Date: Tue, 26 Feb 2008 21:31:31 -0800 (PST)
From: Ted M <mpls_ted@yahoo.com>
Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: Part 4

I am alone in bed when I wake to brilliant sunlight filtered through grimy
curtains.

Well, not alone, I guess. I can feel the bed shift slightly. Turns out Mark
is sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, watching grainy silent images on
the shitty TV.

I watch him for a moment as I gradually return to this world. I can't see
his ass, just his smooth, tapered lower back.

"How can you tell what's going on?" I ask sleepily. "Without sound."

He shrugs. "I dunno. It's easy."

I am silent for another minute or two. Or did another 20 minutes pass and I
just woke up again? I allow myself to blink into consciousness slowly.

"How long have you been up?" I finally ask him.

"Not long." He continues to stare at the TV.

"C'mere." I growl and right away he scurries back under the covers and
faces me.

With my eyes closed, I pretend I am blind and keep slapping his face with
my outstretched hands, trying to find him.

He giggles and calls me a dork and wriggles in closer.

We kiss deeply and his lips are minty.

"How long have you really been up?"

Mark grins. "An hour. Hour and a half."

"What were you doing?"

"Nothing." He says, blushing, and I know now that he was watching me sleep.

I grin and kiss him.

"Dude, I'm 40." My voice is still rich with sleep. "I'm old. I need more
sleep than you do."

"Whatever." He smirks. "I think you're just lazy."

Uh oh.

Them's fighting words.

I leap into attack mode, roaring and throwing him back. He's laughing so
hard with surprise that he's weak, so despite his ample muscles, he's
pinned instantly. True, I had the element of surprise as well. It would be
interesting to see who goes down in a fair fight. But honestly, who am I
kidding? He could throw everything he had at me and I'd still end up on
top. Just because.

He's laughing and smiling, twisting his head away from me as I threaten to
drop a enormous gob of spit into his mouth.

"Knock it off," he growls with faux anger. "Quit it, you a-hole!"

I suck in the spit.

"MARK." I bark at him.

He instantly stops fighting me and looks up into my face.

"Open your mouth." I command him.

He does so immediately, never breaking eye contact.

The enormous gob of my spit once more emerges on my lower lip, hundreds of
tiny bubbles in my goopy, dangling saliva.

It drips down slowly, gathering mass, watching-paint-dry kind of slow,
edging towards my Mark.

He never flinches, my guy, until it finally splats inside his mouth.

He swallows.

I lean in and kiss him. Our lips are tingly from overuse and somehow, they
seem to fit together even better this morning.

"Good boy." I whisper into his mouth. "That's my man."

 "I'm your man, huh?" he says and his face is blank.

"For the rest of the weekend." I kiss his forehead and release him. "You
cool to hang all day today? You cleared it so we can spend the day and
night together?"

"We're good." He says. "I told Mom and Dad I was with my friend Kevin all
weekend and we were road tripping."

I stretch my arms over my head and growl loudly. "Oh right. You talked
about him."

"I also told them that Kevin's Dad might need to borrow Kevin's car and so
there was a possibility we may not go anywhere this weekend." He
pauses. "You know, in case you didn't match your photos from online and you
weren't all that. And I had to ditch you at the convenience store."

He grins at me.

"And...?" I smile back.

He flops down on the bed and faces the ceiling. "Dude, I just swallowed
your spit. And yesterday you dumped two loads up my cherry ass and drowned
me in a third load. I think that kinda answers the question."

I laugh out loud. "You're right. Get up. Let's shower."

"It's gross in there." He says flatly. "The shower is disgusting."

"No it's not." I say in a firm and quiet voice. "It's going to be
beautiful."

Mark rises without a word and makes a beeline to the bathroom.

I stop him at the door and sniff his face.

"Why didn't you shower when you got up this morning?" I ask him.

His instinct is to blush and turn away from me, but this newfound power is
changing old habits. He still blushes and jerks away, but then with a
steady gaze into my eyes and a strong smile he returns. The power is still
there.

"I didn't know if you wanted me to go today out smelling like I did last
night." He says smartly and his eyes are shining. "Your call, boss."

I kiss him gingerly. "I like that you thought about this."

***

After this incredible breakfast during which we recount small and wonderful
details from last night, frequently laughing and taking playful jabs at
each other, he takes me on a tour of Newark landmarks important to him: his
former high school, the gym where he lifts, the grocery where he constantly
steals glances at the stocky bear who manages produce, a man with tufts of
hair sprouting from the back of his work shirt. Mark's nervous at first but
gradually remembers how respectful I was of his best hangout place.

Soon he's eagerly pointing out every points of interest he can, places
like, "That's where my Ma's car got hit, and there's where I stole $20 from
this guy's pants pocket. I was stupid and 13, plus it was just sticking out
of his pocket."

I laugh at his stories, misadventures growing up in New Jersey.

I tell him that I want to drive by the house where he currently lives. He
nods his agreement immediately – yeah, we can drive by it – but his
manner is sober and strained. I can see how much trust he's extending
me...how much this costs him.

I love that his first reaction is now `yes.'

I pop my first serious chubby of the day.

The street where he lives is rather unspectacular. The house is exactly as
expected: two stories, white, vinyl siding with green shutters. Decently
maintained. There's nothing on the porch to distinguish it much from his
neighbors, no shrubs or flowers that make it particularly unique in the
neighborhood or otherwise indicate a powerful 19-year-old man lives within
those walls.

He stares straight ahead while I cruise by in the truck.

At the end of the block I tell him, "You did good. That was a big deal."

He stares deliberately out the window; he's still not used to my easy
affection.

A block later, I growl, "HEY.  Get your ass over here!"

He leaps to my side and drags my arm off the steering wheel and inserts
himself under it, careful to make sure that I'm draped over his
shoulder. He fusses in getting close to me. I'm surprised by how publically
demonstrative this is, but he initiated it, so it's okay.

Precum is already leaking through my jeans. Marky's getting a reward.

Ten minutes later I pull into a parking spot at our motel. "Get naked and
on your knees."

He nods and jumps out of the car before I can turn off the engine.

He's still got the room key, so he disappears through the door before I can
even slam my cab door.

Good man.

By the time I amble into the room, he's fully naked and kneeling on the
floor. He's grinning at me, happy and pleased that he's ready just like I
wanted him. His cock is hard.

What a guy.

I slam the door and slowly remove my boots while I stare him down.

I take my time.

Mark's grin gradually disappears. He watches me carefully and the goofy
sentiment of the past few hours shifts quickly to something tender and more
raw. Watching me move slowly, strip slowly, moving in silence...this is
awakening him. The golden hair drifting across my stomach and chest, my
thick thighs, the slow movements of my powerful arms unbuttoning the
shirt. Reminding him of power and how my body tastes and the places he and
I can travel together. I can see him looking at my fingers, remembering. He
is panting shallow little breathes by the time I stand naked before
him. Well actually, I *did* put my boots back on. Does that still count as
naked?

I light a cigar and blow smoke into Mark's face. He inhales it deeply and
his cock bounces madly.

My proud dick drools strands of translucent precum, stretching almost all
the way to the floor.

Mark looks up at me with a flash of frustration, almost angry that I would
let this valuable pre-jizz go to waste, outraged that I haven't already
insisted that he nab it with his tongue.

We spend the next hour in various positions around the sleazy room and yet
two variables are always the same: my cock is jammed down his throat. On
the bed. Off the bed. Kneeling. Hanging over the bed. I fucked his mouth
from a chair, then cock sauce him while he lays flat on his back. I even
fuck his mouth right next to the window with the drapes open. He's
completely hidden, but my stomach and chest are exposed and if someone were
to see the angle of my hands, they'd figure it out.

Marky likes this quite a bit and I figure I may have a burgeoning
exhibitionist on my hands.

Training a man to suck cock takes a curious skill. The goal is not a
perfectly trained dick smoker. No, the goal is to awaken the man's innate
hunger to continually improve how he uses his mouth to love this source of
power. It's not enough to say, `don't use your teeth and try to create
suction.' That's Sucking Dick 101.

Who wants a bottom who learns "the right way" but then gives up
growing/awakening new techniques to jolt his top's breeding muscle to
greater heights?

A top in an enviable position such as mine grows in his boy the love of
dick. Love this dick...love this dick...so that every kiss is worship,
every slathering tongue motion is succulent. Love this dick...let each deep
dive to get the cock into the throat foreshadow the moment of delivery, the
gift, the physical, goopy expression of loving gratitude for lavished
attention. To lovingly grow this blessed skill is to co-create a new
reality together. To find a harmony, a life rhythm where one man flows into
another, blurring boundaries to the point that it's challenging to tell
where one man ends and another begins.

Marky's throaty chokes are soon replaced by rippled swallowing, his teeth
jabs infrequent as he realizes each stroke is sacred. After a half-hour,
the only chokes he makes are the ones I deliberately create because I want
to hear him splutter and splorch. After the finally understands this, his
next wet choking sound is generous and succulent.

Another half hour later, his lips are fatter, pinker, his face is redder,
and he sports an enormous white streak bisecting his face, beginning in his
hair, dripping down the side of his nose, and already creating a prodigious
drop on his upper lip.

Mark licks it off as if a sperm connoisseur, and then licks his lips.

I pant and huff and clasp his head.

"You gotta go easy on the bear." I gasp.

He laughs and grins up at me. "I did good, huh?'

"Yeah." I wheeze. "You did real good, my man."

Marky grins and loves this, my sperm coating him, my power oozing down his
throat. He is bouncing on his knees, ready to jack off or have me suck him
off.

He'll have to wait.

I collapse on the bed and motion for him to join me.

Puppy lands on my chest and lays his sticky face on me. His hard dick is
poking my scrotum.

We lay like this for another five minutes, him occasionally not-too-subtly
humping my leg.

"Sorry, champ." I tell him. "You're not gonna cum for a while."

He complains that he should get to cum every time *I* get to –

I clamp my hand over his mouth.

Marky starts kissing and licking my fingers. He's hooked.

"Alright." I groan at last. "We gotta move."

"Why." He asks.

"Errands." I announce. I get up to find my pants.

"What errands?"

"You and I have a big night." I tell him.

He digests this with a slight frown and nods. Is he nervous? Eager? Hard to
say. He lays on his back, legs dangling over the side of the bed.

I walk to him and extend my hand. He takes it and I drag him to a sitting
position.

I run my finger through some of the sperm in his hair and scoop it up.

"You missed some." I say quietly.

He lowers his mouth and kisses my finger tip until there's nothing left but
his spit.

***

"How about this one?" I hold up a shirt to him. It's a rich, Montana sky
blue.

Mark shrugs and turns back to the shirts he's flipping through.

I put it back on the rack.

"Yo." I call to him and he turns to me. "How about this one?"

"That's practically the same color. What's with you and blue?" He grumbles.

I shrug. "My favorite color. And you'd look hot in this."

He wanders over to my rack.

"Hey, what about this," I say holding up another. "Green shirt, green
tie. Like Regis whats-his-name. The Millionaire Guy."

"Dude, he's like...dead. I think. And the same color shirt and tie thing
wasn't even cool when he did it the first time. You know nothing."

"Hey." I say in a sharper tone, more to keep his tone in check to actually
disagree with his words. I'm not much of a dresser.

Mark blushes, chastised, and says nothing for a moment, just vacantly
searches from hanger to hanger.

"Why are we doing this again?" he asks again. It's about the fifth time.

"I told you. We're going out for a big fancy dinner."

"Where?" Eighth or ninth time for that one.

I drive him crazy by answering him with nothing but a grin. He's trying to
needle me by asking every ten minutes. Unfortunately for him, I find each
re-asking just damn endearing. Nevertheless, I decide to share our plans. A
real answer may help with his current attitude.

"Manny's."

"Downtown? The big steak house? No shit?"

"No shit."

"Hey, wow...kinda expensive."

"So I hear." I say and keep shifting through shirts. Maybe a classic white
shirt.

"I heard it's pretty swank there."

Mark likes the word swank. He uses it regularly during our IM chats,
usually to suggest places and a lifestyle that are beyond him. The best
hotels are swank. Yachts – swank. He thinks Miami might be swank as
well.

 "I know. You told me once."

 "Damn." He laughs. "Do you really listen to everything I say?"

"Yup."

I keep sifting through the rack. He'd look good in green.

Marky is touched by my brevity and shifts gears. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying
to be a tool."

I glance at him. "I know."

 He rests his head on his hands, leaning on the circular shirt rack and
staring at me with those liquid brown eyes.

 "You're going to leave tomorrow." Mark says sadly.

"Yup." I say briskly.

"Don't you care?" he asks.

"Yup." I answer.

"And then...you know, the three weeks." He says.

"Yup."

"Which is your rule, you know. We wouldn't have to do it if you didn't
insist."

"Yup."

"Don't you...you know...feel sad about it?" Mark asks me hopefully.

I stop shuffling shirts.

"Mark, I'll feel sad tomorrow. The minute I'm outta here. And on the
plane. On the drive home from the airport. Lying in bed tomorrow night,
I'll probably feel sad. And when that feeling comes up, I'll try to feel it
fully. I won't stuff it or pretend it's not there. It deserves to be felt."

He stares at me curiously, so I stop musing through shirts.

"But I'm here with you now. And I don't want to waste our time together
being sad about what I do not have while it's standing right here in front
of me."

"Yeah," he agrees with a languished sigh. "I know..."

"Mark, last night I was talking to you about love. But what I didn't
mention was that love often comes with a pretty steep price tag."

He frowns.

"It's this thing you're feeling right now." I tell him. "It's heartache. Do
you feel grief, like I'm already gone even though I'm standing right here?"

He nods. "It blows."

"Yeah." I agree. "It does suck. But that feeling lets you know your heart
is open to love. So I'd still rather have it than lose it. Do you want me
to leave? Catch an early flight out?"

"No!" he replies quickly, almost angrily. "I didn't mean that."

I nod. "Just trying to illustrate a point. Heartache is a shitty price
tag...but at the same time, most people are willing to pay that price for a
taste of the good stuff."

"Thanks, Professor." He rolls his eyes.

I look at him.

"Sorry if I'm boring you, buddy." I say quietly.

"No!" he jumps to apologies and produces a sad/happy smile. "I like it when
we...talk about this...No...I just..."

I stare into his solid brown eyes.

"You're sad." I say softly.

He nods.

We're silent for a moment while we continue to communicate.

I eventually break it off.

"What do you think of this shirt?" I hold up another one.

"S'alright." Mark is still a bit less than enthused.

"C'mere and look at it closer." I instruct him.

"I can see it." He replies.

"C'MERE and look at it closer." I repeat, slightly sterner.

Mark obeys, looking at me with frowning curiosity.

When he gets right next to me, I grab his cock through his jeans.

"Ohhhh." He gasps.

"Still tender?" I ask innocently.

Mark gasps again as I manhandle his dick. It's hard almost instantly.

"You're killing me, here." His breath is ragged. "You gotta let me cum.
Please – in the car or something."

I continue to hold up the dress shirt to block anyone's view and pretend to
study the stitching while I massage his dick through his jeans.

Between shopping trips this afternoon, I sucked Mark's cock for 45
minutes. I edged him near the brink of orgasm 11 times and each time backed
off as soon as I sensed he was getting close enough to sperm. At first he
thought it was a sexy game, and he played along willingly, using breathing
techniques I introduced to back himself down.

But after several more near-misses, he began to wonder about the payoff.

During some strokes I focused just on his dick head, which drove him to a
particularly loud and elongated mantra mostly consisting of
`FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK...' Once or twice I dry-sucked his cock, using almost
no spit, letting my teeth gently scrape the sides, creating a beautifully
tingly sensation that sends shock waves up the thighs and makes the head
twitch uncontrollably.  He cringed each time, and in response his nuts
started churning their butter, reading themselves for what seemed
inevitable.

After about the seventh almost-cum, he was panting on his side staring at
me with wild-eyed confusion.

I grinned at him. "Remember a few minutes ago how you told me I should
probably take off my clothes because you felt like you had a real gusher
stored up?"

He nodded, still panting and twitching.

"And remember how I said not to worry, how I wasn't going to get any cum on
me."

He nodded again.

"Well..." I smile at him.

He looked into my eyes and paniced. "Aw, hell no! No fucking way! You're
just gonna fuckin' TEASE me?"

I kissed his throat.

"Fuck that." He growled and pushed away from me, grabbing his dick, and
pumping furiously.

I dragged his hands away.

The last three times he got close, I actually had to hold down his arms
because he was so desperate to nut. The last two times only took three
strokes of his cock. I lay fully clothed next to Mark, locking down his
greedy hands, his dick jumping wildly in the air, confused by how it kept
getting so close to ecstatic pleasure without ever arriving.

Back in the mens' clothier, Mark pants while his eyes dart nervously around
the surrounding aisles.

"You want to cum right here, Marky?"

He pants harder and whispers a feeble, "no..."

"You sure `bout that?" I whisper in a harsh voice.

Though Mark's brain isn't operating at its highest potential in this
moment, he's clearly weighing the pros and cons of not taking advantage of
this unforeseen opportunity. What if he's not offered the chance again for
another six hours? Or twelve?

Mark is only human and the problem of leaving the store in cum-soaked jeans
later seems infinitely more distant a concern than the need he feels as an
electrical pinwheel spinning his every stray thought.

"No, Sir." He gasps. "That is, yes Sir, I'll cum now. If you want it..."

It does a Man proud to hear his new mate so willing to serve. I swell with
satisfaction and rub my thumb along the quivering meat plumping out my
friend's tight jeans.

Mark grips the store shirt in his hands as if to strangle its empty
occupant. His clenching hands release the fabric and new deep creases
wrinkle the fabric now. He releases one shirt and grabs the next shirt, the
next wave of almost-orgasm.

"If I had you tied up right now," I suggest into his ear, "this could go on
for hours."

Mark whimpers in agony. I'm sure he never even thought of being tied up. I
do believe however, that the idea of being tied up will heretofore occupy a
significantly larger portion of his imagination.

"Think of it Marky, just you and me for hours in bed, your hands stretching
over your head tied by a pair of my dirty gym socks, and your legs
restrained by two of my ugliest work ties as you writhe with every stroke
of my meaty hand, each gentle kiss on your dick head, each loving stroke
with my tongue over your pecs as the tips of my fingers graze the underside
of your nut sack until they wrinkle worse than a fuckin' pug-faced dog."

I release his cock from my thumb grip but keep him trapped in my thrall by
just standing intimidatingly close. He's breathing ragged and his eyes are
clenched. I don't think my guy even he remembers he's in the middle of a
store, supposedly searching for a dinner shirt.

I hang up the prop shirt with a carless clink and simultaneously grab
Mark's chest and back. I shake him.

"Mark! Mark! You still on this plane, bud?"

Mark blinks rapidly, staggers backward and jumps back.

"Oh my god," he says in a dazed voice. "I could only see orange. Everything
was orange ... why orange?"

"Let's go." I say briskly. "We got to get you a shirt and then shoes to go
with your new suit."

Mark follows, bumping several hangers as he stumbles in tow. He's still a
little dazed.

I turn around and step to his chin. I want him to be able to smell my
breath. "Plus, I may want to fuck you in the shower for a while before we
leave for dinner. Keep your ass opened up."

He staggers backwards.

Poor guy. I hope he lasts until evening.

***

A different man enters Manny's steakhouse.

A confident man, thick black eyebrows creased in pleased surprise. He wears
the air of a man who achieved exactly what he wanted and the experience was
exactly as he had hoped. He wears a trim black suit with spider-thread
stripes and a neon-lemon silk shirt peeking through. His strong Italian
nose sniffs the air, and then his thick ruby lips lick the thick smell, the
aromatic sizzling garlic steaks and errant testosterone. This man owns a
piece of his soul that he did not possess 24 hours ago.

Mark has scrubbed up good.

I made the reservation is in his name, so when the maitre de politely
inquires if we're the "Mark Benson, party of 2," he swells and nods.

"That's us." He says soberly. "We're here."

Mark leads. I follow.

Mark walks tall and straight, five feet behind our maitre de. He calmly
surveys the restaurant, drinking in the glamour, the red plush ceiling to
floor curtains, the gilded gold moldings. The quiet clatter of silverware,
the silent waiters delivering food on actual silver platters with gleaming
domed tops. All around us a dozen nearby amusing conversations ignore our
presence, but Mark saunters past as if all eyes were on him. He's not
entirely wrong. There are more than a few women and a couple guys are
checking out my stud.

I would have never demeaned him by instructing him how to behave in a fancy
restaurant, no, this comes from within him. It's his natural kingship
asserting itself. Fucked like a whore, he found inside himself the depth of
a king. I had to see him this way, dressed to the nines and way out of his
league, just to make sure he would rise to the occasion, that he could find
that inner king.

He did.

My work is almost done. Marky has crossed over.

We're seated and then abandoned by the maitre de.

Marky doesn't notice that ours is the only table with fresh red roses.

Every now and then he nods to a nearby table with a slight flick and say
quietly to me, "Check it out."

Sometimes it's obvious who he wants me to check out and other times, I just
glance at the most opulent thing in that direction.

I am checking out one of Mark's nods when Roscoe, our waiter introduces
himself, and explains the off-menu specials.

Mark listens attentively, and I'm sure he hasn't heard a word.

Roscoe is Italian, like Mark. A swarthy man, like Mark. Maybe Sicillian. He
has shiny black hair, slicked back in a way that happens to be in vogue,
which is mostly convenient for him since I suspect Roscoe would wear his
hair that way anyway. He adopts the appropriate air expected in a place
like this. Hands behind his back, all the moneyed gestures of subservience.

Roscoe politely inquires after our drink order.

"Roscoe," I say in my most friendly tone, "I wonder if you can help us out
of an awkward situation."

Roscoe tilts his head.

Mark is impatient to order. He wants a virgin pina colada, something he has
never tasted.

"My young friend and I are celebrating something momentous. A life changing
event. It's important to us. And my young friend is not entirely 21, which
makes it hard for us to order him the appropriate celebratory drink."

"Yes, Sir." Roscoe nods gravely. "He'd need to be 21, Sir, for me to serve
him alcohol. I could get fired."

"Yes, of course." I nod. "I understand...state laws and everything, I
wouldn't want you fired. No. And just to be clear, I am not associated with
any legal or police branch of any level of government."

Mark is confused.

"It's just that my young friend lost his cherry this weekend. He's no
longer a virgin."

Mark's eyes blink wide and he blushes a shade that turns every inch of his
brownish skin a flaming burgundy.

The waiter sees this in Mark as well and his professional demeanor drops
two levels.

"No shit." Says Roscoe, gently punching Mark's arm.

Mark cannot speak at all and just pleads at Roscoe in a brilliant shade of
autumn red.

"You fucking dawg!" Roscoe punches him harder and drops on one knee to our
face level. "Holy shit, it's really true. You little fucking horn dog!"

I remind Mark to breathe and he takes my advice.

Roscoe is chuckling quietly, completely enjoying Mark's humiliation.

"Don't worry, little brother, it's cool, it's cool." Roscoe laughs. "We
were all there once. Four minutes of pressing right up against her pussy
and then blowing your wad within the first forty seconds of getting it
inside her. It's cool, little bro."

Mark glances at me uneasily.

I smile at him and raise my eyebrows.

"So how was it," Roscoe leans on the table with his elbows.

Mark opens his mouth but no words come out.

"Was it wet, guy?" Roscoe badgers him. "Wet and sloppy?"

Mark's eye's bug out and he looks like a parody of a man.

"From what I understand," I interrupt and give Mark a moment to breath, "it
was succulent. Ripe. Perfectly juicy and slippery. If I remember the word
you used at breakfast today, Mark, it was...'jizz-tastic?' Was that it?"

"Yeah," Mark mumbles, breathing heavily. "Something like that."

"Oh man," Roscoee staccato laughs and holds his hand up for a
high-five. Mark's hand meets his, but not quite with the same enthusiasm.
"You gotta tell me, this buddy. Did you get your knob polished? She suck
your stuff?"

Mark nods shyly, regaining composure as realizes he is part of the
game. That he and I are on the same side. In fact, we ARE the team.

"Yeah. Couple of times."

Roscoe laughs. "Was she good or was it stumbling and weird and she used her
teeth."

He looks to me. "Incredible. Kind of a tease about it, though."

Roscoe laughs harder. "They all are, buddy, they all are. You'll get used
to it."

"She did use her teeth, though." Mark says slowly and his eyes begin to
sparkle. "I'm pretty sure on purpose just to make me jump."

Marky has won my admiration and I belly laugh across the table.

Roscoe ignores me.

 "Aw yeah, she sounds kinky, bro." Roscoe he chuckles. "Oh god, I gotta
tell my brother that tonight. He likes kinky shit. So how was it? Scale of
1-10, with 1 being you couldn't wait until it was over?"

 "Answer the man's question, Marky." I say with a hearty smile, enjoying
him more than I can express. "1-10?"

"10." He says instantly, staring at me with a serious look that Roscoe
cannot understand. "Totally, a 10. I had no idea it could be like that."

I nod solemnly to Mark.

"OH, FUCK yeah!" Roscoe whispers heartily, putting his hand on Mark's
shoulder and gripping it tightly. "That's exactly it, buddy. That's IT,
man. Your first time has gotta be the best...set the fuckin' standard for
everything that comes afterwards, make you chase that crazy high for the
rest of your life, after that first insatiable mating."

Mark nods at Roscoe. "That's it, man."

Roscoe stands and turns to me formally.

"Sir," he says, making a very special eye contact. "I cannot serve this
minor, This Stud, an alcoholic beverage. Not at all. I hope I am making
myself clear. I will bring your son a Coke. And what kind of champagne can
I bring for you and only you, Sir?"

I order the most expensive on the menu.

"Very good, Sir." says Roscoe. "Sir, we're very busy tonight and I won't
have a great deal of time to lavish on your table. I have many customers to
serve. Would you mind terribly if I brought you your first and second glass
of champagne for my convenience? It would be less of a burden to me if I
could drop off both glasses, then I wouldn't have to return to your table
as frequently. Would that be acceptable?"

I nod at him gratefully. "Perfectly acceptable. You're quite impertinent as
a waiter, I must say. Lucky for you, I like impertinence and tip rather
well for that kind of behavior."

He bows to me and then turns to Mark. "Congratulations, Sport. If your
first time is a 10, right out of the gate, that's a good sign. Means you're
going to be an amazing lover and your sex life is gonna fuckin' rock until
you drop dead."

Mark nods gratefully at Roscoe, who has already turned and swiftly moved
away.

"Damn." Mark says glumly. "I thought he was going to be cool."

***

After Roscoe has taken our steak orders and departed, I hand Mark his glass
of champagne.

The first toast is exactly as it should be: silent. Nothing but eye
contact.

"Did you hear what Roscoe just said?" I ask him as we finish our first deep
sips. "He said that I must be a great Daddy."

Mark rolls his eyes at me. "I believe he said, `Father.'"

I smile. "Whatever."

His eyes travel the room with gleaming approval. You'd think he was
personally getting $20 from every steak sold that night.

Mark raises and tips his glass towards me, and takes another gulp of
champagne without breaking eye contact.  He stubs the glass into the table
and licks his lips with true satisfaction.

He nods at me several times and I can't tell what he's thinking.

"Swank." He says with a seriousness that seems older than his years.

Uh oh.

Something is happening.

Mark's eyes light up in horror. "You don't think that after dinner, Roscoe
is gonna bring out a cake with candles in it, do you?"

This shouldn't happen. This shouldn't happen.

My heart twangs wide open and love floods my entire chest.

Oh fuck.


***
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