Richard. Dear God.
He greeted me on the large, flag-stoned porch of his massive manse (my English teachers would all foam at the mouth over this clumsy consonance) standing almost military straight and tall. Ralph Lauren, top to bottom.
His house was nestled against the highest peak in a gated community strategically strewn across the face of one of Tucson's largest mountains so that none of the residential roads could be reached without using a hairpin-shaped main street that wound up, around the top of the mountain, and then back down to the heavily guarded gate.
I suppose a truly dedicated criminal could find a way up, but the cacti and critters one would encounter on the climb would be fearsome. And they had drone surveillance, too—not just cameras, but actual drones were sent up periodically.
Richard, a Ken doll of a man with buzz cut salt and silver hair and stern, aquamarine eyes, looked like a person who would choose a community like that. And would build a formidable fortress like the one towering above us both.
It had two huge doors that had been brought up from an old Mexican cathedral—there were many "statement pieces" in that house that had been shipped long distances. His marble sinks, big bowls placed upon somewhat Grecian pedestals, were studded with gemstones and tiny veins of what looked like gold and had been sent all the way from Italy.
Even the ceiling beams were brought in from elsewhere. He had a thing about old wood—I'd heard others talk about "reclaimed" wood, but not as lovingly as Richard, who'd had experts scout around small Southwestern towns for old houses that hadn't rotted too badly.
I could just see some of those confounded Mormon farmer faces watching some city slicker root through some old barn or shack on the property. Must've gotten quite a kick out of it. And made them pay dearly for that old, chewed up wood.
I tried not to yawn during the little tour of the castle he gave me, but I was mightily glad when he circled back to the living room and "the business at hand."
He sat in a chair beside the couch he'd nodded me over to. Right ankle perched perfectly on left knee as if he'd practiced the pose in a mirror.
"I don't believe in homosexuality," was the first salvo—a staunch declaration indeed. "I believe in...behaviors. Behaviors which can be...difficult to control."
There was a pause to read my reaction. I made sure there was none.
And so he placed his hands on the arms of the chair betraying nothing in return and said, "As my first sexual experience was an unfortunate one, I was tremendously confused early on. I was not so much...attracted to men as simply accustomed to men. However, at this point in my life I am not so much confused as...deeply disappointed in the direction our country—most countries—are headed. One can choose to be of any gender, any...sexual preference—you, yourself, are..."
"Cis. Male."
"They've got you talking like them, though."
"My pronouns are 'he' and 'him,'" I said. Smiling just to piss him off more.
But he relaxed, actually. Asked, "And you've never been with a man?"
"I've been approached. But I haven't actually had sex with a man, no."
He brought his hands up and pressed the fingertips together lightly in front of his chest.
"Well, you see I have no interest in men who like men. I have no interest in effeminate men. In this, I am told I am not unlike some homosexuals whose dream in life is to be adored by what some still somehow manage to call a real man—does that set your teeth on edge? Your generation tends to trigger easily."
I smiled and said, "So far so good."
"Wise ass. A British wise ass, apparently—that I particularly like. I cannot hold a decent conversation with the average American at this point. Nor do I wish to, having given my life to serving and protecting them only to find myself watching the country slide headlong into fascism as if it were some sort of...fashion trend."
Now that part I liked and agreed with—the part about fascism. So when he rose to head for a huge bar nearby I relaxed a bit.
"What's your pleasure, son?" he asked me, standing proudly behind the bar and in front of more liquor than most club bars have. Thousands of dollars worth...
"I...think I'll go easy. Beer's fine. Or Guinness, actually, would be good."
"I have a few whiskies I'd like to introduce you to should things go well. But that's a good first choice."
He returned with a picture-perfect glass of Guinness. There is an art to getting just the right creamy "head" on top. And I would've bet money that Richard had practiced diligently whether he liked Guinness or not.
He was the sort who'd know how to make "the perfect" everything. Who would tell you that James Bond's "shaken, not stirred" martini would actually be shit. Though for the record, I feel that Bond-style martinis are colder, smoother and more evenly mixed...
"We will have dinner shortly," he told me, as he took his seat again. "I had it brought from my favorite Indian restaurant. The Brits love their Indian food."
"Did you live there?"
"Unfortunately, no. I've...spent a great deal of time in Eastern Europe. And Southeast Asia. I'm a relic of old, reviled wars—CIA. And...well...that kind of thing."
"Fits."
"Not anymore. Not for quite a while. I was...involved in a somewhat unfortunate incident which put an end to all that. And yes, it was something to do with what I mentioned early on. I found my niche, so to speak, in Southeast Asia. Places where one can...have almost anything, sexually speaking..."
"So I've heard."
"And of course...in my line of work...well, they were a security risk, my...sexual predilections..."
"Yes, I imagine they would be."
He gave a firm nod, and said, "So! I retired early and comfortably and what I require, at this point, is someone young, straight and intelligent who satisfies my need for male...energy, without requiring—well, let me just be blunt. I will never touch you and you will never touch me unless very specifically directed to do so. And it will never be sexual. Not...in the usual sense."
The beads of sweat on his lip as he said that told me a different story, however. I suspected my male "energy" had started a fire down below that Polo belt.
But I kept the poker face on. And listened to him blather on about the "rules of the game" for a good while until he finally took me into his truly spectacular dining room.
All the rooms had these huge glass walls that made you feel as if you were still outside. And the views were magnificent. Majestic.
He served me stiffly but in proper stages and form, as if he'd been a butler in another life—or perhaps had pretended to be one, as part of his CIA duties. And then he sat and proceeded to eat...somewhat oddly. After cutting meat and potatoes and other larger items into bite sized pieces, he moved clockwise round the plate, eating one vegetable at a time, meat last.
"It took me a good while to give in to spicier cuisines," he told me. "I'm an Iowa farm boy by birth. Meat, potatoes..."
"Standard American fare, yes?"
"Deadly. They're all fat and unfit—diabetes runs rampant back home. And a silent but equally deadly depravity of mind, body and spirit, in our case..."
I was getting a picture—a grim one. Someone on the farm had preyed upon him...
The Indian food was as impressive as I'd expected. And as I tucked in I noticed that all that neatly cut food made it possible for him to eat with only one hand. And that the other was kept off the table...
He caught my eyes wandering to the hidden hand and said, "I said we would never touch each other. I didn't say I would never touch myself."
I could tell by the way those aqua eyes were boring into mine that this was The Big Moment. A moment to which I did not react beyond a nod and a little, "I see."
"And you have no feelings one way or the other about that?"
I smiled and said, "Comparatively tame. In my world."
"I'd like to hear more about that world. Also...you said you'd... been approached by men..."
"Spent some time in boarding school. And had a friend who was rather seriously infatuated with me..."
He raised his chin and said, "And you were aware of this at the time?"
"Well, he...became somewhat overly excited a few times and...I...saw."
There was an almost imperceptible little shiver that made him pause and put the other hand down on the table as if to steady himself.
"Did he...do anything?"
"He...excused himself. He would always excuse himself. But sometimes I'd hear him—late nights, he'd have a good wank."
"And you were not aroused?"
"I was a bit...uneasy about it, initially. But after a while, it was just...I don't know, we all wanked ourselves senseless at that age."
"Did you ever—"
"Not in his presence, no. He did...cum in a hot tub in my presence, though. Very embarrassed, he was. I grazed him very unintentionally and nowhere near his groin, but he just...spewed..."
The arm below the table was moving a bit more. So I tested him, with, "He sends me videos of himself, jerking off and cumming all over himself. These weird, late night texts and things—sometimes I'm afraid he's going to injure himself, honestly."
There was another nearly imperceptible...something. A small clearing of the throat, it sounded like. But I knew better.
And he composed himself as quickly as possible and said, "When we've finished, you will leave the table first. You will always leave the table first."
I nodded and said, "There's no need, but—"
"I need you to do that!" he whined. "You're here to satisfy me."
The odd and unexpected "whine" led me to try one more test.
I threw my napkin down and snapped, "And when I'm here, I will decide how best to do that! Is that clear?"
And boy, that arm started jerking back and forth like crazy under there.
I had guessed correctly.
You see, I'd known a few "rigid" guys like Richard who were secretly submissive. A don at that boarding school--stone faced, implacable, butter wouldn't melt—had been the first. His cock jerked to attention suddenly during a "conference" when I yelled back at him as most students were afraid to do.
He was mortified. But also even more attracted to me than he'd been all along. And knew he would never be able to discipline me again without fear of exposure—expected to be reported, I think. Must've been torture, waiting for that other shoe to drop...
My poor Richard began to huff and puff and shiver so I rose and left him to cum in peace. Heading for the living room where I stood watching hawks soar overhead. And some lizards dart across the rocks...
And then I heard, over his sound system:
"I will be...indisposed for a bit--you may go if you wish. But...I would ask that you...set aside some time...one or two hours a week. And I have some travel plans that I'd like to discuss with you as well. If..."
I gave him a haughty, "Well, I'm booked solid, but I might be able to fit you in somewhere."
And slammed those big doors on the way out to give him something else to wank about.
An approach that apparently pleased him, as I began to receive $100 deposits into my EE account almost daily. Along with photos and videos of "what just the thought of you makes me do to myself," (sound familiar?) followed by a text signed, "Your humble servant."
If I sent a scathing audio "rebuke," he sent me more money—I decided to ask if Cici's organization might accept those little "donations."
As I'd begun to feel even more uneasy about this odd occupation I'd taken on—was I helping or hurting the ones like Richard? And...well, Barbara still stuck in my craw a bit. And Cici handed out condoms to sex workers but...what would she really think about me doing that kind of work? Especially with an "exclusive" outfit like ours?
She had changed my worldview so much and so quickly—I was a rambling wreck and then...there was this woman...a woman of purpose and passion...
I drove up to the top of another mountain—a scenic overlook—and gazed upon the little city I'd come to love more than most. Its technicolor desertscape always soothed my soul...
And that woman rang me...and I sighed...but I also smiled. And wished she were with me up there...