Older the Better

enjoy!

1

Exhaling a milky white breath, Charles pinched the end of his roach then swept the cherry across the hard rubber sole of his boot. The frayed end of the joint emitted one last swirl of smoke before he dropped it in a plastic bag, rolled it up, and tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jean jacket for safekeeping. Since the police loved to raid the nightclubs along the central strip of the city, he always hovered outside at the rear of the premises to toke up.

The exterior metal door swung wide, and a pair of intoxicated men stumbled out, necking. He notched his shoulder back, missing the couple, and entered the loud, pulsating atmosphere of the club. The cranked acid techno made the concrete walls vibrate, and Charles felt it straight through the core of his chest. Nightclubs geared specifically to the gay community were a rarity, which made the place famous. So it was packed, wall to wall, with men.

He had difficulty navigating the sea of bodies, and it was equally unpleasant to breathe—the air reeked of sweat. Men bumped him. Brushed up against him. Sandwiched him between their gyrating hips, even tried to hump him in time to the music. At least, the place didn’t lack for variety; he had his pick of the lot, from bears to the more effeminate, to those who hid in their proverbial closets, to those ostentatious few who flaunted their sexuality everywhere.

Charles had never been much of a drinker and opted for an iced tea. Shoving a tall glass of amber liquid across the well-worn counter, the bartender joked, as usual, that he was the only customer who ever walked out sober at closing. Perched on a barstool, Charles surveyed the testosterone-pumped landscape like a hawk searching for a field mouse darting through low grass. He was on the hunt, and he didn’t care what kind of man he captured as long as the guy was willing to participate in a few extracurricular activities.

Smoothing the condensation from the glass, he sucked on the straw, attuned to his surroundings. No one aroused his interest until a man, scarcely of legal age with blue eyes and a mop of russet hair, plunked his ass on the barstool beside him.

Charles caught an overpowering whiff of cologne. Another one who fell for the commercials, he remarked.

What did you say? The young man paused, a bottle of pale ale at the edge of his lips.

Your cologne is making my eyes water. He took another sip, staring dead ahead. It’s great that you want to smell good, but bathing in it isn’t necessary.

The guy’s complexion deepened in color to that of a full-bodied red wine. I guess I overdid it.

Whatever. He rested his elbow on the counter and looked at him. You’re attractive.

I’m Ben—

I don’t want to know. Without second-guessing his choice, Charles latched onto the guy’s jacket, yanked him close, and kissed him ardently.

Fuck, the man gasped, holding him back with a forearm and almost falling off the stool. You’re forward.

When I find something I like, I take it.

Somewhere beyond the commotion, well past the dance floor in the outlying darkness, the young man got down on his knees. Charles unzipped his fly, and his prick sprang free. While the guy fished for it from side to side with an eager mouth, Charles whacked it playfully against his flushed cheeks and smudged the damp head down his chin.

Do you like to suck cock?

Sure, ’cuz I like guys.

Put this on for me.

The young man unwrapped and rolled the condom to the base of Charles’s cock then put it in his mouth. Jutting his crotch close and getting a grip at the back of the guy’s skull, Charles forced the guy’s mouth to ride his stiff length back and forth. Within moments, Charles’s lips parted, his head fell back, and his eyelids fluttered; he was on the brink of ecstasy. Tightening his grip, he cinched the man’s hair and stretched his scalp, urging him to move faster. Then the rush came. Quickly pulling his cock out of the moisture, he removed the condom, and his eyes glazed over. He couldn’t think of anything more heavenly than an innocent face spattered with cum. Satisfied, he smiled.

You’re good, he said, smearing the seminal fluid over the young man’s inflamed upper lip with a thumb. "Real good. I think we need to go back to my place so I can finish you off."

Your place?

Yeah. He tucked his wet cock back inside his jeans and zipped his fly.

But I can’t walk out of here with spunk all over my face.

There are restrooms in the back. Wash your face. I’ll wait outside.

Hiding himself, the kid backed away shamefully. Dodging the lecherous grasp of an inebriated Dom, he tripped past a threesome making out near the bar and vanished within the dark corridor leading to the men’s washroom.

Outside, the confusion and music deadened, and a chill, significantly colder than earlier, had settled in the air. The sky was as black as the ebony keys on a piano, the stars scarcely visible from the reflection of the city lights. Cars passed, and at the far end of the road, a sign flashed to mark the pedestrian crossing underneath. Keys in hand, Charles paused to button his jacket. Was he doing the right thing, taking the kid—Ben or whatever his name was—home? He’d acted brusquely, pushing him to give the blow job.

The club doors opened. The fringe of bangs across the guy’s forehead was wet, and his lips and cheeks appeared rosy from scrubbing.

About what happened…inside. I’m sorry. I was a bit rough.

Averting his gaze, the young man shrugged one shoulder. It’s okay.

Before I take you home, I need to know. How old are you?

Twenty-two.

"How old?" Charles studied him more closely than he had inside the club, and the kid had a baby face if he’d ever seen one.

Almost…twenty-one. He shied away once again; the timid glance screamed heat score.

You’re barely out of diapers, and you’re willing to come home with me—a complete stranger?

You’re good looking. He shivered, jamming both hands in his armpits.

So was Ted Bundy.

Who?

"You are naïve. Charles unlocked the driver’s side of a red sports car. Look, kid, I’m going to tell you the rules. If you agree, we’ll go back to my place. If you don’t, I’ll drive you home."

Okay, I guess.

I like to get laid regularly. So I’m not interested in anything other than sex. If you don’t care, we’re good. If you want more, you’ll need to find another man.

What about a name?

No names.

He held on to the car roof, pleading with his eyes. But that’s just crazy—

No. Names. Got it?

Every guy he’d ever met wanted to swap names. What was in a name? Names were tiresome. Names meant the person you were about to fuck had a personality, thoughts, emotions, and everything else that separated him from the beasts. A name put a face to the ass you were about to claim, and Charles didn’t give a shit about the human aspect. He just needed the sex.

I got it. But what about your age? Something?

Charles sighed and impatiently tapped the roof with his key. I’m thirty-three, Native, and gay. Are you interested?

Pursing his lips as if he was about to cry, he eventually gave a reluctant nod. His actions were answer enough.

Trust me; you won’t regret it. Charles grinned, slid down into the low curve of cold leather, got comfortable, and unlocked the passenger’s side.

2

Wake up! Charles’s roommate hollered before shutting the door.

Their party had been a great success, what little Charles could recall. Friends, co-workers, and neighbors had joined in the frivolity, drinking and smoking dope in excess until the wee hours of the morning. The music was loud, the food abundant, and the sex free of consequences, at least for him. He had no significant other, no one who held an attachment, so he made sure to indulge.

Charles rolled over, and pain shot through his eyeball. He had a roaring headache on the verge of turning into a migraine. Pressing the heel of his palm to his temple, he squinted as the one-hundred-watt bulb overhead glared in his eyes.

Someone stirred under the twist of bedding beside him, and a tuft of russet hair appeared between the blanket and pillow. He remembered his conquest: the naïve kid with the non-academic brain whom he’d picked up from the nightclub. Nice ass, lousy lay, great head. He rated every man he screwed on a scale from one (unmentionable) to ten (worth a second round). And the kid plateaued at eight because any man who could swallow his entire prick without gagging or passing out deserved a better-than-average score. Most guys he met were curious straight men eager to take a walk on the gay side. He had no qualms. Straight. Gay. Bisexual. Transgender. He had sampled and serviced them all.

Pushing the top sheet aside, he swung both legs over the edge of the mattress. Something plastic stuck to his right heel. Holding his foot in midair, he peeled off a condom wrapper.

Hey. He shoved the body swathed like a mummy in the bedding. Time to leave.

Mmm…

You heard. He crumpled the wrapper and flicked it away.

The bed shifted. Can’t a guy sleep? The kid yawned, stretching his arms above the pillows. I’ve got a massive hangover.

You can do whatever you want after you leave. Charles grabbed a half-smoked joint from the ashtray and sparked up.

What?

He took a prolonged drag, holding the fumes deep inside his lungs until the smoke burned his nostrils and his eyes watered. Then he exhaled, coughing the words. I told you last night. All I wanted was your ass.

Seemingly stunned, the guy lay motionless, with a deer-in-the-headlights look, likely trying to decide whether Charles was being honest or just plain rude. You’re serious.

I am, he mumbled, gesturing with the smoldering doob. It isn’t personal. I’m just not interested in anything but sex.

Fuck, you’re harsh.

"What, did you think I was