I like trade. I grew up a big girl in a small town, which means I find closetted bluecollar men hot because they remind me of, well, the bluecollar men of home. Theyre guy-guys, men who look like they dont want to have anything to do with a limpwrister, but do.
For example, there was that time I went up the street on my lunch hour for a simple Mr. Submarine sandwich and the broadshouldered counter guy invited me into the back room. He was working alone.
First, he asked me if I liked guys, then he told me that he did too. We chatted. He was from Iran. He thought me very pretty. He wore a foam mesh hat. The bell on the front door jingled and he sauntered out to serve the customer. While he was in the front of the store, I decided that knowing he was hot for me was enough. I didnt need to have sex with him. When he returned, I told him I had to go.
Hugging me goodbye, he rubbed his groin back and forth against mine. The gesture wasnt altogether romantic, but the particular smoothness of his skin, his soft neck, made me hard. He took a step back, lifted his apron, and pulled out his meat. Kiss it, he said. Although Id just had lunch, I chowed down.
He fed me his 6inch sub for, oh, 4 minutes before shooting his mayo. I was relieved it was over so quickly because my knees were shaking hard enough to make dents in the floor. That, and my lunch break was over. I rinsed my mouth with the last gulp of cola from lunch and headed out the door.
After work, in the privacy of my home, I masturbated three times in a row, replaying the scene in my head. In true manly fashion, Mr. Submarine had given me ten seconds of foreplay, barely touched my body, and zipped up as soon as he was done. Hed straightened his apron, ready for business as usual. Id felt dismissed. It was the hottest sex Id ever had.
Whenever Im alone and hungry for a salami sandwich, I replay that scene in my head, expanding it. (Sometimes I imagine him inviting his coworkers into the back.) Its gotten me off a hundred times. Now and again, I worry that Im playing out a selfloathing need for degradation, a desire for what I cant have: Straight men. The more they mistreat me, the more I know theyre real men. Not sophisticated stuff.
Lately though, Ive been getting sweetness at home, and its delicious. This week, a hot guyguy passed me on the street and I didnt want to do him. Too much work, too little reward, I thought. Sure, trade may have the meat, but it doesnt cut the mustard.