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  • Writer's pictureCole Grissom

E is for...Ego

I was home visiting the United States of Texas one weekend when my friends convinced me to go out for a drink. I had little interest in spending my evening at a straight bar, so I was reluctant to go; however, as the night progressed, I spotted this cute boy in the corner—dramatically reducing my initial resistance. My eyes must have brushed past him when I walked in, figuring he was just another very specific brand of Texas straight boy overpopulating the bar. However, after I caught him unabashedly checking me out, our eye-fucking sesh was ON and this form of ever-necessary ego stroking was accepted with open arms.

The drunker we got, the bolder we became, and after we’d visually penetrated each other to the point of exhaustion, we finally made our way across the room. Eventually we exchanged numbers and made plans to get together the next day. He had to work but told me to swing by around lunch time—we could grab a quick bite. That sounded perfect. I mean, I was only home for a visit, so it was important we keep things relatively casual. A lunch was ideal.

He worked for a luxury neighborhood development and oversaw new client acquisition—basically this is a trumped-up title for someone in charge of selling new properties. As I pulled up, he texted me to meet him in his office. That was kind of hot… I walked in and asked the receptionist where I could find him. She made a quick call, then directed me towards a large office with glass walls on the opposite end of the lobby. As I crossed the room, he saw me approaching and got up from his desk. He walked towards the door, stopping to grab a key off the wall, and met me at the threshold.

“Hello, Cole!” he said as he thrust his hand between us, clearly implying that I should shake it and any familiar touching would be inappropriate.


“Hello,” I responded—slightly thrown off, but playing along.

“Let’s go take a look at the unit. I think you’ll love this house.”

As we passed the receptionist he said, “After this appointment, I’m going to grab some lunch. I’ll be back in a bit.”

I was confused and slightly intrigued. Maybe he needed to ‘play the game’ to keep suspicions low if he was planning to be gone for an extended period of time? We got into his car and went on a short drive to the house. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was getting into, but I figured we were probably on our way to a fun time.

The house was beautiful, set back off the road a bit, with expert landscaping that covered most of the facade and winding driveway. The type of home you could raise a family in. Once we got to the garage, he drove the car inside. It was large, big enough for three cars at least. He made sure to park in the center as there were building supplies lining most of the walls. The garage was tidy, but it was clear they’d only recently finished construction. Before going into the house, he took off his shoes and asked that I do the same. I begrudgingly obliged, hoping the pungent summer perfume seeping from my feet wouldn’t contaminate the virginal flooring. I never wear socks in the summer and my feet would tauntingly remind me of this misstep randomly, at the most inopportune times. I tried to sniff them inconspicuously but couldn’t get a solid read on their level of offensive. I was flying blind at this point and would just have to hope for the best.

Inside, I tried to walk behind him—keeping my feet as far away from the splash-zone of his nose as possible—while he gave me a quick, whitewashed tour of the house. We started in the kitchen which had some sort of imported marble—I didn’t care—then moved to the massive great room where we stopped and made-out against the custom molding—again, couldn’t give a shit if I tried—until we finally ended our walk-through at the bedroom. Now this I cared about. He stopped and fucked me with his eyes the same way we had at the bar, preparing me for what was to come. Without breaking eye contact, he nudged the door open with his ass and lured me in. Inside, he backed himself to the bed, pulling me closer and closer until our bodies were pressed together. We made out as I pushed him flat and climbed onto the bed, positioning myself over him.

“Fuck me,” he said.

Well, this whole illicit realtor-client thing really got me going, so I didn’t need to be asked twice. I undid his belt, flung his legs into the air, and pulled his pants off with a single, deftly placed yank. I threw them onto the floor, and as I turned back to him, was delighted to see that he was wearing a jockstrap. His perfect, hairless ass was sitting there, begging to be ravaged.

I immediately started leaking. He could feel how much this turned me on and pulled his knees up as a clear indication that he was ready for me. That was all I needed. I slowly pushed inside him and watched as his eyes rolled back into his head. It was so hot—I was fucking a realtor inside his show house!

Things continued to escalate until we finally climaxed. Laying tangled in an erotic heap, we listened to the sound of our breathing duet with the hum of the air conditioner, feverish to begin with, then mellowing, slowly recovering from the intensity of our nooner. There’s something so intimate about those vulnerable moments after sex. You’re both connected and simultaneously focused on the self—desperately communing with your own thoughts after having been so deeply linked to another’s. For a few minutes, you’re living in two worlds at the same time. That’s probably why, when the ‘beep-beep’ of the alarm penetrated our quiet we did little more than lazily glance at the other, continuing to fondle our tender surfaces—barely moving. It was the second sound, the one from the front door opening that ransacked every molecule in the room. Someone was in the house!

We shot out of bed, scrambling for our clothes. As we dressed, he quickly ushered me into the master bath and shut the door. I was desperately trying to guide my belt back through the loops as I noticed him frantically searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” I whisper-screamed.

“I’m trying to figure out if any of the windows open.”

“What the fuck? Why?”

“Well, I was only supposed to come here to clear the property for viewing. I’m not actually allowed to bring clients here yet. I could get fired.”

None of this made sense to me, but I was too rattled to care.

“Here,” he said, “this one opens. Jump out here, go through the gate and down the driveway.

I’ll grab the car and meet you at the mailbox.”

Never in my life have I felt like a bigger whore…

“…fine,” I muttered through clenched teeth as I hiked my pants on in bitter frustration.

I went for the window, and as soon as I stuck one leg out, I quickly realized I wasn’t wearing my shoes. They were in the garage! I turned to relay this new hurdle, but he was already gone. Doing this without shoes was going to be a real treat. I could only hope he would remember to get them when he grabbed his. With no other options, I braced myself and flung my other leg out the window. Standing on the tiny ledge that circled the perimeter of the house, I took a quick moment to center myself—the last thing I needed was a broken something to top off this fucked-up fairytale. I made the jump fine—I mean, I was on the first floor, but the house was built up a little…it’s very possible that I could have done some kind of damage.

Though I wasn’t hurt, I didn’t stick the landing and fell into the freshly over-watered, soupy flower bed. As I felt the standing water slowly seep through my pants and baptize my ass, all I could think was, “this is my life now.” I brushed off the loose dirt and did my best to wring out the excess water before my discolored pants and I made our way to the gate, around the side of the house, and down the driveway that, in a car, seemed relatively short—but, when walking, barefoot, down this freshly graveled path of despair, seemed infinitely longer. Thank GOD for the landscaping. After I’d made it a few feet down the drive, I was able to successfully hide myself from the picture windows at the front of the house. This helped, because the tiny, sharp rocks dug deeper and deeper, slowing me down as I hobbled away from this fresh hell of my own making. I needed the coverage to protect the snail’s pace I’d been forced to adopt.

I finally arrived at the end of the driveway to stand in the street like a common hooker. It might have been ok if my pants weren’t covered in dirt and my feet weren’t bleeding, but, unfortunately, this was my current reality. The minutes stretched on like hours as I wondered which of the neighbors would call the homeowner’s association first—or worse yet, the police. Fortunately, after what had to have been a year-and-a-half, my prince charming came down the drive in his carriage. When he got to the mailbox, I reached for the door handle only to lose my balance, because, well…he kept driving. I assumed that if I’d fucked someone and then been forced to jump out a window and trek down a prickly path of hell, I could at LEAST be rescued at the end of the driveway. But, no, that would be too kind it would seem. He drove to the end of the block where there was more tree coverage and stopped the car. I assumed this was where he’d prefer to engage the point of reentry. So, I hobbled my bare-ass, bleeding feet across the scalding Texas-hot pavement and cursed his name every step of the way.

After successfully sanding my resolve into sawdust so fine it could easily be mistaken for common dust, only my disgrace remained when I finally reached the car door. Thankfully I was able to open it this time without him driving away.

“I am SO sorry,” he half giggled.

I needed a minute…

The number of issues I had with this situation were really too many to count and I was ill equipped to handle any merriment at the moment. As I sunk into the car, I slowly held up my hand in his direction—he understood and stopped talking. The silence saved us both. Once I was settled and the coast was clear, he began driving away. After several deep breaths, the feeling in my feet returned and they began burning like the fire of a thousand suns. I looked around the floorboard for my shoes, figuring I’d try to stem the bleeding by wedging the swollen masses inside, but they were nowhere to be found.

“Hmmmm. Where are my shoes?” I asked—assuming that in his haste to leave he’d thrown them in the backseat or maybe even the trunk.

“OMG! It was my boss back at the house. I was so flustered and in such a rush to get out—I totally forgot them. I’m so sorry.”

I thought I needed a minute before, but my necessity for silence reached new heights. I calmly searched for a response as I watched my blood and ego trickle from my feet and pool onto the floorboard. Never again...


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