Changing Seasons Ch. 02

I was sitting up, browsing porn at three AM. Knees and hips filled with that kind of stabbing, wrenching pain that forbids any sort of comfort.

My eyes took in the menu of supposed delights offered by the porn site. Many of the video titles contain the word 'slut'. Almost as many, the words 'whore' and 'bitch'. The images featured women with faces covered with semen; women bent over, their heads yanked back by their hair; women doubled over, spreading their oozing, gaping holes. I clicked the browser window closed in disgust.

With a groan, I stood up from my desk chair, grabbed my cane, and hobbled across the room of my study. Four feet from my desk to the door. Felt more like four miles.

About halfway across the room, I realized I'd left my phone on top of the desk. I briefly considered just letting it stay there, but I need that infernal piece of metal and plastic. It's my lifeline; full of schedules and contacts. Besides, what if I end up like those idiotic television commercials where the enfeebled old woman is lying on the floor, piteously wailing, "Help, I've fallen, et cetera, et cetera!"

Snorting with derision, I hobbled back to the desk and snatched up the phone and shoved it in the pocket of my terrycloth robe, then continued out of the study. A left at the hall, past the living room into the kitchen.

I was irritated; by the pain in my legs, by the porn that offered no comfort, by the by the cold, damp air, and by my own frailty. Where's the man from just a decade ago, the one who shouted and laughed with such verve and vigor; happily throwing a careless arm across the shoulders of some blushing beauty while friends looked on in bemusement and, perhaps, a little disappointment?

"Dead and buried," I muttered as I clawed open the refrigerator.

Slap some bread on the counter, slap some meat on the bread, some cheese on the meat. Huzzah! The pity sammich. I plucked the midnight snack off the counter, shoved it in my face, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge, and proceeded to the living room with a cane in one hand, a can in the other, and the sandwich dangling from my mouth.

I collapsed into my easy chair and munched grumpily.

Why the dramatics, asked my brain.

Fuck off, I replied.

No, really. Why? No one's here to appreciate your little tantrum. So why put on the act?

"Shut the fuck up," I shouted to no one.

It sometimes amuses me that I've got a voice in my head that I can converse with. Usually, it's witty and charming, the source on much of my good humor. Lately the wit has turned acerbic; the charm, obnoxious.

Come on, man, said my brain, snap out of it. Go to bed, you just need to rest. You know you always feel better after you sleep.

"Not tired," I yawned.

I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth and washed it down with soda.

Do something, my brain said, the voice angry. Stop wallowing around in your one person pity party and fucking do something. Aren't you the one who hates people who laze around and whine but never take the initiative to change? Well look at you now, hypocrite. Get off your ass and--

I pulled the phone out of my pocket. Almost before I know what I was doing, my finger hovered over Joe's contact info. I glanced at the time. Four-fifteen AM.

Joe'd been working on me for three weeks now. Sure, he was a nice guy, always polite, respectful, friendly even. But it was a professional level of friendliness. Sure, the guy had jerked me off once, but that was clinical, there was no passion in it, no joy. It was just a professional doing a solid for his client.

I jammed the phone back in my pocket, lurched up from the easy chair, and trundled to the bedroom. As much as I hated to admit it, my brain was right.. I needed sleep.

************************************************************************************************************

I woke at half-past noon. Autumn sunlight spilled through my bedroom window, bright, chilly, and joyless.

Just like me! my brain quipped.

I briefly wondered if I'd be committed if I gave myself a black eye.

I clambered out of bed, showered, dressed, and tried to make myself presentable for company. It was physical therapy day. Joe'd be by at three.

Gears were starting to turn in my head. There were ways of gauging interest. With women it was almost second nature; sidle close, a brush of the hand, a raised eyebrow. Interested parties would squeeze in, smile, and return the skinship; uninterested parties just stepped away. It was the easy, unobtrusive dance of flirtation.

Men on the other hand... I tried to imagine myself sidling up to Joe and fluttering my eyelashes flirtatiously. I brayed, nearly falling on the floor in a fit of laughter.

At a quarter to three the stage was set. Lights were dimmed in the living room and bedroom, sea breeze scented candles were lit, and I had layed out some decent fare; grandma's roast beef ($7.99 a pound); small, roast potatoes in herbed butter ($4.99 a pound); blanched, fresh, sugar snap peas ($4.99 a pound), a loaf of crusty Italian bread ($1.00 a loaf), and a bottle of Merlot ($9.99). I couldn't recall the last time I had cooked for myself, much less anyone else. Grocery store takeout would have to suffice.

At three o-clock I head the familiar rumble of Joe's car engine; a late model Mazda SUV; royal blue, blocky, handsome in a way. Kind of like the man himself.

I opened the front door, saw Joe exiting his vehicle. Dressed the same as always, navy blue tracksuit, black truckers cap, running shoes. The oversized gym bag with the assorted tools of his trade.

Joe's smile was warm as he walked to the door. "Jack, hows it going?"

"It goes," I replied with the usual snort of ill humor.

Joe grinned, "Well, let's see if we can't get you feeling better, shall we?" He stepped through the door, stopped and took a breath. "Hey, something smells good. Did you cook?"

"Yeah, right," I laughed, "It's just some take out. Thought you might appreciate a little food before you get to work."

"Sure," he said, dropping his bag to the floor and taking a moment to shrug out of his jacket. Underneath he wore a plain white t-shirt. Square shoulders, firm arms; well muscled but not overbuilt.

"I've don't make it a habit of turning down free food," Joe said as I led the way to the kitchen table. Plates, cutlery, and wine were layed out neatly, along with the food. "Wow, fancy stuff, what's the occasion?"

"Let's call it... A change of the seasons," I replied as I took my seat. Joe joined me on the opposite side of the table and, without much ceremony, we tucked in.

"So," said I, fishing for conversation, "How long you been doing the physical therapy thing?"

"Eh, four years or so," Joe replied around a mouthful of potatoes.

"Yeah?" I said, keeping the ball rolling. "What kind of education do you need for that?"

Joe put down his fork and though for a moment. "Er, four years of psychology at UTSA, then three years of physiology along with DPT courses."

"DPT," I asked. "what's that mean?"

"Doctor of Physical Therapy."

"So, you're like, an actual doctor."

"Something like that," Joe said, picking up his fork and starting on the roast. "Focused mostly on helping people get up and around after major surgeries, and relieving chronic pain, stuff like that."

"Never knew PT's had to go through all the hoops," I mused between bites. "Figured you guys were more like, four years and out, onto a life of smacking old ladies bottoms."

Joe guffawed. "And the occasional old mans. No, we're real medical professionals, with all the degrees, licenses, and whatnot that go along with it."

"So," I continued, watching Joe with a noncommittal air, "If you were to have a preference, would you say it was for the ladies bottoms, or the mens?"

Joe stopped, his wineglass half raised to his lips. Carefully, he set it back on the table.

"Not sure how I should answer that," he said, his head slightly cocked, a wary look in his eye.

I smiled openly. "Honestly."

Joe took a breath. Gazed out the window for a moment. I let him have his time, continued my meal as if I had asked for nothing more than tomorrows weather forecast.

Joe studied me for a minute. His gaze was clinical, guarded.

"Are you always so nonchalant when asking about a person's preferences?"

"Well," I mused, "being that this would count as the first ever time I've asked a man if he's straight or gay, the answer would have to be yes."

There was a flicker of a grin on Joe's lips, but it quickly vanished.

"Not sure I believe that."

"What, that I'm always this nonchalant about asking about orientation, or that this is the first time I've done so?"

"Either-or."

I set down my fork and took a sip of wine.

"Joe," I said, looking him in the eye, "I am nothing if I am not honest. I am also a man out of my element. A man who wishes he were born a tampon so he could spend all his days surrounded by beautiful, juicy pussy."

Shocked out of his stern demeanor, Joe laughed. "Okay, but--"

"I'm not done," I interrupted. "You ever see the movie 'Damn Yankees'?"

"Um, no...?"

"You should. Great, classic cinema, based on a stage show. Damn, now my analogy is all screwed up."

Joe looked at me, his face a mask of puzzlement and amusement.

"I'm not sure what to make of you, Jack."

"Yeah," I said, returning to my meal, "About ninety percent of the female population say that all the time. So join the club."

************************************************************************************************************

We finished our meal in silence, Joe's thoughtful, mine pensive.

One the one hand, he hadn't run out of the house screaming... or socked me in the teeth. On the other, he was hiding his usually cheerful demeanor. Not that he seemed angry or upset; rather, he seemed confused. Maybe a little amused as well? One could hope.

The setup in the bedroom was the same as usual, me in boxers, face down on the bed, the waterproof sheet and exercise math under me. Joe started his work, hesitant at first, as if I were some antique he might break if he handled it too roughly.

"I'm not made of glass," I said. "You can at least do your usual routine."

"Right," Joe answered. I heard him blow out a long breath, then his hands returned, more confident.

Joe's hands moved up my calved to my thighs, lingered for a moment, then continued. He slid his fingers into the legs of my boxers, only slightly, testing. I said nothing, allowed him to go at his own pace. Back down the thighs, back up, less of a massage, more of a caress.

"You're good looking for a man your age," Joe said quietly.

I stifled a laugh. "Foul ball, strike one."

"I mean, you take good care of yourself." Joe's fingers again moved under my boxers, a little further this time. "You're not overweight, you've got good skin..."

"You don't do this much, do you," I muttered.

"I uh, guess I need some practice?" His hands moved back down as he spoke, stopped at my knees, started back up.

"If you're not sure what to say or how to say it, then just do it." I replied. "Words mean nothing without action. Get consent, then get busy."

Joe's hand slid deep into my boxer leg, his finger timidly brushed against my asshole. "Is that okay?"

"Sure, if you're a Catholic school girl."

Joe's hand disappeared from my boxers. I heard him take a step back.

"Listen, Jack, I'm not sure--"

I Sighed loudly, pushed myself up from the bed. Walked over to Joe. He stared blankly. I took his hand and pulled him to the side of the bed, sat him down.

"If you'll excuse me, Doc," I said, reaching for the hem of his pants. With great skill and panache I pulled the hem to his knees, revealing his tighty-whities, strong thighs, and a decently sized package, all covered up by his undies and standing at about half-mast.

Joe sat, speechless, either dumbfounded, aroused, or both. I reached into the fly of his underwear and took hold of his half erect manhood. It was warm, soft but firm in that half aroused way cocks get before full erection, a bit thicker and shorter than my own, but nothing to be shy about either. I pulled his member out through the fly, looked Joe in the eyes.

"May I," I asked.

Joe, still speechless, nodded.

"Do forgive me, Doc, it's my first time."

I took Joe's cock in my mouth. Thick, meaty. Instantly hard. I recalled past blowjobs I'd received, tried to emulate them. Slow, gentle movements of my head, allowing him to slide out, sucking it as I went, then reverse, taking him in, letting his cock fill my mouth. Out again, sucking. In, my tongue teasing the little hole at the tip.

Joe groaned, his hand went to the back of my neck, guiding me. "Oh... Jesus. This is your first time?"

"Mhmm," I hummed through the thick meat filling my mouth. I allowed him to set the pace, my lips and tongue working at his glans when he pulled out, then letting him slide all the way to the back of my throat.

It wasn't long before I heard Joe's labored breathing, felt him clutch the back of my neck more firmly. I had a decision to make, and I had to make it now. In or out. Hah, as if that was a question, after all the girls mouths I'd seeded over the years.

I heard Joe groan again, urgently. Both hands clutched my head, his hips thrusted up ward, driving his stiff, fleshy rod into my soft, willing mouth. I tasted the first drops of semen, grimaced and quickly swallowed. They were followed by more, and more, an flood, an entire ocean of cum. I swallowed it all, fought back the queasy feeling with memories of all the women who had swallowed my own seed.

Joe fell back onto the bed, gasping. I took a seat beside him, patted his thigh.

"How was it, Doc?"

"Fucking..." Joe gazes at me, eyes glassy. "It was great. Fuck me, that was wonderful."

"Maybe later, Doc," I replied. "Maybe later."