Pursuit of a White Knight

The Stock Market closed and I leaned back in my chair and rested my eyes. It would take several minutes for my computer to complete it's calculations and verify what I already expected after a hard day of trading, I'd made money. On most days I spent 4 or 5 hours at the computer making trades. I'd learned in college that I had a sort of second sense when it came to the stock market, and over the last 30 years that sense had made me one of the richest men on the planet. I never showed up on the list of the richest because I had nothing to do with corporations or industries -- I just played the market -- very well.

I almost had it all, I thought. Beautiful homes here in Florida and in Hawaii, a ranch in Wyoming and all the other trappings of wealth; the yachts, the airplanes and the automobiles. I had worthwhile and challenging work, and the satisfaction that came with sharing wealth with others. Although none bore my name, I'd helped finance medical clinics in small towns, hospital additions, theaters, libraries and schools.

I had everything most people ever wanted or could want. What I didn't have, was the one true love I'd spent a lifetime searching for; my White Knight I called him in my dreams.

The other thing missing from my life was my balls.

I was 22, in college and deliriously happy. My roommate and I were as good a couple as you could find in those "not so gay friendly" times. I was sure we would go into the brokerage business together after college and would spend the rest of our lives together. That changed as we were driving back from spring break at the beach. A van with about 15 kids jammed in went off the road ahead of us and we stopped to help. The van went down a steep embankment but no one was seriously hurt. My roommate and I waited around until the tow truck tried to pull the van out of the mud. That's when I made the greatest mistake of my life.

The tow truck was pulling the van out of the ditch using a long steel cable. Dan and I were down in the ditch pushing the van to help things along. The van lurched suddenly and Dan fell. I was worried the van would break free of the cable and pin Dan underneath so I stepped over the taut cable to make sure he wouldn't be hurt. Just as I put one foot on the other side of the cable it snapped. The tension on the cable made it whip like a snake. In one sense, I was lucky, the cable almost missed me. In another sense, I wished it had cut me in half. The cable whipped between my legs leaving deep gouges on my thighs and ripping my balls away. The pain was immediate and horrible. Dan was at my side in a flash. He held me up while screamed for the ambulance crew to come down the slope. While he was screaming, I looked down at what was left of my crotch, and fainted.

It was now 30 years since my last orgasm. My dick had never been touched by the cable, but had never hardened again either. A legion of doctors had told me my impotence was all in my head, but that never made my cock stiffen. Dan and I tried everything we could think of. If it was erotic, we tried it. We delved into every non-painful fetish you can think of to try to get my body to react sexually. Nothing worked. Shaved heads and bodies, lacy undergarments, socks, boots, diapers, uniforms; nothing helped. I could still give great head, and Dan could fuck my lights out, but nothing could make me hard. Dan and I eventually went our separate ways. He was still one of my best friends, and I saw him often, but a life together was not in the cards. I'd been alone ever since. At least I had my work, but accumulating wealth and going good deeds is not a great substitute for a loving relationship.

I turned my chair around to look out the office window at the lawn of my Florida estate. A glint of sunlight from the street caught my attention. I watched as a Realtor pulled up to show the bungalow next door to a prospective buyer.

"Good luck, lady," I thought as she opened the door for her client.

The bungalow had originally been part of my small estate. Seventy years ago, the estate's builder had added the bungalow to house his newly widowed sister. Whereas the main house of the 4 acre estate was rebuilt stone-by-stone from an old English mansion the bungalow was done as a rural English cottage. My home was huge and the vast stone building was somewhat out of place in the Florida countryside. It was an imposing mansion. I figured it was sturdy enough to survive a direct hit from a nuclear weapon, which made it safe from the occasional hurricane that roared through the area. At some time in the past, probably about the time most of the land of the original estate was sold off to developers, the bungalow was sold off as well. It was still within the eight foot walls that surrounded both homes but a smaller 4 foot wall had been built to separate it from my property. Consequently, it still looked like a part of my land, which put buyers off. It was small as well and had no pool, and no tennis court which meant no self respecting YUPPIE would touch it. The woman the cottage was built for had been a reader, a collector of books, and a gardener. The house had bookcases everywhere, most still filled with her collection. The furnishings remained as well -- making the home a window into the last century. A YUPPIE had no need for books or Victorian furnishings, preferring video games, big screen TVs, and metal and glass tables, so the pretty little cottage stood empty, surrounded by an old English garden no one appreciated.

The guy who got out of the car was definitely no YUPPIE. He was short and bald, but moved with a grace and self-confidence no one under 40 could pull off convincingly. I picked up the binoculars for a closer look. He was at least a foot shorter than my 6 foot six, and probably 80 to 90 pounds lighter, and had a countenance that could be best described as "used." But he moved with grace and confidence that made his stature and appearance insignificant. The Realtor must have sensed the same things I did, because she followed behind him, allowing him to take the lead. He strolled around the front garden of the cottage, clearly enjoying the non-Florida landscaping. When he bent over to look at the fountain in the center of the circular drive, I was shocked to see a three foot long gray pony tail flop over his shoulder. On anyone else his age, it would have been ridiculous -- a pony tail sprouting from the back of the bald head of a middle aged man. To me it was amazingly sexy, and fit perfectly with the aura of competence he exuded. To my everlasting joy I felt a small twinge in my groin. It wasn't much, and it wasn't a hard-on, but for the second or two it lasted it gave me more hope about my dick than I'd had in 30 years.

"The White Knight!!" flashed through my mind.

The phone rang a few moments after he entered the house and when I finally had a chance to look back at the bungalow, the Realtor's car was gone and so was the man.. I could only hope and pray he bought the house.

I was working on one of my planes about a month later when I saw him again. I had bought an old T-6 Texan (a World War Two era trainer) that some idiot had landed with the gear up and I was in the hanger restoring it when a Cessna 310 twin pulled up in front of the office across the ramp. It was an older model, but beautifully painted and obviously well maintained. To my delight, Mr. Pony Tail crawled out of it and stooped beneath the wing to chock the tires. I'd been wrong about his baldness -- he was only bald on the top of his head. The sides showed about a quarter inch of gray stubble that extended to just behind his ears where the hair for the pony tail began. A line boy ran up to help him and there was a quick conversation. The kid ran back and hopped in a car and drove back out to meet the pony tail. Pony tail hopped in the passenger seat and the car raced off in the direction of the airline terminal.

Damn! I had started out to introduce myself and was only half way around the wing and the guy was gone! I headed for the office to do some quick detective work. Sure enough, pony tail, was going to base his plane here. The owner of the operation gave me the guy's name and his address. His name was Michael Patrick O'Bannon, and (wonder of wonders) his address was the bungalow next door. What intrigued me the most was the occupation he'd listed -- Soldier of Fortune, Retired.

For the next week, I kept a sharp eye on the cottage, waiting for him to move in. My pool cabana bar was fully stocked with beverages, the bar-b-que was ready to grill the steaks and lobsters I'd bought, and the hot tub was ready. All I needed now was to sight Pony Tail and subdue him -- I hoped like hell he wasn't married and I prayed every night he was gay.

As it turned out, I missed his arrival by a couple hours. The stock market was fluctuating wildly that day, and when the market was in turmoil, I made MONEY. It wasn't until the market closed, that I even glanced out the window. When I did, there was a rental truck pulled up to the door of the bungalow, and pony tail was carrying a box in through the front door. I was down the stairs in a shot, snatched the 12 pack of beer from the fridge and bolted for the gate in the wall that separated our houses. I only paused long enough to make a quick check of myself in the hall mirror. For being 53, I didn't look too bad. I worked out a lot and the 250 pounds of me was very well distributed. The T-shirt was too small by design, and did a good job of setting off my muscular chest, and the shorts were short enough to show well muscled thighs and calfs. I ran a comb forward through the longish hair at the front of my head and pushed it aside so it didn't hang in my eyes. The rest of my hair was cut in a 1/2 inch crew cut -- a kid's haircut on a middle aged man I mused. Maybe pony tail and I had more in common than I thought. I checked the mirror again and hurried out the door.

I was through the little gate in his back garden in a flash and stopped at the back door to compose myself. It was open, so I knocked loudly and yelled.

"Anyone home? I'm your next door neighbor. I come bearing gifts!"

From somewhere in the house a voice answered:

"Come on in. I hope the gift is beer, and I hope you brought a strong back!"

Feeling like I had when I was a teen and an older boy had just invited me into the store room, I opened the screen and went in to meet Pat.

I found him in the library unloading a box of books. The library was in a loft over the cottage's two bedrooms and overlooked the living room. There was a stack of boxes at the foot of the stairs. The top one was labeled "books" so I set the beer on it and carried it up to the loft. Michael Patrick O'Bannon was sitting, clad only in gym shorts, on a stool sorting books when I dropped the box in front of him and handed him a beer. He was short, bald, somewhat homely and built like a brick birdhouse. I worked in a gym for my body, his he got by working..period. He didn't have the sculpted body of a gym rat, he was more of a fire plug with feet. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and glistened on his stubby crew cut. The long pony tail was draped over his shoulder and hung well below his nipples. When he stood up to shake my hand, I saw a well proportioned chest covered with dark hair and good looking legs also covered with dark hair. He gripped my hand firmly and smiled. It was the friendliest, most awesome smile anyone had ever given me. Here was a man totally in command of himself and any situation.

"Hi neighbor. I'm Pat O'Bannon."

"I'm Jim Peterson." I managed to stutter, and with a sweeping gesture added grandly, "Welcome to Foggy Glen Cottage, a one-time appendage to Clifton Manor."

Pat laughed as he opened the beer. "What a perfect name for this place. It fits with the Victorian furniture. It doesn't quite fit with being situated next to a championship golf course in central Florida, but you can't have everything. Pull up a chair."

One beer turned into several as we talked and as we unloaded the rest of the truck. Other than several boxes of clothes and stuff, the rest was books.

Pat was a fascinating man. He'd been a fighter pilot in Vietnam and after getting out after the war, had gone back to work for a South Vietnamese ex-military type smuggling American aircraft out of what had been South Vietnam. It took the North about eight months to consolidate the south enough to put a stop to the smuggling and pillaging. In that time Pat had "liberated" about 30 planes and pocketed about 6 million dollars, which he'd invested and never touched until he bought the bungalow. When things got too hot in Vietnam, Pat sold his services as a flight instructor to any country with the cash to pay him. When those air forces had a enough pilots to do their own training, Pat moved on to fly for various charities and relief agencies. He'd spent 10 years flying medical and relief supplies into many countries, often in middle of a civil war and had about 4 boxes of plaques and awards to prove it. Most recently he had a business flying supplies into fishing and hunting camps in Alaska and Canada. He'd sold the business for far more than he'd paid, and retired to Florida. Now all he wanted to do was fish, play golf and teach others how to fly--especially fly.

By the time he had related all this, it was almost dark and we were both starving. I headed home to fire up the grill and Pat headed inside to change into swimming trunks. He did a few laps in my pool while I cooked, and then helped me clean up after we ate. We were sitting in the hot tub drinking wine and getting very mellow when he brought up the subject of marital status.

"You seem to live alone here. Married?"

I liked this man a lot, enough so that starting a friendship off with a lie was out of the question.

"Nope. I'm queer as a three dollar bill. How about you?"

He laughed. "Am I queer? No, or at least I don't think so. The big reason I'm single is that in my line of work, coming to an untimely end was always a real possibility. Also I never met a woman --or, now that you brought the subject up, a man, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I always sort of figured that when they were handing out libidos -- I was out flying."

I felt my heart skip a beat when he said this. He hadn't ruled out the possibility of being gay, and if I looked at it from the right angle he sort of hinted that a gay relationship was not out of the question even if he was hetero. It was tenuous indeed, but I sensed if I proceeded very very carefully, he just my respond as he had in my fantasy's about him over the last few weeks .

I steered carefully away from that subject and launched into the safer area of hobbies we shared -- flying and golf. It was after midnight when he left for home. We'd agreed to play golf the next day and then fly that afternoon. Tomorrow was Saturday and I had a standing tee time at the club that let me hit the airport in time to fly for a couple hours in the afternoon. Doing both with Pat tomorrow would make a great start on the weekend.

The weekend was one of the best I can remember. Pat was an above average golfer. What he lacked in distance off the tee, he more than made up for in accuracy. We played with a couple of the club's most notorious sand baggers, and beat the socks off them. We both enjoyed separating them from their money. They hinted after the round, they would not play us as a team again. We went flying in the afternoon. First, for about two hours in his little twin cessna and then for a couple hours in my single engine turboprop. I learned more about flying in those four hours than I'd learned since I started flying. After we landed, I showed him my T-6 project. He fell in love with it immediately (lucky plane) and we worked till midnight replacing one of the landing gear. Sunday morning he was banging on my door, and we headed back out to the airport to work on the plane. Much of the work was in the cramped confines of the plane as we removed and replaced some of the crafts internal structure. Being stretched out on my back holding a panel as he crawled over me to rivet it into place drove me crazy. He banged his head once as he passed me and after the curses stopped looked at me closely and said accusingly.

"If you've got a hard on under there, lose it -- we need the extra head room."

"Trust me, much as I'd like to sport one, we've got as much head room as there is in here. Sorry." I replied.

He gave me an odd look, which caused me to blush and then reached over me to position the part he wanted to rivet to the aircraft frame next. Pat's face was about three inches from mine, when suddenly the twinge came again. It still wasn't a hard-on but it showed I wasn't dead either. I felt a huge desire to kiss him and pull him into my arms. He must have sensed what I was thinking because he whispered.

"Don't even think about it."

I was horribly embarrassed, but then he smiled and went back to riveting the panel as though nothing happened.

About 10 that Sunday night, we were sitting in the hot tub easing the aches and pains of manhandling large pieces of airplane around small spaces when Pat started to curse.

"What's wrong.?" I asked.

He ran his hand over his head and said he had planned on getting a haircut this weekend because he had job interviews at the flight school and at a local community college the next day.

"Looks OK to me. A half inch buzz cut with a pony tail, couldn't possibly be improved on much by a haircut."

"I wanted to get the top and sides shaved. Nothing puts other people on the defensive more than this funky haircut. That's why I wear it. It's always given me a competitive advantage. If it's all fuzzy and overgrown, I just look like a sloppy old hippy and lose that advantage."

What a rush! I have a bit of a hair fetish. One of the outcomes of Dan's and my search to find a way to get me hard all those years ago had been the discovery that I liked to watch and do haircuts. I keep my hair short because I love the feel of the clippers running over my head, and because I enjoy going to the barbershop every week to watch others get a haircut. I also keep myself shaved from the neck down. The process of shaving gave me the opportunity to touch and fondle every part of my body. I kept hoping that the constant manipulation would one day have a tangible result. In my position, anything that had once turned me on or had the slightest possibility of turning me on, I pursued with fervor.

"I've got some haircutting stuff up stairs, I use it to keep the fur off my chest." I told him, perhaps just a bit too quickly.

"Go get your stuff. If you are into hair, you might as well indulge your fantasies while helping me out. But you only get to work on my head." he said as an after thought.

I blushed and thought he could see through me pretty well -- but I went and got the stuff anyway.

It didn't take long to run the clippers over his head to reduce the short hair to stubble. I then lathered him up and carefully and slowly shaved the top of his head and the sides back to where the long hair began. I was enjoying it and because the twinge came back, I lathered his head up again and reshaved it -- just to catch any misses.

"Good job." Pat said as he ran a hand over his shaven scalp. "Price was right too."

He stood up and then waved to the chair. "You're next!" He certainly knew how to press my buttons! To bad the buttons weren't connected to anything any more.

I sat down and Pat combed the longish hair on the top front of my head forward over my eyes. The rest he buzzed. There was more hair falling I expected and I asked how much he was cutting. He replied he was cutting things down to about a quarter inch.

"If you want this cut to look good, you have to see a little scalp."

He finished up by cutting the bangs off even with the top of my eyes. As he did so he peeked down at my crotch.

"For a guy who likes to cut hair and get haircuts, you don't seem too excited. Am I too ugly for you? or too old?"

I was ashamed he noticed the lack of my reaction to my fetish and embarrassed and concerned that he thought he was the cause. I started to sputter and stammer an apology, when he laughed, dusted me off and handed me a beer. He then hopped back into the hot tub, submerged his head and then came up and popped the top off his own beer. I crawled into the tub and sat across from him and tried to think of something to say. He looked over at me with a serious look on his face and said.

"I'm sorry I said that. I can see I struck a nerve there and I apologize."

I was still uncomfortable, but I'd learned long ago not to run from embarrassing situations. I was trying to think of a way to explain when he beat me to the punch.

"You act like you want to talk about something. We've got a fair amount of beer left, its a nice evening, and I'm ready to listen -- if you want to tell me about it. It's your choice though, you don't need to tell me a damn thing I've no right to know. Everybody needs a few secrets. "

I took a deep breath. I'd only known Pat for a few days but his air of confidence and competence and his honest friendship made me feel I'd known him for years. Dan was the only other person who knew all of my story, but Dan hadn't been able to help. Pat, and the recurring twinges he gave me might be able to.

"Any port in a storm!" I told myself and then told Pat the entire story. I told the story as dispassionately as I could and tried hard to keep from sounding like I was feeling sorry for myself. When I finally finished I searched his face for his reaction. I expected to see; revulsion or worse, pity. What I saw was the same smile of friendship he wore when I started the story.

"You're an amazing man." He told me. "Most of the other people I know would have given up or let their misfortune dominate their lives. You've prospered and given much of that prosperity back to the community. I admire you for that. Thank you for trusting me with your story and making me your friend."

He was silent for a few minutes, thinking. When he looked up at me again he had obviously reached some sort of decision.

"You think I'm the reason for your "twinges" despite what I said about not being gay. I think you told me your story in part to ask for my help in turning the twinges into some thing more sexually significant. Say a raging hard-on for instance."

I could feel myself turning red, but he continued.

"I'll do what I can to help. That doesn't mean I'll hop into bed with you and suck your dick or fuck you, I'm not ready for things like that. But in my own way, I'll do my best."

He slid across the hot tub, pulled me into his arms and hugged me hard.

"Twinge?" He asked.

"Major Twinge!" I gasped.

"Then see ya tomorrow." Pat said. He hopped out of the tub and went home. I stayed in the tub for another few minutes waiting for the warmth of his embrace to subside and then went up to bed. For the first time in years, I felt there was hope for me.

Over the next few weeks our friendship got stronger. As his reputation as a superb pilot got around he was busy helping other pilots improve their proficiency and I didn't see much of him on weekdays. We'd have dinner together a couple of times during the week and spend some evenings in the pool or hot tub, and he'd fly copilot on a couple of business trips with me if we could be there and back in a day. On weekends, we spent most of our time together. We played golf, flew or worked on the T-6 together. I stopped my yard service so that we could work together mowing the yards and taking care of the gardens.

There tended to be a lot of physical contact when we worked together. Pat would grab my knee while he squeezed into or out of the cockpit seats. When we worked on the T-6 he would always stand closer than necessary when he showed me how to do something. In other words he worked hard at making me feel the "twinges" that, to me, signaled I was slowly recovering.

One winter morning, as I was working the markets, I got a phone call from my lawyer in California saying that one of my pet projects was in jeopardy. Negotiations for a children's hospital wing had ground to a halt and my lawyer wanted me to come out and do the negotiations myself.. The weather in San Francisco looked lousy and I didn't want to fly commercial so I called the airport looking for Pat. He was just hanging around when I called. I told him I wanted him to fly out to California with me because of the weather. He told me to pack some stuff for him and that he'd have the plane ready to go when I got to the airport. True to his word, he had the plane preflighted, a flight plan filed and was ready to start the engine when I tossed a couple of bags aboard and shut the door. He was taxiing when I finally got strapped into the pilot's seat.

It was a great flight despite the horrible weather in San Francisco. Fog and rain had all but closed the airport on our approach and shut it completely about 15 minutes after we landed. I tried to get Pat a room at the hotel where I kept a small one bedroom suite but there was a huge convention in town and no rooms were available anywhere in the city. Pat didn't seem concerned about the prospect of sleeping on my couch so while I headed off to do my negotiations, Pat did some sight seeing of San Francisco. We had dinner that night at one of the town's better restaurants and sampled some of the night life (the straight night life) and got back to the suite about midnight. It was one of the best evenings I'd had in years.

As we got ready for bed, I told him I'd flip a coin with him to see who would sleep on the couch. Pat laughed and said he was sleeping in the bed, and if I wanted to sleep on the couch, that was my own business. He walked to the far side of my bed, stripped off his boxers and slid under the covers. I always slept in the nude myself, but Pat had never seen me without clothes and I was not looking forward to seeing his reaction when I took off my shorts. My lack of balls was very obvious when I was naked. The cable hadn't even left enough scrotum to make reconstructive surgery possible. I needn't have worried. Pat hardly glanced at me as I crawled in next to him.

"By the way." He told me. "Women I've been with complain that I'm a snuggler. It comes from growing up in an orphanage where in winter they turned the heat way down at nights. When it got cold, anyone who brought their own blanket to your bed was welcome, and when the power went out -- the more the merrier. The only way you could get in trouble was if you stuck your cold feet in someone's back."

For obvious reasons, this revelation pleased me no end. I anticipated a whole night of "twinges."

Sure enough, I awakened somewhat later to find Pat's back jammed against mine. I rolled over and he snuggled back against me. I held my breath hoping and praying the twinges would turn into a real hard on. They didn't so I just snuggled as close to Pat as I could and went back to sleep.

The next morning Pat asked if he could join the negotiating session for my project. Since they were going nowhere, I told him any help he could provide would be welcome. He proved to be as good a negotiator as he was a pilot. He listened to us bicker over relatively minor details for about an hour before his patience left him and he stood up, strode to the front of the room and hammered out a deal. At least it sure felt like a hammering. He was merciless with both sides, demanding justification for each point on which we couldn't agree and offering compromises to both sides he had no power to offer. He was right about the shaved head and pony tail. It gave him amazing leverage when coupled with his awesome confidence. No one in his right mind would argue with someone as short and homely as he was who had the nerve to wear his hair like that. It took him about 30 minutes to come up with an agreement on the major issues. He then had each side draw up a list of the minor issues. With both lists in hand, he tossed a coin in the air and asked me to call it. I lost the toss so he crossed my first concern off the list. He continued to toss the coin, eliminating a minor concern from the team that lost the toss until no minor items remained unresolved.. I started to protest once, but he reminded me these were minor items, none of which, both sides had agreed, would stop the deal. In another 15 minutes he was done. He congratulated both sides on the deal and turned to the lawyers and told them to draw the contract up. Two very surprised lawyers, and two shell shocked negotiating teams stared back at him.

"Well." he drawled. "I'm getting hungry. You all shake hands and congratulate each other. The kid's get their hospital wing and you all look like top notch negotiators. No body got all they wanted, but no one lost as much as they feared."

He waited a minute then hinted. "If you hurry up -- I'm buying lunch." That got people going. After a round of handshaking we headed for the door. All in all it was an amazing performance. As I walked down the hall, a twinge struck again. Surprisingly it had moved from my groin up to my heart.

"Just great!" I muttered to myself. "I think I'm starting to fall for a short, ugly, straight guy. What a pair we make. He doesn't want to satisfy me, and I can't possibly satisfy him."

I was starting to feel sorry for myself again, but then Pat looked back at me and laid his most charming smile on me. I was almost panting for him as I followed him into the elevator.

The twinges were coming more rapidly now.

That afternoon, I took Pat to my favorite barber shop. I'd made the appointment the day before, and because I was a big (read "very big") tipper, I got us in. This shop was noted as much for the scalp and neck messages they gave as for the haircuts. The four guys who ran the place had more business than they could stand so when you sat in their chairs you got your hair cut the way they wanted to do it, not the way you necessarily wanted it. To my surprise, the barber just edged around my ears and blocked the back. As he worked I told them the story of Pat and his negotiating session. I emphasized that the pony tail and shaved head were a necessity, because Pat was looking a little nervous as he awaited his turn, with good reason. One barber was shaving a complex design on the side of one young patrons head while another sat in shock as his longish straight hair was being put up in rollers. When it was his turn, Pat sat down with a look of trepidation. He stared carefully at the barber and whispered.

"We aren't going to wind up embarrassing each other, are we?"

The barber swallowed hard and said "No." When he had the cape around Pat's neck he whispered back "Or at least not much."

As I was getting my neck messaged I reminded Pat of the rules of the house. He still didn't look happy.

The barber cheerfully shaved the parts of Pat's head he liked to keep shaved and then laid him back in the chair to shampoo the long pony tail. What Pat didn't expect was for the barber to tie the long hair into a braid. Pat was muttering to himself as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, but if he'd looked intimidating in a pony tail, he was twice so with the braid. The barber started the message and Pat's protests died on his lips. He closed his eyes and relaxed as the barber messaged his head, neck and shoulders. He was mostly asleep when the barber stopped long enough to rummage through his drawer and show me a gold hoop. He pointed to Pat and touched his own ear. Hell, why not, I thought and nodded. The barber handed the hoop to his partner and resumed messaging Pat's head and neck, now concentrating on rubbing the lobes of his ears as well.

"Hold still for a minute. I'm about to pierce your ear." He whispered to Pat. "Trust me, you'll look so hot, the boys will come from miles around to find you."

"I'm straight, you clown." Pat growled.

"Doesn't change a damned thing. Boy or girl, they'll hound you till you drop. I guarantee it!"

"I'll hold you to that. And I have a very long memory! Go ahead if you have the guts."

The barber had the guts, all right. There was a couple second delay as the barber sterilized everything, including Pat's left ear. Pat didn't even move as the ear was pierced and the hoop inserted. The barber then resumed his message for a minute or two then raised the chair and showed Pat the results.

"Well, what do you think." Pat asked me, turning his head so I could see the hoop and the braid. The twinge that followed was more of a bang than a twinge. I was weak at the knees but did manage to flash him a "thumbs-up." We walked out with the guy who'd gotten the unexpected perm. He thought Pat had gotten the best of the deal.

That evening we met Dan and Tim for dinner. Dan and Tim had been partners for over twenty years and as much as Dan had meant to me in my youth, I had to admit he and Tim were a perfect match. Dan and I talked of old times throughout dinner, while Pat and Tim listened patiently and carried on side conversations about what I have no idea. We went to a nice club (a gay one) after dinner. When Pat, in his dark suit, shaved head, braid and ear ring stepped up and asked for a table for four, we got one in minutes. Those still waiting in line probably would have groused except for Pat grabbing a waiter and having him bring drinks for those still in line. We got a nice table (I saw money change hands) and while Dan and I got settled, Pat and Tim went for drinks.

It was a wonderful evening. I was with true friends who didn't care about my physical lack but did care about me. I was feeling good and danced with Dan and Tim any number of times, although I noted when Tim and I danced, Dan and Pat had their heads close together and were deep in conversation. The way one or the other would glance my way gave away the subject of their discussions.

I watched as young men gathered up their courage and snuck over to the table to ask Pat to dance. He let them all down easy, and when they walked away, more of them looked relieved than looked disappointed. Apparently, showing your buddies you had the courage to approach Pat counted for more than actually getting a dance from him. Or maybe when they got a closer look at him, a quick retreat was in order. As the evening progressed Dan and Tim kept sneaking little grins at each other and I knew they'd set something up. I suspected a cake or some such, but was absolutely floored when the band started playing the last slow dance of the evening (my favorite) and when Dan and Tim got up to dance, Pat took my hand and led me to the floor. I could tell from the tension I felt in his back as he held me that he wasn't comfortable dancing with a man. I thought his attempt to please me was a noble effort on his part, so I ignored his obvious discomfort and went about enjoying the dance. Pat danced with me slowly and sensually. I envied and hated all the women he'd danced with before, but had to admit, they'd taught him well. I also discovered it's impossible to put your head on a man's shoulder when he's a foot shorter than you are. Pat held me closely as we danced and the feeling of his body moving against mine, and his head pressed against my chest brought me more happiness than I'd had in years. Despite the almost continous twinges, my pecker adamantly refused to respond. As the dance ended, he pulled my face down toward his lips in what I was sure would be a kiss. I readied myself and shut my eyes in anticipation.

"If word of this ever gets out, I'll rip your dick off and you'll spend the rest of your life peeing through a plastic tube!" he whispered in what in no way could be considered a seductive tone of voice. I was happy and didn't really care so I opened my eyes, zeroed in on him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. I put as much love in that quick kiss as I could manage. He stepped away from me in shock and I led him back to our table by the hand. He was still looking a bit dazed when he sat down.

As I crawled into bed next to Pat that night, I couldn't stop talking about the day. The settlement of the deal, dinner and the dancing had me all keyed up, and when I was keyed up, I talked. Pat finally rolled toward me and growled.

"What will it take to shut you up so I can get to sleep?"

"Well, I suppose a blow job is out of the question?"

The growl turned to a halfhearted snarl. He slid over next to me, rolled me up on my side and snuggled in tightly against my back. His head was on the pillow just behind mine and I could feel his dick pressed against my back (it's a lie that everyone is the same height in bed) and wrapped his arms around me.

"If you are perfectly quiet, I'll stay here. If you make a peep -- I'll toss you out of bed and you can sleep on the couch."

Not being too much a fool, I kept my mouth shut and fell asleep in his arms.

I awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the window. By the suffuse glow of the street lights many floors below, I could tell that a thick fog had descended over the city. I was on my back and there was a faintly familiar pressure on my chest . I looked down to see Pat's shaven head propped on my chest. As he exhaled, his breath wafted across my nipple. The twinge became a surge and I held my breath enjoying a feeling in my gut that had been absent for many years. I reached down and stroked Pat's bald head and drew my hand down the back of his head and along his long braid. I must of disturbed him because he moved slightly in his sleep, drawing his hand up along the inside of my thigh to rest against my cock. The feeling in my gut changed abruptly and I watched in surprise as my dick slowly filled with blood and rose of its own accord, making a small tent in the sheet. I was so delighted, I reached for my now half-erect member and watched in horror as it melted in my grasp.

"Damn it!" I sobbed as I held my lifeless dong in my hand.

Pat looked up at me groggily. "What?"

"I had a hard-on for about 10 seconds, is what? It went down as soon as I touched it. Damn, Damn, Damn. I can't believe I fucked up the only hard-on I've had in 30 years."

I was furious with myself and would have said more, but Pat put his finger on my lips to quiet me.

"Relax, lay back and shut your eyes." He commanded. "Tell me what you were doing and thinking."

I told him about the rain and the fog and the feeling of his head on my chest and his breath on my nipple. He immediately put his head on my chest and breathed softly on my nipple. As I explained what I felt, he placed his hand against the inside of my thigh and lightly brushed it up toward my dick. I stroked his head and pulled my hand down his braid. The little surge returned.

"If you had your wish right now, what would you do with me? What would you have me do to you?" He asked. "Don't answer with your mind or your mouth. Let your body answer for you." He moved his hand up from my dick to make slow circles on the skin below my navel, and moved his hand lightly down to fondle my cock and touch gently the skin around it. I could feel the surge moving toward my dick, but it felt like something was blocking it from reaching it.

"You need a shave down here." Pat stated as his hand rasped across my pelvis. "Down here too." he whispered as he placed a hand under my dick and drew it down the line that led to my anus. "Shall I shave you?" I felt the surge again, but it still was somehow blocked from reaching my groin. I stroked his head again and idly took the end of his braid and traced it in a circle around my other nipple.

Pat watched as I moved the end of the braid around my chest and then gently took it from my hand. He put the end of the braid between my legs and lightly drew it up the line from my bung hole to the end of my dick. It was like being hit with a cattle prod. The skin along the line was incredibly sensitive. The skin where my scrotum had once been attached was alive with nerve endings and the light touch of the hair sent a wall of pleasure racing toward my dick. I felt myself harden as Pat lightly dusted my engorging dick with the end of the braid and made tiny circles with it on the skin around it. As I hardened he kept stroking the underside of my dick with the braid. I could feel Pat's cock parked against the side of my body harden in tune to my own and that made me harden all the faster. I watched as my cock swelled to its full eight inch length, and it almost hurt as it strained to reach its maximum size. Pat leaned forward to kiss my nipple and placed his hand gently on my dick and began to slide it up the shaft. All the time Pat quietly whispered erotic comments. I don't know where he learned to talk like that, but he certainly had my attention. I'd bet money he could make you cum in you jeans just talking to you.

My dick was tingling with my excitement and the tingling grew stronger as Pat's touch on my dick became firmer and his strokes became longer. He wiped his finger over the tip and reached up to touch my lips.

"Smell and taste your pre-cum. It proves you can respond. It proves you still have desire, and love and lust."

He spit on his hand and again stroked my dick, the strokes becoming firmer. He again took the end of the braid and stroked my dick with it. He tickled my anus with it and circled my breasts with it. I felt the heat of his own hardon thrust against my side. He ran his hand down my thigh and pressing firmly moved it up to my dick and began to stroke it more quickly. He wrapped the braid around his hand to help reduce the friction of his hand on my poorly lubricated dick. He stroked faster and his grip became much firmer.

The tension started in my calfs and spread quickly up my thighs. From my nipples and from my side where the touch of his hardon pressed into me the tension raced toward my crotch. I could hardly breathe as the two tensions crashed into my dick and raced along its length. I felt my heels dig into the mattress and my back arch as my cock ached with the strength of contracting muscles. My back came off the mattress as my hips thrust my pelvis and throbbing dick into the air. A stupendous wave of pleasure ripped up my dick and spread out through my body. The first spasm shook me to my core, bring more pleasure and release than I'd ever felt. Before it faded another spasm took me, and then another. The only thing in my universe was a raging cock and the pleasure it was releasing. I forgot about the weather, about the room, about Pat and reacted solely to incredible pleasure of my release.

All too soon, the spasms faded and I collapsed exhausted back onto the bed. Every muscle in my body ached from the orgasm, and my dick was so tender, it felt like it was afire from the mere touch of the sheet. I suddenly remembered Pat and looked over at him. He was laying on his side facing me with a huge smile on his face.

"Impressive. I'm glad I was able to escape with my life." His face took on an impish look. "Would you wait 30 years for another orgasm like that"

"I won't wait 20 minutes." I declared and lunged for him. I grabbed him and pulled him to me. He struggled, but didn't have a chance of fighting me off. I pulled him close and ground his dick into my stomach as I rolled on top of him to prevent his escape. Despite his protests, I kissed him. I started at his forehead and kissed my way down to his lips. When he wouldn't open his mouth to me, I moved to his chin, his neck, and down to his chest. I kissed his tits and licked them gently and started to kiss my way down his chest.

"Don't Jim --- I'm not ready for this!" He pleaded quietly. The growing hardon against my chest belied his words.

I kissed his belly button and stopped to look up into his concerned eyes.

"I think you are. Your stiff dick says you are. But if you want me to stop; say it now and I will. I could never hurt you now, or shame you or force you into something you don't want after what you've given me tonight. Please let me do this for you." I felt my eyes starting to fill with tears. "Please. Please let me share some of my pleasure and happiness with you."

Pat reached down and grasped my head and pulled me so we were eye to eye. I think he saw the love I felt for him reflected in my eyes. I felt his dick move against my pelvis as his hips responded a decision I saw him make in the mirrors of his soul. He took a deep breath and then pulled my face against his and kissed me tenderly on the lips. I smiled and began to kiss my way down his body again. I lapped at his belly button and then kissed my way to the root of his cock. I glanced back up at him just as I was ready to engulf him. I heard him as he whispered to himself.

"This is going to complicate things horribly."

I lowered my mouth over his dick and did my very best to make this an experience he would remember for the rest of his life.