Short story

As I sat in the airport waiting for my flight to Vancouver (it was delayed by an hour for no apparent reason) I started to type my stream of consciousness. The roach I had smoked less than an hour ago at the bus station was definitely mellowing me out, and making my thoughts come fast and furious, with each new idea blossoming into every conceivable tangent and indulgence. As usual I was thinking about boys. Not exclusively I suppose, but fairly constantly.

There was a sexy latino guy sitting across from me. He looked to be about 19, with a ball cap, shorts and nice skin. I reflected on the guy’s eyes. His complexion was dark, slightly brooding. He had beautiful defined lips and runner’s legs. He looked like a soccer player. He was fit.
The boy lifted his eyes, and I anticipated it and lifted my eyes to the TV above his head so as to not be caught staring. He was playing with his phone, but didn’t have earphones in.

The plane to Vancouver was not at the gate, and I suspected that we wouldn’t be boarding for at least an hour. I thought about going into the bar near the gate and having a pint or two. If a pal was here that’s what we’d do for sure. I reflected on my drinking habits. Having a drinking buddy is nice sometimes. Two pints at the pub with a good conversationalist was bliss for certain.

It is at this point that our story gets held up. In those old kid’s books named “Pick Your Path” this might be the place where it indicates two plot options and notes:

If you choose to continue cruising the boy with the intention of ending up with his hard cock in your mouth in a stall in the airport bathroom, go to page 10.

If you choose to go on with life the way it is, maybe read a good book, have a snack, and head home for bed, go to page 12.

Page 10
The boy was stealing more and more furtive glances my way. I’m such a stereotypical fag, I thought to myself. Look at me here with my leather jacket, black faggy macbook and good bluntstone boots. I have “cocksucker” written all over my face. This didn’t bother me entirely, no one could deny the decent good looks and snappy fashion sense that I carried. What made this moment all the more interesting, was the attention I was getting from this one particular smoking hot latin soccer player.

I decided that we could only accomplish so much sitting here in the waiting room, and decided to take a little stroll. I grabbed my bag (which contained my Nikon DSLR camera I suddenly remembered) and headed out onto the concourse in the direction of the starbucks and the bathrooms.

Soccer boy watched me pass him, then glanced down at his shoes and grinned. He twisted his head in another furtive glance in my direction, then looked amused and stood up. After walking partway down the concourse, I detected him following from a short distance. He was trying very hard to look casual.

I made it as far as the starbucks, and made a quick decision to pause there. I was starting to get a bit hard, as I started to imagine the mechanics of the encounter. I wanted to get my hands on his naked chest and stomach. I wanted to get my hands under his shirt and shorts. I waited for him to catch up a bit, then turned and hit him with a big fat smile. He grinned back, and looked away. Then looked at me again, this time with a more quizzical look. I realized I was basically in charge here. It’s all up to me to make this happen now, I told myself firmly.

“Can I get you a coffee?” I said, gesturing towards the starbucks.

“Sure,” was all I got, and another big grin.

I approached the cashier, he hung back a bit. “Double Americano,” I ordered. I turned to my new friend. “How about you?”

He came up right beside me and looked at the menu above the girl’s head. “Grande mocha frappuccino,” he said, then looked me right in the eyes and smiled again, never even looking at the girl behind the counter.

Mocha frappuccino… of course, I thought to myself. I had a sudden feeling of self-consciousness as I thought that that was exactly what a teenager would order from starbucks, and I imagined my Americano to be a very adult and mature drink. Power-fags with macbooks and nice boots order americanos, I thought. This kid is going to think I’m a pansy. He and his friends will have a great laugh about me when he gets home. The old pansy in the airport who thought he could get some hot young ass, this perv who had no right to put his old hands anywhere on the young man’s body.

I snapped myself out of it. One should not over-analyze the horny human male, I told myself. You’re not the first man to lust after a sexy teenager, this kind of thing happens all the time. Shut up and go for it! “Um, want to walk for a minute? I don’t think our flight will be boarding for another 45 minutes at least.”

As we strolled down the concourse in a strangely civilized manner, I wondered how this would all end.