A gay story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 11 Mitch’s Sunday morning started out as miserable as hell, and just as lonely. His full bladder woke him up early, but after taking a desperately needed piss, he went straight back to bed. He wished he had a cat to feed. At least that’d give him a reason to be awake. He willed himself to fall back asleep.
He thought back to last night. There were too many questions, but not enough answers, and it was far too early to make sense of anything. Eventually his eyes closed again, and he slept a dreamless sleep. He woke again late, just before lunchtime. He stretched his limbs and tuned back into his consciousness. He felt a little hungry.
Without meaning to or intending to, he’d somehow wedged himself into the cracks of a deep connection between two dudes and detonated emotional explosives. And his wife was somewhere else in town, sleeping with one of her colleagues. He imagined Trina’s mouth lovingly teasing Amanda’s cunt, and it repelled him. He didn’t miss her.
He longed for a garden to potter around in. He craved getting his hands dirty in deep, dark soil, planting new life and watching it grow, but he lived in an apartment with a tiny balcony. Scratch that off the list.
He cooked himself a late breakfast; scrambled eggs with toast, accompanied by a strong coffee. For something to do, he walked to the Museum of Modern Art on West 53rd. He gazed at the Pollocks, the Warhols, the Rothkos and the Ruschas hanging on the wall. He put his headphones on over the top of his ball cap, turned noise-cancelling on, and listened to some ambient sounds while he admired the precious art. He let the paintings flood his mind, soothe his emotions and settle his thoughts.
He stood in front of Pollock’s ‘Autumn Rhythm’ for a long time, eventually getting lost inside it. He focused on the size and scale of the work, then considered the narrow palette the artist used to express such deep, profound meaning. He focused on the drips, flicks and streaks of black, white, grey and beige paint, on an off-white canvas backdrop. He’d seen images online of another Pollock painting, known as ‘Blue Poles’, which many critics considered to be the pinnacle of Pollock’s tragically truncated career, but he’d never been in its presence. Like James Dean, Pollock lived too fast and died too soon.
Mitch would’ve loved to sit on a wooden bench and stare at ‘Blue Poles’ for an aeon, but that painting was on the other side of the world, faraway in Canberra, Australia. Who the fuck would ever want to go there.
Besides the life and times of Jackson Pollock, two things were playing on Mitch’s mind. First, he still had no idea what damage he’d done in terms of the connection between Tyrone and Leroy, but he was trying hard to park the thought, because thinking about it only made him feel anxious. If it turned out he’d ruined a lifelong friendship, he’d never forgive himself. And secondly, what the fuck was going on with his gonads? Whenever he had sex in real life, his discharge was weak like water and just as tasteless, but whenever he had an arousing dream, his nut was full, thick and rich. Like, what the fuck is up with that? Weird shit like that only ever happens in Murakami novels, and the last time Mitch checked, he wasn’t a fictional Japanese character.
He stared at his feet for a moment. He switched his tunes from ambient to hardcore rap. Unconsciously, his frame began to bounce loosely in time with the beat.
A tall, sexy black dude moved next to him in front of ‘Autumn Rhythm’.
Mitch watched him studying the painting closely.
The dude noticed Mitch.
Mitch unflinchingly met his gaze.
The dude suggestively raised his eyebrows as his hand drifted south, lightly touching his crotch.
Mitch looked him dead in the eye and nodded slightly.
Half a minute later, they were locked inside a cubicle in the men’s bathroom. There was no kissing and there were no names. Mitch sank to his knees, and a fat, black shaft bounced in front of his face. Fuck, it was big. Not quite as big as Leroy’s nine inches or Tyrone’s ten, but big enough. Mitch didn’t have a great deal of experience, but he guesstimated he was about to swallow seven and a half inches of fat, juicy black meat.
Mitch’s headphones pounded hardcore thug rap into his ears as an anonymous BBC pounded his throat.
“Yeah, you suck on that shit, whiteboi. Suck that shit good.”
Mitch couldn’t hear anything the man said. His ears were being assaulted by deep, heavy beats.
“Fuck, you got a sweet fuckin’ mouf, whiteboi.”
Mitch let the dude fuck his face. He could feel the anonymous BBC getting close.
“You like art, do you, whiteboi? Lemme fuckin’ paint you.” The man pulled his fat cock out of Mitch’s mouth.
Mitch’s field of vision narrowed to a fat black dick stroked by a heavy fist. He knew what was about to happen. He opened his mouth wide and flopped out his tongue.
Thick, delicious streaks of black cum drenched his face, stained his cap and soaked his headphones.
Before he could look up, his companion had gone, leaving the cubicle door wide open as he left.
Mitch stood up and approached the bathroom mirror. The room was quiet. Luckily for him, there was nobody else in the bathroom. As he took his headphones off, he heard nothing but the cool hum of the building’s air-conditioning. Quietly, he cleaned semen off his headphones and face with some paper towels. While he was able to wipe most of the dude’s nut off his clothes, a telltale residue remained. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and shrugged. He didn’t care.
He walked out of the bathroom and back into the museum with the delicious taste of black nut in his mouth.
Half an hour later, Mitch was standing in front of a series of screenprints of Campbell’s soup cans. He stepped back to appreciate their tight precision and uniformity as a group, then walked forward to note the tiny, minor imperfections in the screenprinting process that made each individual Warhol print a separate, unique thing. He was lost in his own world when he felt a presence beside him. It was the dude from the bathroom. Mitch noticed his dark eyes, broad shoulders, and his strong, athletic, masculine chest. And he’d already tasted his big black cock.
“You’re not wearing your headphones anymore,” the man said. Even though he spoke quietly, Mitch noticed how deep and sexy his voice was.
“That’s because you painted them,” Mitch whispered, not wanting to disturb his fellow art enthusiasts.
The man laughed. “Sorry about that. I suppose the least I can do is buy you a coffee.”
Mitch smiled. “I cleaned them up in the bathroom afterwards, but thanks, I’d like that. I guess I could use a caffeine hit.”
They walked towards the elevator and descended to café level. They sat at a table, and after the man ordered, two coffees arrived. For the first time, Mitch drank in the appearance of the nameless man he’d just fellated. Piercingly dark brown eyes, frizzy black hair tied back in a loop, a thick neck, powerful chest, strong arms, and a pair of thick, kissable lips that framed a beautiful, friendly smile. Mitch couldn’t see any tattoos or piercings. The man was wearing a plain black t-shirt that betrayed the slightest hint of nipple.
“You’re cute,” said the nameless man. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”
Mitch was stunned, completely lost for words. Nobody had ever called him ‘cute’ before. Not Leroy, not Tyrone, not Trina; nobody. “Uhh … err … I guess …”
“You looked cute wearing your headphones.” There was that word again. Mitch had no idea how to respond. “I dig your nose ring too. Really suits you.”
Mitch blushed beet red, but he had no idea what to say. He nervously slurped his coffee.
A large, black hand of friendship was outstretched. “I’m Brontë. I’ve been told my name means ‘thunder’.”
Mitch thought about the sweet, delicious thunder that rained over him in the bathroom. His warm cup clattered back down into the saucer with a rattle as he accepted Brontë’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Brontë. I’m Mitch, and I’ve been told my name means ‘whiteboi’.”
Brontë cracked an amused, friendly smile.
“Honestly, I’ve got no idea what my name means,” Mitch admitted, “but I hope it isn’t on the test.”
Brontë laughed a little. He looked around the café before leaning forward. “You come here often, Mitch?”
Mitch assumed this was a genuine question, and not the most worn-out pickup line known to humanity. “I haven’t been here for a while,” he said, sipping his coffee, “but I love modern American art. I mostly admire the pop artists and the abstract expressionists.” He paused for a moment. “It’s almost embarrassing how infrequently I come to MoMA, considering I only live a few blocks away.”
Brontë sipped his coffee. He’d created some of his own abstract expressionist art not so long ago — right across this whiteboi’s face. “Where do you live?”
“Not too far away. Just a couple of blocks. What about you?”
“Harlem.”
Mitch’s dicklet twitched. He glanced around the room before drinking the rest of his coffee. He felt a little wired and spoke without thinking. “I’ve been spending time there recently myself.” He instantly regretted this disclosure.
“Really? Whereabouts? What for?”
Brontë was curious, but Mitch let the pitch sail through to the catcher. He gave a vague, meaningless answer.
Brontë finished his coffee and prepared to leave. “Nice meeting you, Mitch. Can I give you my number before I go? I’d like to see you ‘gain.”
Mitch’s hands were shaking a little as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked the screen and passed it across the table. As Brontë picked up Mitch’s handset, his eyes were drawn to the Grindr icon at the top of the screen: Mitch had an unread message on his app. Quietly, Brontë typed in his digits.
“Text me, sexy whiteboi,” Brontë said as he returned Mitch’s phone, making sure their fingertips touched. He stood, turned and walked away.
The wreckage of Mitch’s mind lay in pieces by the side of the road. He walked home, changed into his gym gear, and went for a run to clear his head.
He returned home and showered. Drying himself off, he glanced in the mirror and noticed the Jack of Spades ink on his ass. Was he just imagining it, or was his ass getting fatter? He parked the thought. He had absolutely no regrets about his ink, though it’d been way too long since his last anal encounter with a flesh-and-blood BBC, and his pussy was getting hungry. He headed out for a bite to eat, trying to resettle his mind before work tomorrow. He checked his phone and noticed three unread text messages.
The first one he read was from Tyrone: ‘hey whiteboi we need 2 talk bout last night text me back’
Mitch remembered Jada’s advice from last night: “Shit’s gon’ work out, whiteboi. Just give ’em time and space. They’ gon’ work it out. Truss me.” He didn’t reply.
The next message he read was from Leroy: ‘fuck whiteboi bout last night can we talk soon 4 real’
Mitch remembered the last thing Jada told him yesterday: “The longer you keep yo’ distance, the more they’ gon’ fuckin’ want you.”
Again, Mitch didn’t reply. He remembered that Tyrone knew about his tattoo, but Leroy didn’t. He wondered whether the thugs might’ve discussed it, but Mitch assumed they wouldn’t have. He looked forward to the moment when Leroy saw his ink for the first time.
The third message was from Trina: ‘hey hubby still at amanda’s but hey i need to return your big black dildo’
This time, Mitch replied. ‘Keep it.’
*
Mitch rose around 7am on Monday morning and got dressed for work. He made himself a strong coffee at home before heading to the subway station. He caught the green line down to the Financial District before picking up another coffee and a pastry from a street vendor. He caught the elevator up to the 30th floor. He arrived at his desk, logged on, and began to tune into the working week.
Mitch bit into his delicate, flaky pastry and took a deep slug of his takeout coffee. He looked out into the distance at the blue sky over the East River. He should’ve been concentrating on work, but he was thinking about Brontë. His number was in his phone, but he had no idea what to send as a first message.
Fuck, why was he feeling so nervous? He couldn’t deny it to himself. If it was just a quick anonymous blowjob in a public bathroom, he would’ve moved on, but it was more than that. Or, at least, that’s how it felt to Mitch. They had coffee afterwards, and it was all at Brontë’s suggestion. Briefly, they’d connected.
He tried to shrug it off to focus on work, but his mind was still fixated on the blowjob he’d given in the MoMA bathroom yesterday.
He stared out the window at the East River, looking at everything but nothing at the same time. He was meant to be concentrating on the Franklin account, but in his mind, all he felt was the cold, hard floor of the MoMA bathroom as his knees fell upon it. In his mind, he heard thick beats of hardcore rap assaulting his ears, he smelled the ugly chemical stenches of a public bathroom, and he saw a beautiful, big black cock dangling in front of his face, demanding his attention.
Through a deep psychological distance, he heard someone calling his name.
He felt his jaw stretch wide as he tasted precious pearls of sweet precum pooling on his tongue. His nostrils inhaled black masculinity as he tried to swallow as much of the delicious dark chocolate as he could.
Again, he heard someone calling his name.
He felt the cock in his mouth begin to twitch, and seconds later, he was under a waterfall of hot semen that flooded his hungry mouth, drenched his hair and clothes, and splattered all over his headphones.
“MITCH! Earth to Mitch!”
Mitch felt a firm collegiate hand shaking his shoulder. He realised he’d been daydreaming. A colleague needed his attention. Fuck, the Franklin file! They’d planned to discuss strategy at 11am, and he was underprepared.
He put his daydreams aside, gathered up his documents and joined the meeting. For a brief second, he thought about feigning an illness. He needed to jack off so fucking bad right now; he’d say anything to get a cheap five minutes to himself. The office bathroom felt risky, but by the same token, he knew he’d struggle to keep it together for a half-hour subway ride back home.
His shoulders slumped as he realised the next hour and a half of his life was going to be devoted to the Franklin file.
Leaving the marathon meeting, Mitch packed up as quickly as he could and caught the subway home, desperate to jerk off. He jogged up the stairs at the 86th street station, taking them two at a time, then practically ran to his building. He caught the elevator to his floor and opened his apartment door.
He was in the process of unbuckling his belt when he heard her voice.
“Hey, Mitch!”
Fuck, why the hell was *she* here? Again? Shouldn’t she be at work?
“Fuck off a sec, Trina, I’m busy.”
He locked the bathroom door and let loose. It only took ten seconds, but the sweet release of his weak, watery semen felt so fucking good.
He washed his hands, pulled his pants up, and left the bathroom.
“Hey, hubby!” he heard. She was sitting on the couch.
Mitch was completely fucking exasperated. “What the fuck are you doing here, Trina? I thought I was clear last time we were in each other’s presence: we’re separated, and can you please call or text ahead in future.” For the first time, he noticed she wasn’t alone.
Trina ignored everything Mitch said. “Hey, hubby, you remember Amanda, don’t you?”
Amanda blithely acknowledged his presence.
“I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch,” Trina continued, “but I wanted to return something I borrowed from you.” She held up the thick nine-inch black dildo she’d found in Mitch’s sock drawer.
Mitch was exasperated. “I got your message yesterday, didn’t you get my response? I said you could keep it. I don’t need it anymore.”
“Why don’t you need it anymore?” Trina asked. “Did you buy a replacement? Or have you found something else? Have you found a real man, perhaps?”
Mitch was approaching breaking point. “Listen to me good, Trina. You need to drop this subject.”
“We’re just curious,” said Amanda.
Under the circumstances, Mitch was as polite as possible. “This is none of your goddamn business, Amanda.” He regretted coming home at lunch; maybe he should’ve just fapped in the office bathroom. His attention returned to his wife. “Aren’t you meant to be at work?”
“Yeah, I am,” Trina replied, “but it’s our lunch break too, and like I said, I wanted to return what’s yours.”
“I don’t want it back,” said Mitch. “I already told you that yesterday.”
Trina shrugged her shoulders, giving no clue as to whether she’d read Mitch’s response or not. “Yeah, but, well, anyway, here it is.” She placed the plastic black penis upright on Mitch’s coffee table. It wobbled a little as she planted it down.
For a few awkward seconds, there was nothing but silence.
“What do you use it for?” Amanda asked.
Mitch glared at her. “I fuck myself in the ass with it, you nosey fuckin’ bitch. Any further questions?”
Amanda shared a knowing glance with Mitch’s wife.
“What have you two been using it for?” Mitch asked Trina.
“Nothing,” Trina replied, smiling. “We didn’t use it at all, not even once. We kept it on Amanda’s coffee table as a decorative ornament. It reminded us of you.”
Mitch’s blood boiled over. He pointed a furious, angry finger at Trina. “I am fucking done with you,” he seethed. “You can expect to hear from my lawyers. I want a divorce. I don’t want anything of yours, all I want is for you to be gone from my life for good. Once we’re divorced, I never want to see or hear from you again.”
Trina stood up from the couch. “Aww, hubby, it was just a joke…”
A beer glass smashed into the kitchen wall so hard it left a permanent mark. Fragments shattered far and wide. Both Trina and Amanda jumped in fright.
“Leave,” commanded Mitch. “Now.”
The women collected their things and quietly began to move towards the door. Amanda was a little shaken up by what she’d just seen.
On the way out, Trina tried again. “Mitch, it was just a joke …”
Mitch interrupted her. “If you think what you did was funny, your soul is warped. You just admitted to humiliating me and laughing about me behind my back. I mean, I know you’ve been doing this for a long time, fuck, maybe you’ve been doing it for as long as we’ve known each other, but that’s no way to treat someone you profess to love, you sick, twisted, psychopathic bitch. Men less tolerant and forgiving than me would’ve kicked your sorry ass to the kerb a long time ago. If I can offer you any advice as we part, because this truly is the end of you and me, it’d be this: get some professional help. You and I are done.” He paused for a second. “Do you hear me?”
Silently, Trina nodded.
“If you leave me alone from now on,” Mitch continued, “our divorce will be amicable. But if you want to test me, mock me or humiliate me any further, we will be going to court. You will have one opportunity, and one opportunity only, to come back to the apartment to collect the rest of your shit. You will need to negotiate the day and time with me, because as soon as it’s humanly possible, I will be getting the lease amended to remove your name, and I will be getting the locks changed. Do you understand?”
Trina nodded again. She and Amanda left the apartment and stood in the hallway. She watched her hubby — or now, soon-to-be-ex-hubby — holding the door, preparing to close it. “I’m sorry, Mitch,” she whispered, with a sad, pitiful look on her face, as if she regretted everything she’d said and done, and was ready to change her ways.
Mitch fell into her trap one final time. “Sorry about what?”
Trina’s face morphed into a vicious, evil scowl. “I’m sorry that I confiscated your plastic BBC, you useless, worthless, weak as fuck, gay–”
Mitch slammed the door in her face so hard her ears rang. Quietly, he cleaned up the broken glass before returning to the office.
*
As soon as Mitch returned to his desk, he rang his realtor and explained the situation. She listened closely and suggested Mitch speak to a lawyer first. She couldn’t accept Mitch’s word that his relationship with Trina had ended without legal advice. He ended the conversation and called his family solicitor.
His solicitor knew Trina through Mitch, and he wasn’t surprised at all to hear it had ended. The only surprise was that it took so long. He knew Mitch well and knew how patient he could be, but it sounded like his patience had finally run out. He agreed, for a commercially agreed fee, to handle the issues with the lease, to arrange a locksmith to get the locks changed, and to commence divorce proceedings.
At the end of the call, Mitch rested his arms on his desk and let his head fall forward in sheer relief. For a moment, he sobbed quietly to himself. A colleague noticed, gently shook Mitch by the shoulder, and asked if he was OK. “I’m fine,” Mitch replied. “Thanks for asking, but yeah, I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I don’t want to go into it, but I feel like a massive weight has been lifted off my shoulders.”
His colleague was happy for him, and suggested that if Mitch wanted to debrief over a beer after work, he’d be available.
Mitch took a raincheck on the beer, but he was glad to know there was still kindness in the world. For the rest of the afternoon, he turned his mind back to his work.
His Monday evening was quiet, peaceful and solitary. There were no phone calls or text messages. He enjoyed the beautiful silence.
*
His phone pinged mid-afternoon on Tuesday. Swiping the screen, his eyes landed on a fresh text message from Tyrone: ‘hey whiteboi wassup hey fkn msg me when your loose bcuz we need to rap bout some shit’. An hour later, he received a similar message from Leroy.
Jada’s advice to Mitch was to keep his distance for a while, to allow space for Tyrone and Leroy to re-evaluate their feelings, but she didn’t tell him to ignore them completely. He responded to each of them separately, but his words were vague and non-committal. Mitch knew he fucked up badly last Saturday, but he didn’t know how to make it right. All he had to go on was Jada’s advice — try to let time pass.
He didn’t hear back from either of them, which worried him.
He wanted to apologise to them for fucking things up. He knew in his heart he didn’t mean it, but he’d long since realised that the story he told Tyrone about sucking Leroy’s BBC at the gloryhole was what started everything. But *how* would he apologise? Sure, he could tell Tyrone he shouldn’t have talked out of class (while pretending to be completely ignorant of why Tyrone reacted so fiercely), but that was the easy part. What could he possibly say to Leroy? Unless Leroy had met up with Tyrone to talk things over, he’d probably still have no idea why Tyrone got so upset.
He hoped like hell they were still on speaking terms.
It was enough to give him a headache.
He would’ve loved to log off, pack up and catch the train up to Harlem, but given some of the heavy shit that Jada had explained to him just a few days ago, he knew it wouldn’t be the smartest move. Besides, the draft contract on his desk wasn’t going anywhere unless he paid some more attention to it. Deadlines were looming.
The thugs from Harlem had been on Mitch’s mind, but he’d also been wondering about Brontë. He had his number in his phone, but he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t given his own digits up, so the ball was firmly in his own court, and he wanted his first line to be killer.
He decided to wait one more day. He couldn’t remember where he first heard it, but apparently three days is the sweet spot. Texting the very next day, or even the day after, might come across as anxious or desperate, but waiting too long might cause the spark to die. The third day was tomorrow. He needed to think of something witty.
Wednesday dawned warm, and he sweated profusely while he waited for his southbound train to work. It was always the way in a Manhattan summer — the platform was a furnace and the carriage was a deep freeze. Intellectually, he was in the zone. For the most part, Trina was now someone else’s problem, and Mitch could concentrate on work.
He tried to let his mind go blank during his lunch break, hoping that a creative flash of inspiration might strike. The words weren’t important, but their impact was. He hoped Brontë might smile or maybe even laugh at his first message, but as the sun began to set on the third day, his drought still hadn’t broken.
He decided to bite the bullet. It was the third day. He picked up the phone and messaged Brontë: ‘hey’
He cringed as soon as he pressed send. He cringed even further when he received a response: ‘new phone who dis’
Fuck. He decided to play the honesty card: ‘it’s mitch im the dude you met at moma on sunday’
Messages bounced back and forth like lightning.
Brontë: ‘heeeeeyyyyy you been playin it cool aintcha’
Mitch: ‘what do you mean’
Brontë: ‘the three day rule, u know what im talkin bout’
Mitch: ‘i think someone once told me its the sweet spot when you get someone’s number but nobody has ever given me their number b4 so i wouldn’t know’
Brontë: ‘shit, sexxy boi like you with a sweet mouth, u lyin 2 me’
Mitch couldn’t have smiled harder. ‘no it’s the truth’
Brontë: ‘whatchu doin’
Mitch: ‘im at work but im about to finish up soon’
Brontë: ‘where you at work?’
Mitch gritted his teeth and told the truth. ‘wall street’
For the first time in this exchange, there was a pause, and Mitch wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. He was tempted to send a short explanatory message, just to fill in the awkward gap, but he wasn’t sure what to say. His thumbs typed a few words, then deleted them. He sweated bullets while he waited for a response. He knew he could’ve been reading too much into Brontë’s delay. Maybe there was a knock at his door, maybe a call came in, maybe he went to the bathroom or maybe his thumbs fell off. Who the fuck knows? But it didn’t stop Mitch from fretting.
Inspiration struck. ‘wall street is my second job, it’s to supplement my lifelong dream of waiting tables for minimum wage’
Within seconds, his screen lit up with laugh emojis from Brontë: ‘u busy 2nite?’
Mitch tried to think of another witty response, but thought it best not to push his luck: ‘no’
Brontë: ‘can i buy u a drink’
Mitch: ‘sure id like that’
Brontë: ‘im in harlem right now and u doin the wall street shuffle, so can we meet halfway?’
Mitch: ‘name a place and im there’
Brontë: ‘Maggie’s Place on east 47th’
Mitch: ‘never been there b4 but im sure ill find it — see you there in an hour’
There were no further messages.
*
Mitch arrived first. He couldn’t see Brontë and didn’t know if a reservation had been made. He approached the bar, took a stool, and bought himself a cool, refreshing pilsener.
His mind was whirring. While he felt sorry for Trina, and maybe he always would, he knew that cutting her loose from his life was best for him. He couldn’t remember her ever being quite this nasty. He never would’ve married her if she was, but there was no denying it — right now, she was a poor excuse for a human being. She had some serious psychosocial issues she needed to work through, ideally with professional help.
He mentally let her go. Emotionally, she was Amanda’s problem now.
His unencumbered mind immediately drifted north to Harlem. He wondered again how Leroy and Tyrone were recovering from the unintended emotional explosions from the weekend, and he resolved to reconnect with them soon.
He was a million miles away, lost in thought, when he felt a warm, heavy hand land on his shoulder. “I thought I was buying you a drink?” joked Brontë, pointing at Mitch’s full glass of beer.
Mitch swivelled around on his stool. “Yeah, I know, but it’s hot out, and you were late.”
Brontë smiled as he turned his Yankees ballcap backwards and let his thick, frizzy hair down. He ordered a beer for himself, and they moved away to a quiet table in a corner of the room.
“Wasn’t sure if I’d hear back from you,” admitted Brontë. “Thought you might’ve lost my number.”
“That’s the thing about the modern age,” Mitch replied. “To lose your number, I’d have to lose my phone.”
“Well, yeah, that’s still possible.”
Mitch felt his anxious mind winding up again. “It’s like if someone fifty years ago lost their personal copy of the phone book, they’d have to go to the post office or to a payphone to find the number they’d lost, and there’d be no guarantee that they’d ever be able to find out what … what … whatever it was that … umm, fuck … like, imagine if you were desperate for a number in the white pages but you arrived at the booth only to find the whole book had been swept away by a hurricane.” Mitch took a few shallow breaths before reaching for his beer, knowing he was making no sense at all. He gulped down half of the beverage, holding the vessel with both hands, mentally willing the alcohol to make him chill out. He felt his heart racing. “I’m sorry, dude, I’m not usually like this. I’ve got a lot of shit on my mind right now. I started divorce proceedings with my wife today and I seem to have ruined a lifelong friendship between two dudes up in Harlem, and I really don’t want to ruin anything else today, so maybe it’s best if I just go.” He prepared to leave.
“You’re just as cute without your headphones,” said Brontë. “And I think I said it before, but I really love your nose ring.”
Mitch couldn’t breathe properly. He was completely unused to hearing compliments about how he looked. He sat back down again. “Thank you,” he squeaked. He took a slug of his beer. “But I don’t know what to say next.”
Brontë leaned forward a little. “Well, this is just a suggestion, Mitch, and you’re free to reject it if you’ve got a better idea, but I was thinking that maybe you could ask me some questions, and then I could ask you some questions, and hopefully, as a result, we’ll get to know each other a little better. Sound good?”
“OK,” Mitch replied. “Me first?”
Brontë agreed to take the first bullet. “Sure.”
“Are you gay?” asked Mitch.
“Tough one to start with,” Brontë replied, sipping his beer. “I was half-expecting ‘what movies do you like’, or ‘what’s your favourite song’, or ‘where did you grow up’, or ‘can you tell me about your first pet’, but sure, let’s go there. Let’s get the big questions out of the way before we get to the small, fun ones.” He glanced out the window; the setting sun blazed deep yellows and oranges across their island home. “Fuck, it’s hot out today, ain’t it? I don’t know if I can give you a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to your question. My honest answer is I don’t know whether I’m gay or not, but I also don’t care. I like what I like.”
Mitch nodded.
“OK, my turn,” Brontë declared. “Are *you* gay, Mitch?”
“Maybe. Possibly. Probably.” Trina had probably turned him off pussy for the next five hundred years. “But your answer hit me hard. I feel the same way. I like what I like.” Mitch took a deep breath, feeling completely satisfied with his answer. It was his turn to ask the next question. “What’s your favourite movie, Brontë?”
“That’s easy. Shawshank. Boom. Your turn.”
Mitch took a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that movie before.”
“Fuck, dude, no way.” Brontë filed this information away. “OK, so what’s yours?”
Mitch stared out the window for a second or two. “I don’t know if I have a favourite movie. I … I don’t go to the movies very often, and … umm … yeah, sorry.”
Brontë tried to look serious, but his smile gave the game away. “There ought to be some kind of penalty for not answering a question, but I’ll let it go this time.”
“Are you in a relationship?” asked Mitch. “Or are you seeing anyone right now?”
Brontë smiled again. “What are you suggesting, Mitch?”
Mitch blushed a little. “I … um, actually … I don’t know. Forget I asked that. It’s none of my business.”
“I’m not in a relationship, Mitch, and I’m not seeing anyone either.” Brontë expanded on his answer slightly. “I’ve got a Tinder account and a Grindr one too, and I have a few regular bootycalls, but I like to keep to myself, if you know what I mean. I live alone, and for the moment, I like it that way.” He paused. “My turn, same question.”
Mitch took a deep breath. “As of today, I guess I’m officially single. Or, at least, I’m on the path to becoming single. Technically I’m still married, but my wife and I have been separated for a few months because things haven’t been working out. I told her today I want a divorce, and I rang my lawyer to get the ball rolling.” He took a sip of beer.
“Did you two lovebirds fall out of love?” Brontë inquired.
Mitch nearly choked on his mouthful of beer. “That tends to occur when you discover your partner is an insane, psychopathic lunatic.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. That bad. So yeah, I guess the answer to your question is I’m not in a relationship — at least, not emotionally — and I’m not seeing anyone at the moment either.” He thought about his friendships with Leroy and Tyrone, but he wasn’t sure how to explain them. Fuck, he could barely even explain that situation to himself.
“Are you feeling OK about your wife?” asked Brontë.
Mitch sighed. “I don’t feel emotionally connected to her in any way. It’s over, but I guess we still need to go through the motions. I’ve felt anxious and fretful for months, but today it felt like a dam burst, and relief was on the other side. I’ve never been through anything like this before, my marriage to her has been the only significant relationship I’ve ever had in my life, so sure, I could wake up tomorrow with a completely different set of feelings, but right now, I’m just glad it’s finally over, and I’m glad to be on my own again.” He paused. “Sorry for oversharing.”
Brontë smiled. Slowly and steadily, he steered their conversation towards more comfortable, shallow shoals. Because they met at MoMA, they talked about art and artists, but they also covered bases such as books and sports.
After three pints, Mitch excused himself to visit the bathroom. He unzipped, pulled out his tiny white dick and began to spray the aluminium. For a few short moments, he got lost in his own thoughts. ‘I don’t know what to do right now … Brontë is very friendly, he’s cute and I really want to suck his dick again … and I’m kind of wondering if he’s interested in me, but I wouldn’t know if he was without asking him because nobody’s ever been into me before except for maybe Trina the psycho who was probably never into me at all anyway … no, I can’t ask him that … but our conversation has been comfortable and seamless … I mean, I felt nervous when he first arrived, but I don’t feel that way anymore … and his big black cock is so fucking beautiful … I really want him to cum on my face again, but is it the same now that we kind of know each other a little … actually, I want more than for him to hose me down, I want to take him home, grab his hand, lead him to my bedroom and feel him inside me, and then I want to wake up with him lying next to me in my bed so I can roll over and kiss him as the sun comes up before cupping his warm balls in my palm …”
He zipped up, washed his hands, and headed back towards their table. Brontë was on his feet, ready to leave.
“Hey, Mitch, I really enjoyed tonight, but I need to get going.”
Mitch cried on the inside.
“I’ll text you soon?” Brontë wiggled his thumbs as if sending an urgent message.
“Sure,” said Mitch. His hopes had disintegrated. He stood beside Brontë as he settled the check for their table, knowing their time for this evening was at an end.
Brontë waved Mitch goodnight. He left the bar and stood outside, considering his transport options.
Mitch followed him. “Thanks for the beers, by the way,” he whispered, “and for the conversation. But it’s not fair that you paid for everything. Can I make a small contribution of my own?”
Mitch glanced up at him. He nervously bit his bottom lip, and Brontë lost his fucking mind.
Brontë had tried so hard to be a gentleman tonight, but temptation takes many forms. He dragged Mitch down a dark alley and forced him to his knees. His seven and a half inches of fat black meat poked Mitch’s lips. “Fuckin’ suck this shit, whiteboi.”
The alley stank like garbage. Mitch sucked him deep.
“Fuck, dude, yo’ mouf so sexxy fuckin’ sweet.”
Mitch licked Brontë’s heavy black balls, spitting on them, getting them sloppy wet.
“Fuck, dude, yeah. That’s the fuckin’ shit.”
Mitch licked up and down Brontë’s fat shaft, spending extra time on the underside of his head. He felt Brontë shudder.
“Dude, you’ gon’ make me spit in yo’ mouf if you keep doin’ that.”
That was exactly what Mitch wanted to hear. His fist pummelled Brontë’s shaft, and within seconds, Brontë arched his back and unloaded the contents of his balls into Mitch’s mouth.
Mitch swallowed every drop.
Manhattan pulsed around them. Brontë helped Mitch to his feet. “This wasn’t how I expected tonight might go,” he apologised.
“Do you see me complaining?” retorted Mitch.
In the dark, shadowy alley, Brontë looked deep into Mitch’s eyes. “You do something to me that I can’t explain.”
Mitch eagerly submitted to Brontë’s deep kiss. Brontë tasted the remains of his own nut on Mitch’s fat, hungry tongue.
Brontë needed to redeem himself after fucking the shit out of Mitch’s face. He needed to be a gentleman. “I need to go home now,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” pleaded Mitch. “Harlem is such a long way away. My apartment is closer.” He desperately wanted Brontë to fuck him.
“I’m so fucking tempted, Mitch, but I think I should stay at my place tonight.” Brontë paused. “I really like you, but for now, let’s take things slow.”
Mitch nodded. “You sure?”
Brontë didn’t answer the question. “I’ll call you soon.” He began to walk away.
Mitch felt so horny that he couldn’t make it all the way home without jerking off. He shot his watery load onto the floor of his building’s elevator.
He showered and climbed into bed. There were still two more days of the regular work week to go. And as he turned his light out, he remembered he still had unfinished business in Harlem.
It was a warm night. A fan blew cool air across his torso as he tried to relax. Just as he was about to sink into dreams, his phone pinged. He regretted not putting it on silent.
Curiosity got the better of him. Through the slits of half-sleepy eyes, he unlocked his screen and read the message.
Leroy: im losin my fuckin mind whiteboi i dont know what the fuck happened last weekend, my boy tyrone wont respond 2 my texts can i meet you 2mrw
Mitch was tired, but he knew any prospects for sleep had been shot to hell. He knew he’s stare at the ceiling all fucking night if he didn’t respond. Leroy was obviously awake right now, so Mitch called him.
“Hey whiteboi, wassup.”
“Hi, Leroy. Sorry for calling so late, but I got your message and assumed you’d be awake.”
“Jus’ chillin’, dude, but props for callin’. Respect. ‘Ppreciate it.”
Mitch paused for a moment. “What’s on your mind?”
Leroy wasn’t quite sure where to begin. He took a deep breath. “So, I’ been tryna text Tyrone these past few days. I jus’ wanna rap wit’ him ’bout shit. I jus’ wanna know what’s on his mind. I know he’ upset wit’ me ’cause how he behaved at the bar on Saturday, but I don’t know what I gone done, and I can’t put shit right until I know what he’s upset ’bout. Like, I know he has some issues ’bout expressin’ himself sometimes, and thinkin’ back to Saturday, maybe that’s what happened. But I don’t really know what set him off, ’cause when I arrived, he was a’ready upset ’bout somethin’, but I don’t know why. I jus’ don’ know what it was, but you was there before me, so maybe you know.”
Mitch wanted to die.
“You still there, whiteboi?”
Mitch nervously switched his phone from one ear to the other. “Yeah, Leroy, I’m still here.”
“Coo’. So … can you tell me somethin’? Like, why’d my dude lose his shit at me like that? I got no fuckin’ reason. Like I said at the time, I know he’ got a fuse, and I’m gettin’ tired of seein’ it lit, but at the same time, he’ my dude, for better or worse. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Mitch took a deep breath, but didn’t reply.
“You hearin’ me, whiteboi?”
“Yeah, Leroy,” Mitch replied. “Give me a second.” Fuck, it was late, and Mitch needed to be in the office tomorrow at 9am. “You go to Chelsea often?”
“From time to time,” Leroy responded, “but what the fuck that gotta do with this shit?”
“You familiar with any of the adult bookstores in that part of Manhattan?”
“Whatchu drivin’ at, whiteboi?”
“I’ve never been to a gloryhole before in my life,” Mitch admitted, “so I was a little surprised when your dick came through the wall.”
Leroy’s mind fragmented. Mitch heard him breathing, trying to understand.
“I could tell it was you,” Mitch added.
“I ain’t never stuck my dick in a gloryhole ever before. I got a swag o’ orifices to choose from in Harlem, but I was curious to see what it was like.”
“You tasted good,” said Mitch. “And I think I might know why there’s tension between you and Tyrone.”
“Huh?” Leroy asked.
“Just before you arrived at the bar, I told Tyrone that I’d found myself inside a gloryhole, having never been there before, but expecting a platter of anonymous dick to suck, and then suddenly, you poked yourself through the hole. I recognised you immediately — I mean, I recognised the look, feel, smell and taste of your magnificent penis, but then, just to top it off, I could hear your voice on the other side of the wall. And then, when you nutted on my tongue, there wasn’t any doubt, because I know how sweet your nut tastes. And so before you showed up at the bar last weekend, I told Tyrone that I sucked you off at a gloryhole. He didn’t believe me at first, and then I guess he went quiet.”
Mitch could hear Leroy breathing on the other end of the line.
“I really didn’t think he’d react like that, Leroy,” Mitch said. “If I did, I would never have mentioned it. I thought it’d be funny. I thought we’d joke about it when you arrived. I had no idea.”
Still no response from Leroy.
Mitch heard a deep, heavy sigh just before the line went dead.