The Pugilist at Rest

How did it start? What was its genesis?

I was having lunch with my friend Zvika. He was telling of his latest sexual exploits but, since we were sitting at an outside table, I was only half listening while surveying the passing parade of humanity.

It was a warm day in spring, a time when, as they say, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of—well, you know what. I swam in the sexual pleasure of appreciating the variations in the male form, and it was only a chance phrase from my friend that brought my attention back to him.

“What?” I said. “He’s straight?”

Zvika grinned. “Sure. He just likes to get blown from time to time, when he gets what he calls the urge. He doesn’tlike to wait.”

“Oh,” I said dazedly, considering the point. “Cocksucking on demand.”

“That’s right.” Zvika frowned. “You know, the last time he even said he was looking for someone elseto give him blowjobs. I wasn’t sure whether to take that as an insult on my technique or what.”

I might have inquired further on this, but I didn’t. My mind was filled by the heady image of giving a straight guya blowjob. Maybe it was the effects of the season, but the physical thrill I felt was unexpectedly intense. It was intoxicating. I found I couldn’t think.

So I said, “Really!”

Zvika looked at me sharply, and I felt my face burn. Before my nerve could fail me I said in what I hoped was a casual tone, “Well—let him know that I’m available, would you?”

Zvika’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing. He’s a bit—well—rough.”

Better and better, I thought, as a new thrill passed through me as I pictured a guy in torn blue jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Oh, yes!

I shrugged. “I’m willing to try it. Just to see.”

“To see what?”

“Well, I suppose—to see whether I aminto it or not!”

“Oh. Right.”

We passed on to other topics then, but I didn’t forget the exchange. Over the next twenty-four hours a slight butterfly-stomach sensation came upon me whenever I thought of something actually happening.

Zvika didn’t forget either, which was somewhat unusual, and two days later I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. I almost let it go to voice mail, but on impulse decided to answer.

“Hello?”

Silence. I waited several seconds and was about to close the call, when a voice spoke.

“Yeah, hi,” said a gravelly but not very deep male voice in something of a surly tone. “It’s Shawn.”

Shawn?I thought. After a pause the voice continued.

“Well, yeah. I—uh—know someone, right? Guy named Zvika? He said you might be interested in—uh, doingsomething for me?”

“Oh!” A wash of excitement hit, my heart beginning to pound. Flapping a hand in front of my face, I took a deep breath. “Uh, yes. Sure.”

Another pause. Then, “I’m just down the street.”

What! Excitement and fear immediately intensified. I even opened my mouth to give a silent scream. But I took another deep breath. “Oh! Right.”

“He gave me your address.”

“Right.” I forced myself to be calmer.

“So—is now—a good time?”

“Sure!” I heard myself say, as if from a slight distance. With a sudden stab of recklessness I added, “Uh—anytime, really.”

A grunt came in response, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming at the horrified realization of what I had just said.

After another pause, “Okay. See you in a minute.”

I closed my phone, my hand shaking.

“Oh, my God!” I whispered as I looked around.

A minute?No time to tidy up then—and, wait a minute! Was that really important?I chuckled nervously with a self-critical sardonic sense of the ridiculousness of the situation. It helped. Before I could move a muscle, the doorbell rang. I started violently, my heart really beginning to hammer. But I forced myself to take a deep breath, then let it out, slowly.

Calm, calm!I was telling myself, when the doorbell rang again, longer this time.

As I started again, I remembered what Zvika had said about the guy not liking to wait.

“Okay,” I murmured as I ran to the front door. From the enclosed porch I could see the figure through the glass outer door. I opened it and there he was, standing on the front step. He wasn’t physically prepossessing, being slim of build and perhaps an inch taller than me. In fact, he looked almost weedy, wearing loose blue jeans and striped pull-over shirt. On the other hand, he didhave a certain air: confident but indifferent, and his intense, dark eyes looked out from under heavy, black eyebrows with a challenging, insolent look.