“In New York, you can have everything delivered,” Moe Pearlman liked to say. “Even cock.”

Hooking up with guys he met online meant that Moe didn’t have to leave the comfort of his West Village studio. And since Moe, like most New Yorkers, was essentially lazy, this suited him perfectly. Some people found Internet cruising too reductive, unable to sum up their complex sexuality in a 50-word profile. Not Moe. After writing “best cocksucker in town,” he still had 46 words to spare.

This description, incidentally, was absolutely accurate. Potential sex partners might have found Moe, a 26-year-old grad student, too young or too old. Some might have deemed him, with some justification, too flabby or too hairy or too Semitic-looking to be “hot.” But nobody could dispute his cocksucking talents. His list of buddies on Men Online included 146 regulars who kept coming back for more. And the list kept growing.

When he picked up someone online, the scene was usually the same. Moe would be in the rocking chair under a reading lamp in the corner, a buddy would walk into the apartment, come over and sit on the dingy brown couch in front of the TV, where a porno movie would already be playing. Without a word, Moe would unzip his pants, blow him, and then wait for him to zip up and leave. Sometimes it took five minutes, sometimes 45. Either way, the scene was reliably good, efficient, and left everyone happy.

If Moe was single-minded in his desires, however, he still needed to find ways to keep this standard routine fresh. Lately, he’d been trying to find creative ways to interact with his repeat customers. He’d get a few of them over at the same time—without telling them, of course, so they’d be surprised at the scene. He’d organize parties where he’d suck off four or five or six men in a row. He’d blindfold himself or handcuff his partner or take a guy onto his roof to breathe new excitement into a regular visitor’s latest session. He’d change the porno tape, try a straight movie for a change of pace. On the one hand, everyone knew what they were going to get when they visited Moe; the scene remained essentially the same. On the other hand, there was always some new element, something to keep it interesting.

With the buddies he liked the most, the ones where he could sense an unspoken tenderness beneath the surface, he’d recently begun to change the scene into one he had never discussed or described in his online profile. Instead of sitting in the chair, fully clothed, Moe would leave the door open and climb into bed in his boxers. If the visitor was uncomfortable with the new scenario when he arrived, he’d sit on the couch as usual and Moe would get out of bed and revert to the standard script. But nine times out of ten—Moe was an outstanding judge of character—the man would climb into bed with Moe.

The sex itself was largely the same either way. Whether on a couch or under the covers, Moe serviced his buddies with unparalleled selflessness, never asking for reciprocation. But if sex itself was the same in bed, what followed was vastly different from the couch scenario. Instead of sitting up and waiting for the man to leave as soon as he came, Moe would pull up the covers, nestle into the man’s arms, and rest his head on his chest. He’d close his eyes as he felt the man’s arm around him, the man’s hands drowsily rubbing Moe’s shoulder and pulling him closer. Moe would imagine that this man was his lover—this man whose name he often did not know for certain, whose professional talents, musical tastes, and political leanings were unknown to him, who more often than not had a lover waiting for him at home. Sometimes, the man would kiss Moe, on the forehead or on the lips. Sometimes, the man would whisper in Moe’s ear and tug on a nipple as Moe jerked himself off. Sometimes—this was Moe’s deepest desire, his favorite outcome—the man would drift off to sleep. And sometimes, he would not wake up until morning.

Moe always remembered which guys would spend the night. He kept excellent notes.

But there was one buddy who stood out from the rest, one man Moe couldn’t quite figure out.

Ever since he moved to the Village, Moe had seen him at least three nights a week, sitting on the same orange vinyl seat in the same booth at the Sheridan Square Diner up the street. He was always alone under the faux-Tiffany lamp, always working intently, looking utterly serious. Moe had never worked up the nerve to approach him. Whenever Moe saw him, he found himself at a total loss for words – which was something very rare.

He was the stuff of Moe’s fantasies. Somewhere in his 40s, with dark brown hair and a goatee. He clearly spent most of his free time working out, and the rest of his time showing off the results. Every time Moe saw him, he wore the same clothes: tight Levi’s and a skin-tight ribbed tank top—not some trendy Raymond Dragon tank top, but the kind that straight men wear as undershirts. Even in winter, he just threw a leather jacket on over the tank top, which was cut low enough to show off his chest hair and a thin gold chain. Moe wasn’t the type who jerked off thinking about guys he’d seen on the street, but this man had visited Moe in his imagination dozens of times.

After two years, though, Moe’s fantasy had become a reality, ever since he met his dream man online. He had a name: Max Milano. And Max had quickly come to appreciate what 145 others knew so well. In the two months since that first wordless blowjob, Max had become one of Moe’s regulars, and his visits to Moe’s apartment had developed into a familiar pattern.

Tuesday night was fairly typical. When he got home, Moe (HotLipsNYC) logged onto Men Online and checked to see if Max (DownTheHatch) was there. Max was indeed online. He sent Moe a message immediately.

DownTheHatch: You home?
HotLipsNYC: Yup.
DownTheHatch: 5 minutes?
HotLipsNYC: Yup.

OK, so Max wasn’t much of a conversationalist. In fact, they’d never had a chat, online or in person, that lasted more than 15 seconds. Max’s online profile specifically said he didn’t want any “chatty queens.” Moe didn’t care. He wasn’t looking for a discussion about Proust or the Mideast peace process. Besides, he didn’t like to talk with his mouth full.

Moe turned on the TV, rewound the porno tape, dimmed the lights, and waited. When Max rang, Moe buzzed him up, opened the door, pressed the play button, and went to wait in his chair.

And it was the same as usual with Max: sex in three rounds.

Max came in, hung his leather jacket over the doorknob, and walked over to Moe. Without sitting down, he opened his fly and took out his uncut dick. Moe, still seated in the chair, blew him. This first round took four minutes—Moe could tell by the timer on the VCR. For Max, this was just warming up.

For round two, Max peeled off all his clothes, revealing the body that Moe longed to worship. He sat on the couch, legs apart, and watched the movie silently while Moe knelt before him and started again. He was slower this time, pulling out some of his patented tricks that he used to drive men crazy. It took Max 17 minutes to climax this time.

But if Max seemed spent after shooting twice, the scene wasn’t over yet. He moved to the bed for round three, lying on his back with his hands behind his head. Here, Max finally relaxed into the moment—the first two orgasms apparently lessened the edge a bit—and Moe could do almost anything he wanted. He spent half an hour nuzzling Max’s balls, licking his armpits, chewing his nipples, and sucking his toes. Whatever it took to get Max hard yet again. Max just lay there, accepting the pleasure without comment. When he was ready, he flipped Moe over onto his back, straddled his face, and popped his cock back into Moe’s mouth. As Moe worked to get load number three out of Max, he looked up at him. Max rarely made eye contact in return, but that only gave Moe a greater opportunity to ogle him.

What turned Moe on the most, though, wasn’t Max’s rock-hard stomach, or his dense goatee, or the pelt of dark hair covering his chest. The thing that pushed Moe’s buttons the most was the crucifix Max wore on his necklace. He never took it off, and every time Moe looked up when he was blowing Max, he’d see the cross resting between Max’s pecs.

He isn’t just a goy, Moe said to himself, looking up from between Max’s thighs. He advertises. With that thought in his mind, Moe pushed Max’s cock deeper into his throat, and sent Max right over the edge.

But there was something more than sex going through Moe’s mind when Max wasn’t around. Moe was obsessed. He even did a bit of digging into Max’s background, finding out about Max’s personal life and his professional history as an acclaimed theater director. This only made Moe, a freelance theater critic, more intrigued. Maybe they actually could have a conversation, if not about Proust, then about the wit of Stephen Sondheim, or Sam Shepard’s oeuvre, or the relative merits of the Roundabout Theatre. Maybe he could become more to Max than an online buddy, cloaking himself in a pseudonym and using his mouth for just one thing.

“I’ve never seen you so worked up over a trick,” said Gene, Moe’s friend and former lover, who had heard stories—sometimes amusing, sometimes shocking, but never particularly intimate—about dozens or even hundreds of Moe’s sexual partners. “Normally, when they’re out the door, they’re off your mind.”

But Max was unlike anyone Moe had ever met over the Internet. Moe thought about him every day and logged on to Men Online every night hoping to find him there, eager to see more of him, taste him again, connect on a deeper level.

Moe had even started turning away many of his other regulars to make more time for Max. This was definitely serious.

The following Wednesday, Moe was busy all evening, but as soon as he was free, he logged onto Men Online and found Max waiting for him. Max made the first move:

DownTheHatch: Finally!
HotLipsNYC: Waiting for me?
DownTheHatch: All night. 5 minutes?
HotLipsNYC: See you then.

Moe logged off without even replying to two other guys who’d sent him messages. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone else.

Moe had on nothing but a pair of boxers, so he opened his closet to get out his 501s and a T-shirt. But as he stood there, he started to think: How would Max react if I changed the scene?

Not that he didn’t like the usual three-round session. On the contrary, he dreamed about it. It was perfect every time.

Max had never even hinted that he might be interested in anything else. He hadn’t ever kissed Moe, held him, or stayed more than a few seconds after his third and final orgasm. He had been in Moe’s bed, but he had always stayed above the covers.

It’s bound to be a mistake to push anything with Max, Moe thought, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. He can’t possibly be attracted to me—I mean, look at his body and then look at mine. “He lifts weights every day,” Moe had explained to Gene, “and I don’t look like I’ve lifted anything besides a pint of Haagen Dazs.”

Max could have sex with anyone he wanted, Moe told himself; he just comes over here because it’s convenient and reliable. He doesn’t even look at me when we have sex. He watches the porn on the TV.

Still, Moe thought, he does come back pretty often. He must find something appealing about me. Even if it’s just my mouth, that’s still something, right? And I’m sure he’d enjoy a little more. I mean, who doesn’t like affection? I’m sure he wouldn’t turn down the offer. He wouldn’t even have to do anything.

Moe often imagined what it would be like to rest his head on Max’s hairy chest, to take in his scent, to rub his stomach softly. Even more, he dreamed what it would be like to lie in Max’s arms, his back to Max’s chest, Max’s arms wrapped around him, with Max tickling the back of Moe’s neck with his goatee and breathing warm sleepy air in his ear. In this fantasy, they talked while intertwined—about theater, politics, New York, their families—and Max realized with sudden tenderness that Moe was more than a hot mouth.

This fantasy alone was enough to make Moe want to push their sexual relationship to another level. But he knew there was a great risk. If Max wasn’t interested, he might well leave forever, figuring Moe was some starry-eyed kid who’d grown too attached. Moe might ruin what he had sought for two solid years—hot sex with his fantasy man. He’d gotten his wish at last, and so much more, too. He wasn’t eager to fuck that up.

Max rang from downstairs. Moe buzzed him up, turned on the VCR, and opened the door. Only one minute to make a decision. Put on the jeans and get in the chair like he usually did, or leave the jeans off and climb into bed?

Figuring that his first dream had already come true, Moe decided to pursue the next one. He left the jeans on his desk chair and climbed into bed.

When Max walked in, he stopped to evaluate the situation. The TV was playing the usual porn, and the apartment was dark as usual, but Moe wasn’t in his usual spot. He was in bed. Max seemed unsure what to do.

He approached the bed and stood beside Moe’s head. He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his cock, already half-hard, and said simply, “Suck it.”

Moe did. He’s not getting it, Moe thought, this is just the same thing in a different part of the room. He’s just going to stand here while I blow him, same as always. Although he didn’t tell me to get back in the chair. And he didn’t turn around and leave. That’s a step.

Five minutes later, Max came for the first time. He stripped off his clothes for round two. But this time instead of taking a seat on the couch, he pulled back the covers, motioned for Moe to scoot over, and got into bed beside him. This is it, Moe thought, the part where everything changes.

But Max didn’t turn and take Moe in his arms, or kiss his forehead, or ask how his day was. He pushed Moe’s head down under the covers to blow him. Moe obliged. And once again, Max was watching the video while Moe was doing the work. Moe was thinking that perhaps this was a mistake.

Nineteen minutes later, Max had shot a second load, and he let Moe up from underneath the blanket. Moe was ready to start working on the third when Max said, “Come here,” and motioned to his chest. Moe looked up and met Max’s eyes.

Max put his arm under Moe’s neck, and rubbed his back with his hand. Moe rested his cheek on Max’s hairy chest and reached up to take Max’s crucifix in his fingers. Max bent down and kissed the top of Moe’s head, and said, “This was a nice surprise.”

Moe was speechless. What could he say? “Thank you”? “Any time”? “No problem”? He just nodded into Max’s chest hair.

“How do you turn this thing off?” Max asked, reaching for the remote control on the nightstand. Moe took the clicker and shut off the porn. They were together in the dark, without any distractions.

Moe was overcome by this good fortune. He thought, Dare I push it even further?

He rolled over onto his side, facing away from Max. It was a test. A test that Max passed.

Immediately after Moe rolled onto his side, Max rolled over too, enveloping him in his arms and spooning right behind him. Moe reached down and took Max’s hands in his own, pulling his arms tighter around his waist. Within a few short minutes, and after only two orgasms, Max was asleep in Moe’s bed. He stayed the whole night.

As for Moe, he didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

 

This excerpt is reprinted by permission of Caroll & Graf

© 2006 Wayne Hoffman - Contributor's Bio