Room 214

During my summer break, I always needed to supplement my allowance. I was 19, owned an old pickup truck, and it guzzled gas like nobody’s business. With nothing better to do, I took a job at a hotel – mostly schlepping luggage to rooms and the like.

The hourly wage wasn’t exactly generous, but I did alright for myself. I was friendly, quick on my feet, and that earned me some decent tips.

One afternoon, a sleek, vintage Cadillac rolled up – a real beauty, despite its years. I hustled over, opened the door, and out stepped a silver-haired guy, sharp-looking for his age. He tossed me the keys, told me the bags were in the trunk, and asked me to bring them to his room. Then he was off to the front desk without a backward glance.

I parked the car – a sweet ’72 DeVille with a smooth purr – in the lot, grabbed the luggage from the trunk, and headed to the desk to get his room number. Up I went to Room 214, but the guy wasn’t there. I set the bags down by the bed and sighed – there went my shot at a tip, or so I thought. Still, driving that Caddy for a minute made up for it.

The day dragged on with nothing much happening. Just before my shift ended, the guy from 214 called down to the desk. He ordered a late-night sandwich, a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, and a shot of bourbon. Since nobody else was on bellhop duty, they asked me to handle it.

I loaded up a service cart with his order and took the elevator to the second floor. The door to 214 was cracked open, but no one answered my knock. I pushed it wide, rolled the cart in, and heard a voice from the bathroom telling me to set everything by the armchair. I did as instructed, plated the food, and poured a glass of wine.

I was about to leave when my eyes landed on the bed – a mess of sheets and a DVD case sticking out. Curiosity got the better of me, so I picked it up. It was some flick by a director named Falcon – never heard of him. The back cover made it pretty clear what kind of movie it was, though.

I was flipping through the pictures when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around, and there he was, grinning ear to ear. “That part of your job description?” he asked. My face went tomato-red – I’d never been caught like that before.

I stammered out an apology and made for the door, but he stopped me. “Hold up,” he said. “First, you haven’t gotten your tip. Second, how about keeping me company? Or are you off the clock?” I mumbled that this was my last run of the night, still unsure what I was getting into.

“Then stick around,” he said. “There’s enough food for two, plenty to drink, and we can watch that movie together. Name’s Richard – nah, call me Rick.” Something in his tone told me he wasn’t big on no for an answer, so I nodded. “Not hungry,” I said, trying to keep it casual. “No problem, have some wine then.” He poured two glasses and handed me one.

“Bottoms up – loosens things up!” We downed it in one go. Over the food, we chatted about random stuff, and before I knew it, the bottle was empty. He finished eating, then poured us each a hefty shot of bourbon. I’d barely touched hard liquor before, but the night was already off the rails.

“Down the hatch, then we’ll watch,” he said. I tossed it back, and this time it hit me like a freight train – warmth spreading, head buzzing. I wasn’t drunk, but I was definitely feeling it. He rewound the DVD and hit play.

The movie kicked off with some guy showing up at a place in New York. Didn’t take long for it to dive into a scene – my first glimpse of a gay flick, and it was wild. The action was intense, raw, and loud, and I couldn’t deny it was getting to me.

Rick wasn’t watching the screen – he was watching me. He poured another bourbon and slid it my way. “Cheers!” I knew the drill by now and knocked it back, eyes glued to the TV. My jeans were starting to feel tight.

“Strip,” he said, blunt as hell. “It’ll feel better, and I wouldn’t mind seeing what a kid like you’s packing.” The booze had me loose enough that I didn’t even argue. I peeled off everything but my boxers, barely taking my eyes off the screen. “I said strip,” he barked. “When I say it, I mean it.”

So I ditched the boxers too, and there was no hiding how into it I was. Rick noticed, of course. Onscreen, the New York guy was going at it again, round who-knows-what. Rick started shedding his clothes too – mid-sixties, I figured, but in damn good shape. When his briefs hit the floor, I couldn’t believe it. Nice equipment, perfectly proportioned.

He stepped close, right in my face. “You’ve been watching long enough to know what’s next. Take it in your mouth.” Half-dazed, I opened up, and he slid in. The bourbon had me relaxed – first time or not, he went deep, and I handled it.

He moved slow, grunting in a way that sounded approving. My own situation was rock-solid, more than ever before, but he didn’t touch me, and I was too busy to care. Then, just like that, he pulled out and disappeared into the bathroom.

There I was, sprawled out, not sure what to do. I turned back to the screen – still hot as hell (I still dig those old Falcon films; the new stuff doesn’t do it for me) – and started messing around solo. A few minutes later, he was back. “Time to wrap this up right. Lie on your side – I’m gonna take you.”