A gay sex story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 05
As soon as he heard Mitch snoring, Tyrone woke him up and sent him home. Mitch didn’t want to go, but he knew he had to. Tyrone loaned him a spare pair of pants to wear home, so he wouldn’t have to explain what happened with his own.
He opened the apartment door quietly, just in case Trina was asleep. She was.
Mitch showered and dried himself off. He examined his ass cheeks in the bathroom mirror. They were inflamed, and the imprint of a hand was clearly visible on each cheek. He applied some medical cream in the vague hope they’d look better in the morning. He already knew he was going to get interrogated tomorrow, and he didn’t want to let a bad situation become worse.
He delicately crawled into bed. Despite his warmth from the shower, he felt Trina’s body move away from him.
*
He woke up on Saturday morning, and the first thing he thought about was Leroy kissing him last night. And then he remembered where he was. He didn’t really want to be here.
He headed to the kitchen in search of a coffee.
Trina was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast and reading the morning newspaper online. “Where’d you go last night?”
“And good morning to you, too, babe,” Mitch sarcastically replied.
“Morning,” mumbled Trina apologetically, chewing her bite of toast. “I’m just curious. Where’d you get to last night? You weren’t home when I went to sleep. All I knew from your text message was that you ‘had to go out unexpectedly after work’. I didn’t hear anything more from you until I turned in at 11. Don’t you think I might have been worried?”
“Sorry, babe,” pleaded Mitch, “I didn’t want to bother you. I just had a business meeting come up unexpectedly that I couldn’t get out of.”
She looked at him intently, trying hard to understand. “A business meeting?”
“Yeah, babe. No big deal.”
“You had a business meeting that ran until almost midnight, on a Friday night?”
“Yeah, babe. Zoom call. We’re setting up a new presence in Japan.” He pointed to his wrist. “Time difference. We’re thirteen hours behind Tokyo. 11am there is 10pm here.”
Trina paused to think. “Wait a second,” she said. “You said you ‘had to go out unexpectedly after work’. That sounds to me like you did something that isn’t related to work.”
Mitch tried to stay cool. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, playing for time.
“Well, if you’re doing something ‘after work’, that implies that whatever it is you’re doing ‘after work’ isn’t work. Doesn’t it? You fucking some chick on the side?”
Mitch froze for a second. “No, babe, of course not. I think you’re reading too much into the words in my message. Maybe I chose those words poorly. At the time, I was busy preparing for the presentation I needed to make, so maybe I was a little distracted.”
Trina still wasn’t sure, but for now, she was willing to give her husband the benefit of the doubt. She folded her arms. “You could’ve told me all this, you know. It’s not a national secret.”
“Oh, I know. I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t mean for you to worry.” He poured himself a coffee and took a slug. “Matter of fact,” he continued, “I need to log on this afternoon and finish up a few things from the meeting.” He kissed her on the cheek.
She assumed her husband was telling the truth. Even allowing for the misleading nature of Mitch’s text message, his story seemed plausible. They headed out for their usual Saturday morning brunch, and Mitch winced a little as he sat down. His cheeks were still tender. He hoped she didn’t notice.
Later that afternoon, Trina found a strange pair of pants in their apartment. They were black, with bold silver and white printing that looked like graffiti. The fabric was thick, there were big pockets on the outside of both legs, and they were cut baggy as fuck. She knew Mitch didn’t have a pair of pants like these. They looked to her like the kind of pants criminals and drug-dealers wore in the Bronx. She scratched her head. Yet another mystery to solve. “Hey … Mitch?” she called.
Mitch was on the couch, flipping through channels. His ass cheeks were still tingling. “Yeah babe?”
She brought the pants out into the living room. “I just found these.” She held the pants up as though they disgusted her. “They aren’t mine.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are they yours?”
Fuck. She’d found the pants Tyrone loaned him last night. He couldn’t seem to keep anything hidden from her lately. He thought quickly. “Yeah, babe, they’re mine. Remember I went shopping last weekend?”
Trina remembered the sight that welcomed her that stressful afternoon — her Ivy League husband was sitting on the couch, wearing a basketball singlet and high-dollar track sweats, with a shiny piece of industrial machinery jammed into the side of his nose. “Did you buy these pants?”
“Yeah, babe, but they don’t fit. I’m going to need to return them.”
“I’m not surprised they don’t fit. They’re so baggy we could probably both wear them at the same time. Circus clowns don’t wear pants as baggy as this. But I’m glad you’re returning them. I really don’t want to be seen in public with you wearing clothes like these.”
For a split second, Mitch let his guard down. “Fuck. Lighten up.” That was all it took to light the fuse.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mitchell, you’ve never worn clothes like this before, and I still can’t deal with your stupid fucking nose piercing. I’m half-expecting you to come home one day with a tattoo on your face. What’s gotten into you lately?”
Mitch knew *exactly* what had gotten into him lately. A pair of big black cocks, in each of his holes.
“I’m just trying something new, Katrina.”
She’d run out of patience. “You know what? Fuck you, Mitch.” She went to the bedroom, slammed the door, and got changed into the sluttiest cocktail dress she could find. She was going out. But before she left, she took the opportunity to rummage through Mitch’s drawers. She’d never gone through her husband’s shit before, but she was hyper-suspicious about him right now. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew he was hiding something.
She found something solid buried deep at the back of his sock drawer. It felt firm. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it certainly didn’t feel like a sock. When she pulled it out, she couldn’t believe her eyes.
A dildo. A big, black dildo. Her jaw gaped open in shock.
She flung open the door and charged back into the living room, dildo in hand. “What the fuck is this?”
Mitch noticed what Trina was holding, but also what she was wearing. “Where are you going dressed like that?” he countered. “Is that even a dress? Does that qualify as clothes?”
“You’re one to talk about clothes,” she challenged. “Besides, I asked you first. What the fuck is this?”
Mitch was incensed. “OK, so you’re going through my fucking drawers now?”
“Oh, so it *is* yours, then,” she spat. “I half-expected you to say it belonged to a friend, and you were just looking after it.”
The anger rose. “Why are you dressed like a cheap fucking whore?” He stood up to face her.
“Because I need to get some dick, and I’m sure as hell not getting any from you lately.”