I’m at the Airport Hyatt – Cum Quick

I’m at the Airport Hyatt – Cum Quick (Casual Encounters w4m)

This is a long shot, but I’m finally through the family holiday hoo-ha, and have a couple of hours before my flight home to San Francisco.  Who wants a bit of fun?  I’m attractive, open, healthy and easy, and like my men the same. I can’t host, but maybe you’ve got a room here at the hotel?  My flight leaves at 8:30, so hit me quick. 

Although my parents are long gone, I still have an 88-year-old grandfather kicking around alone in a claustrophobic, suburban DC condo.  Grandpa is a crotchety old dude, and hard to be with under the best of circumstances. He’s gruff, judgmental and opinionated, and none of my siblings nor I had been able to manage a visit to him in the six years since my grandmother had died twelve years before, not coincidentally the last time his house had been cleaned.  I’m a little embarrassed by this admission, but use the excuse that I’ve lived so far away for so long.  My brothers and sister, still on the east coast, must have their own rationalizations. 

Grandpa hasn’t opened a window in his centrally heated and air conditioned home since 1975.  The dust motes are thick and stifling.  Stacks of old newspapers, catalogs and unopened mail weigh down the already heavy mahogany dining room table.  The two and a half bedroom unit’s living room holds a lifetime’s accumulation of heavy furniture, chandeliers and wall sconces dripping crystal, jammed china cabinets, unread coffee table books, lace antimacassars and family photos.  Next to a gilt cup of ancient cigarettes on the carved coffee table in the unused living room is the golden table lighter I had dropped and broken as a child, then lied about, its hinge never repaired. 

Grandpa hasn’t been in this room in several years, unable to navigate the two steps down to it from the main level of the condo.  And the sliding doors to the front balcony haven’t been opened since just after my grandmother died, the last time he carried the huge Boston ferns in for the winter.  They now stood dead on a pair of oversized wrought iron plant stands, shedding a thick coat of brown leaves onto the white carpet, framing the view of the Maryland woods behind the complex, so static when compared to the busy streetscape outside my San Francisco windows.  The furniture here was heavily slipcovered, the walls pasted with ornate, figured wallpaper, tables discreetly covered with tablecloths that hung to the floor, hiding the suggestiveness of legs beneath.  Nothing was left naked. 

I don’t do well in enclosed spaces, and although his condo was large, it was stiflingly close for me.  I love to fuck outdoors, on porches, on patios, on boats, enjoying the feeling of a cool breeze on damp skin.  A dedicated environmentalist, I violate my own conservation rules at home when I run my heat with the windows open and a window fan set to high, needing the moving air to keep my head clear. 

Over the next days, with the nervous energy of a trapped animal, I cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, adding the strong smells of bleach and cleanser to those of fried sausage, instant coffee, Ben Gay, old man breath and urine that greeted me when I arrived late on a December afternoon.  I washed six loads of laundry, surreptitiously hauled out four garbage bags of old papers, and emptied my grandmother’s medicine cabinet, still filled with the hairspray, lipsticks, Alberto VO5 and rouge I remember playing with as a child. 

“Slow down, kid,” he would reprimand me every hour or so, when he’d wake from another nap in front of the TV in the den, stretched out in the Lazyboy.  These were not the sort of activities or the general environment that usually get me hot and bothered, but a couple of chaste weeks away from San Francisco and I was pretty darn horny, even in rubber gloves. 

The room I’d been assigned for my visit was called Loretta’s Room, named for the life-sized antique doll who presides over the space from a white wicker rocker.  Loretta’s probable antique value is diminished by her broken front teeth, poked in by my youngest brother as a six-year-old who hated Loretta for her neat clothes and self-possessed expression.  Loretta is not bothered by the fact that her room has no windows.  My grandparents saved a bundle on the condo because this third bedroom was built into the side of a hill, leaving no possibility for a rear window.  A trompe-l’oeil painting of a pastoral view did nothing to alleviate the dark oppression of this space.  Accustomed as I am to sleeping next to an open window, the room was a terrible choice for me. 

My grandfather’s room, with its matching blue twin beds and dressers still filled with my grandmother’s clothes and jewelry, was right next door to my cave.  Technically my step-grandfather, he had been my natural grandfather’s best friend, and my grandmother had married him just after her husband’s death from lung cancer, when I was a toddler.  An only child, my mother had always half-jokingly said her mother only had sex once, to conceive her, and I suspect she may have been right.   I doubt this room had ever seen any action. 

When I wasn’t cleaning, I would keep my grandfather company in the dark den, with my computer in my lap, hacked into a neighbor’s wireless connection.  I perused the DC area Casual Encounters and Men Seeking Women posts, so much more conservative than those of San Francisco, mostly reading but answering a few. 

“What are you writing on there?” he’d ask every now and then.  “Stop that and watch this show with me.”  But I couldn’t.  I needed to be connected to the casually sexy, living world outside to endure the grainy black and white images of the CBS evening news and the History Channel.  I found holiday greeting emails from old friends in my inbox, and showed him a family portrait now and again, so he’d think I was just emailing friends.  My third night there, I answered a post, and snuck out like a teenager to meet a hot, dark guy at the complex gates, ready to fuck him in his car if I had to, just for the distraction.  He never showed, angering and disappointing me. 

Two more dutiful days later, and I was finally free, cooling my heels with my computer and an atypical Cosmo in the top floor lounge of the Hyatt just across from Reagan National airport.  I had bummed a ride out of there with a cousin, lying about the time of my flight, after a final, interminable lunch at a shopping mall steak house, my grandfather’s favorite restaurant.  Already feeling freer as I savored a sweeping view of DC, but unwilling to wait the eighteen or so hours before I’d be back to my life of easily accessible San Francisco sex, I posted this, hoping for something silly and relieving before my flight.  And I found it.

Gil was in his late 30’s, bearded and kind of husky, not my usual type, but I was in no position to be picky.  He wasn’t in the hotel, but lived not far away, and agreed to meet me in the lounge for a drink.  I figured if we were into each other, we could get a room at the hotel; I was prepared to spend on a room the hundred bucks Grandpa had pressed on me as I left, I was that ready.  He arrived just when he said he would, a rarity in San Francisco, where everyone thinks they can get across the small city in twenty minutes, but where reality usually means at least an hour. 

He sat across from by the window.  “How were your holidays?” he asked.  “Play with any elves?”

“I usually avoid elves,” I said.  “They work long hours and rarely have the energy for me.”

“Hope I don’t look too much like Santa Claus,” he said.  His graying beard and husky build meant this wasn’t really a silly question, but I laughed anyway. 

“Enough Christmas talk.  What made you answer my post?” 

“Well… it sounded genuine.  You sounded like a nice person.” 

“I’m not so sure how nice I am, but I’m flattered you thought so.  I’m a writer, and like to think my posts convey me honestly.”

He said he was single, and I saw no sign of a recently removed wedding ring.  I didn’t much care:  this wasn’t going to be an ongoing connection if I was three thousand miles from home.

Just halfway through our drinks, we were sure we were on. 

“I don’t think we need a room.  I’ve got a better idea.  Follow me.”

His small white pickup was parked on the street a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I chucked my small roller bag into the open back of the truck, set my cell phone alarm for seven o’clock, and reminded him that need to be dropped at National by 7:30. 

My hand in his lap, exploring the cloth of his khaki pants and the shape and size of the growing hardness beneath, we drove through the twinkle lights and sale banners of post-Christmas suburban Alexandria, and into an enclave of neat, brick houses built in the forties, which reminded me of the neighborhood of my early childhood years.  As darkness arrived, he parked by a playground, pointing out a house across the street.

“I lived there when I was a kid,” he said.  “When I was eleven, I watched a girl give a guy a blowjob on the swings.  It was the first time I remember feeling sexually… aroused.”This sweet and endearing story both touched and excited me.

We walked hand in hand to the swing set, where he leaned back against the frame and grinned at me.  We were both laughing as I sank down, the ground beneath my knees damp and cool, and brought his now fiercely erect penis to my mouth.  Like a shy school girl – well, maybe not that shy – I tentatively lapped at its head, then licked my way down his shaft, getting him wet and ready.  Before long he had my head in his hands, and was rhythmically forcing my face tight against his body.  I wondered whether the girl he’d watched years ago had been as skinny as me, or as brazen.  I braced my hands on his hips to control the depth; he was about seven and a half inches, so I didn’t have to resist much. I have a very deep throat.

When I sensed he was close to coming, I released him, stood and looked him straight in the eye. 

“What happened after the blow job?”  Luckily his pants hadn’t dropped all the way to his ankles, or he might have tripped as he carried me the five or so steps to the picnic table, where he opened my jeans, efficiently pushed them and my underwear down, and lifted me to the edge.  I was glad that the Alexandria parks department kept those tables well sanded and painted, or I might have had splinters in my ass.  Face to face, with my legs wrapped around his waist and my jeans hanging from my left foot, he pounded deeply into me for five or so minutes at the edge of that table.  We laughed when we came together as my phone alarm went off.  It was only then that I kissed him, with the gentle tenderness of the teenager I had once been. 

He dropped me at National right on time at 7:30, and I passed through airport security in jeans with muddy stains on the knees, smiling and contented, ready for sleep on the plane.  It was only then that I realized that my flight wasn’t scheduled out of National, the airport I’d flown in to, but out of Dulles, forty miles outside of the city.  Shit.  I found a cab outside willing to race over there for a flat seventy-five dollars, and made that flight by moments.  I called Gil from that cab ride, giggling as I left him a voice mail message. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening.  See you at school on Monday.”

I’m glad I’m not yet too old to have fun on a playground.