Los Mentes Comprensivas

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Alejandro sifted through the books on my coffee table.

“What is this?” he asked, holding up JT LeRoy’s The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. He turned the book to read its back cover.

“It’s the story of a young boy to whom bad things continuously happen,” I said. “You know, if he’s not getting beaten, he’s getting raped. That sort of thing.”

Alejandro read the blurb, then put down the book. “Sounds like another faggot feeling miserable for himself.” He stood to examine the bookcases.

“I suppose you could say that. It’s not bad juvenilia—you know, it’s likely to appeal to post-adolescents who need to confirm that the world is full of hypocrisy and misery.”

“I fucking hate that shit,” Alejandro complained. “Gays are so good at self-pity. It is embarrassing to be gay with that shit. This, this is better,” he said, pulling down Franz Kafka. “It is possible to write about the . . . condition of humanity without being . . . patetico . . . ”

“Pathetic?”

He pointed The Trial at me. “Pathetic. Yes.”

Intellectual snobbery is a trait common among my Cuban friends. Alejandro fits that mold.

He is a twenty-four-year-old artist new to New York. Having trained in Havana, he moved here to pursue a career. He left behind a son.

Alejandro is a bundle of restless energy. You can see his mind race ahead of his facility in English. He jumps to his feet as he talks. His green eyes bore intently into me as he discusses art and books.

We compared art in Havana with what he sees in New York. He was surprised that I know about art in Cuba, that I know many of his former professors.

It was a warm afternoon.

We were discussing a painter we know in common when he tugged his shirt and asks, “You mind if I take this off?”

“Please, make yourself at home.”

Almost forgot: we had a sex date.

He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing a naturally muscular torso.

“Thanks, it’s very hot.”

“You want more water?”

“No, this is good.” He turned and rested his head in my lap.

I rested my hand on his chest.

At my touch, he turned his face away. I raised my hand to trace fingers on his torso.

His hand moved to my face.

This had been an interesting date.

Alejandro was ready to play it as a straight-ahead pick up when we discovered a fairly rich field of shared interest. We found ourselves sidetracked by conversation about art and books, Habana Vieja and Chelsea.

He now seemed eager to get back on the original track.

As I touched his chest, his hand went to his jeans, feeling his cock through denim, then unfastening and unzipping to release it.

He lifted his ass to tug down his pants. His thick cock flopped heavily onto his naked thigh.

I massaged his cock, feeling it grow harder in my hand. He turned his face to me. I bent to kiss him.

He raised his head to meet my kiss. My legs were no longer under him. Soon my pants were no longer on my legs. My t-shirt joined them on the floor.

He sucked my cock as I sucked his. He crouched as he fed it to my mouth. I relaxed and extended my neck so I wouldn’t gag.

Working him, I thought that for someone rather indifferent to cock size, I sure do find a lot of big dicks coming my way. Surely, somewhere out there, a size queen goes wanting.

He lay back, his face turned to the side, his eyes closed, his hand jerking.

I kissed his chest, now red and glowing with the sheen of sweat.

I bit into the flesh of his belly.

I rubbed my hands gently on his thighs, then more firmly.

As my touch grew more aggressive, his hand worked his cock more feverishly.

I touched his cheek, and kissed his neck. My hand began to cover his eyes, to smother his mouth.

My other hand massaged his throat, clenching under his jaw.

I allowed him only his nostrils to breathe, kissing his face as his breathing became more rapid.

His face and upper torso grew more red. His hand jerked in longer tugs.

I released my hands.

He came. Jism shot over his chest and belly, then pooled in spurts within the reservoir of his foreskin.

His eyes were still closed, his hands still working his cock, still hard in his hands.

I stood and rested a foot on his face. I pressed down, sliding the flesh of his face under my sole.

He subs so naturally. A born masochist. I wanted to fast forward, to see where we could take that.

That would be reserved for future dates.

I came on his chest.

We washed up and relaxed, chatting nude.

He asked to use my computer to check email, and saw that I had several windows open to download software. I had been working on this when he arrived.

“If you like, I can finish this and arrange it in a better configuration,” he offered.

“Thanks. Show me what you are talking about.”

I looked over his shoulder, rubbing his chest as he walked me through his proposed plan of action. It was smarter than mine. I approved it, kissing his head.

I sat and read the newspaper as he typed.

When he was gone, I opened the files he had created and got back to work.

Now I am on to something, I thought.

If boys can’t be counted on to returns calls, at least get something useful out of them on the first date.

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