Desert Treat

Vintage Travolta—Show me anyone else in that suit, and I’d laugh. For him, I’m full of excuses. Maverick, I think, disdainer of fashion. Besides, the white suit covers the whipped caramel of his skin to perfection. It’s as if a coconut was turned inside out, cool white without, dark within.

“I’m Rashad,” he says, taking my hand.

I look at my bought jewel. The silk shirt inside the suit is open revealing a lip-smacking vee of milk-chocolate man, bisected by a curling trail of darker fur.

My man-toy sees me looking and drops a lewd hand inside his already low-cut pants, ensuring I note the deep, round belly-hole, not that I’d miss it, or the way his tight young abs curl into valleys, or how the waist pinches in before his ripe belly.

He tilts back, a second hand flat against his tummy, where I ache to put mine, flashing jewelry. I’ve already noticed the sparkle of a medallion on his chest, not far from a toothy nipple. I picture those nipples beside me in bed, the slender hips carelessly lathed with my satin sheets; Rashad, nude, but for that delicate medallion, the only thing not really Travolta-ish in his get-up. My balls ache.

“All the way,” he whispers, referring to how the chest hair trails unbrokenly to the feathery moss of his manhood. He tilts further to show me the track from sculpted hip to the rod I discern by shape, dangling on the left side of his pant’s leg.

He’s not wearing underwear.

“You like to suck?” He leers.

I respond with sucked in breathe before I signal a lone figure. Lights go out, except for those above the bar. We’re alone.

I’m a big man. I swoop my desert boy into my arms and set him on the bar, eagerly yanking his pants. Rashad obligingly lifts each buttock.

His juicy rod springs to life and I’m gratified to think it’s more than my money he likes.

“You buy me,” he says referring to our annual mock man auction. “You buy out the place for the night too?”

I’m behind the bar. A twist and a pull then I baptize my treat, filling his clavicles, lapping from the delicate spaces till he giggles.

“Dear boy,” I say, “I own the place,” and splash his cock with champagne.

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