Heart Attack

His cock was so thick that, when he finally pulled out of me, it came as a kind of relief.

"Oh!," I said, a final time, rather than cried. Adding, "You stretched me so wide tonight..." It was not night; it was late afternoon.

"Good," he said, backing away. "You were tight at first."

I swallowed--saliva. Looked over my right shoulder at his now drooping, but still engorged monster cock. "Anyone would be tight," I began, "with you in them."

"Get up and get us a towel," he now ordered, sitting back on his heels at bed's foot. He was in his thirties, late thirties probably, muscular, athletic, though his muscles were beginning to show the first signs of softness. Aging. Tragic.

Meanwhile my anus had at last closed up, completely, sealing his load of semen inside me. I shuffled to my left, on hands and knees, off the bed, and rose, unsteadily at first.

"Clean my dick off," he said, as if I was not just his bottom today, but his servant.

I turned and walked to the bathroom, aware, for some reason, at this moment, of our age difference and my balding head. It made me feel... insecure. Even though he'd told me, earlier in our email exchanges, that he preferred older guys.

Older guys in bed? Older guys in general? He hadn't elaborated.

In the bathroom I ran sink water until it turned warm, then wet a hand towel and rang it out, wiped the lube (and cum?) from my crack, wet the towel again and rang it out, and left the bathroom with it.

By now he'd turned and sat on bed's foot. "What'd you have t'do, weave a fucking towel in there?"

I knelt in front of him, down on one knee, then both, and wiped his cock clean of lube. A droplet of semen remained in his cock's eye, and I leaned forward and licked it off. I could taste nothing, however. Sweetness or fruitiness. Too small a sample. As I rose up:

"At least you were clean," he said. He had a bit of a belly when seated slumped like this, I now noted. He was definitely turning soft.

"I'm always clean for my tops," I told him. I held the soiled towel, wondering what next to do with it.

"You a slut?" he fired back. "You fuck a lot of guys?"

No, I thought. And I don't fuck guys they fuck me. "No," said aloud. "It's been a while."

"You're healthy, right?"

Now he asks, I wondered. He never had before.

"Yes." I didn't bother asking if he was. "Let me go throw this towel..." I didn't say where. In his sink? The shower?

"So what're you gonna make me for dinner?" he called out.

Dinner? Was he joking? This was a sex date. And I could still feel the ghost of his thick cock in me. It would remain for hours.

I reappeared.

"You want me to...?"

"You said you were this great cook," he recalled, while still sitting slumped at bed's end.

My lips were parted. My mouth hung open. My ad in the gay/bi sex personals had read: "Older but goodie guy seeks to bottom for a top and/or clean/cook for him." I'd included an R-rated frontal pic of me, from the neck down, wearing nothing but a women's panty. I hadn't said anything about being a "great" cook. I was offering myself both as a bottom and as a potential nude housecleaner.

I was no chef, let me put it that way. "Are you serious?" I now asked.

"As a heart attack," he replied, tritely. "Why don't you get dressed, run up to the store and buy all the ingredients you need to make me a great dinner."

He glanced at his (fake) gold Rolex, the only thing he wore aside from an elastic ring at the base of his amazing cock. "It's five o'clock now. Put dinner on the table by six-thirty, no later. You can eat too," he added.

"Afterward maybe I'll fuck you again," emphasis on the word fuck. It came off as more of a threat than a promise.

"Go," he said, flipping his turned-over hand. "There's a grocery store right up the block. You probably passed it on your way here."

"You're serious," I again said, as I searched the carpeted bedroom floor for my panty. It lay on the far side, a twisted figure 8 of flimsy microfiber. I picked it up and pulled it on as he again referred to a heart attack.

On the drive over I began thinking about what I would need. Fresh asparagus, for starters. It was in season. A lemon, butter. A pork loin, cheap but delicious. And he, my top, was probably a big eater. More than enough for two in one loin loaf. Heavy cream, along with the butter. Olive oil. They had the California brand I normally bought; so much cheaper than the Spanish or especially the Italian. Capers. A squeeze bottle of Dijon mustard. Anything else?

I went back to the wine section. Picked up a bottle of Beaujolais, a light red served slightly chilled. Relatively cheap; nothing special but would go well with the creamy pork. Total? Over $75. Jesus...

Frankly I don't like to eat meat. But I do. It's a habit, a need, like sex with other men for instance, that I can't shake. Besides, one can only eat so many vegetables and chick peas, just as one, a bottom, can only suck so many cocks without wanting the sperm up his rectum. Sealed inside them for a day, and a night. Pure bliss.

I arrived back at his condo carrying three plastic bags. He was still naked, cock now fully limp. "You buy the fuckin' place up?"

I ignored him--the kind of slights or implied insults he enjoyed dishing out--and set the bags on his kitchen counter. His kitchen was clean; spotless. Either he was a clean freak or he never cooked.

He sat on a high stool, overlooking his brightly lit kitchen, and directed me to his under-counter, pots and pans. I only needed two: a large skillet and a (since a second skillet wasn't available) medium-large pan. I filled it with water. I'd forgotten... salt. Sea salt. All he had was the shaker type. I unscrewed the lid and dumped some in. A lot.

"You tryin' to give me a heart attack?" he said. He seemed to have a fixation with heart attacks.

"Salt it like the sea," I advised, after turning the burner on. It was a remark I'd heard multiple chefs say, sometimes in translation, on cooking videos.

I enjoyed watching them: the artistry. The technical proficiency that I lacked. Bending over in bed and taking it up the ass--that was my specialty. Or more commonly kneeling in front of a guy and sucking his cock after he got off work, and was on his way home to his wife and kids. I provided sexual pleasure; relief.

It's not that I devalued sucking cock. I loved it. But getting fucked took gay sex to a whole 'nother level. I wondered if some of his cum had leaked out of me, now that I was standing, both in the grocery and here, into the seat of my panty. It was OK if it did. A dark spot on the microfiber fabric. A kind of telling status symbol, like a cum spot on a mattress.

I'd just undressed--down to this same panty. Now I returned to the kitchen.

"You gonna cook like that?" he asked, derisively.

"It's OK," I advised.

"Burn your fucking cock?" I wondered if, now that he'd sated himself in me, he wanted the experience himself. Wanted to submit himself, that is, and bottom. Good luck with that. With me.

When the salted water in the pan began to approach the boiling point I fired up a little olive oil in the skillet. The asparagus was already trimmed of its tough ends (you can also break them off by vulnerably bending); the pork laid out and cut into rounds; the mustard, the capers, the container of heavy cream all laid out and at ready. My mis en place, so to speak.

(I wondered if, from his stool behind me, my top enjoyed watching a nearly naked man, albeit an older one, work at his stove, in his kitchen. Would it get him hard again? Would he come to the dinner table with an erection? Would he want me again--on a full stomach? Would we watch a movie first...?

Would he tell me I could spend the night?)

The water in the pan came to a boil and I let it--boil. The oil in the skillet was ready to receive the meat, the pork, and I lay the rounds in it, ten of them. Six for him and four for me. They sizzled. I lowered the heat slightly.

Would he let me spend the night, and sleep on his couch possibly? Would he want me again in the morning, when I wouldn't be clean for him? (We could do it in the shower.) I was getting an erection--in my panty. Embarrassing. I was a bottom, after all. Submissive.

I flipped the pork rounds over and squeezed out some mustard into the pan. In various places. Not a lot, just enough.

I picked up the asparagus, a full handful, and dropped it in the boiling water. The stalks nearly too long for the pot. I hoped my Dom, my Master, liked asparagus. With butter and lime--lemon I mean. I certainly did.

A subtle, vegetal taste. In the same way a guy's semen, if your jaw gives out during a blowjob, and he ends up stroking himself in your mouth, smells (and tastes) vaguely sweet, and fruity. I love it when it comes to this.

It's essential the asparagus remains, though tender, bright green. That's the beauty of it, on a plate.

"Where are the plates?" I ask. He points. I take them down, two, wide ones.

I could've, at the store, picked up a salad mix but I forgot. Besides, we have asparagus.

"Do you have a colander?"

"A what?"

He does not. I turn off the pan's heat and remove it and drain it over the double sink (I've washed so many guys' dishes in a double sink, while in the nude, doing housework for them, for cash, over the years), holding a chef's knife to their stalks. I lower the pan to sink's bottom, letting the asparagus sit for a moment in its bottom, the last of the water evaporating.

I now toss the capers around the meat. I next add the cream, a healthy amount (well not, perhaps, if you have a heart condition), and, quickly, it comes to a boil.

I remove the skillet from the heat, and switch it off.

I let the pork simmer in its white (not unlike sperm) sauce while I spoon out the asparagus onto the waiting plates. Five-eighths for him, three-eighths for me. I top it with butter--real butter--and a squeeze of lemon. Subtle. Delicious!

I've known guys who cook, overcook, asparagus until a dull medium-green and then coat them with orange... Velveeta. Fucking morons. Primitive. Cavemen.

I now turn to the skillet and give it a shake and spoon out the meat, the pork, onto plate's other half. Six rounds for him, four for me. I need to watch my figure. It doesn't matter, really, if you're on your hands and knees, as I was in that video a few of us shot months ago (it's posted online, on a porn website), but if you're on your back...

Or walking, naked, at video's start.

I spoon the spermy-looking capered cream over the rounds on both plates. Fucking delicious! I ask him where the silverware is.

"Leave this," he says, coming up behind me. I hadn't even realized he'd left his stool. He squeezes my ass, right cheek. Reaches around, caresses--strokes--my erection as if he knew it was there all along. Whispers:

"Take that panty off. I want you. Fuck this and let's go back to bed."

The meat, the asparagus, everything, goes cold.