Marking Time

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A young man alone in the city finds his only lifeline to the real world is AOL. Will he hook up with his new-found friend, also alone in the city and staying at the same hotel, or chicken out as before?

Warning–Because many people consider a story without an intimately detailed sex scene a complete waste of time, I give advance warning that this story deals with sexually-generated angst, not sex itself. Only read this story if you enjoy tales of indecision and anxiety.

* * * * *

I tried not to think about it. It wasn’t easy. I was away from home for the first time and homesickness had bushwhacked the sense of independence I had expected .

The telephone rang and I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Martin, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom.” I kept any sound of relief out of my voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I was worried about you. You hadn’t called me since yesterday.”

“It’s only 4:40, Mom,” I pointed out. “You’re not even home yet.”

She hesitated. I heard road noise in the background which meant she was probably still on I-270, heading north. I imagined what she was wearing, what her day was like, what she and Dad would have for dinner. In other words, all things I usually never thought about.

More cautiously, she asked: “How did your interview go?”

I didn’t compare her to a nagging Jewish mother “Actually,” I said. “Not bad. The Human Resources guy was kinda cool. He had already seen two dozen people for the position but no one even near my age. My credentials impressed him.”

“Of course they did,” she said proudly, which brought back my annoyance. I controlled it though.

“He pretty much let on that I was ahead of the pack, or at least high up in the running. I agreed to meet him and some other bigwigs for dinner tonight.”

“Oh Martin!” she caroled. “How wonderful! You wear your blue suit, okay? No, the brown one, maybe with a blue–“

“Mom,” I warned.

“Okay, okay. Wear what you want to, honey. I know you’ll make the right decision.” She sounded slightly wounded. “Just make your best impression, okay?”

“I always make a good impression, Mom. You know that.”

Her sigh was very motherly. “I know. You make me so proud of you, Martin.”

I got her off the phone and unpacked my khaki Dockers and my light blue Ralph Lauren shirt and the blue and gray silk tie. I wanted to make an impression, but of a relaxed and in-command applicant, not an ass-kisser. Everyone at that place, secretaries to the mail-room kid to the Executive VP’s, were a bunch of Class-A super-overachievers with 2×4’s the size of Saturn rockets shoved up their asses. The only cool person I’d met that day was Tim, the Human Resources guy–and he was probably trained that way.

I ironed my clothes, took a shower, put my clothes on and went downstairs to catch a cab. The hotel was on 55th Street, the restaurant was on 40th. Maryland born and bred, I knew as much about the Big Apple as I did Peoria, Illinois.

I let the doorman flag down a taxi for me and gave the driver the name of the restaurant and the address. He got there in ten minutes but made enough turns to baffle a mapmaker.

“Thank you,” I said, getting out. “Will I have much problem getting a cab back to the hotel later on?”

He laughed–even his laughter had an accent–and he reminded me that I was white, well-dressed and in the best part of town. “You could fall off into the gutter at three a.m. and two dozen cabbies would try and pick you up.” At least that’s what I think he said. I tipped him five dollars and waved at him when he drove away. I like friendly people with a sense of humor–even foreigners.

Tim was waiting for me in the bar along with a sharply-dressed gentleman named Mr. Dyce. Mr. Dyce looked in his early forties and had shiny black hair. He looked Sicilian. I offered my hand and for exactly one second he tried to crush it. I couldn’t help but flinch. They both laughed.

“You’ve heard of The New York Minute?” Mr. Dyce said smoothly. “Well that’s The New York Second.”

I flexed and shook my hand appreciatively. “Don’t tell me about The New York Hour then,” I joked.

Mr. Dyce lifted his hand for the bartender. “Tim tells me your from D.C.,” he said. If the speed at which the attractive young lady reacted was any indication, Mr. Dyce came here a lot. Or he owned the place. “You’re old enough to drink?”

Since he asked in a tone not to embarrass me, I answered with deference. “Yes, sir.” To the bartender: “Do you need my I.D.?”

She smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Then a diet-Coke,” I said.

She went to pour my soda and a third man entered the bar and joined us. This was someone I recognized from that afternoon. John, somebody. A fish name. Pike?

“This is John Hake, Martin. You remember him?” Tim asked.

I said I did, and John and I shook hands. He was not a member of The New York Second club. “John works in your department,” Tim advised.

“He’d be your boss,” Mr. Dyce clarified. “If that’s the eventual escort maltepe outcome .”

The cute bartender return with my soda. I thanked her and held eyes with her for a New York Second longer than I should have. She smiled at me however, but hid the smile from my companions.

“I’ll pay for dinner if that nudges the outcome in my direction,” I offered.

“I told you he was a wit,” Tim said.

I had to keep my wit in check. A crack or two might amuse these guys, but they were the makers and the shakers in this town and they didn’t hire wits. They hired savvy and skill. I said, “The truth is, I understand that I’m very lucky to be here tonight. The fact you asked me is an ego-booster. But I also know that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have something important to offer the firm.”

Mr. Dyce grinned. Tim beamed. Every tooth in his mouth shown one-hundred watts or brighter. John Hake said to me, “You really developed that Coca-Cola model in two weeks?”

Actually I had developed the model in one week; the rest of the time I spent learning Black Jack online. “It wouldn’t work in the real market,” I admitted. “The algorithms were from an old General Dynamics engine donated to the university in 1999. I rewrote the formulas based on the Minnesota expressions developed by Dr. Fletcher’s team in 2002. It was strictly conceptual. It lost money consistently.”

Hake nodded. “But nobody has a model that works any better than yours and they’re all written by experts.”

“I failed on the cheap,” I conceded. “You want to pay me big money to fail big time?”

“I want you to succeed,” Mr. Dyce said softly. “Can you succeed, Martin?”

How the fuck do I know? I wanted to say. I’m a godamned junior at a nondescript college in Maryland. I get by on student loans and an allowance from my parents. I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve never been laid. How the hell good I am?

“If you have enough money, I can make it work,” I said honestly. Enough money will make anything work. “The question is, do you have enough time?”

“How much time is enough?” Mr. Dyce asked. There was no amusement in his manner now, only consideration.

“Three years. Not a Sunday less. On a New York Year budget. Five years on anything less.”

Mr. Dyce scowled. Tim took half-a-step backwards. John Hake, who had been vacillating between friendliness and rigidity in the presence of his boss, scowled as well.

“Three years? On a framework you wrote in two weeks? What kind of bullshit is that, Martin?”

“My model was bullshit, Mr. Dyce. The real thing is the Titanic with watertight bulkheads. You can blow four, five modules and the thing stays afloat. Imagine a financial engine that makes money even when you program it to loose.”

Dyce’s scowl didn’t lessen any, but it didn’t grow worse. “Let’s have dinner,” he said.

I ordered New York Strip Steak with a baked potato and Mr. Dyce and Tim both had Filet Mignon. John had a Surf desert was ludicrous.

“So, Martin.” Mr. Dyce stretched back in his chair and made it obvious he wanted a cigar. “You leave town when? Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.” The food in my stomach had me dopey and I didn’t want to get into anything serious. “Tomorrow morning I’m booked on a tour of Lower Manhattan–“

“Ground Zero.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “And the Bronx Zoo tomorrow afternoon.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

I shook my head. Dyce glanced sideways at John Hake, who nodded slightly. “The Red Sox are in town,” he said. “Tomorrow night and Thursday night. How would you like to go see them?”

A Yankees-Red Sox game in September? They were number one and two in the division again. The Red Sox had won the World Series last year. Washington was in the cellar with only thirty-two wins, but it was their first year in town.

Who’s cock do I have to suck? I wanted to ask. I said, “That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Dyce. You could just as well let me sell the ticket instead and hold my first year’s salary.”

“More like the first year and a half,” John Hake said, somewhat unwisely. Mr. Dyce cut him a hard glance. I liked John, so I accepted.

To my relief, both Tim and Mr. Dyce had pressing appointments after dinner and had to run. John and I migrated to the bar where I hoped to see the attractive bartender again, but she was gone. A little after nine, he stood with me on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The September evening was cool and clear, just this side of crisp.

“So what you have on for tonight?” I asked.

“Unfortunately,” he said, checking his watch, “I have to be across the river in Jersey at ten o’clock. My wife and I are buying a new condo there and we’re meeting the broker. Sorry.”

Only in The Big Apple, I thought.

I bade him good night and caught the first cab I flagged. I considered asking the cabby where the nearest nightclub was, but didn’t have the courage. Being alone in New York City is no fun.

* * *

It was eleven o’clock. I slouched in the surprisingly comfortable escort mamak upholstered chair, remote in hand, channel surfing. My laptop was open on the table beside me; on screen, Microsoft Outlook awaited any messages. The six in my In Box had already been answered and I was bored.

“I wanna get naked,” I said aloud. Actually, what I wanted was to suck a cock.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not gay. I’ve never had sex with a guy and I don’t find guys attractive. My problem is one of fixation. Since my first image of a girl sucking a cock, I’ve wanted to suck one too. I’ve become addicted to certain newsgroups on AOL. You probably know which ones. Like any addict, I both loath and cherish my addiction.

What I need is a personal Glory Hole. To the uninitiated, a Glory Hole is a 4″ diameter hole in any wall through which an erection can be placed. Of necessity it is generally located at groin level, in one wall of a small cubicle, usually in a sex shop. I’ve never seen or been inside one, but I have seen pictures. Once inserted in the hole, an erection can be sucked anonymously by a man or a woman–or both–depending upon your predilection.

My perfect scenario would be a 7-1/2″ long penis of a Caucasian male, nicely pink, of medium girth, with a not-to-protuberant glans. The testicles should be large and droopy enough to allow for easy fondling. My perfect pair are distinctly mismatched, one hanging lower than the other. The right testicle should be larger by half. In this perfect scenario no human being would exist on the opposite side of the wall.

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, adjusted my position. In deference to the situation, I sat there in my jockey shorts and my tee-shirt. In defiance of the situation, I had the curtains halfway drawn, though what good this did on the fourteenth floor I don’t know. The building opposite was only twelve stories tall. Taller buildings were visible in the distance, to be sure, but from any of them you’d need high-powered binoculars. Then again, this was New York.

I momentarily considered giving myself a little stroking action, just on the off-chance, you know, but my penis said, Forget it. It had no interest.

Why not go online? I had thought this earlier, but lethargy kept me glued to the chair. Now it was eleven-fifteen and the idea had more appeal. I got up and sat down at the table.

The hotel was rigged for wireless. I started AOL, selected my screename, SimplMind100, and connected via TCP/IP. “Where shall we go tonight?” I wondered aloud.

I scanned through the member-created chat rooms and stared at M4MNYCHotels. My hand gave a tiny shake. I got a tiny little shiver. I clicked on the name and sat there a moment thinking.

Two months ago I had almost jumped. I started up a friendship with a guy named Sean (real name? Who knows?) from Baltimore that I met online. We hit it off the first night and progressed from touchy-feely chat to heavy duty cyber in less than an hour. I promised him my oral virginity and he committed his to me. We resolved to 69 each other in bed with a camera recording.

Arrangements were made after our third session and I got as far as the parking lot of the motel. This was in Columbia, Maryland, halfway between our homes. I sat in the car for half and hour berating myself for being a chicken; in the end I just left. If he showed up for the liaison I never knew because I deleted my screename and blocked out his. I hadn’t been in an AOL chat room since then.

I double-clicked M4MNYCHotels and went in.

* * *

“What hotel you in?”

I had been chatting with SPUDKNOCKER99 for ten minutes. His real name was Dan, he was thirty-one years old, he was married with two kids and in town trying to close a deal on pharmaceutical equipment. His hotel was in mid-town from what I’d gathered.

“The Clarendon,” I lied. “On 53rd.”

“Close,” he came back, “but no cigar. Maybe if I looked out my window I could see you. Try waving, LOL.”

“My window faces east. Should I stand there naked?”

“PLEASE NO! LOL. Let me keep something to the imagination.” So far I had told him my age and my general description, my reason for being here and how long I was staying. “I’m at the Westbridge, on 55th,” he wrote.

I shivered mightily. He was here? At my hotel? Thank God I had lied!

“I could hop on over on my twinkle toes,” I told him. “Spray you with my fairy dust.”

“Keep typing like that and I’ll rip the hard drive out of my computer, sonny boy.”

My penis had discovered its missing blood supply and was struggling for freedom. I kept it where it was. “How hard is it really? And how large? Does it ever give you a laptop dance?”

“I’ll laptop dance you, boyo. You’ll doing the dancing, of course.”

He knew I was a closet flautist. He knew I joked about more. He was Bi, but with very limited experience. So far his experience was at the mouths of two other men.

“A laptop dance is something I might enjoy sometime,” I told him. “Given the right circumstances.”

“Think ofise gelen escort you’ll ever take the leap?” he came back seriously.

I explained about Sean. “Apart from being an asshole about it,” I typed, “that’s closer than I ever imagined I’d go. What about you? How did you hook up?”

“Good old reliable AOL. Just like this, only with some chance of success, LOL.”

If only he knew. I shivered and typed: “How big are you? The real version, as opposed to the AOL version.”

“I didn’t dare lie about that, not when I’d be meeting the potential blow job later on, LOL. My REAL size is 8″ long, thick with very large veins, and I get an angry red when I’m hard. I’m cut, with a moderately big head. You?”

“Embarrassed,” I confessed. “Six inches on a really good night. Normal thickness. Takes a hook to the left. Care to rent me your package tomorrow night? For my own use with the ladies?”

“Would rather you try the goods yourself, but sure. Visa, Mastercard or American Express accepted. And cash, of course. Rent by the hour?”

“How about a one-year lease?”

“Sorry, the lease-holder is my wife. And she never sublets. A one-night opportunity, here, Marty, take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” I replied. “I’m upstairs in room 1412.” I sat back to wait. I shook like a bamboo shack in an earthquake.

His response was immediate. “I know you’re joking. You wouldn’t be that cruel. Actually, just joking about it is cruel, LOL! I have a very large erection in my hand and it nearly got yanked off!”

“I am so shameless,” I wrote. “I need to be taken over my knee and given a good paddling.”

“On your bare ass, buster.”

“How did you know my ass is bare?”

“Lucky guess. An informed guess.”

My erection demanded its freedom in no uncertain terms. My heart beat like an elephant’s heart: thud-whump, thud-whump, thud-whump. When was I this aroused? Certainly not since Sean.

“Your guess is only half-informed,” I told him. “Physically my shorts are still on; mentally they’ve been pitched out the window. In other words, my bottom is psychologically ready for a good spanking.”

“LOL! You’re killing me. I wasn’t kidding about my erection. It’s ready to rock and roll. It would react very favorably to seeing your ass getting paddled.”

“I’m trying to think the last time that actually happened to me. I think I was ten. I’ve never gotten it bare-bottomed before; that was reserved for my sister. She’s seventeen now.”

“Ever get to see it?”

“They did it to her in her bedroom. I could hear it though, which turned me on immensely.”

“I bet it did. How old was she when they stopped?”


“LOL again. I keep setting myself up, don’t I? Is your sister hot?”

“I prefer to think of her as cuddly. She’s blonde, has blue eyes, still wears braces on her teeth–which just drives her nuts, but which I think is cute–and she has a nice figure. And no, I’ve never seen her nude, so don’t ask.”

“DARN! Skunked again. Would you like to though?”

He caught me. I had often wanted to see Kierney nude, had seen her countless times braless in stuff that let her nipples protrude; had seen her in outfits like a tank-top and gym-shorts which clearly defined her developing breasts and left her thong panties exposed–I had even seen her in her bra and panties. I typed: “Every day and every minute. Like an introduction? You’d have to wait six months to bang her, though, she’s still a minor.”

“Her twenty-one year old brother would do just fine.”

I almost told him then. I almost placed my fingertips on the keys and typed, “I was lying about 53rd Street. Come up here and fill my mouth with your erection, please!” Instead, I let my blood pressure settle again. “I’m curious. Did either of your guys let you cum in their mouths?”

“One did,” he replied. “The second one. His name was John Smith, and I kid you not. I even looked at his license. The first guy’s name was Ted, but I won’t tell you his last name. He let me come on his chest but John wanted it all. He masturbated me the second time we did it, right into his own mouth. Then he swallowed. The first time he spat it into the toilet but the second time he swallowed it. (I enjoy saying that, LOL.)”

“So I gathered. I’ve swallowed my own cum before. Does that excite you? Or turn you off?”

“It EXCITES me stupid! (You’re not stupid, sorry.) Tell me about it.”

“Well,” I typed, “I usually do a couple of spurts at a time. I get myself to the brink of ejaculation (not always on purpose, LOL) and shoot into my palm. I don’t actually cum, so I’m still turned on enough that I can slurp it up with my tongue. I do this two or three times before the main event, but if I’m lucky or really intent on enjoying myself, I’ll do it over and over until I’ve easily had two or three sperm-loads.”

I didn’t know what this bit of information did to my friend, but it agonized me. I squirmed in my chair.

“I’m currently freehanded,” he wrote. “The concept of you ‘enjoying’ yourself was just too much. Either I let go of it or it made goo-goo all over me. I wouldn’t want that, because like yourself, cumming extinguishes my fire. Right now, I want that flame hot as a blowtorch. Anyway, what other pleasantries might you employ in your quest for enjoyment?”

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