the place. "You're 
old enough to drink?"

Since he asked in a tone not to embarrass me, I 
answered with deference. "Yes, sir." To the bartender: 
"Do you need my I.D.?" 

She smiled sweetly and shook her head. "Then a diet-
Coke," I said. 

She went to pour my soda and a third man entered the 
bar and joined us. This was someone I recognized from 
that afternoon. John, somebody. A fish name. Pike?

"This is John Hake, Martin. You remember him?" Tim 
asked.

I said I did, and John and I shook hands. He was not a 
member of The New York Second club. "John works in your 
department," Tim advised. 

"He'd be your boss," Mr. Dyce clarified. "If that's the 
eventual outcome ." 

The cute bartender return with my soda. I thanked her 
and held eyes with her for a New York Second longer 
than I should have. She smiled at me however, but hid 
the smile from my companions. 

"I'll pay for dinner if that nudges the outcome in my 
direction," I offered. 

"I told you he was a wit," Tim said. 

I had to keep my wit in check. A crack or two might 
amuse these guys, but they were the makers and the 
shakers in this town and they didn't hire wits. They 
hired savvy and skill. I said, "The truth is, I 
understand that I'm very lucky to be here tonight. The 
fact you asked me is an ego-booster. But I also know 
that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have something 
important to offer the firm."

Mr. Dyce grinned. Tim beamed. Every tooth in his mouth 
shown one-hundred watts or brighter. John Hake said to 
me, "You really developed that Coca-Cola model in two 
weeks?"

Actually I had developed the model in one week; the 
rest of the time I spent learning Black Jack online. 
"It wouldn't work in the real market," I admitted. "The 
algorithms were from an old General Dynamics engine 
donated to the university in 1999. I rewrote the 
formulas based on the Minnesota expressions developed 
by Dr. Fletcher's team in 2002. It was strictly 
conceptual. It lost money consistently."

Hake nodded. "But nobody has a model that works any 
better than yours and they're all written by experts."

"I failed on the cheap," I conceded. "You want to pay 
me big money to fail big time?"

"I want you to succeed," Mr. Dyce said softly. "Can you 
succeed, Martin?"

How the fuck do I know? I wanted to say. I'm a godamned 
junior at a nondescript college in Maryland. I get by 
on student loans and an allowance from my parents. I'm 
twenty-one years old and I've never been laid. How the 
hell good I am? 

"If you have enough money, I can make it work," I said 
honestly. Enough money will make anything work. "The 
question is, do you have enough time?"

"How much time is enough?" Mr. Dyce asked. There was no 
amusement in his manner now, only consideration. 

"Three years. Not a Sunday less. On a New York Year 
budget. Five years on anything less."

Mr. Dyce scowled. Tim took half-a-step backwards. John 
Hake, who had been vacillating between friendliness and 
rigidity in the presence of his boss, scowled as well. 

"Three years? On a framework you wrote in two weeks? 
What kind of bullshit is that, Martin?"

"My model was bullshit, Mr. Dyce. The real thing is the 
Titanic with watertight bulkheads. You can blow four, 
five modules and the thing stays afloat. Imagine a 
financial engine that makes money even when you program 
it to loose."

Dyce's scowl didn't lessen any, but it didn't grow 
worse. "Let's have dinner," he said. 

I ordered New York Strip Steak with a baked potato and 
Mr. Dyce and Tim both had Filet Mignon. John had a Surf 
& Turf dinner with a lobster tail the size of the 
Titanic. We drank a French wine who's name I couldn't 
pronounce; desert was ludicrous. 

"So, Martin." Mr. Dyce stretched back in his chair and 
made it obvious he wanted a cigar. "You leave town 
when? Thursday morning?"

"Yes, sir." The food in my stomach had me dopey and I 
didn't want to get into anything serious. "Tomorrow 
morning I'm booked on a tour of Lower Manhattan--"

"Ground Zero."

"Yes," I agreed. "And the Bronx Zoo tomorrow 
afternoon."

"What about tomorrow night?"

I shook my head. Dyce glanced sideways at John Hake, 
who nodded slightly. "The Red Sox are in town," he 
said. "Tomorrow night and Thursday night. How would you 
like to go see them?"

A Yankees-Red Sox game in September? They were number 
one and two in the division again. The Red Sox had won 
the World Series last year. Washington was in the 
cellar with only thirty-two wins, but it was their 
first year in town. 

Who's cock do I have to suck? I wanted to ask. I said, 
"That's a very generous offer, Mr. Dyce. You could just 
as well let me sell the ticket instead and hold my 
first year's salary."

"More like the first year and a half," John Hake said, 
somewhat unwisely. Mr. Dyce cut him a hard glance. I 
liked John, so I accepted. 

To my relief, both Tim and Mr. Dyce had pressing 
appointments after dinner and had to run. John and I 
migrated to the bar where I hoped to see the attractive 
bartender again, but she was gone. A little after nine, 
he stood with me on the sidewalk outside the 
restaurant. The September evening was cool and clear, 
just this side of crisp.

"So what you have on for tonight?" I asked.

"Unfortunately," he said, checking his watch, "I have 
to be across the river in Jersey at ten o'clock. My 
wife and I are buying a new condo there and we're 
meeting the broker. Sorry."

Only in The Big Apple, I thought. 

I bade him good night and caught the first cab I 
flagged. I considered asking the cabby where the 
nearest nightclub was, but didn't have the courage. 
Being alone in New York City is no fun.

*  *  *

It was eleven o'clock. I slouched in the surprisingly 
comfortable upholstered chair, remote in hand, channel 
surfing. My laptop was open on the table beside me; on 
screen, Microsoft Outlook awaited any messages. The six 
in my In Box had already been answered and I was bored. 

"I wanna get naked," I said aloud. Actually, what I 
wanted was to suck a cock.

Don't get me wrong--I'm not gay. I've never had sex 
with a guy and I don't find guys attractive. My problem 
is one of fixation. Since my first image of a girl 
sucking a cock, I've wanted to suck one too. I've 
become addicted to certain newsgroups on AOL. You 
probably know which ones. Like any addict, I both loath 
and cherish my addiction.

What I need is a personal Glory Hole. To the 
uninitiated, a Glory Hole is a 4" diameter hole in any 
wall through which an erection can be placed. Of 
necessity it is generally located at groin level, in 
one wall of a small cubicle, usually in a sex shop. 
I've never seen or been inside one, but I have seen 
pictures. Once inserted in the hole, an erection can be 
sucked anonymously by a man or a woman--or both--
depending upon your predilection. 

My perfect scenario would be a 7-1/2" long penis of a 
Caucasian male, nicely pink, of medium girth, with a 
not-to-protuberant glans. The testicles should be large 
and droopy enough to allow for easy fondling. My 
perfect pair are distinctly mismatched, one hanging 
lower than the other. The right testicle should be 
larger by half. In this perfect scenario no human being 
would exist on the opposite side of the wall. 

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, adjusted my 
position. In deference to the situation, I sat there in 
my jockey shorts and my tee-shirt. In defiance of the 
situation, I had the curtains halfway drawn, though 
what good this did on the fourteenth floor I don't 
know. The building opposite was only twelve stories 
tall. Taller buildings were visible in the distance, to 
be sure, but from any of them you'd need high-powered 
binoculars. Then again, this was New York. 

I momentarily considered giving myself a little 
stroking action, just on the off-chance, you know, but 
my penis said, Forget it. It had no interest.

Why not go online? I had thought this earlier, but 
lethargy kept me glued to the chair. Now it was eleven-
fifteen and the idea had more appeal. I got up and sat 
down at the table.

The hotel was rigged for wireless. I started AOL, 
selected my screename, SimplMind100, and connected via 
TCP/IP. "Where shall we go tonight?" I wondered aloud. 

I scanned through the member-created chat rooms and 
stared at M4MNYCHotels. My hand gave a tiny shake. I 
got a tiny little shiver. I clicked on the name and sat 
there a moment thinking.

Two months ago I had almost jumped. I started up a 
friendship with a guy named Sean (real name? Who 
knows?) from Baltimore that I met online. We hit it off 
the first night and progressed from touchy-feely chat 
to heavy duty cyber in less than an hour. I promised 
him my oral virginity and he committed his to me. We 
resolved to 69 each other in bed with a camera 
recording. 

Arrangements were made after our third session and I 
got as far as the parking lot of the motel. This was in 
Columbia, Maryland, halfway between our homes. I sat in 
the car for half and hour berating myself for being a 
chicken; in the end I just left. If he showed up for 
the liaison I never knew because I deleted my screename 
and blocked out his. I hadn't been in an AOL chat room 
since then.

I double-clicked M4MNYCHotels and went in.

*  *  *

"What hotel you in?" 

I had been chatting with SPUDKNOCKER99 for ten minutes. 
His real name was Dan, he was thirty-one years old, he 
was married with two kids and in town trying to close a 
deal on pharmaceutical equipment. His hotel was in mid-
town from what I'd gathered. 

"The Clarendon," I lied. "On 53rd."

"Close," he came back, "but no cigar. Maybe if I looked 
out my window I could see you. Try waving, LOL."

"My window faces east. Should I stand there naked?"

"PLEASE NO! LOL. Let me keep something to the 
imagination." So far I had told him my age and my 
general description, my reason for being here and how 
long I was staying. "I'm at the Westbridge, on 55th," 
he wrote.

I shivered mightily. He was here? At my hotel? Thank 
God I had lied!

"I could hop on over on my twinkle toes," I told him. 
"Spray you with my fairy dust."

"Keep typing like that and I'll rip the hard drive out 
of my computer, sonny boy."

My penis had discovered its missing blood supply and 
was struggling for freedom. I kept it where it was. 
"How hard is it really? And how large? Does it ever 
give you a laptop dance?"

"I'll laptop dance you, boyo. You'll doing the dancing, 
of course."

He knew I was a closet flautist. He knew I joked about 
more. He was Bi, but with very limited experience. So 
far his experience was at the mouths of two other men.

"A laptop dance is something I might enjoy sometime," I 
told him. "Given the right circumstances."

"Think you'll ever take the leap?" he came back 
seriously.

I explained about Sean. "Apart from being an asshole 
about it," I typed, "that's closer than I ever imagined 
I'd go. What about you? How did you hook up?"

"Good old reliable AOL. Just like this, only with some 
chance of success, LOL."

If only he knew. I shivered and typed: "How big are 
you? The real version, as opposed to the AOL version."

"I didn't dare lie about that, not when I'd be meeting 
the potential blow job later on, LOL. My REAL size is 
8" long, thick with very large veins, and I get an 
angry red when I'm hard. I'm cut, with a moderately big 
head. You?"

"Embarrassed," I confessed. "Six inches on a really 
good night. Normal thickness. Takes a hook to the left. 
Care to rent me your package tomorrow night? For my own 
use with the ladies?"

"Would rather you try the goods yourself, but sure. 
Visa, Mastercard or American Express accepted. And 
cash, of course. Rent by the hour?"

"How about a one-year lease?"

"Sorry, the lease-holder is my wife. And she never 
sublets. A one-night opportunity, here, Marty, take it 
or leave it."

"I'll take it," I replied. "I'm upstairs in room 1412." 
I sat back to wait. I shook like a bamboo shack in an 
earthquake. 

His response was immediate. "I know you're joking. You 
wouldn't be that cruel. Actually, just joking about it 
is cruel, LOL! I have a very large erection in my hand 
and it nearly got yanked off!"

"I am so shameless," I wrote. "I need to be taken over 
my knee and given a good paddling."

"On your bare ass, buster."

"How did you know my ass is bare?"

"Lucky guess. An informed guess."

My erection demanded its freedom in no uncertain terms. 
My heart beat like an elephant's heart: thud-whump, 
thud-whump, thud-whump. When was I this aroused? 
Certainly not since Sean.

"Your guess is only half-informed," I told him. 
"Physically my shorts are still on; mentally they've 
been pitched out the window. In other words, my bottom 
is psychologically ready for a good spanking."

"LOL! You're killing me. I wasn't kidding about my 
erection. It's ready to rock and roll. It would react 
very favorably to seeing your ass getting paddled."

"I'm trying to think the last time that actually 
happened to me. I think I was ten. I've never gotten it 
bare-bottomed before; that was reserved for my sister. 
She's seventeen now."

"Ever get to see it?"

"They did it to her in her bedroom. I could hear it 
though, which turned me on immensely."

"I bet it did. How old was she when they stopped?"

"Stopped?"

"LOL again. I keep setting myself up, don't I? Is your 
sister hot?"

"I prefer to think of her as cuddly. She's blonde, has 
blue eyes, still wears braces on her teeth--which just 
drives her nuts, but which I think is cute--and she has 
a nice figure. And no, I've never seen her nude, so 
don't ask."

"DARN! Skunked again. Would you like to though?"

He caught me. I had often wanted to see Kierney nude, 
had seen her countless times braless in stuff that let 
her nipples protrude; had seen her in outfits like a 
tank-top and gym-shorts which clearly defined her 
developing breasts and left her thong panties exposed--
I had even seen her in her bra and panties. I typed: 
"Every day and every minute. Like an introduction? 
You'd have to wait six months to bang her, though, 
she's still a minor." 

"Her twenty-one year old brother would do just fine."

I almost told him then. I almost placed my fingertips 
on the keys and typed, "I was lying about 53rd Street. 
Come up here and fill my mouth with your erection, 
please!" Instead, I let my blood pressure settle again. 
"I'm curious. Did either of your guys let you cum in 
their mouths?"

"One did," he replied. "The second one. His name was 
John Smith, and I kid you not. I even looked at his 
license. The first guy's name was Ted, but I won't tell 
you his last name. He let me come on his chest but John 
wanted it all. He masturbated me the second time we did 
it, right into his own mouth. Then he swallowed. The 
first time he spat it into the toilet but the second 
time he swallowed it. (I enjoy saying that, LOL.)"

"So I gathered. I've swallowed my own cum before. Does 
that excite you? Or turn you off?"

"It EXCITES me stupid! (You're not stupid, sorry.) Tell 
me about it."

"Well," I typed, "I usually do a couple of spurts at a 
time. I get myself to the brink of ejaculation (not 
always on purpose, LOL) and shoot into my palm. I don't 
actually cum, so I'm still turned on enough that I can 
slurp it up with my tongue. I do this two or three 
times before the main event, but if I'm lucky or really 
intent on enjoying myself, I'll do it over and over 
until I've easily had two or three sperm-loads." 

I didn't know what this bit of information did to my 
friend, but it agonized me. I squirmed in my chair. 

"I'm currently freehanded," he wrote. "The concept of 
you 'enjoying' yourself was just too much. Either I let 
go of it or it made goo-goo all over me. I wouldn't 
want that, because like yourself, cumming extinguishes 
my fire. Right now, I want that flame hot as a 
blowtorch. Anyway, what other pleasantries might you 
employ in your quest for enjoyment?"

This was the "Daily Double," the question I'd been 
steering him toward. I wasn't even sure I had done it 
consciously . . . just following my cock, maybe.

"I have this other fixation. Two months ago I went to 
this sex-shop around the Beltway from my house--its in 
Beltsville, the Lower East Side of Maryland. I was so 
embarrassed it took two trips just to get in the front 
door. When I did get in, I kept my eyes off what I had 
gone there to see, instead browsing the magazine racks. 
I settled for a prepackaged set of girly mags. They 
were so poor quality and I was so pissed I didn't even 
beat off to them. I just threw them away. 

"Two days later I forced myself back to the place and 
was astonished at what I saw. Covering one entire wall 
and part of another was the most amazing collection of 
dildos you can imagine. They had long ones, black ones, 
two-headed ones, green and red ones in Dayglo colors; 
they had dildos two feet long and midget dildos. They 
had dildos you strapped onto your body and dildos you 
put batteries in and dildos with knobs and ticklers. 
They had--well, you get the idea. They had so many 
dildos I couldn't possible make a choice, much less an 
informed one. Then I saw this row of flesh-colored 
dildos in varying sizes, all from the same 
manufacturer. They looked exceptionally real and even 
had testicles. They're called "Ballsy Cocks." 

"The largest one nearly took my breath away. It was an 
incomprehensible fourteen inches long and thick as a 
forearm. At the other end of the scale was one six 
inches long and slightly thicker than myself. The head 
was beautifully formed, like a Triceratops head. The 
tip had a distinctive opening that looked like a real 
pee-hole, and it was ridged along the shaft by 'veins.' 
I had never seen anything so beautiful. 

"I took it down with shaking hands and carried it over 
to the counter on rubbery knees. I put it into a 
Plexiglas carousel like you see at a bank--the counter 
area was completely enclosed in Plexiglas--along with a 
twenty dollar bill. The guy paid no attention at all, 
shooting the shit with some old man. I took the dildo 
home with me and on the weekend, when I didn't have to 
worry about being bothered, I put it to good use. And 
now you know."

His reply was a moment in coming. "Define 'good use', 
Martin."

"I think you already know," I replied. 

Again a pause. "Did you enjoy it? Would you enjoy the 
real thing, you think?"

With numb and shaking fingers I answered: "I think I 
would enjoy you, Dan." 

And then I told him he could find out for sure by 
taking the elevator to the 14th floor and knocking on 
the door to room 1412. I am waiting to find out myself, 
and oh boy, am I scared.


THE END

A note from the author: I hope you enjoyed the story. 
This is my 2nd attempt at Gay fiction. My first, called 
"Jerry's Obssession" just got posted on Kristen's 
Collection and I'm wondering what response (if any) 
I'll get back from it. If any of you know of a good 
Gay-sex story site, I'd appreciate hearing about it. 

As with "Jerry's Obssession," I tried to write this 
tale as convincingly as I could. There is no Martin, 
however, and there is no Dan, and anyone familiar with 
NYC knows that I obviously am not. I have no idea what 
sort of neighborhoods my characters locations really 
are. 

Anyway, my real age is 45 and I'm a father with two 
grown kids. I've never been with a guy. I'd like to 
remedy that situation but in this day and age of AIDS, 
I seriously doubt that will ever happen. 

Rich D. 
10-24-04

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 31