Rating: NNNNN
I’m sitting on the front porch after work enjoying a glass of wine when a man walks by. In his 20s, he’s a casual, utterly appetizing vision of Y-U-M: tall, shaved head (but not as in Mr. Clean), with an intriguing air of mischief. Or at least that’s what I imagine as he glances my way, caressing me with a slight yet inviting grin. My attraction to this stranger anchors me to the porch. I’m rendered helpless in my wish to learn about him. Who is this guy? Does he live on the street? Is he available, or at the very least interested? The home setting stimulates my inquiring mind.
Time passes and regular sightings are welcome. And yet he remains a mystery.
I’m weeding the front lawn one afternoon when Lucifer – his name until he tells me otherwise – appears from around the corner. We’re in closer proximity than usual, so the timing seems right for a first conversation. And if all goes well, perhaps talk will lead to cock. I prepare to dazzle him with my sparkling brand of naughty wit.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is unexpectedly, distractingly deep, the tone effortlessly seductive.
“Hi,” I reply. Did my voice just crack?
“How are you?” he continues.
“Good.”
“Good.”
“How are you?” I echo.
“Good,” he smiles.
“Good.”
A pause follows that’s so pregnant it deserves a baby shower.
“Well, see ya,” bids Lucifer.
“See ya,” I offer as he walks on.
I retreat in silence, kicking myself in the ass every step of the way.
It’s several weeks later when our paths cross again. This time, though, I’m not alone. And neither is Lucifer. As I walk down the street among a group of friends on our way to the Boulevard Café for dinner, I notice my man pulling a red wagon with two small children in it.
I’m a bit dumfounded. Is he their father, uncle or nanny? He nods in my direction.
“That’s him,” I quietly declare to one of my friends. “That guy I keep seeing!”
“Just now? The one with the kids?” she inquires.
“Maybe he runs a daycare centre,” I suggest.
“It’s Saturday night,” I’m reminded, and the discussion is put to bed.
The following week – I’m about to start packing for my move later in the month – I’m flipping through the current issue of NOW when I arrive at the Sightings section of the personal ads and my eyes fly to this particular ad:
Bloor/Bath Sat nite Jul 29: U muscle shirt/shorts w/bro?/kids in wagon. Glanced x 2. Meet?
What if Lucifer reads the same ad and concludes that I placed it? Will he reply to it, thinking he’s responding to me, only to discover that someone else has placed it? And what if he does and he and this other person decide to meet and then fall madly in love? Where does that leave me?
“Whoa, Nelly,” I say under my breath, and return to the more productive task of packing boxes.
The move goes smoothly, and the memory of Lucifer is just that when some days later I step up to the busy bar of a local gay club. Waiting for my drink, I scan – OK, cruise – the room.
The two friends I came with are standing in the corner enjoying a cigarette. Surprisingly, there’s no one from my “Ex-Files” this Friday evening. But suddenly I spot Lucifer, the smoke from the fags hanging like a canopy above him.
He notices me, too, and we approach each other. Our conversation is brief but satisfying. I learn that Lucifer plans to move from our old neighbourhood soon and will shortly live a block away from me. I’m thrilled when he slips me his phone number. I return to my friends and Lucifer to his. Mission: Impossible is starting to feel more like Mission: Him Possible.
Phone tag is frustrating, especially when it’s with someone you’d like to get to know better, so after our first exchange of voice mail I ask Lucifer for his e-mail address.
It’s 11:55 am the next day when I send my first message. At a very encouraging 12:08 pm, I’m in receipt of his reply.
We arrange to rendezvous at my place later that evening. And then the unexpected happens. Amidst a flurry of e-rotic mails we begin the process of getting to know each other better. Not on a sexual level, but a personal one. I discover that Lucifer is originally from Newfoundland and once lived in my hometown of Brampton. The two kids in the wagon belong to him (and his ex-wife), and he’s completely devoted to them. I get him and he gets me. This evening we’ll both get it.
Lucifer lands on my doorstep, and I welcome him inside. As we sit on my small couch, I’m anxious for that first kiss to happen – it’s been nearly a year in the making – but have decided that to go for it immediately might seem a bit desperate on my part. I’m hungry, but never desperate.
The moment arrives. The conversation ceases. Eyes meet. Lips softly yet passionately press together. My attraction becomes stronger. So does my hard-on.
Yet clearly I’m not the only member of this club. I’m soon introduced to the CEO (Cock Extra-Ordinaire) residing in Lucifer’s shorts.
My eyes widen in disbelief, and Lucifer grins devilishly.
“My god, you’re big,” I observe.
“I told you I was,” he says, referring to our e-mails. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I remark with a sarcastic roll of my eyes.
We laugh and move into the bedroom. I gladly find myself on all fours, with Lucifer standing behind me. He carefully removes a condom from its package, and I prepare myself for what promises to be the ride of a lifetime.
“Be gentle,” I beg with mock concern.
“Are you kidding?” he exclaims, a prelude to mutual laughter. “You could park a car back here.”
A funny thing happened on the way to orgasm. It’s called friendship.
