“Ah, a Yankees fan, I see. I’m a Red Sox fan. I guess a friendship is out of the question.” He laughed.
I reached up to shake his hand. “I’m Jake.” I pointed to the shack in the dunes. That’s my pad until the end of the year—or maybe longer if COVID stays with us. There’s water in the cooler if you’d like.”
He grabbed a plastic bottle and dropped down onto the sand—the requisite six foot spacing away. His dick was straining the silky fabric, the head just concealed under the left hem. I could tell he wasn’t wearing a jock. He must be very lonely or very much an extrovert if he’s already committed to a conversation with me. Maybe he was just looking for a chance to advertise his equipment to a potential customer. At any rate, he had already sold me. I’m definitely in his market.
I looked into his chiseled face, dark eyes, heavy eyelashes and noted the carefully groomed “three-day scruff” facial hair. Thick ropey muscles trailed down his neck. He was really good looking, masculine and hard-bodied. My type. And, God, he looked familiar.
We both started at once, “What brings you here?” I laughed and added, “You go first.”
“Summer break from UMass. My last year, junior, was a total bust—no athletics, no in-person classes. I was going mad, living at home, stuck in front of video classes. Parents looming all the time. Then, no summer job. And, right now it’s still unclear whether I’ll get any campus time or a chance to play ball in September. Name is Paul Stover. Currently unemployed, bumming from the grannies. I’m going to teach Phys-Ed and coach high school football and baseball—assuming the world doesn’t end soon and I can graduate. Maybe I’ll get to play football this year. I hope so. It’ll be my last chance as pros are out of the question for me.”
Of course, I needed to reciprocate. He had already provided me with more of a bio than I usually share. “Jake Simmons. Software designer—a computer games creator. So I really don’t add much to the common good with my efforts, except maybe some diversion in these lonely times. Normally I’m in NYC, but could really be anywhere. Graduated RPI three years ago—just before the world collapsed. Fortunately, I had six months at the gaming think-farm in Lower Manhattan before we closed down—and they’ve let me continue from home with periodic zoom calls with my team.”
“Any games I’d know? I’m definitely a fan.”
I named a few (not including those in the porn catalogue). “I’ve got’em all. It’s just about all I’ve got to do these days, except for the morning run and some gym time. I see you’ve got a phone. I don’t have mine on runs. Let me put in the number. Call me later. Maybe we can run together tomorrow or play some games.”
“I only run about 6 miles.”
“I do a little more, but not much more. That could work for me.”
He didn’t say anything more about the games. But, I had already decided, I was up for games with him.
We parted and I watched him jog up the beach. Several times he looked back at me with some intensity, apparently trying to memorize my features.
It was about time to get ready for my call. So I packed up and headed in. The call was typical. We were making extraordinary progress in creating games—solo time was definitely efficient and the private network permitted us to share and comment frequently–without having to walk around or engage in the many distractions. And there was no commute. And no required office attire. And the market was booming. Everyone had time to play—and the games were inexpensive entertainment that could be enjoyed in safety from home. The company was flying high and several tech giants were sniffing around with potential offers. I was glad I had taken some comp in options.
Later in the day, still horny from the morning encounter, I fired up Designer Hook. It was either that or jerking in front of some gay porn videos. I started logging in and indicating preferences. Then it hit me! I think I know where I’d seen Paul.
Over the last few years, the German company had been hacked several times; their security was shit. As I mentioned, buyers of my game typically uploaded nude pictures of themselves—and filled out a questionnaire to create their robotic sex partner-animes. The program turned their photo into a player-anime. The hacks had gotten into the uploaded pictures, but fortunately we had encoded the senders’ personal info, and we didn’t think the hack had matched the uploads with the players. But, we had to be sure or we had legal disclosure obligations—that would probably destroy the game. I had been on the team that investigated the incidents—and thus I had had access to all of the uploads—thousands, together with personal details and the matching animes.
I went back into my investigative files, which we had classified for convenience by approximate height, skin color, hair color, hairy or smooth, and geographic origin of the upload—to determine whether there might be a clue to the identity of the hackers. It hadn’t worked then, but I had nevertheless kept the files.
I moved to the file with tall, dark, hairy, New Englanders. There were about a hundred. And there he was. It was definitely Paul. Assuming the photo had not been shopped, he was a muscled athlete, uncut and horse hung. The chiseled face was unmistakable. The eyes and smile were definitely his. Perhaps he was a little more muscled—but he had been out of the classroom for over a year with presumably nothing else to do. The only question: had Paul uploaded himself or had someone surreptitiously expropriated his photo-identity to create an anime?
I was curious. I opened the file and looked at his robot-partner-anime. I nearly died. I was as close to his robot as one could reasonably expect in a random world. No wonder he kept giving me the evil eye as he sat beside me and as he ran up the beach earlier.
I couldn’t wait to find out more. How often did he play? Usually once or twice a day. Was he a top or bottom? Top, usually, but he liked to have his ass played with and bottomed occasionally. Missionary or doggie? Both. Did he like it rough? Occasionally.
Then I turned to the robot-anime that he had created. His robot was smaller; blond and green; had a nice ass; an 8 incher, cut; and, a nearly hairless body. A power bottom. And the robot loved to suck, eat and rim. Me!! (Well, maybe not actually me, but close enough and it was certainly how I would self-describe.)
I’d hit the jackpot. This was far better than any match-up or meet-up service. This was Grindr-on-truth-serum. Fantastic! Even if he was exaggerating his expectations, they were close enough that we were a match. And it would be just too weird if someone had stolen his photo. I refused to believe it. There are only so many coincidences in this world.
Now how am I going to play this? I was so excited. Okay, I know he’s gay (or if he’s bi or hetero, he’s at least curious, very curious—he plays with boys on line regularly). He’s obviously a hunk. He’s alone here. He’s an extrovert. I’m definitely his fantasy partner. But, I can’t let him know yet (maybe never) how I know all of this—or he could run screaming about internet security and privacy, fearful that his most private fantasies were known to the world.