Wichita Lineman for Christmas

Oh, great. Now, on top of everything else, the power had gone out. The snow was piling up—it was still snowing—I was all alone on Christmas Eve, and the power was off. I'd had an appointment at an old, rich guy's house and now that wasn't going to happen—not because the power went off but because the snow was drifting and I wasn't about to be out driving in it. I was stuck out here on Breezy Lane, off 29th Street, northwest of Wichita proper, almost in farm country, and I couldn't even pick up a good tip on Christmas Eve for a massage that I'd figured would go into Christmas morning.

I'd massaged Carlton before. He wasn't all that old, and he was in good condition for how old he was. But he was no Jake, so he wouldn't exactly have been a Christmas present for me. He also lived too far away from where I was for me to have any prayer of getting to his house tonight.

I'd set the massage session for late because I had scheduled a Christmas Eve Skype hookup with Jake in Afghanistan. At least that had happened. I'd moved here to be with Jake early last fall, living in his parent's old bungalow on the edge of "nowhere" Wichita, and he'd almost immediately been called up from the reserves and deployed to Afghanistan. If I'd known I was going to be left alone for a year, I could have stayed in San Francisco and not come to this wasteland until Jake got back.

Nothing was going right tonight. I pouted in place for a while, sitting in front of the tree I'd put up and decorated only to provide a Christmassy backdrop for my call to Jake. I also had put on a shmaltzy Christmas record—the Trans-Siberian orchestra, which gave a good beat to traditional tunes—and had spiked eggnog in my hand. All I was missing was a man between my thighs. I'd want the man to be Jake, of course, but in the dumpy mood I was in for Christmas, it could have been Carlton. He gave a steady beat and could reach far enough for me to yodel.

Jake and I were loose about that in our relationship. We thought it made our bond stronger. Two swingers who still liked each other best. I did wonder who he was spiking in Afghanistan on Christmas morning, though, while I was here, snowed in and alone.

It was getting cold fast. It didn't take long for it to do that in Wichita in the winter when the heat had gone off. I got up, wrapped a blanket around me, and went over to the fireplace. A few more logs went on the fire. That's when I noticed a blue, pulsing light shining through the living room window from the street. I went to the window and looked out, seeing that the power company had already sent a truck. A guy, all bundled up, was at the top of the power pole at the end of Jake's lot and was working with the transformer there. It was cold near the window—bad insolation; about everything in this house needed updating—and I went back to the sofa, sat, stared into the darkness, and pouted.

Miracle of miracles, though. The power came back on within minutes. The tree flared up into brilliance, and I couldn't help but smile at how quickly Christmas had flooded back into the room. I went to the living room window and peered out. The lineman was coming down the pole. He saw me in the window as he hit the ground and turned. I waved and gave him a "heart" gesture and he waved back. It was too dark and he was too bundled up for me to tell whether or not he smiled. He turned toward his truck and I looked over there as well. It had been lit up, with the blue light revolving on the top, when I'd looked before. Now it was dark.

I watched him go to the truck, get in, and sit there, with nothing happening. After a minute or two of that, he came out of the truck and gave me a shrug. I motioned for him to come to the door. I met him there.

"Truck won't start?" I asked.

"Never fails," he answered with a melting grin, "You get the power on in one place and it goes off in another. I'll have to call it in." He pulled a thick glove off a beefy hand with strong fingers and pulled a cellphone out of the pocket of his bulky jacket. From what I could see, the man was a hunk and a half. He was sandy haired, with a smile that wouldn't stop, and a square-jawed, all-man face. The stubble on his chin indicated he was probably a three-shaves-a-day man. On him it looked macho. A member of Jake's all-man group. My type.

"You can't wait out there for help. It's too cold," I said. "When you've made your call, come on in and have a cup of coffee or something stronger while you wait."

I figured he was a "something stronger" guy, and I was right. As he was taking off several layers of padding, I went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. I was humming inside. The Christmas spirit was flowing into the room. It was Christmas Eve and I wasn't alone. I hoped the power company would take its time sending help. He was a hunk and a half. The last thing Jake had said over Skype was "Don't sleep alone tonight." I hadn't told him about the snow piling up.

When Phil—that's the name he gave me—had gotten down to a T-shirt and jeans, and I'd almost swallowed my tongue in finding how body beautiful and muscled out he was, I saw that it wouldn't do. "You're still wet under all of that. You'll catch your cold. Why don't you go ahead and shower and dry off? I'll throw your wet things into the drier."

"I don't want to put you out."

"You're not putting me out. You're a lot bigger than I am, but if you look in the closet and the bottom drawer of the bureau in the bedroom, you should find something of Jake's that will fit you until we get your clothes dry." He certainly wouldn't be putting me out if I could get a peek at him in the altogether. Being a masseur at a gay gym, I was used to seeing guys that way, but it was Christmas. I missed Jake something fierce, and it would be a present just to see a guy with a body as beautiful as Jake's was naked.

"Jake?"

"My boyfriend. But he's in Afghanistan now." And I was all alone on Christmas Eve. "Uh, sorry, too much information?" I asked.

"No. No, not at all. I'm comfortable with that. Which way is your shower?"

"Come, I'll show you." And I did. And, keyed up as I was getting, I lingered as he stripped down and stepped into the shower. He didn't show any wish for me to leave before he was naked, and he took his time getting there. He was magnificent and hung. It was like having Jake home for Christmas. Almost.

I went back into the living room humming and on to the kitchen to pull out some snacks. I turned the CD player back on, giving the Trans-Siberian Orchestra another shot at the holiday spirits, and I fluffed up the pillows on the sofa, which, happily, was facing both the Christmas tree and the fireplace. I wondered if it was too forward to do so, but I laughed, went to the storage bin on the window wall, and dragged out the white faux bear-skin rug we kept there and Jake and I liked to use in front of the fireplace. I wasn't planning anything with Phil, of course, not necessarily, but it gave me a boost to look at the rug in front of the fireplace and think of Jake and me there. It would help with Phil being here for a little while. He was very much of the same build—and equipment—as Jake, and he could help me in my Jake fantasy.

Christmas was looking up now.

When Phil came out of the bedroom, he was only wearing briefs. "I hope you don't mind," he said. "I'm a bit bigger than this Jack of yours. The only place we seem to match up is needing room in the crotch. But I bet you like that about Jack."

"No, that's fine," I said, ignoring the innuendo, but turning away from him and smiling as I did so. More than fine, I thought. "And it's Jake."

"Umm, yes, sorry. Jake."

"Come on over to the sofa. I brought out some snacks and something to warm us."

"Something to help us keep warm?" he asked, giving me a look I'd seen in men's eyes before. He was a player.

He sat, smiled when he saw the whiskey bottle, and we chatted for a while. He'd already figured it out, I was sure, so I didn't hold back that I was gay or that Jake and I had an open relationship—and now one at half a world's remove. He saw my folded massage table from across the room too, and asked, so I didn't keep back that I was a masseur and that I worked at the Apollo Gym in the Delano district of Wichita, across the river from the downtown area. "It's near the XY Club," I added.

"I know it well," he answered. Neither one of us mentioned that both locations were gay businesses in the gay district of the city. By then we didn't have to. He'd put a hand on my knee and I had left it there. We continued to chat like nothing was happening, but something was happening. I lay back into the corner of the sofa, and Phil hovered over me there. I, under my own steam, brought my left leg up on the sofa, bent, the leg pressed into the back of the sofa. I had my legs spread, my crotch pointed at him. I was up to him what he wanted to do about.

The hand he'd put on my knee was on the move now. We continued chatting about Wichita and how it was in the summer, which I allowed was good to hear, as I'd just moved here in the fall and so far the weather here was the pits. It was like engaging in the chitchat made the fondling just not happening, until, oopsy-daisy, suddenly, almost innocently, one guy was on top of and inside the other. I'd played that game before.

His hand moved up my thigh and to my basket, where his fingers traced the line of my cock through the material of the jeans. Of course I was hard. No, I didn't make any move to brush his hand away.

"What do you think of the whiskey—the bourbon?" I asked.

"You brought out the best stuff. I rarely get Wild Turkey," he said.

"Jake bought it. He said he bought it for me. That I deserved nothing but the best."

"I can see why he'd say that," Phil said. He unbuckled my belt, unzipped me, and moved his hand inside. I moaned. "And does Jake give you only the best of everything?"

"Yes, only the best." I was panting. "Jake is hung like a bull."

"So am I," Phil murmured. "You're not bad yourself." He'd taken my measure, but his hand hadn't lingered on my cock. It had pressed under my balls, between my thighs. The pad of his index finger was at my rim, moving around it. I groaned and gave a little lurch as he penetrated me. He paused, hovering over me and looking into my eyes, waiting, I guess for me to say he was going too far too fast. I rolled my pelvis up to signal that the penetration wasn't unwelcome. Phil gave little laugh and pressed further in. I rocked my pelvis languidly on the finger.

He was going to mount and fuck me; it wasn't going to stop with hand jobs. We both knew it.

"And is Jake the only one who gives to you?" Phil asked, taking his time. "Do you lay down for the not necessarily the best but the good enough?"

"I take it from whoever I want and Jake's not jealous."

"And Jake's not here."

"No, Jake's not here."

He pulled his finger out of me, but only long enough to pull my jeans and briefs off my legs and my shirt off my back. I didn't resist him. I helped. Then he was back, with not one, but two fingers. I moaned, placed my right foot flat on the floor in front of the sofa and my left flat on the sofa cushion and pushed up, raising my tailbone, giving him greater access.

"And it's Christmas," Phil whispered.

"And it's Christmas," I agreed.

"The season for giving and taking."

"The season for taking whatever you want."

"And you want a man, and I want to fuck you."

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer, all of my attention going to those fingers inside me. I didn't have to answer. Phil knew what I wanted, what I needed. He was hovering over me, trapping me in the corner of the sofa. He lowered his head, taking my mouth in his. We kissed, but I jerked away, arching my head back, panting hard, and whimpering. He'd entered me with a third and fourth finger and was moving them in and out, nearly fist fucking me.

"Have you ever let a man—?"

"Yes, but I don't think that's what I want tonight," I answered.

"But you do want—?"

"Yes, I do want you inside me."

And then he was cock fucking me, crouched over me, one hand clutching my throat, holding my head arched over the upholstered sofa arm, and the other hand pressed into the small of my back, holding my pelvis up to him for full, open access, as he slowly entered and stretched me with a long, thick cock. I panted hard, working hard to stretch open for him before he started the rhythm of the fuck and barely being ready as he began to thrust—powerful, filling, virile, in command.

For him, it was all about him now. It was all about getting his rocks off. I liked that in a man. I liked him to be dominant, maybe a bit cruel. I liked him taking what he wanted.

He fucked me to the beat of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, taking me hard, vigorously, and deep. I went with him, moving my hands from clutching his shoulder blades and then gliding down his muscular back to his plump buttocks, holding him close into me as he fucked me deep.

I cried out and shot my load up his belly, but young, virile, fit, Phil fucked on, nearly exhausting me, fully satisfying me for the first time since Jake had marched off to Afghanistan, although that certainly hadn't been the last time a massage client had fucked me.

After we rested, snacked some more, and talked more intimately than we had before on who we were, where we'd come from, and how we enjoyed taking our sex—both of us liking how we'd just done it—and lowered the level on the Wild Turkey bottle, I confessed that my massages went with sex, if the client wanted it and paid for it, and Phil admitted that he worked for a gay male escort agency as well as the power company.

Then we moved to the bear-skin rug, about which Phil smiled but cracked no joke, and he put me on all fours, crouched over me, mounted me, and fucked me again in a deep doggie position. The man was hirsute. I was sandwiched between a bear rug and a bear of a man, being fucked like a animal in heat.

We rested again, polished off the snacks, emptied the Wild Turkey bottle, and joined in some karaoke with Bing Crosby on "White Christmas" and Dean Martin on "Let It Snow." We both thought that my tenor soaring about his baritone made for first-rate singing, but we were half looped, so what did we know? After we'd put finished to the refreshments and had sung our little hearts out, Phil gathered me up in his arms, carried me into the bedroom, and dumped me on the bed on my back. He climbed up on the bed, coaxed my legs open, manipulating them so that they were spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress, moved between them, and fucked me in a deep-thrusting missionary. After that, we lay, entwined, on the bed, both in a Wild Turkey-induced stupor and, undoubtedly both snoring with smiles on our face.

When I woke, I was alone. It took me a few minutes to realize where I was and what I'd been doing, what I had done through the night. I was on my back, legs spread, so maybe Phil had had another go with me while I was zonked. It was clear I'd been well fucked, though, I was still dilated and I was sore. I felt like Jake had been home for Christmas. I remained there, in position, for some time, savoring the thought that Jake had come home for Christmas.

When I rolled off the bed and had come back from the shower, I padded, naked, out into the living area, half expecting that Phil was still there and more than half hoping that he was. He wasn't, though. All of the Christmas lights in the house were still blazing from the previous night. The rug in front of the fireplace, which was stone cold, was ruffled up, and I smiled at the memory of what Phil and I had done there—what Phil had done with and to me, being fucked by a bear on a bear rug. I had been a complete submissive with Phil, letting him take whatever he wanted. He satisfied me fully in doing so. I, of course, thought of his visit as a Christmas present.

"Phil," I called out, but no one answered. I went to the living room window and saw that the power truck was gone. There was just one track in the snow of a truck down the street toward 29th Street. If help had arrived last night and gotten the truck going, they'd worked quietly and begin gone before it had snowed again. He'd left quietly too.

It wasn't snowing now. Now it was a world of glistening white, making Wichita almost tolerable. Almost.

I made a cup of coffee and ate a sugared donut—a Christmas indulgence gift I was giving myself—turned the music on—this time Rosemary Clooney and Julie Andrews. Boys' night in was over now. I had a little surge of regret for that. Phil had been good, very good. No, great. He was not Jake, but he was close. I stopped at the computer, feeling lonely, wanting to check on whether anyone had e-mailed Christmas greetings to me, seeking connection. Several had, but I went right to Jake's e-mail.

Merry Christmas, lover. I hope you liked the Christmas present I sent to you last night. The escort agency assured me the guy named Phil was the best they had. Hope you were thinking of me while he was doing what he was doing. See you soon. Rumor is they are about to let us loose. Maybe by Easter. Kisses and you know what. Jake.

I smiled. Indeed, Phil was probably the best the escort agency in Wichita had on order—and he was a power guy too, in more ways than one. But Jake was right. I was thinking of him all the time Jake was fucking me. That didn't mean I enjoyed Phil any less. It meant I needed to think a little harder about Jake and me. Maybe the relationship was more serious than I had been thinking it was. I checked my brain cells to see if that bothered me and found that it didn't.

I had to laugh about the ploy Phil had used to get into the house. I realized he'd turned the power off to the house himself while he was up on the pole and then had turned it back on. He must have been real fast while I was away from the window, though, to get his truck turned off and looking dead while I thought he still was on the pole. I realized the truck hadn't been dead. He'd just been paid to find a way to get into the house—and then into me. And he'd found it easy. I'd practically jumped his bones. No, I wasn't sorry about that.

I went back to the kitchen bar for another donut and that's when I saw the business card. It was for the escort agency. Handwritten on the front was "Ask for Phil." I turned it over. There he had written, "Great time. More a Christmas present for me than your Jake's for you, I think. Call me. If you don't charge me for the massage, I won't charge you for the cocking. New Year's Eve?"

I didn't throw the card away. It would be a long, cold winter before Easter arrived.