The Window Cleaner Ch. 01: Boyd

[This is a completed, three-chapter novella, which will complete posting by 20 December 2017.]

*****

I had waited patiently through three watered-down drinks in the downstairs club on Chelsea's 22nd Street, waiting for him to come out to dance the pole. I had glimpsed him coming out to do his number the last time I'd been in the bar. But it had been late and I was leaving, needing to get a good night's sleep for the ad campaign presentation the next morning. It seemed he always was on late, because it was past time now that I should have left.

Fortuitously, he came to the pole right above the counter where I was seated. He came in with his eyes on me, moving his gaze from my eyes to the cash I was clutching in my right hand, like he knew I was his john for the evening. Still watching me, performing directly for me, he danced slowly, sensuously. He was wearing one of those sock thongs that only the well-hung dared to wear. Most of the pole dancers in this club were on the young and willowy side. He wasn't. He was more of an aged-out beefcake Chippendale dancer—the other side of thirty, but just over that line, maybe four years older than I was, and still solid and hard bodied. A body builder, but he hadn't overdone it. The square-jawed, rugged-bodied type, accentuated in his case by construction boots, with heavy woolen socks peeking out of their tops, being the only thing he was wearing other than a gold chain around his neck and the thong pulled down in front by the weight of heavy balls and a thick rod to expose the curls of his auburn pubic hair. He looked like he'd be a rough rider.

I liked that he had hair on his body. He was honest about what he offered; he wasn't pretending anything.

This was only belied by the head hair, which was frosted in rambunctious curls, but the hair swirling around his nipples and descending in a tight line down into his pubes was auburn, as was the light matting on his forearms and thighs. His arms and thighs were muscular, and I could imagine him getting a vice grip on another man with his strong thighs and subduing him until the hunk could force himself inside. The club color coded the dancers' thongs, the blue being for bottoms, which most of the dancers were, and they were getting the most attention from the club clientele, mostly sailors tonight. The blue-thonged dancers were young, smaller of stature, and lithe. Obviously most of the men watching the dancers were tops. The guy I was watching wore a red thong, one of only two dancers to do so, and the other one in a red thong was a younger, thin black guy, but whose sock thong hung almost down to his knees. You'd have to want some serious cock to go under him.

I also liked the contrast of my guy's tattoos. All of the dancers in this club were tattooed. Most had done it randomly. Some looked like they'd done it themselves, which was a turnoff for me. His was purposeful, artfully done and contained to one area of his body, but a riot of color there. His left arm, from the wrist up was covered in a swirling Oriental scene of greens, blues, and reds that rose up in a sleeve and covered his left pec in front and his left shoulder blade in back. He otherwise was uncolored—or so I believed at the time. I wasn't a tattoo man, but I found the tightly controlled pattern of his tatting intoxicating, and, while he danced, his tattoo undulating on his body, I tried to discern the story of his sleeve.

I think I was attracted to him because he looked like a man who insisted on control, who gave it rough, but he now was in a role of being at my beck and command. He kept looking hungrily and expectantly at the cash I clutched in my hand, me fully controlling when and whether to dole it out to him or one of the other dancers.

He was dancing just for me. It was late and most of the men still in the bar weren't gravitating to him. They were showing more interest in the effeminate, blue-thonged dancers at the other poles. No one was taking the challenge of the thin black guy in the red sock thong. I was interested in something else. I wanted to be in control, but, still, I wanted to be topped; I wanted it thick and long. And I wanted the man to have to give up his natural role of controlling to have what I could give—the cash clutched in my hand. The dancer had few options other than whatever I wanted from him. He obviously was aware of that, as he was working me solely.

I rose a bit out of my chair, leaned forward, and stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his waistband. Seeing that I had higher-denomination bills in my hand, he accelerated his attention to me, shimmied up the pole, slowly rode it back down, holding it close into his body, and giving me the eye, came off the pole and crouched down in front of me, dick at my eye and mouth level, and moved his pelvis back and forth languidly. Putting a hand under his silky red pouch tube, he elevated and pointed his dick at me. He wanted me to know he was long and thick. His eyes and the expression on his face invited me to touch. So I did, running my fingers up the side of his shaft as I lifted another ten spot between two fingers up to his waistband.

He gave me an air kiss and reached out a thick-fingered hand to cup my chin. I frowned at that, though, and pushed his hand away. He just shrugged, but gave me a "no hard feelings" look and smiled as I took my time moving my cupped hand back down his sheathed shaft.

The music in the room was reaching a crescendo. This wouldn't go on much longer. The time to strike a deal or go home was fast approaching.

My eyes went to his forearm, liking that I could see a vein bulging as it ran up his arm, prominent because his muscle tone gave no way for the vein to run through fat. My mind went to wondering if there was such a vein running the length of his cock. I already knew the shaft was thick and long.

His eyes went to my hand that still held bills—two twenties and a fifty.

He leaned down and whispered, "Another twenty now, give the big guy standing at the side of the bar the other twenty, and then follow me into the back and I'll give you a private session for the fifty. Whichever way you want it, as hard and deep as you can take it."

I stuffed a twenty in his waistband, and he remained crouched there in front of me, undulating to the music, while I moved the hand back down to encase his cock in the tube loosely, as he move the shaft back and forth in my loose grip, noticeably filling out. I was already giving him a hand job, but we both knew the fifty would get me more.

The music stopped, he rose and turned to walk to the end of the stage, down a few stairs, and then through a beaded curtain-covered doorway into the back, as I walked over and handed the remaining twenty to a goon sprawled on the side of the bar.

The dancer was standing in a doorway, leaning provocatively into the doorframe when I entered the dimly lit hallway. As I brushed by him and into a small room painted black, he reached out to pull me into his body and a kiss, but I gently pushed him away. "No, I don't want you to touch me or to take the initiative. I want to control," I said in a low voice.

"Sure, anything you want," he said, as I handed him the fifty, and he added that to what he took out of his waistband, pulled the thin gold chain with a key on the end of it off his neck, walked over to a nightstand, and locked the money in a drawer.

He stood there, waiting for instructions, as he pulled the chain over his neck again.

"Sit over there, on that couch," I said. There was both a small couch and a bed in the small room. Both were covered in black vinyl, easily swabbed down after a client had gone. I slowly undressed, neatly folded my clothes, and stacked them on the bed. When I turned to him, in erection, he whistled. "Nice. I don't usually get them with bodies this good. What do you want me to do with you?" His voice was deep and soft.

"Take the thong off. Get hard for me," I said. He pulled the thong off, tossed it aside, and fisted his cock. There were no surprises there. He was horse hung and already half hard.

We remained there, him sitting on the couch, me standing more than an arm's length away from him, both of us slowly beating our meat, until I went down on my knees as he widened his stance, fisted the root of his cock, and ran my tongue down the length of it. The vein was there, as I imagined, but I was surprised to see a bright green snake tattoo curling around the shaft. He had been covering that with his hand as he beat off.

He groaned and put his hands on the back of my head, but I reached up and brushed his hands away, muttering, "Don't touch me."

"Whatever," he said, and leaned back, with a sigh, and crossed his wrists behind his neck, as I swallowed his cock and ran my tongue around the shaft's bulb. He grunted and began a swaying motion with his hips, pressing his cock into my mouth, pulling it back, and pressing it in again. But I grabbed his hips and signaled that he was to hold steady, and he stopped his movement, giving all control over to me.

"All I want is your hard cock," I said. "Otherwise you aren't here. I'm just paying to use your shaft."

"Whatever," he muttered, as if he'd heard that a hundred times before, which I doubted that he had.

When I sat in his lap and rode his cock, taking my time settling on the long, thick, throbbing rod, it was all me. Me rising and falling on the shaft, me rubbing my chest against his. We did kiss, but it was me, burying my fist in the hair at the back of his head and pulling his face to mine, biting his lip when he put pressure on mine and started to work his tongue into my mouth. Him giving in to me as my tongue entered his mouth and swabbed his inner cheeks. When I'd set up a rise/fall rhythm on his cock, I sucked the key from his gold chain into my mouth and pressed my forehead to his, capturing his eyes with mine, as I fucked him.

I made him sit there, all pent-up but unexpended power. Larger, heavier, more muscular than I was, but me in full control. He came when I told him he could, deep up inside me, and then I rose off him and made him sit there, head back, while I jerked off and spouted my cum on his chest and face.

Then, without looking back, I turned, pulled on my clothes, and left the room.

* * * *

I lived in the thick of everything, in Midtown Manhattan, not far from Times Square. I could walk or take the subway from my fifteenth-floor, glass-clad studio apartment overlooking 47th Street at the corner of 10th Avenue to everywhere I wanted to go—to my job as an ad man at a Madison Avenue ad agency, rising to there in the agency from classic blond male model and riding on a wave of success in the boom time that was the mid 60s, and into Chelsea for the gay bars and clubs for entertainment. I liked the city. It had all of the amenities and yet was impersonal, nonjudgmental. I could live as I liked and control everything, all of my interactions with others. I was comfortable and satisfied, if not fully satiated, sort of gliding along in a bubble.

My sexual tastes were peculiar. I'm not sure where I got them from except that I was an only child, my parents indulgent with everything but affection. I looked up to my father. He was a short but powerfully built and handsome man—well groomed and expensively dressed. A sportsman and very much in control of his environment. But his father had died young, and, not knowing having a father, he didn't seem to have any idea how to be one. He seemed uncomfortable with me being any closer than an arm's length to him. He and my mother didn't get along too well, and she was bitchy about it. I found myself siding with my father, but he didn't seem to be aware of that or to care. I'm not sure that he would have cared if he had known how much I worshipped him, what I would have done for him if he had asked. But it was my mother I went with in the divorce—kicking and screaming.

Still, when I had sex, as I had done the previous night in using the aging-out Chippendales hunk in the 22nd Street club, I conjured up the image of my father and the times I'd seen him bent over the back of the taller, more muscular college boy who mowed our lawn, fucking him, totally in control, in the garden shed. Brian had bullied me in high school when he was a senior football team hero and I had barely made JV. It was good seeing him being dominated like that in the garden shed by father, and I admired my father for his insistence to control. I so wanted to be like him. When I was being completely honest, I admitted I so wanted to be under him.

My first man wasn't someone like my father, though. It was a cruel monster of a black bull construction worker who followed me out of a gay bar I had tentatively entered looking for something but not yet aware exactly what that was or how to go about getting it. He had taken that choice away from me, following me out of the bar, pulling me into an alley, behind a line of dumpsters, pinning me to the ground with his muscular bulk, and fucking me roughly and hard, making me suck him big and then thrusting again and again, hard and deep inside me. He had totally humiliated and controlled me, holding me there immobile in his powerful arms, belittling and threatening me after the first time and then fucking me again, laughing at me as I whimpered that I wanted it but could he go slower? Fucking me harder and faster then.

I had liked the dick pinning me to the ground and churning inside me, and I didn't mind losing my virginity to a man—even being intrigued and aroused at being taken by a hung black bull, my mind hyperventilating at the thought of that fat black cock of his inside me—but I railed at the lack of choice—at being given no control. And I had vowed not to lose control to a man again.

So, now I went for the bruisers but only if they let me control. For that reason, I paid for most of the sex I got. Most bruisers cruising bars for one-night, no pay hookups didn't willingly give up control.

* * * *

I opened the door of my apartment to Tony, who I had a regular, at-home massage appointment with every other late Friday afternoon unless I had something else on before the evening, which I rarely did. I could build up a lot of tension during the work week. We had some of the bigger ad accounts targeted at certain types of women's and men's magazines. For these magazines, we handled Reynolds Tobacco, a line of men's cologne products, and Ford automobiles, among others. But competition was stiff, both inside and outside the office. The agency head, Maury Rivers, was a hard taskmaster, he was capricious and bitchy, and his disapproval was the kiss of death in this business.

He liked me well enough and had raised me up from modeling for ads to designing them for a good salary, but I always felt a little disadvantaged around him. He liked to surround himself with gay young men, but, as our preferences were the same, I thought that some of the other guys had a leg up on him, so to speak. Just because he didn't want to fuck me didn't mean that he didn't want to own me.

I had engaged Tony, who was quite expensive, mainly because Maury used him too. He gave a total, relaxing and releasing massage, and Maury liked to be told how I used Tony's cock in athletic positions. I always suspected that he then tried those positions himself with Tony and invariably told me how good he'd been at it, this being his own form of emotionally fucking me too.

The main reason for using Tony for a full-body massage was that, although he was a power top, for what I paid him he let me control the inevitable fuck.

He set up his table in the center of the main room, which was living, dining, and bedroom all in one, although the room was large enough to comfortably accommodate all of that. The kitchen was on one side of the entry corridor at the interior of the apartment and the bathroom on the other side. The outer wall, toward 47th Street, though, was a floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass, so the apartment was well lit. I hadn't gotten round to buying heavy curtains and had settled on gauzy ones that defused, but did not obliterate the view. The apartment wasn't large, but it was expensive. My salary didn't come anywhere close to covering the cost. It was a good thing that I had family money, but Maury also covered some of the rent to keep me aware that he owned me. That was fine with me; otherwise he would have found more obtrusive ways and probably less beneficial ways to assert himself.

Tony, a bald, Italian, muscle-bound personal trainer in his mid twenties, gave a good, deep-tissue sports massage. But he gave more than that. He was pretty much finished with both my back and my front, when I took his oiled hand in mine and moved it to my erect cock, giving him direction. He obligingly worked my cock with his hand, and when I reached up and pulled gently on his bicep, he brought his mouth down and sucked my cock to completion.

It was while he was holding very steady on his back on the massage table, his legs bent and feet flat on the table, and I was riding his cock in a reverse cowboy, my ankles on his shoulders and my hands gripping his knees, that I realized we weren't alone.

I should have remembered. There had been a note from the super about it, wedged under my door, the previous night.

A platform had come down from above beyond the wall of glass and a window cleaner was outside my window, not fifteen feet from where I was rising and falling on Tony's cock on the massage table. The cleaner, of course, wasn't actively washing the window. He was standing outside the window, staring at us. And now I was staring at him, although I had barely broken stride in my slide on Tony's cock. Tony had his head turned away. He was doing his best to do as I had instructed him to do—not to touch me; just to lay there, as inert as possible other than maintaining a hard cock until he came, letting me use his cock to come a second time myself.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window cleaner. He was everything I looked for rolled into one package—dark and sultry and the physique of a Marine, the image coming to me immediately because of the Marine cut of his hair, the sense of power he exuded, and the rugged, square-chinned aspect of his face, not to mention the broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and the pronounced guns on his arms, where he had the short sleeves of his soft blue shirt—matching his close-fitting trousers in color and material—rolled up to his shoulders.

He was giving me a knowing, saucy gaze from steel-blue eyes. He had started wiping the window, but he hadn't gotten too far before he saw us on the massage table. I was in no position to extricate myself and go draw the gauzy curtains—through which the window cleaner, in any event, could have seen enough of us to know what we were doing and to get a good view of our bodies doing it—of what I was doing in controlling the masseur. Tony was just lying there, letting me borrow his hard cock. He wasn't even aware we were being observed. There was no way to hide from the workman outside the window that I was fucking myself on Tony's cock and had been in a state of ecstasy doing it.

I did recover enough then to think about moving—not to pull the curtains, which would have brought me, naked and full frontal, to within a foot of him on the other side of the glass, but back, retreating to the bathroom. But before I was able to climb off Tony, who was tensing up, nearly ready to blow, I looked back at the wall of glass to find that the window cleaner had engaged the lift of the platform and was rising above my floor, leaving my windows unfinished. Darkness was falling anyway. It must have been time for him to quit.

I had frustrated visions of him in a bar that night, telling his buddies what he'd seen, controlling me even though I wasn't there by having me defenseless in the face of being the butt of their jokes.