Love on Site (7 page)

“
Yo te piso
,” I said—matching him expletive for expletive. In slang, I told him that I was on top of him—the way a rooster mounts a chicken. I switched to English, just to further piss him off. “The forms over there are crap, and they’re going to blow out as soon as you start to pour. Don’t fuck up my schedule by being a
mariquita. Vete a hacer puñetas
and get them fixed.”

I turned and stalked back to Walter, who was grinning broadly. He looked so damned handsome that I wanted to walk right up and kiss him on the lips. “
Muy cojonudo
,” he said. Very ballsy.

I shrugged and my face reddened. “I’ll check on the forms later this afternoon and see if it worked.”

“You’re turning into a hell of a good worker, Manny,” Walter said, and I looked up and met his gaze. If I’d seen a man look at me that way in a gay bar, I’d have dragged him to the men’s room, or the back room, immediately. Instead I just blushed more, and Walter laughed.

He was so natural with the men who worked for him, ruffling one guy’s hair, patting another one on the back, smiling and charming them into working late, rerouting a cable or a conduit, carting the debris out to the Dumpster. The guys liked and respected him and wanted to do a good job for him. I did too.

I wanted to do a lot more than just be a good worker, but if that broad grin was all I could ever get from Walter Loredo, I’d take it.

I went back out late in the afternoon to see if Camilo had followed my instructions. I let out a deep breath when I saw that the bad formwork was gone and a couple of laborers were redoing it. I lingered there for a minute, overhearing the workmen as they complained about the way Camilo had reamed them out for shoddy workmanship the first time around.

When I turned around to leave, Camilo was there. “I know you’re Loredo’s little butt boy,” he said in a guttural whisper. “I’m watching you.” He turned and strode away.

My heart was racing. Had I been trying too hard to cozy up to Walter Loredo? Did the guys on the site take that for something sexual between us?

Not that I’d mind, I thought as I walked back to the trailer. But I was sure Walter would. I’d never heard him make the kind of nasty comments about gay men that Camilo and some of the other supers did. But that didn’t mean he’d want those kinds of things said about him.

The next afternoon, I was working in the trailer when Nilda, the real estate agent Walter had hired to lease the warehouse space, showed up to talk to Walter. He was busy, so she was hanging around with Estefani as I walked out to the reception area. She was a hard-looking Latina in her forties, with long, coral-painted fingernails and lacquered hair in an unnatural shade of red. “I’m getting a new appreciation for backs,” she said as I passed.

“What do you mean?” Estefani asked.

I couldn’t help overhearing, because I was looking for a file in the cabinet next to Estefani’s desk.

“
Los descamisados
,” Nilda said. The shirtless ones. “Smooth backs I want to lick like ice cream. Tattoos I want to trace with my fingernails. Even the hairy ones give you something to grab on to.”

Estefani giggled. “Oh, Nilda, you’re terrible.”

“No, you mean, ‘Oh, Nilda, you’re old,’” Nilda said. “You wait until you get to be my age,
mi pequeña
. You’ll appreciate the chance to see a half-naked man.”

Estefani leaned closer to her, but I could still hear. “Last Friday, a couple of the guys were playing with the hose,” she said.

I remembered that. The plumbers had been testing a new main for warehouse one when it sprang a leak. The plumbing super, a beefy, dark-skinned Haitian guy named Pierre, scrambled to shut it off, but by the time he did, he was soaked through. He’d been wearing a pair of cheap denim overalls and a T-shirt, and the material was plastered against his skin.

I’d been wondering about Pierre—was he one of those big guys on whom even an average-sized dick looked tiny? Or did he have the meat to match his frame?

My question had been answered when he turned toward me. A very respectable-sized sausage had been outlined against his groin. My dick had jumped in response.

The other four plumbers, a mix of black and Spanish guys, all had guffawed at him. Pierre had grabbed a hose and turned the water on, soaking them. It had been a hot, humid day, and I’d wanted to run over and romp under Pierre’s hose. Too bad I was management.

“It was like watching a porno movie,” Estefani whispered to Nilda. “All those guys with their clothes soaking.”

I wondered what kind of movies Estefani watched.

Nilda barked with laughter. “What happened then?”

“All the guys peeled off their soaking T-shirts,” Estefani said. Nilda leaned closer to her, and I couldn’t hear anything else they said, but there was a lot of giggling going on.

One of the plumbers, Marcelino, was about thirty and a real hunk. He’d had a weighty tool belt around his waist, and when he pulled off his shirt, I got a good look at the top of his ass crack, sparkling with water in the bright sunshine. I had to resist the urge to go over to him and 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 realized I had to piss like mad and made a beeline for the men’s room.

I had my zipper open and my dick out, peeing into a tall white urinal, when Walter followed me into the men’s room and took the urinal next to mine.

Don’t look at his dick, I said to myself.
Don’t look at his dick.

“Beer goes right through me,” he said as he unzipped and let loose a stream.

I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been good at urinal conversation. Some guys can keep up a flow of chatter, but not me. I’m too self-conscious, scared that if I stop paying attention to what I’m doing, I’ll end up pissing on myself.

Walter didn’t seem to notice. “How do you like working for me?” he asked. “Be honest, Manny. I want to hear it.”

My mouth was dry. “It’s great,” I croaked, thankful that my stream had turned to a trickle. “I’m learning a lot.”

“I can see that. You’re more than just charming and damned good-looking. You’re smart too, and that’s what really matters.”

He looked over at me as I was shaking the last drops from my dick. I felt it stiffening and hurried to stuff it back into my pants. “Thank you.”

“But you’ve got to think about the future,” he said. “Don’t be satisfied to be a superintendent, or even a manager. Set your sights high. That’s what I did.”

I was careful to keep my eyes on his face, which was turned toward the wall again. “How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you get to be so successful so fast?”

He finished pissing and zipped up. “Hard work and single-minded focus,” he said. “I never let myself get distracted. Eyes on the prize, you know.”

At that moment, though, his eyes were on me with a kind of longing in them. “Sometimes I think back to when I was your age, starting out. What if I’d paid more attention to the rest of my life?”

“It’s not like you’re ancient, Walter,” I said, walking over to the single sink to wash my hands.

He joined me at the sink, sticking his hands into the flow right next to mine. My heart skipped a beat, and I pulled them away as if they’d caught fire.

“Don’t lose track of the rest of your life, Manny,” Walter said as I dried my hands. “You never know when you’ll wake up and find it slipping away.”

“Sure thing, Walter.” I crumpled the paper towel and tossed it in the trash. I thought my dick was going to explode if I spent any more time in such close proximity to him. “See you Monday.”

I hurried out the door without waiting for a response. I glanced down at my crotch and saw, to my horror, that my stiff dick was outlined against the khaki, and there was a wet spot at the tip of my dick, even though I’d shaken the urine off.

I was grateful that the rest of the guys were gone, and hurried through the dim bar and out into the blazing sunshine, squinting against the glare. Had Walter seen my hard-on? And what did he mean, telling me he thought I was charming and damned good-looking? Was that lust I’d seen in his eyes—for me?

Physical Assets

By the time I hit the causeway to Miami Beach, my dick had subsided, but I still had a strange feeling in my stomach—probably the result of too much beer and not enough tortilla chips and salsa. When I got up to the apartment, I scrambled for the bathroom and some privacy.

I didn’t need any reading material; just the thought of Walter Loredo next to me in the men’s room was enough to make me hard. I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, dropped the lid on the toilet and sat down. My dick strained against my boxer briefs, and there was already a big wet spot on the fabric.

I pulled my dick free, closed my eyes and tried to remember that look in Walter’s eyes—had I really seen raw, sexual hunger? Or was I projecting my desire on him? What if I’d mistaken that look? He could have been horny for a woman, and he was already thinking about her.

I imagined him walking into a bedroom, pulling off his polo shirt. His beefy pecs and rounded biceps, the fur covering his stomach. He dropped his pants to the floor. I don’t know why, but I imagined him wearing red silk boxers that clung to his body like a second skin. He pulled his long, fat dick out of them and stood there, stroking it while the naked woman on the bed got up on all fours and presented her ass to him.

He dropped the boxers and walked over to her, his stiff dick bouncing. His ass cheeks were covered with a fine layer of dark hair like his lower arms. He positioned himself behind the woman and grabbed her hips. His butt contracted as he pressed forward into her.

And then the woman was gone, and it was my ass that Walter was fucking.

“You think you can flaunt this sweet ass in front of me, and I won’t take advantage of it?” he said. “Think again, cowboy. I’m going to ride you so hard, you won’t sit down for a week.”

He reached around and grabbed my dick and began jerking me in the same rhythm he was plowing my ass. He talked as he fucked me—how he would make a man of me, make me his bitch, show me how a real man made love.

It was all so real to me. I could smell his musky lemon scent, hear the catch in his voice, feel the way his balls slapped against my ass with every deep thrust. His hand was rough against my dick, his thumb rubbing the sweet spot just below the head.