Barista

BARISTA (Working Man series) by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2001 by the author.

There are things about me that not many people know. I'm not talking about being queer--it's pretty easy to figure that out. Not that I stand on the street corner shouting the news, but I don't try to hide it either. I work out, and have enough muscle in the right places for the sisterhood to take notice, and the fag-bashers to stay the hell out of my way.

No, I'm talking about more intimate stuff. Like the fact that, once you get past my poker face and the yuppie clothes that I have to wear to my office job, I'm sociable, and constantly horny. I'll chat up anyone who's male, cute and looks available. One of my favorite places to do this is at a good coffeehouse, since I'm proudly, hopelessly addicted to caffeine.

I'm also a die-hard aficionado of one part of the male body--not what you might think. I notice men's arms, especially forearms. The sight of corded muscle, sinew and veins snaking down from a pair of elbows and ending in large, strong hands sends me into orbit. I had a boyfriend, long gone, who was a serious bodybuilder. Terry had a wall mirror next to his bed, and I would get him to do pushups while he fucked me on my stomach. He, of course, got off on this display of strength. Terry always thought I was looking at his cock, which admittedly was quite a sight, when I turned my head toward the glass. I never told him that I was feasting my eyes on the sight of the muscles rippling in his arms as he lowered and raised his perfect body into and out of me.

But I'm digressing. Last fall a shiny new coffee place opened in a small shopping mall that was on my daily route to work. This was a godsend to me, of course. What made it even better was that whoever owned the place had to be gay. How could I tell? Well, the girls who served up the espresso there were pleasant, but nothing special. The guys were another story. To a man, they were breathtaking, and delightfully free of attitude.

There was one male barista in particular who caught my attention. The nameplate pinned to his apron informed me that his name was Greg. He was a musician working a day job, to judge from conversations I overheard him having with other customers. The two thin gold bands he wore in one ear, pretty discreet by today's standards, were another clue.

Greg was by no means the best-looking of the men who staffed the place, but there was something about him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and kept his blond hair clipped very short. His eyes were large, brown and seemed to pop out from his face, giving him a perpetually startled look. I tried to imagine how they would appear if he were feeling something really intense, like an orgasm. In repose his square jaw and longish nose gave him a stolid, almost sullen expression. But when he smiled or laughed a set of brilliant, perfect white teeth framed with a pair of deep dimples flashed out, completely transforming his face.

But I didn't really fall for Greg until the first time he rang up my order and I glanced down when he handed me my change. He was of average height, his body toned but slender. His forearms, though, were something special, solid as oak and roped with muscle and veins. I knew then I was in love.

Unfortunately, I came down with one of the prime symptoms. My normally nimble tongue completely deserted me in the presence of the object of my desire. Greg would see me standing in line, smile from behind the pastry case and say, "tall nonfat latte?" I would murmur my assent, then duck my head, blushing. Other mornings he would man the espresso machine, making casual conversation while I stood waiting for my drink. I grunted out monosyllables in response, inwardly cursing my sudden shyness, yet unable to do anything about it. I could barely look him in the eye when he told me to "have a good day."

Yet when Greg disappeared for a week or so early in the spring I was miserable, wondering if he had quit or been transferred to another branch. He didn't even say he was going, I thought morosely. I was overjoyed when one morning he was back behind the coffee bar as usual. I worked up my courage and said to him, "You've been gone."

"Yeah," he said, expertly manipulating the handle of the espresso machine with one beautiful arm. "My band went on tour. Did a few gigs in Houston, Corpus."

"Oh," I said. Feeling really bold, I added, "Does this mean you're going to quit your day job?"

Greg laughed, and I felt dizzy. "I wish. No, we aren't that good. Going to be making your lattes for a while yet. Here you are, man," he added, placing a plastic lid on the cup and putting it on the counter in front of me with a courteous nod.

Some insane impulse seized me. I heard myself say, "Well, I'm glad. I missed you." I fled then, clutching my coffee, feeling like a fool--but also relieved that I had at least said something. Now the ball was in his court.

I felt apprehensive when I went back the next day, but Greg was his usual friendly self. On the other hand, he wasn't any more friendly than usual. Leaving the place that morning, I decided enough was enough. If I didn't have the guts to do anything about my fantasy I needed to get over it. It was high time for a change--switching to Diet Coke, or maybe Red Bull.

As I was getting into my car, a masculine voice hailed me from behind: "Sir!"

I turned around, and there was Greg, hurrying toward me with something in his hand. "You left your wallet on the bar."

I checked my pocket, and sure enough, it was empty. I took it from him, copping a look at my favorite part of his anatomy as he gave the billfold to me. "Seems I did. Thanks."

Greg nodded. "No problem, Mr. Haynes."

That caught me by surprise. "How did you know my name?"

"Took a look at your driver's license to see who it belonged to." I looked sharply at him, but saw no clue in his straightforward gaze.

"Well, then, call me Steve. And thanks again." I stuck out my hand.

At that he blinked, then smiled, shaking it with a firm, cool grip, exactly right. My heart, and something else, gave a leap.

"Don't mention it--Steve. Gotta go. Have a good day, man." He hurried back inside.

This banal exchange had me walking on air the entire day, whistling and smiling to myself. I decided to postpone changing my daily routine. After such a display of caring and commitment, how could I leave my beloved barista? As far as I was concerned, we could have gone on like this for weeks, even months.

Life, though, has a way of forcing the issue. The Nordic Track that I had owned for seven years, on which I had whiled away countless sweaty hours, gave up the ghost, and I was too busy to go get another one. While I could still do my weights at home, I didn't want to join a gym just to plod on a treadmill. So I started jogging and walking around my neighborhood. I went to the grocery store, to the cleaners, and other places on foot. It was spring in Texas, not too hot yet, and I was enjoying myself. I decided not to get a new exercise machine until I had to.

I hiked to the cleaners one afternoon after work to pick up some shirts. It was a hilly walk down a rather busy thoroughfare, three and a half miles round trip. I had more laundry than I remembered, enough so that it was rather awkward to carry. However, I had come without a car and was stuck. So I paid the bill, shouldered the shirts, hooked my finger into the stack of hangars and began trudging home. After only a short distance I was puffing and sweating--my burden was surprisingly heavy. I was certainly going to get a good workout today.

I had walked maybe half a mile, shifting my load from shoulder to shoulder, tuning out the sound of cars rushing past my left side, when I sensed one slowing down behind me. A battered, dark red Suzuki Samurai pulled to the curb.

"Need a ride?"

The voice was familiar and I glanced into the compartment. There was Greg, dressed in dark gym shorts and a blue tank top, his shoulders golden and muscular in contrast, leaning forward and smiling in his dazzling way. Compared to his casual, relaxed masculinity I felt hot and stupid. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.

"Well, if it's not too much trouble..."

Greg flipped the door handle and I clambered in.

"I was just coming from my bank up there," he said, gesturing behind us to the shopping mall where I had just been, "and said to myself, hey, I know that guy. Took me a minute to figure out who you were. Car problems?"

"Yeah," I said. Somehow I didn't want to tell him that I had been power walking with a batch of starched shirts.

"I hear you, man. It's costing me an arm and a leg to keep this baby running these days. Where to?"

I gave him the directions, glancing down at his bare arms gripping the steering wheel. I was seeing far more of Greg's body than I had ever seen in the coffeehouse, and my recent jaunt in the increasing heat wasn't the only reason I was sweating. I thought about what it would be like to put my hand on his knee, let it wander up his sturdy thigh and slip it under the hem of his shorts. I wondered what he was wearing underneath, if anything. Good thing the pile of shirts was in my lap, so Greg couldn't see the results of my fantasizing.

Greg manipulated the gearbox with the same expertise he worked the espresso machine, cords of muscle standing out in his arm with every motion. We kept up a conversation but I had no idea what either of us were saying. I was breathing fast, nervous as a cat, but determined to see what I could make of this chance that had come out of the blue.

"I really appreciate this, Greg. I'm taking you way out of your way, aren't I?"

"No problem, man. I'm not in a hurry."

Finally we pulled up to my apartment. I turned to my barista and said, as casually as I could, "Thanks a lot. Can I at least offer you a drink?"

Greg thought a moment, then shrugged. "Sure," then added, with a mock frown, "As long as it's not coffee. I smell it in my sleep sometimes."

"Not to worry," I grinned back, secretly elated. "How about a beer?"

"Sounds good to me."

We sat in my living room holding the Bud Lites I fortunately had on hand, Greg on the couch, me in a chair, coasters on the coffee table. I tried not to stare too obviously at the mound between his legs. I was quite sure he wasn't wearing any underwear.

Despite the fact that the object of my lustful fantasies for the past several months was actually in my apartment, I felt calmer than I had in the car. The beer was giving me a pleasant buzz and I suspected Greg felt the same. He wasn't talking as much, seemingly content with looking at me with those bright brown eyes.

"You work out, right?" I said to him.

"Yep, I do some," he said. "Not enough. My band, we play a lot with our shirts off. Got to look good to do that."

"I'd love to know what you do to get those arms. They look great." I hadn't said anything overt yet--just guy stuff.

"You look pretty good yourself, Steve. You got equipment here?"

"I do, as a matter of fact. It's back here in the guest bedroom, " I said, getting to my feet a bit unsteadily. I was aware that Greg could probably see the bulge in my shorts but found I didn't really care. I thought I saw his gaze drop for an instant, but maybe it was the beer. "Why don't you show me what you do. I can't seem to get my forearms looking the way I want them to."

In the spare bedroom where I had my home gym set up he sat on the Soloflex bench that I still used, though I had long ago abandoned workouts on the actual machine. I handed him free weights of varying dimensions as he demonstrated the various curls and lifts with each arm, spotting him when he needed it, feeling the heat rise from his body as I knelt on the floor by him, breathing in the scent of his clean sweat.

He finally stopped and put the weights down, breathing hard from his exertions. "So that's about it."

Seeing his arms bulge as he did his exercises had made me fully hard. I couldn't swear to it but the bulge in his flimsy shorts seemed larger too. Still, working out got a lot of guys turned on. I decided to keep up the buddy act just a bit longer.

"Those are really good," I said. "No wonder you look like this." Then I went for broke. I reached out and grasped one sinewy forearm, gently squeezing it, not daring to look him in the eye, bracing myself for a hostile reaction.

Nothing happened, and I looked up. He looked back, his large eyes unblinking, his expression unreadable. Then warmth flooded through me as I saw the smile I liked so much spread across his face. I began to move my hand. "Is this all right?" I asked, though I thought I already knew the answer.

"Sure," he said. "You really like my arms, huh?"

I released him and stood, putting my hands on his bare shoulders and gently pushing him back on the Soloflex bench so I could straddle it facing him. "The rest of you isn't bad either," I said, running my hands under his tank top and pulling it upward, exposing his smooth, hard chest and stomach. I leaned down and began to kiss and tongue one brown nipple. At that he moaned softly and ran a hand through my hair.

I pushed at the waistband of his shorts, and he raised himself up and pushed them down his legs. His cock sprang up from his lap, fluid leaking from the dark, circumcised head. I had it in my mouth almost before I'd seen it, lowering my head into his warm, fragrant crotch, grasping his hips to steady myself as I slid up and down on the hard, veined shaft.

After a few moments I raised my head and looked once more into his wide eyes. Abruptly his hand clamped on the back of my head and propelled my face toward his. Our lips and tongues met and tangled in a long, sensuous kiss. We broke apart and I shook my head in amazement. A worried look appeared on Greg's face. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fantastic," I said. "I hope you don't take this wrong , but I didn't expect you to be so--nice."

He chuckled. "What can I say, I'm a nice guy."

"Are you ever. Want to go to my bedroom?"

Greg shook his head, and my heart sank. He must have seen my face fall, because he hastily said, "Oh no, I don't want to stop. It's just that--" he stopped, biting his lip.

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"Well, I've always had this fantasy about making it in a gym. Working out just gets me so hot. This isn't exactly a gym, but--"

"It's close enough," I said, grabbing his cock again. "Sounds hot to me. Let's get naked."

I stood and pulled my T-shirt, shorts and running shoes off. Greg's eyes widened at the sight of my jutting cock. He quickly shucked his own clothes, then reached out, grasped my butt and drew me into his mouth. I closed my eyes and let the pleasure wash over me, running both my hands over his forearms.

He released me and said, "I want you to fuck me."

"Sure. Just give me a second." I moved into the adjoining bathroom and got a box of condoms and lube out of the medicine cabinet. When I returned, Greg was lying on his back on the narrow bench, his arms over his head, his hands grasping the small projections on the central pole of the Soloflex. He grinned at me and raised his legs in the air, the ridges of his stomach leaping into view as he contracted his abdominals, the small brownish pucker in the crack between his cheeks exposed and vulnerable. The sight of this hot man ready for the taking nearly drove me over the edge. My hands were shaking and I could hardly get the condom rolled down over myself, but at last I was ready.

I took a fingerful of lube and squatted in front of him on the narrow bench, watching his face as I found his hole and pushed inside. His wide eyes got even wider and his mouth opened as he took a quick intake of breath. I put my cock at the greased opening and grasped both his calves. I moved forward and watched the sheathed head disappear inside. Greg's head fell back on the bench. He closed his eyes and a long aaahh sound welled up from deep inside him.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"Feels fucking fantastic. Oh man, give me all of it."

"You got it," I said through gritted teeth as I hit bottom, my balls pressed against his steely hard cheeks. I pulled back slowly until most of my cock was visible, then rocked my pelvis in a swift thrust. He grunted in satisfaction as I slammed into him.

"Do it, buddy. Fuck me."

I fell into the familiar rhythm of sex, gradually accelerating my pace, dividing my attention between several equally enticing visuals: my pole sliding in and out of his slick hole, his ridged abdomen and pectorals, his face, eyes shiny with lust, contorted with the intensity of the sensations coursing through him, and the best of all: his arms raised above his head, every muscle and sinew standing out.

I let go of one leg and took hold of Greg's cock, jacking him off as I continued to thrust. He soon brought one of his hands down and substituted it for mine. Our motions became frenzied.

"Aw fuck, getting close man. Want you to cum with me."

"You got it, fucker," I whispered, drilling his hole even faster. I bent forward awkwardly toward his face. On the narrow bench I didn't have much leverage, but Greg knew what I wanted. He raised his head, and our mouths opened for each other. I reached around him and cradled his shoulders as we kissed with abandon.

Greg broke away. "Ah yeah, going to shoot." I rose up in time to see the white spurts exploding from his cock and spattering over his heaving stomach muscles. That sent me over the edge in turn.

"Shit," I gasped, screwing my eyes shut as I felt my lower body seize up, sending my seed blasting into the rubber in his ass. For the next few moments no intelligible sounds came from either of us, only wordless shouts and gasps.

Finally my breathing slowed and I opened my eyes. Greg's head was back down on the bench, his eyes closed. I pulled out of him gently and got a towel from the bathroom to clean us up, discarding my condom in the toilet. I went back and wiped the cum off of him. When I was done Greg sat up and put his arms around me. We stayed in an exhausted embrace, straddling the Soloflex bench that had never been intended to be used for this purpose. I leaned down and softly kissed one decorated earlobe.

After a while, I didn't know how long, Greg stirred against my shoulder. "You know," he said, "I never thought I'd meet the hottest guy I've ever been with at the coffeehouse."

"That reminds me. I think I'm going to change my regular drink," I told him. "From now on you're making me mochas with whipped cream."

Greg looked up. "Why?"

I replied, deadpan, "I like watching you squirt white sticky stuff."

My barista tossed his head and laughed. "That's good. Tell you what," he said, "Invite me back here and I'll do that for you any time."

"Is that a promise?" I asked, reaching under his balls and pushing a finger into his tender asshole.

His eyes widened. "Shit...Do that some more and I'll promise you anything."

I found his prostate and began to work it. "An unlimited supply of free drink cards?"

"Unnhh.. oh yeah." His breathing was rapid and deep, his eyes now glazed and unseeing. "Fuck me again, Steve," he whispered.

I found to my surprise that I was rock hard again. "What the hell," I said, as I withdrew my finger, reached into the box on the floor and quickly sheathed myself with a fresh rubber. I lifted his body and guided it down onto the pole jutting up from my lap. "Free refill," I grinned as my cock slid up into him. That was the last time I thought about coffee that evening.

It's been a few months since I took that walk to the cleaners. Eventually I got a new Nordic Track and gave up my neighborhood wanderings. Some things haven't changed, though. I still stop by the coffeehouse early every weekday morning and somewhat later on the weekends, and Greg still works there. I see a lot more of him, since he comes by my place often these days. He's helped me a lot with my workout routine and my arms are looking pretty good.

"It makes perfect sense that we got together," I said to him the other day, tracing the ridge in the center of his flat stomach with one finger as we lay in my bed.

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, for months you were offering me hot milky liquid every time you saw me. All we did was turn symbolism into reality."

Greg stared, then cracked up. "Steve, you're crazy. Crazy but nice," he said, drawing me close with his arms of steel. "Hot and strong, too."

Like a good cup of coffee, I thought, as I lost myself in the comfort of his body.

END