My vertical ash wood dresser

My vertical ash wood dresser in the Victorian window.

It is not easy to find a gay plumber, but they do exist. I flipped through the yellow pages and fanned my blushing face. I just wanted the odds of it. They were good. With twenty-six local plumbers listed. I called Eric.

"Do you know any gay plumbers?" I said.

"What is going on?" Eric said.

"Nothing good...I mean something really good at the time it happens but afterwards you want to hang your neck in the basement because it's all over," I said.

"Your gorgeous and twenty-six, go out clubbing, silly. One gay plumber, Simon Clemens, is a mean old bastard on top of Ginger Street," Eric said. "He should do..."

"You are the best," I said.

"What is the problem?" he said.

"My shower head drips; endlessly," I said.

I hung up the phone in my favorite room. The master bedroom with its creaking wood floors and a large frosted window that faced the front. Next to the window, my vertical ash wood dresser, antique and azure. Other than that, just a bed, a large vanity mirror, and my late Aunt's rocking chair.

I set up the laptop on the rocking chair and a webcam tri-pod next to it. The webcam glowed on the monitor, the window and dresser. I went back and set my forearms on the blue ash wood top. I let my body go limp and studied the front yard: Across the street, a similar Victorian house, but brand new Turquoise; then a grey strip of main street; a smooth two-way road; closer, my grassy hill with a sidewalk that touched the stone path to the front door underneath. The lawn crew came at noon. I often watch them naked. They look at me and wave. Only seeing my face and chest behind an obscure glare of New England's pre-winter: trees of sticks and lawns topped with dandruff like flurries.

Barefoot on the blue kitchen linoleum, I brewed coffee and landed at my desktop. I found Simon Clemens online: a local gay singles board. Simon Clemens: age 68, semi-retired plumber, loves the Patriots and gardening, looking for a twenty-something bottom to move in. "I Love fems and CDs." Not a sugar daddy -- have much household work. Please love gardening and old movies.

Enough data collected there to know he was a desperate top, not been laid in years. I ran a hot shower on the second floor, shaved my face, torso, thighs, and rear. Concocted a homemade lemon and honey wax to rip the strands out from under my groin to my ass. Afterwards, the air often burned my bare skin. This new peeled almond ass had an extra jiggle with each step.

I examined myself in the vanity mirror of my favorite room. My feminine body and girly buns curved like polished marble. The flesh wobbled like frozen Jell-O. I bent my bare bubble ass over as I hugged the dresser. Looking at the cars fly by, I called Simon. Simon says bend over bitch so I can slide my nine-inch dick in your ass. (the phone rang.)

"Simon," he said.

"I need a plumber," I said.

"How did you get this number?" he said.

"Phone book," I said.

"Did not know I was listed," he said.

"You are," I said.

"I am semi-retired, so no big stuff," he said.

"I have a shower head that drips all night," I said.

"Do you push the knob down on the bathtub faucet after a shower?"

"I have no idea...I am an idiot...please come...that drip is driving me nuts," I said.

As the conversating progressed, I held my vowels longer with a desperate tone and girly sweetness. As if I had a ten-year itch between my ass cheeks that only his cock could fix. This came out all over my voice.

"Where are you?" he said.

"I am off of Hampton and Peddler, two blocks south of that intersection," I said.

"You're not in that big green Victorian house?"

"I am," I said.

"I love that house...beautiful...I have wanted to see the inside for years," he said.

I imagined sucking his cock with bare knees on top of a skateboard as he rolled me around and examined the interior.

"Well now you get to see it," I said.

"I can swing by about 11:30," he said.

"Perfect!"

I stayed naked and slipped on a heavy blue bath robe. My smooth skin molested by the coarse cotton fabric. I rehearsed placing the robe tie under his boot and accidentally disrobing when his weight stripped me. To be bare ass naked in front of him as he death-gripped his plyers. Hoping he would say something like, "that doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you."

My basement stunk with several marijuana plants. I disrobed and skipped around the stone floor. Then filled dried buds into a six-inch bong and coughed my guts out. I put on Pearl Jam's 'Ten' and blew out pot smoke into circles to each song. I stopped and caressed the moist leaves and buds. Half way into the album, I heard pounding. I draped my vulnerable, stoned, naked world with my robe and flew up the stairs. A balding man with 1950's black government glasses holding a red tool box stood on the porch.

"I have been here ten minutes...I could hear the music," he said.

"I am so sorry," I said.

Underneath my chest, my heart rattled. My soft ass felt thousands of microscopic fibers molesting it. A draft of his aftershave crept under my robe and kissed my erection. The bristles of his white facial hear sandpapered the nerves between my legs. I knew what he liked but he didn't know about me. I matched his desires from the single's board. This knowledge dripped come on my thigh. I grabbed the threshold frame not faint.

"Please come in," I said. "I will show you the shower."

He smelled like bubble gum and had a plump beer belly wrapped in an orange and blue flannel. He deviated from me and walked over the crimson hearth rug in the living room.

"This room is beautiful," he said. "I can imagine Christmas morning with that fire place crackling."

"This is my Grandmother's old house. Years ago, I used to watch 'Alfred Hitchcock Presents' right there on that little television."

"No flat screen?" he said.

"I have a monster flat screen in the master bed room."

"You like old movies?" he said.

"I love Breakfast at Tiffany's," I said.

"Never heard of that one," he said.

By old movies, maybe he meant John Wayne westerns. "It is a goodie," I said.

"Okay, show me this faucet," he said.

I walked up the stairs, stoned, slow, horny, as he rattled his tool box from behind. I than realized I answered the door barefoot and in a bath robe. He didn't seem to mind, but I was too stoned to look into his eyes. Too paranoid that he would see a vulnerable horny druggy.

"You live here by yourself?" he said.

The question disturbed me. I never considered he could be a sadistic maniac. Eric knows every gay man from Provincetown to New York, but not truly. My naked ass shimmied inside the robe's fabric fortress begging for the winter's draft, goosebumps, and being hot dogged by a silver plumber's cock. But for now, it remained locked up, hidden, and vulnerable.

"I have two roommates, but they are in Rhode Island for the Thanksgiving break," I said.

"You going to your parent's for Thanksgiving?" he said.

"They live in New York. I am not sure I want to deal with the traffic this year," I said.

We entered the teal bathroom. The cold teal tiles held up his red metal box as he flapped it open. It smelled like fresh rubber and cigars. He pulled across the green curtains and squinted towards the faucet. A cold drip spilled out each second.

"I see what you mean," he said. "That is a heck of a drip."

"Can you fix it?"

"I may have to cut into the wall," he said. "Will that be all right?"

It slipped from my mouth. With an erection squeezing so tight. As a full throbbing boner lifted up my robe. I said, "I was planning to take a quick shower before you got here."

"I can wait," he said. "Just don't take one of those thirty-minute deals, ha, ha, ha."

I watched him stand over his tools. His protruding gut shadowed a bulge in his oil stained Levi's. I was too high to understand any of it. Would he leave to let me shower? Should I point to the master bedroom and close the bathroom door?

"That is very nice of you...I need to grab a towel," I said.

I stepped over his tool box and brushed his shoulder. In the immediate hallway, I opened the narrow linen closet. My thoughts ran down my chest, dripped through my stomach, and into my groin. I grabbed a stripped white and blue towel. The only one I fucked doggystyle on last summer, on the beaches of Cape Cod.

I returned and stepped over his tools. He hadn't moved nor spoke one word. I had more things to do to buy time. I draped the towel and pulled out the shower faucet. What if I just disrobed and stood there, naked, horny, with a throbbing erection?

"The water takes a while to heat up," I said.

"The heat travels from the basement. It takes a while in these old houses," he said.

I decided to talk normal and act as this was appropriate. No different than being in a gym locker room with the guys. It could be how he thought about it. Just like men shower in jails, locker rooms, golf clubs, and gyms across the country. I convinced myself it was nothing. But I had to play it cool. I decided to disrobe in mid-sentence.

"I love old houses. This was a school house back in the late eighteen-hundreds...you know?"

My speech slurred as I untied the robe on "school", opened the Turkish Cotton on "hundreds" and dropped the entire heavy fabric to the tiles on "know?".

My bare-naked ass goose bumped in front of his eyes. I saw a blur of him in my peripheral vision and kept on talking. "I am blessed to have this house."

I put my right knee onto the cold bathtub porcelain and bent over to feel the warm shower water. It was ridiculous how much I perked my ass up in the shower fog for him to stare at. He said nothing.

"The water is so warm," I said.

"It is?" he said. His voice cracked.

I put both knees on the bathtub edge and balanced myself by palming the teal tiles under the faucet. He stared at my bare bottom and the bottom of my feet. I heard his boots shuffle closer. He reached in and felt the temperature.

"It is so warm," I said.

I was so vulnerable, perched like a naked bird with my knee caps on the tub's edge. My bubble ass looked swollen and firm. He stood inches away, fully clothed in his sweaty plumbing costume. He waited.

"I love your ass so much," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

"Can I touch it?" he said.

"I guess," I said.

His finger pads and palm ran across the vastness of my bubble. He squeezed my flesh and rubbed deep between my cheeks. He put his index and middle finger on each side of my nuts. He spanked the right cheek and squeezed more. He leaned it and ran his tongue from mid-thigh across the curves of my naked rear-end. His fingers entered me.

"It is cool if we fuck?" he said.

I heard the lawn mowers. "Follow me to my favorite room," I said. I strutted like the biggest fucking whore jiggling my ass with each step. Leading him by hand to the vertical ash wood dresser. I pressed the live stream button on my laptop so hundreds could masturbate live to us.

I hugged the azure dresser and watched the lawn crew. They saw me and waved. Only seeing my face and chest behind an obscure glare of New England's pre-winter: trees of sticks and lawns topped with dandruff like flurries. Until I lifted the window. The cold winter air stung my ass cheeks like a hornet's stinger as Simon's buckle slapped the floor.

A thin honey skinned man with a pair of hedge clippers waved to me. Only this time, he saw my face and chest smeared by wrinkled hands. Instead of being slumped over and calm, I was bobbing up and down. My mouth wide open and the dresser squeaked like a broken washing machine. The man turned to see the parchment white Plumber's van in the driveway then turned back and watched.

"Fuck my daddy...fuck me hard daddy, oh yeah, give me that hard cock daddy," I said.