stick my tongue right there.
The memory made me hard. I got the folder I needed, placed it strategically over my crotch, and went back to my office.
For the rest of the week, I was careful about how I worked with Walter. I made sure not to follow him too much, not to be such a puppy dog around him. I skulked behind walls, overhearing what guys said after I walked away, trying to see if everyone felt the way Camilo did.
Most of the supers didn’t pay much attention to me unless I was asking a question, and most of the workmen thought of me as just another manager in a hard hat. A couple of times I overheard Camilo make cracks about me, but never in conjunction with Walter.
Our graffiti artist continued to make random visits, always a mix of his tag, Taco22, and sexual innuendos. Even Walter got accustomed to it, as long as we got the tags covered up quickly.
* * * *
During the week, I got a couple of texts from Roberto, the guy I had met at the FU alumni event. Innocuous messages like thinking of you or stay dry (on a day when it was raining). I replied in kind. But by Friday I’d had enough. I texted him to ask if I would see him that weekend. By see I meant see him naked —but I hoped I didn’t have to spell that out.
He called me that afternoon when I was out on-site, and as I answered my cell I walked over to the shade of one of the few trees, a tall, spreading ficus. From there I could keep an eye on the site but also have some privacy.
“How are you, mi amorcito ?” he asked.
“Horny. Are you going to do something about that?”
He laughed. “Your generation gets right to the point. I prefer a more seductive approach.”
“Your seductive approach last week left me with blue balls, jerking off in my bathroom.”
“We can’t have that again,” he said. “If you will meet me for dinner tomorrow night, I guarantee you will not depart unsatisfied.”
I felt a shiver of anticipation, and my dick stiffened. “Where and when?”
He named a restaurant I’d walked past a few times, tucked away on West Avenue, a few blocks from my apartment. I agreed to meet him there at eight o’clock.
I was on my way back to the trailer when I met up with Adrian. “We’re going to El Rincón after work,” he said. “El jefe is buying the first round. You want to join us?”
El Rincón was a tiny Cuban bar around the corner from the site. “Sure.” I wouldn’t miss a chance to have a drink with Walter Loredo, even if we were surrounded by other employees. But I’d have to make sure not to set off any gaydar vibes with Camilo.
The bar was dark and cool against the hot, bright Florida sun. Adrian and I joined the other superintendents at a table in a back corner, where we drank Mexican beer as Walter lectured us on the world at large.
“Contractors are scum,” he said. “Never let a contractor think he can run your site. Never let a contractor date your daughter or your sister. Never pay a contractor a penny more than you absolutely have to.”
He told funny jokes, held his liquor well, and knew more about the business of building than I thought I could learn in a lifetime. Even after three or four beers, he could unravel the complexities of a thirty-page contract, explain how to build a retaining wall, and cite figures from a contractor’s last invoice. “You hear the one about the carpenter who died on his fortieth birthday?” he asked us.
We all shook our heads. “He got up to heaven, and St. Peter greeted him at the gates with a big celebration, congratulating him on living to be a hundred-fifty years old. The guy looked around and said, ‘But I only lived to be forty.’ St. Peter shakes his head and says, ‘Can’t be. We added up all your time sheets.’”
The crowd laughed. We went through three pitchers, and then Walter pulled the plug. “I need you all alive on Monday morning,” he said. “Anybody need a cab or a ride home?”
Everybody seemed sober enough, and we stood up. I
The memory made me hard. I got the folder I needed, placed it strategically over my crotch, and went back to my office.
For the rest of the week, I was careful about how I worked with Walter. I made sure not to follow him too much, not to be such a puppy dog around him. I skulked behind walls, overhearing what guys said after I walked away, trying to see if everyone felt the way Camilo did.
Most of the supers didn’t pay much attention to me unless I was asking a question, and most of the workmen thought of me as just another manager in a hard hat. A couple of times I overheard Camilo make cracks about me, but never in conjunction with Walter.
Our graffiti artist continued to make random visits, always a mix of his tag, Taco22, and sexual innuendos. Even Walter got accustomed to it, as long as we got the tags covered up quickly.
* * * *
During the week, I got a couple of texts from Roberto, the guy I had met at the FU alumni event. Innocuous messages like thinking of you or stay dry (on a day when it was raining). I replied in kind. But by Friday I’d had enough. I texted him to ask if I would see him that weekend. By see I meant see him naked —but I hoped I didn’t have to spell that out.
He called me that afternoon when I was out on-site, and as I answered my cell I walked over to the shade of one of the few trees, a tall, spreading ficus. From there I could keep an eye on the site but also have some privacy.
“How are you, mi amorcito ?” he asked.
“Horny. Are you going to do something about that?”
He laughed. “Your generation gets right to the point. I prefer a more seductive approach.”
“Your seductive approach last week left me with blue balls, jerking off in my bathroom.”
“We can’t have that again,” he said. “If you will meet me for dinner tomorrow night, I guarantee you will not depart unsatisfied.”
I felt a shiver of anticipation, and my dick stiffened. “Where and when?”
He named a restaurant I’d walked past a few times, tucked away on West Avenue, a few blocks from my apartment. I agreed to meet him there at eight o’clock.
I was on my way back to the trailer when I met up with Adrian. “We’re going to El Rincón after work,” he said. “El jefe is buying the first round. You want to join us?”
El Rincón was a tiny Cuban bar around the corner from the site. “Sure.” I wouldn’t miss a chance to have a drink with Walter Loredo, even if we were surrounded by other employees. But I’d have to make sure not to set off any gaydar vibes with Camilo.
The bar was dark and cool against the hot, bright Florida sun. Adrian and I joined the other superintendents at a table in a back corner, where we drank Mexican beer as Walter lectured us on the world at large.
“Contractors are scum,” he said. “Never let a contractor think he can run your site. Never let a contractor date your daughter or your sister. Never pay a contractor a penny more than you absolutely have to.”
He told funny jokes, held his liquor well, and knew more about the business of building than I thought I could learn in a lifetime. Even after three or four beers, he could unravel the complexities of a thirty-page contract, explain how to build a retaining wall, and cite figures from a contractor’s last invoice. “You hear the one about the carpenter who died on his fortieth birthday?” he asked us.
We all shook our heads. “He got up to heaven, and St. Peter greeted him at the gates with a big celebration, congratulating him on living to be a hundred-fifty years old. The guy looked around and said, ‘But I only lived to be forty.’ St. Peter shakes his head and says, ‘Can’t be. We added up all your time sheets.’”
The crowd laughed. We went through three pitchers, and then Walter pulled the plug. “I need you all alive on Monday morning,” he said. “Anybody need a cab or a ride home?”
Everybody seemed sober enough, and we stood up. I
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