Ben leaned back on his haunches and rested against the wall. He was panting and could feel the sweat glistening on his forehead and the back of his neck. After a few seconds, he started looking for his other sock (only one had come off in the throes of urgency), and noticed that the Other Guy’s office looked much bigger from down here on the floor. Not that size mattered; what really impressed Ben was the view: an entire wall of windows in front of them, facing out onto the inner harbor from the twenty-third floor. All the partners in the firm enjoyed this prime office real estate, but the younger guys like Ben were relegated to seats on the trading desk where the only view to be had was of the conference room or the reception area.

As he wiped cum from his chin with the tissue the Other Guy had just tossed to him before turning away (suddenly shy) to zip up, Ben was still weak in the knees; he felt a combination of the sexual release and the thrill of possibly being found in compromising circumstances. He was watching the Other Guy straighten his tie in the mirror on the back of the door, when he suddenly heard the shrill voice of Robert (the queen from the reception desk) passing in front of the office, piercing the bubble of quiet afterglow that had permeated the room. Ben—who was the subject of Robert’s relentless scrutiny and speculation—quickly thought to himself, if he could see us now, his heart jumping in his chest. After a few more seconds, Ben’s breathing had returned to normal and he began cleaning himself up, noticing the Other Guy was fully re-dressed, re-coiffed and ready for his four o’clock.

He raised himself slowly, bracing one hand on a chair and glimpsing the photo gallery arranged on the Other Guy’s desk in a neat row of sterling silver frames. There was his wife, your typical aging Boston debutante with frosted hair and leathery skin; his kids, who were both better-looking than any actual girls that Ben knew; and his dog, which looked so well-tended its shit probably came out in stripes and plaids. In one of the shots, they were all smiling in earnest, huddled together on a beach somewhere on the Vineyard.

“Nice family,” Ben stammered as he began putting his shirt back on. The Other Guy mumbled something in response, not looking up from the electronic ticker that ran across the bottom of his computer screen. The office was completely silent, the only discernible sound coming from a tugboat out in the harbor. To Ben, it seemed as though the Other Guy now felt as if the previous ten minutes had never happened (or at least never happened in the way they actually did). Stepping back into his loafers, Ben felt his buzz dissolve; the party was over. As he picked up the files he had brought with him (used as props in order to look purposeful), the Other Guy opened the door and touched Ben gently on the small of his back.

“Until next time,” the Other Guy said, offering his hand. Ben shook it tepidly, shifting the files into his other arm and trying hard to appear indifferent. The Other Guy then jerked his hand away suddenly as the phone rang on his desk. “That’s my four o’clock.” Ben closed the door behind him and returned to his spot on the trading desk, not noticing the tiny piece of tissue that was stuck in the stubble under his chin from where he had wiped away a glob of the Other Guy’s cum.

If you saw Ben on the sidewalk or in line at Starbucks, you would probably not even notice him. If you did, he might remind you of someone you went to school with or who used to date your sister, but on closer inspection you would realize: no, wrong guy. Neither his appearance nor his demeanor distinguishes him much from the herds of guys who work downtown: from the Brooks Brothers suit, Cole-Haan loafers and Cartier watch, down to the razor-sharp part on the left side of his expensively-coiffed head. Ben would appear to you (if he even appeared at all) as just another face in the crowd, perusing the Globe or listening to his i-Pod.

Underneath his polished veneer, however, Ben constantly told himself, I’m not gay; I just like men. There is a difference. Fags made Ben uncomfortable; just look at Robert, with all that lisping and mincing about. What was the point? This debate went on in the back of Ben’s head all day, usually starting as he walked to the subway in the morning after jerking off to his “fitness” magazines. Then on the subway and all the way into the Financial District he would undress with his eyes most of the men he saw, some more completely than others. He never checked out the ones who seemed to be doing the same thing to him; he hated sleazy queers. No, Ben’s thing was straight guys; the cockier the better.

As Ben would say, cruising straight guys takes very little effort. At most, you should be versed in the day’s sporting news. And always ask open-ended questions; it won’t take long to figure out what he’s into. It sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well, Ben swears by it; his theory is that straight guys never get to talk about themselves, since they’re too busy making some girl feel attended to so they can either get into her pants or get a blow job. The truth is, straight guys hardly ever get blow jobs because most girls cringe at the thought of putting a dick in their mouths; that’s something only prostitutes and porn stars do. Nice girls—especially nice Boston girls—do not.

If he weren’t so good at time management, Ben’s hobby would take up most of the time in his day. Luckily, at his job there’s an abundant supply of hetero, alpha-guys like the ones he spends the most time around on the trading desk. They pound their fists with impatience, shout at one another, and generally behave like assholes. But merely being in testosterone-soaked proximity to all of them is only half the excitement for Ben. The real thrill comes when he gets them, right where he wants them. Ben calls this “closing the deal.” Aside from the pleasure involved, there isn’t anything Ben really gets out of these office trades of his-time-for-their-attention. Blowing straight guys just makes him feel, well, normal. Like he’s one of them. For a while, at least.

Meeting the Other Guy happened by surprise—mostly because he wasn’t one of Ben’s regulars—although he always felt flattered to get a referral. The Other Guy wasn’t from Ben’s group (European equities) but was one of the suits who lurked around the edge of the trading floor whose job function was never entirely clear. (Even after spending time in the Other Guy’s office—albeit on his knees and otherwise engaged—Ben still did not have any more of a clue what he did at the firm.)

It all started during the midday signoff from the London office. Ben was listening to the squawk box and taking notes while orders came in over his printer for the next day’s trading. Suddenly, the Other Guy appeared, hovering around like someone in the express line at the grocery store who’s trying to avoid a parking ticket outside. He tapped Ben on the shoulder with the nine-iron he was known to carry around with him.

Ben turned down the volume on the squawk box and turned to look up at the Other Guy, who smiled back. After introducing himself, they made a few minutes of small talk about places to golf on the Cape and whether Ben thought the FTSE would peak by the end of the year. Finally, the Other Guy offered to take Ben to lunch. Since it was 12:30 and the European markets were all closed, he could spare the time to be taken to lunch, but he didn’t want to set an unfair precedent for all his other guys who can’t afford such luxuries (especially the ones paying prep-school tuition or second mortgages). Ben declined, grinning in that charming way of his, hoping to put the Other Guy more at ease. But he just stood there, leaning on his nine-iron and asking dumb questions Ben knew he must already know the answers to.

He continued watching as Ben took the orders from his printer, neatly separating his buys from his sells, his Sterling from his Euros. Finally, Ben looked up and the Other Guy was now nervously shifting his weight from side to side and looking furtively around the trading floor. “I’m told that we could make a trade of our own,” he stammered.

“How about if we have that meeting at 3:45,” Ben told him, standing up and offering the Other Guy a firm handshake. That was it: deal closed. Simple, really.

Ben arrived at the Other Guy’s office at the appointed time. After knocking, he was called in and waved into one of the leather chairs facing the Other Guy’s desk while a conference call played on the speakerphone. Dutifully, Ben locked the door behind him. Once seated, Ben watched as the Other Guy began loosening his tie with one hand and playfully pointed his finger at his head with the other, rotating it counter-clockwise and rolling his eyes. “Legal,” he mouthed to Ben, who smiled back politely. When he finally hung up the phone, the Other Guy’s tie hung loosely around his neck, still knotted. After Ben explained his only requirement of full nudity (he once ruined a Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit during a session with the head of the Treasury Desk; a real gusher), the Other Guy got up and began to undress.

Ben also rose, walking around the large mahogany desk to where the Other Guy now stood. Ben pulled out the Other Guy’s silk-blend Thomas Pink shirt while the Other Guy fumbled with his own belt. Removing the cufflinks ($ and £ signs), Ben then dropped the Other Guy’s shirt from around his shoulders, feeling the rough texture of his tanned skin. As the Other Guy then crouched to get out of his pants, Ben could hear his breathing get quicker with anticipation. Once naked, the Other Guy settled back into his chair, stroking his dick as he watched Ben quickly undress himself. Down on his knees, Ben got to work: he dove between the Other Guy’s legs, inhaling the funk from his crotch and tugging on his nuts with one hand while licking the head of his dick. The Other Guy started to groan.

Ben never paid much attention to what they said, since it was usually the same thing: that feels so good, oh yeah, faster, suck my dick, fuck yeah, etc; although there were known to be variations: suck Daddy’s dick, you filthy whore, little bitch. The only thing he wouldn’t tolerate is if they called him a fag. This happened once and Ben got up mid-suck and left the douchebag to jerk himself off. Word got around, because it hasn’t happened since.

Eight minutes later, Ben was done. The Other Guy bucked in his chair and came on Ben’s chin and neck. His cum was thick, like oatmeal. And it reeked, like ripened Brie. Ben realized that the story the Other Guy told him must be true; it really had been a while since he had gotten any action from his wife.

After the office emptied out at the end of the day, Ben stayed behind to work on a spreadsheet despite Robert’s persistent invitations to join him and the secretaries at Blake’s, a downtown bar where the men are of questionable, but not dispositive, orientation. He was so engrossed in his number crunching that he didn’t notice the Worldwide Express delivery guy wandering around lost. As he approached Ben’s spot on the trading desk, Ben looked up, startled.

“I’m looking for that fancy guy, the receptionist,” he said in a heavy Southie accent. Ben noticed he was well-built, almost popping out of his short-sleeved blue uniform shirt.

“Uh, I guess he’s gone,” Ben stammered as he watched the Worldwide Express guy adjust himself, unable to look away.

“That guy’s a wicked pissah,” the delivery guy laughed, looking to Ben for agreement as he nodded to the reception area with his head and then feigned a limp wrist.

“Oh yeah,” was all Ben could manage, affecting his best tough-guy voice.

“Well, could you sign fahrit?” He thrust his clipboard into Ben’s unwitting hands. Ben sat there for a couple seconds as the Worldwide Express guy pushed up one of his sleeves to scratch his bicep, revealing a skull-and-crossbones tattoo. Ben’s heart started racing as he picked up his pen.

“Hey, how bout that Sox game?” he laughed, signing on the dotted line.

 

© 2006 Nathaniel O'Connell - Contributor's Bio