I’ve lived in gated communities my entire life. Whether it was the kind of gate that could be opened via remote control or the kind with a 24-hour security guard stationed there, it was always just enough of an inconvenience to both burglaring rapists and my friends alike. That being said, I understand how frustrating it is when your friend is idling outside the gate, unable to get through.
One night as I’m getting out of my car, this cute, jacked up stud muffin approaches me and asks if he can borrow my remote to open the gate for his friend. Even though I’ve never met him, I have seen him around my neighborhood and empathize with his predicament. I hand him my remote and he runs to open the gate before jogging back over to my car. Upon his return, the {BeefCake} introduces himself and tells me that he recently moved into an apartment a few buildings over from mine. We end up exchanging numbers because, after all, we ARE neighbors… and because he was really fucking hot.
A few days go by without hearing from or seeing him. Then one day, while pulling a total Mrs. Kravitz by creepin’ on the neighborhood, I spot the tan, well-defined muscles of {BeefCake} himself. I see him walking through the parking lot with his friend (who was equally built, but far less cute), and within seconds, I’m lost in an absent-minded gaze. Transfixed by their bulging biceps glistening in the afternoon sunlight, my blank stare is unexpectedly impeded by a sudden uproar from the muscle men themselves…
“HEY CUTIE!” the boys bellowed.
“Hey…” I respond sheepishly, completely caught off-guard.
They tell me they’re on their way to the gym. (Go figure.) After a few moments of niceties, they continue on their trek to the land of the free weights and I go back to my Neighborhood Watch. Over the next couple of weeks, conversation between us would remain minimal, but it would be a lot more frequent... and by “a lot more frequent” I mean “they would scream my name every freaking day as they passed my apartment on their way to the clubhouse.” I would usually go outside and jokingly plead for them to stop screeching my name from three stories below, but I secretly (or maybe not so much?) fancied the Shakespeare-esque attention.
Then, randomly, there was a few-day-long period where I didn’t hear my name reverberating off the adjoining buildings. I decided to text my favorite protein-shake addict to see where he had been. Waiting for a text back, I’m surprised when my phone rings and I look down to see that it’s {BeefCake} calling. I answer and am deafened by the sound of some techno music blaring from some shitty speakers. I can’t really make out anything {BeefCake} is saying through the fist-pumping cacophony, but I do pick up that he will “CALL IN A FEW!” Shortly after, he calls me back and explains the commotion:
Apparently, he and his friend took cab to a club downtown; met a few girls there; convinced the girls to give them a ride home (hoping they would get lucky once they were at the apartment); piled into the girls’ tiny (techno music-blasting) car, wherein the girls had to sit on the boys’ laps; got hard-ons due to the ass-to-dick proximity; then got shafted (or the complete opposite of that, I suppose...) when the girls didn’t want to hook up with them after arriving at the boys’ apartment.
Dejectedly, {BeefCake} headed out to 7-Eleven for a late-night food run, when his roommate texted him and told him to stay out awhile because a different girl had come over for a booty call. Now {BeefCake} was banned from his own apartment with only the heat from his dried out taquito to keep him warm. Feeling bad for him and his unfortunate situation, I tell him he’s welcome to hang out at my place until he can go home. Not being as naïve as I’m sure you all presume, I also forewarn him that he would NOT be getting lucky with me either; I was trying to work things out with my ex and hooking up with someone would hardly be beneficial to that shithole of a situation. With that preliminary restriction in place, I hung up the phone and went to unlock the front door.
As I'm turning the lock, there’s a knock on the other side. I open the door to reveal a clearly intoxicated {BeefCake}; his eyes are completely glossed over, but his functioning motor skills deem him still conversational. He opens his arms for a hug and I step in expecting a friendly embrace; NOT expecting his hands to slide down to my ass and pull me closer.
Through his jeans, I can feel {BeefCake}’s chubby chub. Being the title-embraced cocktease that I am, I enticingly push my hips into his before pulling his hands off my butt and pushing him away. Teasing or not, the fact that I’ve been sexually deprived for a few months isn’t helping me keep my short-lived celibacy, and having this {BeefCake} with a hot Italian sausage in his pants was certainly making resisting that much more difficult.
Nevertheless, I do my best to remain faithful to my self-promise and decide that besides sex, the next best thing to a drunk boy is food. I usher {BeefCake} into the kitchen and I raid my fridge for something to feed him. I find ingredients to throw together a kick-ass spread (including rice and beans and a freaking delicious green chile burrito) and fix him a plate. Standing at the counter, {BeefCake} delves into his midnight feast as I walk around and take a seat at the bar on the other side. While the food does a great job serving as a distraction from the horribly prominent sexual tension between us, the relief is fleeting and only lasts about seven minutes; the second the last grain of rice had been inhaled off his plate, {BeefCake} wasted no time refocusing the conversation to sex.
"So why don't you think I'm hot?" he says jokingly, flexing his muscles.
"I DO think you're hot! I just can't mess around with you..." I clarify with a sad face, silently cursing the mess of a relationship I was in with my ex; it was prohibiting me from potential sexual greatness.
"Okay, fine. We don't have to do anything. Let's just talk."
"Okay."
"So do you swallow?"
And before I can stop myself, I matter-of-factly blurt out, "Ladies don't spit."
Needless to say, I have inadvertently and unintentionally (or so I'm claiming) given {BeefCake} permission to continue the discussion. And besides, it was a relatively cunning tactic considering his inebriation, so you gotta give him credit for that, right?
As I seductively peer over the top of my blank-lensed glasses, he starts asking general questions about my, um, preferences... What's your favorite position? Do you like it rough? etc... He then goes on to ask me things that require a bit more of a descriptive response... So what things turn you on? What's your biggest fantasy? and so on...
He tells me I have a sexy voice. I blush. After another few rounds of suggestively descriptive Q&A, {BeefCake} pauses to ask me an unanticipated question.
"What would you do if I just whipped it out?"
"...What? Please don't..." I say half-heartedly through a chuckle.
THWAP.
I throw my hands up to my face. I don’t know whether to cover my mouth in exclamation or my eyes to shield my vision, so they lie there in an awkward I’m-“it”-in-hide-and-go-seek-and-I’m-totally-peeking-while-I-count kind of way. I'm flabbergasted. There's his penis. On my kitchen counter. The same counter where I had just made myself a sammy a few hours earlier, and now, there is a penis on it. A thick... hard... beefy... cock. Just laying there. On my counter.
THERE IS A PENIS ON MY KITCHEN COUNTER. Again, flabbergasted.
Though still paralyzed from the shock, I avert my eyes; I dare not look directly at it, in fear that I may be forced to succumb to its powers. My eyes meet his face. I stare, merrily transfixed as I see {BeefCake} in my peripheral vision scoop up his shaft. Leaning against the dishwasher, he casually begins stroking it. I can hear his balls softly thudding against the counter ledge.
"Talk to me," he beckons.
Dumbfounded, I ask "What do you want me to talk about?"
"Anything. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
So I do. I tell him exactly what I want him to do to me. I tell him exactly what I want to do him. I tell him all the raunchy, dirty, completely inappropriate things I would do with him if I didn't feel a slight moral obligation to my currently non-existent relationship.
And I'd like to point out that, agreeably, this does seem like quite a peculiar situation... even for me. Here I am, casually sitting at my breakfast bar discussing hypothetical sexytime details with my somewhat intoxicated neighbor while he's jerking his giant mandycane less than six feet away from me. Who does that!? It's bizarre. I get it.
But you know what's REALLY weird? The fact that I don't think it's weird. Like, at all. Yeah, I know... I should think it's weird. This IS fucking weird. I should be rather perturbed or at least slightly uncomfortable. But I'm not. After the initial bout of cock shock, our discussion continued as if we were folding laundry or talking about the weather.
That being said, I guess the last part of this story isn't too surprising... {BeefCake} continued his tallywhacking and I continued my phone-less phone sex talk. He told me when he was almost there, then he came (on my kitchen counter, of course) before he grabbed a paper towel and wiped up his sploogey mess. He stayed a few more minutes, chuckling about how random the whole situation was.
"Yunno, I've never jerked it in front of anyone before; definitely not in their kitchen..."
"Well I've never had anyone jerk it in my kitchen," I teased.
{BeefCake} checks his phone.
"My roommate texted me. I can go home now. Thanks for the burrito."
"You’re welcome. See ya later."
"See ya."
He left... I went to bed... It was as if I didn’t just watch some guy jerk it onto my kitchen counter. Actually, it was such an unphasing occurrence that I'm pretty sure I forgot to run a Clorox wipe over the countertop. Ew.
