(by Edward Zeusgany and Alex Anders, © copyright 1999, all rights reserved)

One Saturday morning, I found that I needed a few photocopies. It was early, just after nine, so I went right away before the college students blew the boozy fog from their brains and clogged up the place. This was a couple of years before they put in the do-it-yourself machine for small jobs.

I was third in line, still half asleep and not paying any attention to anything, until it was my turn. The person who came to serve me was a high school kid, who must have been there just helping out part time, probably a relative of the owner or one of the staff. He was neither beautiful nor cute. If I had to describe him, I’d probably say fresh faced; slender; average height; coarse, reddish-blonde hair; nice looking, but no more than that.

What caught my eye were his worn jeans, at least one size too big, and held up by a length of rope in place of a belt. This made me smile. In return, the boy grinned, delightedly. I felt my own smile broaden, although I managed to control myself in all other regards. He made my copies and I left.

I used this particular copy shop because it was gay owned and most of the employees were members of the club. It was as convenient and reasonable in price as any of them and I simply felt comfortable there. Now I had another reason to patronize them.

Returning the following Saturday, just before noontime, the line was quite long. I didn’t mind the delay and I didn’t really need to have the copies that day. Another employee waited on me, but the teenager was there and we made eye contact. I took my thin package and went to the nearest sub shop for lunch.

I had just sat down with my seafood salad sandwich and diet cola when the youngster came in. We each smiled in greeting and he came over to my table. A few pleasantries were exchanged.

Then, “Save my place, I’ll be right back.”

He went to order his lunch. I assumed he meant to sit with me while he ate. My heart soared, in spite of knowing too well that, in all probability, nothing would come of it. How often had there been these fleeting flirtations that stimulated my imagination, but nothing more. Yet, I wouldn’t give up a one of them.

The youngster returned with a sausage and pepper sub and an oversized can of root beer. I was rewarded with another of his grins, then he took a large bite of his sandwich.

“That’s an interesting belt you’re wearing,” I offered.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. With a smile that was both less broad and yet more suggestive, he continued, “Y’know what it’s for?” We’re eating while we’re talking, so there are pauses between comments.

“Well, when a leatherman carries handcuffs attached to his shirt or his pants, their for him.”

“I don’t own a pair,” he informed me, with no sign of dejection.

“What do you want to happen after you’re tied up?”

“Most of all, I want to be surprised. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen.”

“Don’t you think that might be dangerous.”

“I’m real careful who I go with. I use my gaydar-plus. It hasn’t failed me yet.”

We were silent for a while, finishing our meal. Then he inquired, “Do you live alone?”

“Yes,” I told him.

“Can I have your phone number?”

“Sure.”

“Got a pen?”

I handed one over and watched as he wrote my telephone number on the palm of his left hand.

*****

The teenager cleaned up his debris and dumped it in the disposal bin on his way out. I started to worry that my number would get smudged and become unreadable before he thought to copy it to paper. That would happen if it came in contact with anything wet. Then he’d get ink stains on whatever he had touched. I thought about what he might touch that could be slightly damp and become stained. I restrained myself from calling to warn him of this possibility. Surely he had my number still.

The rest of that day, I tried to keep from thinking about the kid. I had neglected to get his name, so he remained “the kid,” perhaps would always be, “the kid.” Notions go into, through, and out of their heads fast enough to make mine spin. There was a better than even chance that I’d never see him again, except behind the counter of the copy shop. Seeming not to remember ever having my phone number in the palm of his left hand, he might be as indifferent to me as though we had never shared such an intimacy.

Only then would it be all right to imagine what might have been. Premature imaginings have the capacity to hinder an actual encounter, not so much due to unreasonable expectations, but because they may interfere with the natural flow of events and produce an unpleasant artificiality. Avoiding this pitfall can be difficult for a person with an active mind.

The phone did not ring until late on Sunday, shortly after six. “Can I come over?” I heard him say. He didn’t bother with, hello, this is …, or any other chit chat. I provided the address.

A few minutes later Jordan and I were seated together on the sofa grinning at each other. His eyes followed my fingers as I untied the rope belt. With my hands on his shoulders I guided him to turn away for me. He very nicely put his arms behind his back, wrists together. I tied them securely, but not so tight as to cause pain.

Then I undid his button fly jeans, pulled them off his butt and drew them down to his ankles. This bound his legs, in effect. “Are you ticklish?,” I queried.

“Yes,” the teenager admitted, laughing before I had even started.

“Don’t make too much noise. The neighbors …,” I cautioned. He sputtered and snorted as I worked on him, trying hard not to shriek. While pausing to let the kid catch his breath, I got his T-shirt over his head and down his arms to where it bunched up over his fettered wrists. During another respite, his briefs made the trip to join his jeans that were tangled about his feet. I also used this time to kiss him here and there.

I ignored his pleas to stop, except as defining points for rest periods. While kissing his neck, for some reason, I thought to stiffen my tongue and use the tip of it as a tickling instrument. This made him sensitive in spots not susceptible to mere fingers, there at each side of the neck and in the creases where the legs meet the abdomen.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to pee,” he warned, thrashing about.

The moment was right, in my opinion, to initiate sucking. I knew that when the bladder was full an orgasm was often more intense. His ejaculation was not long in coming. Kids today! Afterward, I left his side and sat in a facing chair watching his stomach rise and fall with rapid breathing. Gradually it returned to a slow rhythm. His eyes were closed.

He opened them. “I really do need to pee,” Jordan announced.

I went to him and pulled off his sneakers, then freed his feet of tangled clothing. This enabled him to get to the bathroom, where I aimed his dick for him. He began to go at once. It would have taken me twenty minutes to get my stream started if someone else were holding my cock, but not the kid.

When he was done, he looked at me sheepishly. “I have to go pretty soon, school tomorrow.”

“Well, I could hurry I suppose.” I paused for effect. “But I’d rather wait for another time. Will there be another time?” I asked.

“Oh sure,” he assured me, his grim returned to its rightful place. “I had a great time.”

We returned to my living room. “I need you to untie me,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.” I replied, as though this hadn’t occurred to me.

I helped to locate and straighten out his clothes so he could get into them. As he was going out the door I said, “I hope we’ll be friends for a long time.” Jordan stuck his head back in and kissed me on the lips. Then he was gone.

*****

We did get together on several more occasions. Jordan proved to be generous with his openings. I got to use both of them. As much as I would have liked to see him far more often, the lad wanted surprises and new adventures. I’m afraid that I wasn’t imaginative enough to hold his interest on a permanent basis.

Then again, no one else was able to keep him either. So his occasional visits continued until he went to college in New York. One Monday morning they found him in a dumpster with his throat cut.

Whenever I hear of such things, a boy drowned in a quarry, a kid hanging himself in the cellar, I think, if the youngster had only been in my bed with my arms around him, he’d be safe and loved and cared for. Then I push those thoughts out of my mind because they make my heart ache.

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