Oscar B.A. Chapter 1
Oscar Bachelor of Arts
Part 1
`So,' he said, eyeing me up and down from across the table. `What's your name?'
I pulled a face.
He's forgotten already?
`It's Oscar.'
He raised his eyebrows: thick and dark with streaks of grey above curious eyes a deep brown. Deeper and darker than the polished oak between us.
`Really?' he said.
`Really. Why wouldn't it be?'
He laughed. A good laugh. Deep and manly. It suited him like his thick head of salt-and-peppered hair suited his handsome face. Like his suit suited his perfect body.
Charcoal grey jacket and trousers with a crisp white shirt and dark indigo tie. Black belt. Polished black Oxford shoes. Heuer watch. White gold Vivienne Westwood cufflinks and matching cardholder.
`Don't worry, I hadn't forgotten,' he said. `I promise. Who could forget a young man as beautiful as you?'
I shrugged. Winked. Said nothing.
`It's just some lads use fake names on Grindr, that's all,' he said.
Oh.
I nodded. They certainly do.
Reaching under the table, I stroked his leg with the tips of my fingers. I was relieved. This guy was as sharp, smart and successful as he'd looked on my phone screen after all.
`I have nothing to hide,' I said.
Which was a steaming crock of shit. I had plenty to hide. Who doesn't?
But that's the beauty of Grindr hook-ups. I wasn't going to change my name. I'd forget it after a few drinks. But I could be any Oscar I wanted.
An Oscar without a past. Without a history. Just a future. And the best part? That future, as a student living off Government grants far away from the cesspit of mediocrity I'd waisted eighteen years of my life in, far away from the people who had held me back and messed me up and dumped me like garbage, would go on.
Tonight, I could say and do whatever I wanted. I could be from anywhere and be anything I desired. Nothing in my real life would change because I would never see this guy again.
Like all the rest he would become a memory. A good memory. But nothing more.
`Good to know,' he said.
I said nothing. Winked. Then, putting the clear plastic straw bobbing in my vodka and coke between my lips, I looked up again. His eyes had already followed, staring at my mouth. Then they widened, ever-so-slightly, as I sucked up the cold, dark, sweet, fizzing liquid. Ice cubes gently jostling against glass.
Delicious.
`What about you?' I said before smacking my lips to savour the taste chilling my throat and blissfully burning my stomach.
`Is Steven my real name?'
`Yeah.'
`No,' he said, looking down at his hands.
I nodded but said nothing. Looked around the elegant restaurant. At the people sat at the other tables. At the exposed brick walls and long, New York-style bar. Breathed in the sweet scent of freshly baked bread floating around the room from wicker baskets hanging off arms of smartly dressed servers.
Anywhere but at him.
Please, he wasn't the first guy to play this game. Withhold what he thought was juicy information to make himself seem more interesting or mysterious.
But the joke was on him. False names are almost always used for the same reasons: Powerful job, infidelity, closeted or all three. And I knew he wanted to fuck me. That had been made crystal clear from his messages. Not to mention the collection of X-rated pics he'd sent. Chiselled abs, wide pecs, powerful arms and shoulders. Strong, hairy legs. Mouth-watering bulge under tight, white briefs. A long, thick uncut cock.
Very thick.
At that point, all I wanted was the drink in my hand, the overpriced T-bone I'd ordered a few minutes ago, and the bigger slab of meat between his legs: A post-dinner meal pre-promised on a platter of Egyptian cotton an hour ago, after I'd sent my own collection of salacious images.
With the main event sorted, I didn't care if he was married or the CEO of a Fortune 500. I definitely didn't care what his name was.
Until I did.
`Aren't you going to ask?' he said.
`No.'
`Oh, right,' he said, a frown creeping into the corners of his mouth as he checked his watch.
I sighed silently to myself. I knew that face.
Pre-promised my arse. This guy was hot, but Mr. Big Shot obviously had an ego to match his chiselled jaw and pearly whites. Most probably a man used to his dates sitting slack-jawed and salivating all over his big fancy job and big fancy life.
I realised if I wanted another drink and a ride in his nice car back to his nice house-slash-apartment-slash-hotel, I would need to stroke more than his leg.
Big Shot was worth it, though. He was the best meet I'd had all week, so I was happy to at least pretend to be interested in his personality. And, yes, it would be hard for him to find another twink like me at short notice, but with a face and body like his, it wouldn't be hard for him to find someone.
A hole's a hole.
`But that doesn't mean I don't want to know,' I said, reaching out again and squeezing his leg, as high up his thigh as I could without face-planting the table. `I was going to guess.'
`Oh,' he said again, but this time practically beaming.
Putting one hand on top of mine under the table and the other around his drink he took a sip. Vodka martini, extra cold with a lemon twist. I let go of his leg, sat up straight, picked up my drink and sipped. He smiled. I faked one.
`John?' I said.
He shook his head slowly. Said, `Nope.'
`Paul?'
`Guess again.'
`Ringo?'
He laughed. Said, `You're not even trying.'
`I am.'
`Ringo?'
`Hey, it's a good name.'
`It's Richard.'
I grinned. Said, `People ever call you Dick?'
`All the time.'
`Can I call you Dick?'
`If you want.'
I said nothing.
`What are you smirking at, Oscar?' he said.
`We already established that I can call you Daddy, right?'
He grinned. Said, `Only if you're a good boy.'
`Of course,' I said, pursing my lips and blowing him a kiss, my hand back on his leg; his hand back on mine. `The best.'
Smiling he stroked the back of my hand. Said, `And?'
`I'm going to call you Daddy Dick.'
He laughed again. Louder and deeper than before. His shirt stretching around his pecs as he leant back in his chair. His biceps bulging as his muscled torso shuddered. My balls tingling as my cock grew under my tight, black boxer briefs.
Daddy Dick really was the best meet I'd had all week. By far.
Monday and Tuesday had been ok. A local twink bottom and a versatile second-year student respectively. Both sexy and eager and big cummers. Especially the bottom. He'd blown without touching himself, all over my sheets, and still let me pound away until I'd finished. But then they'd both wanted to talk and cuddle. Hang out in my room. Smoke my weed. Get to know me.
Bye.
Wednesday never showed – instant block – and Thursday had been a classic Grindr bull-shitter. On the chat, he was all about dominant mouth play. Letting me fuck his skull over the edge of my bed. Holding his nose closed to open his mouth as wide as possible. Dumping my load throat-creampie style. You name it, he was keen.
But when we'd met he was nervous as hell, gagged the moment I'd gone a quarter way down and then refused to swallow.
Compared to the week's unfortunate events, Friday was proving to be just what I'd needed. Daddy Dick was wealthy, hung and happy to let me touch him up under the table. Tick, tick, tick.
Until the questions came. Right on cue.
`Tell me more about yourself,' he said.
I groaned. Audibly. As much as I was free to make up whatever story I wanted, it was all still redundant. A pointless waste of precious foreplay time.
`I'd rather not,' I said.
`What? Why?'
`I don't like talking about myself.'
`Is that so?' he said, sipping his Martini. `What do you like to talk about?'
`The things you're going to do to me when you take me home?'
He smirked. Then, leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs. Said, `Who says I'm taking you home?'
Tilting my head to the side, to really stress my point, I said, `I'm pretty sure you did. About an hour ago?'
`True. But I was hoping we could have a drink and a bite to eat first,' he said, gesturing to the drinks in front of us. `Get to know each other a little.'
What's the fucking point? Is what I wanted to say. Instead I smiled as best I could and tried to stop my jaw from clenching as I controlled the frustration already bubbling. Prayed that Daddy Dick's dick was as delicious as it had looked shining up from my inbox.
`What would you like to know?' I said.
`You're a student, right?'
I nodded and took another sip of my drink. This line of questioning was fine. Still boring as hell, but fine.
It was what I like to call filler talk. Like when you find someone on Grindr but you know from their profile they probably won't respond well to a dick pic and a location-drop, so you ask them the inane go-tos like "what do you do?" and "how was your day?" or:
`What do you study?' he said.
`English literature,' I said.
True.
`Book worm?'
I chuckled. Said, `No. Not at all.'
Also true.
`Then why?'
`Only eight hours of lectures a week.'
Again, true, but awesomely he assumed I was joking.
`Why else?' he said, chuckling.
And then something curious happened. I don't know whether it was the vodka, or just the fact I hadn't needed to lie for the last three questions, but I told it again. The truth.
A truth I would usually have never let slip.
`I was actually going to study music.'
My fingers pulsed. Painfully. As if they were swollen and bent and broken again.
I rubbed my knuckles under the table until the pain went away.
`But?' he said
`I didn't get the grades,' I lied.
`But you're a musician?'
`No. I stopped playing.'
Half-true.
`What did you play?' he said.
`The piano.'
True.
`Why did you stop?'
`It wasn't challenging enough for me.'
Lie.
`Fair enough,' he said. `Although I can tell you're lying.'
We locked eyes.
`Is that so?' I said.
`It is. It's kind of my job.'
`You're a lie detector?'
He laughed. Said, `No. I work in sociology. Specialise in body language.'
`And you can tell I'm lying from how I'm what? Sat?'
`Yup.'
`Bullshit,' I said.
He laughed again. Said, `Yeah. You got me. Total bullshit.'
I laughed. Genuinely. Daddy Dick was funny too. But I shouldn't have. I regretted it immediately. He wasn't going to drop it. I could tell.
Tell what I wasn't exactly sure. Maybe he was nervous. He wouldn't be the first. Or maybe he was balancing up the same old moral dilemma I'd seen in the eyes of plenty of older men like him. Eyes that said if only I can get this boy to open up, I can lend an experienced ear. A kind, older, wiser, worldly ear to make up for all the sordid things I'm going to do to his nineteen-year-old body.
Who knows? Either way, he kept coming.
`I still reckon you're lying,' he said.
I said nothing.
`Come on. Tell me. Why didn't you do music?'
`I told you.'
`And I told you, I don't believe you.'
`It's the truth,' I said, my patience rapidly dwindling.
`No. It isn't.'
`It is,' I said, patience gone.
`Nope.'
`Fine,' I said. `When I was seventeen, I stole my dad's credit card. I needed an iPhone, more than anything in the world. So, he beat me with an iron fire poker. I used my hands to protect my face.'
Then I held them up.
His eyes darted down. Down to the pink and white scars running diagonally across the palms of my hands. His mouth fell open. A second later he started to speak but was interrupted by a waitress with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Our food.
We ate in silence. Me probably far more comfortably than him. I could sense he felt bad. Bad for pushing me to talk. Or bad because he felt guilty for cheating on his wife or boyfriend or whatever reason he'd given a fake name for and was now stuck dealing with some sad, abused runaway. I didn't care. I hadn't eaten this well in weeks.
When I finished, I placed my cutlery together and looked up. He was staring at me. Intently.
`What?' I said.
You better be out of questions, I hoped.
`I'm sorry,' he said.
`Don't be. I don't want your pity.'
`I am sorry though.'
`And I said don't be.'
`Ok,' he said. `Can I ask you one last thing?'
The table next to us would have heard my groan.
`Why not?' I said.
Wanna get out of here?'
`I thought you'd never ask.'
Thirty minutes later the bill was paid and we were back at his place. An apartment in one of the new-builds in the city centre. Twenty-eighth floor. Not penthouse, but not far off. My shirt was on the floor and he had me up against his kitchen wall. The cool tiles were tickling my bare back and his huge hands were on my toned waist, squeezing me tight and pulling me into him as his hungry mouth kissed my neck.
Now we were talking.
To be continued ...
Head over to my website to learn more about Oscar, including exclusive content about my upcoming eBook series Oscar Down Under, as well as my first collection of Nifty stories title Oscar.
Copyright Jack Ladd 2017
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