ANTICHRIS_

By Christopher Stoddard

The young banker named M wears over his head a black dust bag made of thick cotton.  It came with the Allen Edmonds loafers he bought for his new job at Franklin-Miller Financial in Midtown.  The black, polished leather shoes are hand-sewn, leather-lined and cushioned with a material called PORON®. They were originally 225 bucks but on sale for 25-percent off.  He’s not wearing them now because it’s Saturday night, pretty late, almost 1 a.m.  Instead he has on a heavily worn pair of Sperry Topsider boat shoes, which are camel-colored and have white rubber soles.  Paired with Kelly green shorts and a dingy white polo shirt over a chiseled chest, he looks like a Ralph Lauren model—minus the black bag on his head.

When he entered the Archive Building, he wasn’t wearing the bag.  To the doorman and any of the upper middle-class residents who were coming and going as M was arriving, he looked just like them or even better.  With his neatly groomed, slightly wavy, moderately short, dark auburn hair; chestnut-colored eyes; defined jaw line on a beautiful, 20-something face; full lips and sharp cheekbones, he might have even turned a few heads.

But he wasn’t paying attention to passersby.  If he didn’t acknowledge them then maybe they wouldn’t notice him or wonder what he was doing.  The black dust bag was neatly folded and stuffed into the back pocket of his shorts like a handkerchief.  To an onlooker it may have appeared as if M were trying to give his preppy style a hipster twist, a little Williamsburg-edge, even though he lives in Gramercy Park.

Nervously, he told the doorman he was there to see O.  M hoped he got the name right; the dude had only told him once.  The doorman phoned O’s apartment.  O answered and gave M clearance.  As the doorman hung up, M quickly thanked him and walked hurriedly toward the elevator, hoping to God that he didn’t see anyone he knew.  Several of his new coworkers lived in the West Village, possibly in that very residence!  He was really taking a chance.  As a precaution, he’d told the doorman his name was N.

O answered the door and, without hesitation, invited M, who was now shrouded, into the apartment.  Neither spoke.  O led M into what M deduced was the living room.  His bare leg brushed against what felt like a cold leather sofa.

“You don’t mind if I do a line, do you?” asks O, sniffling.

M shakes his head.  He doesn’t give a shit.  He just wants a blowjob.

M hears O do a line off a nearby surface then quickly return to where M stands.  O stuffs a trembling hand down M’s shorts and pulls out his cock.  M forcefully brings O to his knees so O can get to work.  O does a clumsy job, but it still feels amazing to M.  After M comes, feelings of guilt and shame invade his nervous system.  He’s suddenly suffocating in the dust bag.  He rips it off and quickly turns away from O.  He rushes out in silence, but the elevator down to the lobby takes forever, and the doorman says goodbye.