Chapter 2

His eye roll said okeydokey.

Who was I kidding? The two of us would be so wiped we’d have to hire surrogates for mutual masturbation. I didn’t even have time to run out to Hallmark for a card. We’d do what we did last year: bide our time until spring, probably get a Friday night suite at a spa hotel, see a movie, maybe some sixty-nine if we didn’t drink too much—like last year

I wish we had a meet-cute story that lent a rom-com burnish to our origin as a couple nearly fourteen years ago, but the salacious reality is Dom caught me gaping at his big peter in the LA Fitness locker room. Tinactin was in the air, and I was a man bewitched. Damn his cock, so gargantuan you could burp it, as girthy at the circumcised end as at its base, sloping out of black pubes so aesthetically balanced they looked stenciled. I’m a sucker, so to speak, for a heavy sac, which he had, so my eyes flicked there, too. This whole package, freed from a jockstrap I instantly wanted to collect, goaded me into staring, and I knew better. Staring was for The Eldergay, those thin-lipped, overly tanned queens who took twenty minutes lacing their shoes in the locker room, staring at the young ones changing. Obvious or suggestive glances could get your membership revoked and a personal escort to your car; steam room hijinks could earn permanent national expulsion.

“See something you like?” he’d suddenly asked brashly.

I saw something I’d extract teeth for, but the best this slack-jawed loon could do, my own sneaker held aloft like I was the FTD icon gone wanton, was “uhm.”

He crossed the cement floor in his bare feet, holding his workout shorts. Well-endowed men can get away with this immodesty while the rest of us scuttle from changing bench to shower stall playing elaborate games with towels and angles. His pliable dick swayed and played patty-cake with each glistening thigh. It bobbed slightly even in repose. He introduced himself as Dominick in a deep, precise voice. Perfect dick and perfect diction. I remembered where I’d heard it before: I’d seen him in a production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?as Nick, the football hero lured from Honey and her hysterical pregnancies into coarse Martha’s lair. Why did I now feel like Martha, with her twisted lips and steamy pudenda?

My locker was open, but I had not yet changed back into street wear. He segued into small talk about the club’s soaring fees, but I knew he was really outwaiting me; his playful eyes saidyou ogled my junk, I’m going to stare yours down. I knew it presented as more than adequate in a communal shower, especially if I gave it a preemptive pull or two and the water was especially warm, but I couldn’t prime the pump, not now.

I had a good butt so I offered it first.

I continued shimmying out of my sweats with a prayer.

Please let my manhood look decent.

I turned back to face him. He had moved close enough that the head of his penis nearly grazed mine. Apparently it met the basic criteria because, soon enough, in the backseat of my car we’d hastily relocated to the furthest corner of the parking lot, he tugged on it with the ferocity of someone trying to plunge a clogged drain while wriggling out of his own pants to the ankles.

“Does this count as a first date?” he looked down and asked.

“Uhm.”

That was the best I could do with my mouth full.

Much later, we agreed that it was. After all, we had dined together.

Dom was now checking his watch and announcing, “We need to hit the road.” This meant it was time to change into our uniforms: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and brown nose. The first three ensured consistency, the final guaranteed continuity. Ass-kissing ranks right up there with the air-kiss if you want to maintain any successful business, but especially when it comes to the forced intimacy of fine dining. We nodded politely at stories told before, gushed effusively about new promotions, and whistled at bling. In my tenure at Platte, I’ve returned so many thumbs-up I needed a splint.

Dom stripped. As usual, he was going commando.

Sometimes I objected for propriety’s sake. “I can see a vein,” I primly protest, or, “You’re sporting moose knuckle.” His dick bounced out of his jeans, and it seemed like it was inhaling fresh spring air after hibernation. He gave a long and vigorous scratch to his nuts. Time was this visual would have brought me immediately to my knees. When did I stop staring, slobbering, and wanting it immediately aimed at my chin like a heat-seeking missile? Was it when we also stopped driving around on snowy nights to admire Christmas yard displays? When we changed Internet passwords without telling one another? Maybe it was somehow tied to acquiring those comfortable living room chairs and when we stopped watching mindless TV in each other’s arms on the sofa.