Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

FORD

When Zachary had sent his last text I’d mostly been focused on his compliments. I hadn’t really clocked his use of the word “geezers” to describe Palm Springs men. But—at least in this establishment—he wasn’t wrong. Even at forty-five years old, I was on the younger side of the patrons here.

And it absolutely did not matter whether my t-shirt was tucked in or if my shoes weren’t fashionable. I’d barely stepped up to the bar before an... older gentleman had signaled to the bartender and asked me what I wanted to drink.

I’d thanked him but told him I was buying my own drinks. He’d looked me up and down, then he’d patted me on the shoulder and said, “Good luck with that.” He’d wandered away, and the bartender had approached and told me another man a few feet down the bar had prepaid for my order.

I’d held up my hands and stepped back, ready to bolt. This was way too much pressure. The bartender nodded. “I’ll tell ‘em. You’re in charge.”

I relaxed. “Thanks. I just wanted a quiet drink.”

He offered to seat me at a table in the corner, but I declined. That wouldn’t get me what I’d come for.

Beer—that I’d paid for myself—in hand, I turned to check out the rest of the room. The place was dimly lit with a combination of high-top tables and regular ones. The music could be heard but it wasn’t overpowering. As I gazed around, I caught several guys—of varying ages—eyeballing me in return. That was fine. We were all here for the same reason.

Did I find any of them attractive? Sure.

Attractive enough to get naked with?

I swallowed more of my beer.

I walked around a bit, forcing myself to approach three different guys. None of them did it for me, so I moved on. Eventually I ended up back at the bar, trying to talk myself into ordering another drink and sticking around a while longer.

Someone took the barstool on my right, so I turned to see a younger guy, maybe mid-twenties. He had golden skin and artfully messy black hair. He looked me up and down, smiling. “Oooh, hello, Daddy.”

I managed not to make a face. “Uh, I’m not really into the Daddy thing.”

His face became sympathetic. “Looking for an older guy yourself? Must be hard to compete with all the baby gays in town.” Before I could figure out how to respond, he’d scanned the room. “Never mind. You’re here on the right night. I’m Marcus. Buy me a drink?”

I stared at him for a second, then shrugged. “Why not?” He didn’t seem like he was planning to hit on me anymore, and I could use some friendly company.

He ordered a passionfruit martini—which I hadn’t known was even a thing—and after he’d taken a good long pull from it, he spun his stool around to face the rest of the place. “ Hmmm . I see a few prospects for myself. What are you looking for, hon? You were here first. I don’t poach.”

I hunched my shoulders, fighting off the feeling that he was pressuring me to make a decision right now about who to have sex with. “They’re all yours. I’m... not in the mood anymore, I don’t think.”

He whirled on his stool, raising one eyebrow in challenge. “Bro, you’re in Palm Springs. If you’re not gonna get laid, what the hell are you doing here?”

Shrugging, I pulled out enough cash to cover both our drinks plus a decent tip. “Good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Tomorrow night would be different, I told myself as I walked back to the hotel. Tonight had been my first attempt, and I’d gone in without a plan. Maybe I should visualize the type of guy I wanted, then look for someone like that.

I could jack off while I thought about my ideal type. It’d be a shame to waste these underwear, especially when I had to wash them anyway. Plus, then—according to positive reinforcement theory—I’d associate getting turned on with the image of the guy I was thinking of. The type of guy, rather.

I didn’t generally picture anyone in particular when I masturbated. Usually it was more thinking about someone else’s hand on my dick, stuff like that. But the lace, I found, gave me a tactile sensation that was... inspiring. Too bad I hadn’t noticed it until I was alone.

But, yeah. A good yank session with Zachary’s panties would feel great. It wasn’t what I’d come to this town for, but I’d made a decent effort tonight, which should be celebrated.

Back in my room, I peeled off the black jeans, in such a rush I forgot to remove my shoes first. I got rid of the shiny t-shirt, then settled on the bed. I cupped my hand around my lace-covered dick. Oh, yeah. This was fucking hot. I felt sexy. I felt empowered. I was harder than steel.

Wait, I was supposed to be picturing my ideal type of man. Zachary’s face popped up in my brain. No, that wasn’t productive. Zachary wasn’t here, and he was too young for me anyway. I needed someone my own age. But there wasn’t anything wrong with my imaginary man looking like an older version of Zachary, was there? He could have the same thin but muscled body, the same pointy chin with the same scruff, but with a few gray hairs and some added lines on his face.

I gave my dick a tentative stroke, moving the lace with my hand. I winced. Okay, I needed lube. I wasn’t someone who generated much precum, and the friction was just too much.

But, wait, would lube stain the lace? Shit, I should check. I rolled over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand, then I opened the top drawer and pulled out the lube I’d stashed there. I used a water-based brand with aloe. I googled it, and, yep, no staining. Excellent. I’d wash the underwear in the sink as soon as I was done.

I coated my hand with the lube and then made sure my dick was nice and slick. Okay, that was better. The lace was already sliding tantalizingly across my foreskin and balls. I gripped my dick through the material. Holy fuck! Every tiny ridge of the lace rasped against my sensitive skin, and it felt like lightning.

My erection became too big for the panties, so I stripped them off, then wrapped them around my dick. My hips twitched, trying to thrust, even as I jerked myself.

I barely remembered to visualize my ideal man, which was apparently Zachary’s probably non-existent and very much older brother. Except my brain couldn’t hang on to the older part, and I kept picturing Zachary, laughing while wearing my board shorts and nothing else. I used my free hand to roll my balls, and it was all over.