2: Dinner with Javier

After saying good-bye to Vlad and the developer, giving Jean-Jacques directions, and air-kissing a dozen women with big boobs, puffy lips, and flat skin --none of it part of the original package -- I slipped off to the men’s room in the sales trailer for a quick evaluation.

I’d been on the go since noon, with only a mad dash home between Publix and the party for a quick change into tuxedo and patent leather loafers. Fortunately, my industrial-strength hair gel had kept every delicate blond lock in place, though I was starting to get some nine-o’clock shadow. I was just peering in the mirror trying to assess the situation when the door swung open, and Javier Marisco walked in.

“Don’t change a thing for me,” he said.

I spun around, embarrassed to be caught at my toilette, and he stepped right up and kissed me.

Such a simple word, kissed. It doesn’t do justice to what happened between Javier and me. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled my body close to his. His cologne smelled of citrus and salt water, and his recently shaved face was smooth against my own light stubble.

I wrapped my hands around his head as our lips met. Just the lightest pressure at first, and then both of us parted our lips and pressed harder. I felt every point at which our tuxedo-clad bodies touched, through all those layers of cotton, silk, and tropical-weight wool, and it was like dozens of tiny fireworks explosions going off in my head. Our tongues danced, our noses brushed, my heart started skipping beats, and my dick jumped to attention. It was way more than just a kiss.

I pulled back. “I believe you promised me dinner.”

“Absolutely.” He took my hand, and I followed him out into the deserted sales office. I waved to Jean-Jacques as we passed the Polynesian fantasy tent -- now being broken down into its component parts for return to the rental company -- and Javier and I walked out to West Avenue.

He led me a few blocks away to Barton G’s, where he commandeered us a private table in an alcove of brown and bronze suede. He ordered an array of elegant, delectable food that I hardly tasted, because I was so busy drinking him in. Under the table, our feet rested against each other.

“I started working as a carpenter on the beach when I was seventeen,” he said, between appetizer and entrée. “I lived with my parents in Hialeah and took two buses every day to get to work. I saved every penny I could, and I closed on my first building the day after I got my construction management degree from FIU.”

I loved the way he talked, the occasional rolled r, the way every Spanish word -- even street names -- got the perfect Castilian pronunciation. He was almost unbelievably handsome: dark curly hair, with one stray lock that dropped over his forehead; cinnamon skin, deep green eyes, and lips that were so full and luscious I longed to kiss them again. “And when did you know you were gay?” I took a sip from my glass of Chilean chardonnay.

He laughed. “You get to the point, don’t you?”

“Teenaged boy taking two buses every day to hang out on South Beach. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out.”

“Took me a while. Being Cuban, I didn’t want to think about the possibility that I could be a maricón, as my father would say. That is, until I kissed a guy for the first time, when I was about nineteen. Then I knew.”

“I knew in boarding school. Deerfield. I was fourteen. Heaven is being a gay boy at an all-boys’ school.”

“No bullying?”

“I had my protectors.”

The waiter brought our entrées. I tried to eat slowly, to savor the delicious food, but as Javier rubbed the side of my leg with his foot, I wanted to scramble under the table and suck his dick, or drag him into the men’s room and make out. I ached to do something -- anything -- to stop the exquisite torture of longing to kiss those lips again, to see what that body looked like when it was stripped of its tuxedo, to feel him pressing up against me one more time.

“Coffee? Dessert?” the waiter asked as he cleared away our plates. My eyes locked on Javier’s, and I knew that he felt the same fire I did.

“Just the check, please,” Javier said. Those four words had never sounded so beautiful. He turned to me after the waiter left and said, “I have an apartment in the Madrigal, a building I renovated across from the marina. We could take our time and walk over there -- or grab a cab.”

“Javier, sometime soon I’d love to take a nice, long moonlit walk with you around South Beach. But right now, I’d rather fall into the backseat of a cab with you and start making out.”

He grinned, that dazzling white smile radiating against his rich, full lips. “I like the way you think.” When the waiter came back, Javier pulled a few bills off a roll from his pocket, and we were out the door. We picked up a cab that had just disgorged a rich old lizard and a siliconed girl young enough to be his granddaughter, and just as I’d hoped, we locked lips as soon as Javier gave the driver his address.

We hit every green light on West Avenue and were at Javier’s in minutes. I hated pulling away from him, even briefly. But I wrapped my arms around him in the key-operated elevator up to his sixth-floor penthouse, and it felt like I was falling down a long, slippery slope. The doors opened directly into his living room, and I hardly noticed the dazzling bayfront view of the Miami skyline as we spilled out onto a plush white carpet, still locked in each other’s arms.

The next few minutes were a mad jumble of tuxedo jackets, shirts, and bow ties coming off. I lost my footing and fell to the fluffy white carpet, softer than whipped cream, ending up on my back on the floor, Javier above me. Both of us were shirtless, and I admired the perfection of his six-pack abs, the elegant taper from his broad shoulders down, the trail of dark hair that ran from the center of his perfect pecs until it disappeared behind the waistband of his tuxedo pants.

With fumbling fingers, he unsnapped and unzipped my pants. My dick was already hard as a rock, and he tugged down my shorts enough to free it. In one long gulp he sucked it down to the root, then came up for air and went right back down again. “Javier, scoot around,” I said, pushing his shoulders. “Let me suck you too.”

He stood up, kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his pants, and dropped them and his briefs to the floor. While he did that, I pulled my own loafers and socks off and shimmied my pants and briefs off completely. Both of us naked then, he came back to the floor, his fat, uncircumcised dick bobbing happily in front of my face.

We both began sucking in earnest. He was balancing on his hands above me, but my hands were free, and I used them to caress the globes of his ass, a beautiful light brown ass I’d only seen for the briefest of seconds but longed to know more about. Too quickly, he pulled out of my mouth as his body shuddered, and he came in spurts on my chest. The pressure built in my body, waves of sensation rolling one after the other. A few seconds later, I lifted his head off me and experienced one of the most powerful orgasms I’d ever had.

Javier collapsed next to me, both of us catching our breath. “We were like animals,” he said, with wonder. “I’ve never felt so totally descontrolado -- out of control.”

I didn’t want to seem like a slut, so I said, “Neither have I.” And the truth was that my experience with Javier had been unlike any other I’d had. Sometimes you meet a hot guy who turns out to be lukewarm in bed; sometimes a jerk gives great head but makes you hate yourself for hanging out with him. I’d been around the block a few times -- Jean-Jacques would say I’d worn a rut in the pavement -- but the feeling I got from Javier was something unique.

“Let me get a towel,” he said, standing, and I got to watch his beautiful back and ass as he left the room. I loved the way he walked -- so sure and confident, with a bit of Latin swagger. He returned a moment later with a couple of washcloths soaked in warm water, and I got to see him from the front as well -- which was even better than the back.