A million years ago, or maybe just a few months, I lived in a townhouse. It seems like a million years ago because I am that happy where I live now.
The townhouse itself was fine, but the neighbors were a nightmare – unfuckable 19-year-old potheads who did nothing but play video games and listen to auto-tuned pop music day and night. I say “unfuckable” because not only were they hard on the eye but they had nothing between their ears, absolutely nothing, and that’s a deal-breaker for me.
Having shitty neighbors is a special kind of hell. Your home, your refuge from the job and the world, becomes a prison of worry and stress.
My one escape was a morning walk I took to a nearby park. It was half a mile to the park, and a fitness trail around the park stretched a mile, so by the time I got back to my townhouse – wretched neighbors and all – I had logged two miles as the Fitbit flies. That little bit of tranquility kept my wits intact for the most part.
Little did I know, but my luck was about to change.
It started on a day only a few months before I would depart the townhouse forever (unbeknownst to me ... but that’s another story), I set out on my morning walk and I had gone no farther than about a quarter mile when I spotted a tasty morsel jogging my way.
If you’re like me you have a “type” of guy who puts the steel in your fuck stick. Some guys like girlish twinks, while others are hot for older men with hair on their chests, not their heads. To each his own, right?
My type is the tall, skinny dude. I don’t know why, but I like a guy with some altitude. And experience has taught me the taller and leaner he is, the bigger his dick tends to be. THAT is a definite plus.
The jogging boy heading my way definitely fit all my parameters. He was about 26 years old, maybe 6-foot 2 with short brown hair, a hatchet of a nose and cheekbones that seemed to frame his entire face. His legs were long and graceful – not skinny – like a thoroughbred racehorse. They were fuzzed with a decent layer of hair, although I wouldn’t call him Bigfoot. I’d guess his weight at about 160. And swinging beneath the crotch of those jogging shorts was the telltale shape of something big – but not so big I couldn’t get it down my throat. All in all, a sight worth stripping with my eyes.
As I was committing this to memory he approached and came abreast of me. He smiled and offered a cheerful “Good morning,” and passed me by, a whorl of musky scent curling in his wake. Sweat, of course. But it was a clean smell, the scent of youthful freshness. Underlying that was something else, something funkier that set my mouth to watering, because I knew it had to have come from his hidden places, his crack where the cheeks of his ass rubbed together providing a delightful friction, that spot between his balls and his thigh, or the superheated patch of sticky flesh between his scrotum and fun hole. Just thinking about those places caused my dick to harden, and because I was wearing nylon basketball shorts, it became obvious to the world that something had damn sure tickled my erotic fancy.
I gave myself a mental cold shower, thinking of the recent Pluto photos, or Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton in a secret tryst – just anything that would kill the mood. Christ, was that boy hot.
I saw him a few more times on my morning walk, and always he was with a friendly wave and a good morning or a hello. I think he could tell I was sizing him up because a hint of wariness had crept into his expression ... or was that my imagination?
All thoughts of jogging boy were banished when I received a telephone call from my landlord telling me he was selling my townhouse. I could stay if I liked, but the new owners would raise my rent, and the new rate would be competitive with the cost of renting a house.
Well, fuck that. I was already disgusted with the trash living to my right and the scumbags to my left.
I decided to move.
Luckily, a friend of mine knew a man who was looking for a long-term tenant for a house he owned in the same general neighborhood. The price was the same I would have paid had I stayed in the townhouse. I took one look at his place and fell in love. It was much larger than what I needed, but the neighborhood was terrific, a quiet, tree-lined street with houses nestled against a park. It was the kind of neighborhood you see in those old-fashioned paintings, the ones by that fellow ... what was his name? I’ll have to Google it. Norman Rockwell. Yes, that guy.
I wasted no time moving in, and it was after I got settled and began to check out the neighbors that I realized I had hit the jackpot.
The place was crawling with men. Good looking, fit men, mostly Air Force types. Across the street, down the street and even on both sides of me.
I already told you about my encounter with the neighbor to my right (“Air Force Weenie”) whose frigid girlfriend wouldn’t suck his dick. But the fellow to my left – whoa! Imagine my delight when I discovered it was jogging boy!
I made a point of being outside as much as possible because that was the only way I would meet him short of going over there and knocking on the door. Good thing he kept the place up by doing yard work and exterior house maintenance. After a few innocent hellos and good mornings, we began to chat a little. I learned his name was Scott and he was newly married to Julia (who was never home, by the way). They were both Air Force officers, he a newly minted captain. She worked in the military intelligence community, which explained her long hours and absences. In fact, she was at this moment TDY to a “dry, dusty place” as they say in the military, not wishing to disclose the specific whereabouts of their personnel.
After we got to know each other better he became more comfortable around me and even enlisted me to help him with a job over at his place. That’s where I struck gold.
He was replacing a light bulb in an outdoor flood. It was the most diabolically fiendish design he or I had ever seen. Why make something easy when you can make it complicated and expensive? With this light you had to undo four Phillips head screws and remove a spring-loaded plastic plate, then pop the bulb out of the socket because it was held in place by tension, not threads. All this had to be done while balancing atop a wobbly aluminum ladder that was positioned on soggy ground because one of the pop-up sprinklers had saturated that spot.
So Scott needed me to hold the ladder still while he replaced the bulb, a job I was happy to do. I wouldn’t mind spending a few minutes staring up at Scott’s butt, especially since he was wearing loose shorts.
Scott got his tools together and as he started up the ladder he said, “Now whatever you do, don’t let the ladder fall against the window there to the left. That thing would cost a fortune to replace.”
I told him I wouldn’t let the ladder hit the window and grabbed it even before he started climbing, wrapping my arms around his face. As he climbed his ass actually rubbed against my face “accidentally” (probably because I had made sure to lean in as he stepped up to the next rung). It was all muscle and carried a perfumy odor, probably some body wash.