Another Old Fag: Carlos Rivera
Prologue
Carlos Rivera was an orphan; more precisely, his parents had been deported to Venezuela from Los Angeles when Carlos was a student at Los Angeles City College. Mario Garza had been the attorney for Carlos' parents, and since Carlos had been born in the United States, he was allowed to remain in the US. He became a foster child, living with Mario and his husband Mason Taylor at the palatial beach home in Malibu.
Following his education as an architect and engineer, Carlos was launched into a career flying around the world consulting on construction projects which required his expertise. Many of those projects were in South Americas, so Carlos had ample opportunities to visit his parents and siblings. He also had ample opportunities to expand his sexual repertoire as a bi-sexual man who had first tasted `forbidden fruit' at Mason and Mario's home.
Chapter One
Carlos Rivera was visiting Mexico City; he was the guest of the government of the City and was inspecting historic sites to determine the quality of their preparation for any seismic activity.
A handsome late-thirty-something, Carlos Rivera had the dark hair and flashing dark eyes that was his heritage: just over six feet tall, the movie-star face and build of a futbol athlete, Carlos never had any trouble in finding a partner for bedtime.
His real trouble was in fending off the unwanted offers from potential partners at bedtime; on this visit to Mexico City, perhaps his twentieth or so in his career, Carlos had received glances, whistles, and nudges from waiters, waitresses, bellboys, and hotel receptionists and business office receptionists as well. He just wanted a full night's sleep, alone, in his suite at the Americana hotel adjacent to the rear entrance to the national archeological park and museum.
But the desire for a restful sleep did not preclude him from the blow-job delivered by the bellboy/waiter when the room service coffee was delivered the next morning; the bellboy, perhaps twenty years old, about four inches shorter than Carlos, was quickly on his knees to thank Carlos for the five-dollar tip for the coffee service. The blow-job took only about five-and-a-half minutes; Carlos had awakened with his usual morning wood. In addition to the $5, Carlos gave the bellboy a mouthful of Venezuelan cum.
Not wasting any time reflecting on that moment, Carlos was seated in the rear of a cab headed to the offices of the City government; he did notice the constant stares from the cab driver in the rear-view mirror. He thanked the driver and tipped him appropriately and made his way through the vast security system established in all government offices throughout Mexico City.
His most recent prior visit, to the offices of Pemex, Petróleos Mexicanos, had required more than an hour waiting in the heat before surrendering his passport and being frisked.
Carlos was unusual; he was patient, quiet, intellectual, studious, and curious. He loved history, art, and movies, as well as the history of architecture, his career, and had taken hundreds of photographs of architectural monuments in his travels. He was not fond of travel; it was a nuisance and especially in this post-9/11 age of travel, was never comfortable or convenient.
Carlos was also pretty irreligious; he was not against religion but had never been forced into any specific religion by his family. He saw religion and its thousands of architectural manifestations as just another way to screw money out of the people least able to afford it. Consequently, he felt no ambiguity between his sexual life and religion; if anything, he felt contempt for those who in the clothing of religion preyed upon others sexually. The movie El Crimen del Padre Amaro which starred Gael Garcia Bernal and Sancho Garcia depicted perfectly his feelings about that topic.
Carlos had come of age sexually in the home in Malibu of Mason Taylor and his husband, Mario Garza. Carlos was a young college student and was introduced to gay sex by the surfers who lived nearby as well as Mason's nephew Stuart Warden. Carlos had not remained a strictly gay man, and had crossed that line many times, resulting in the birth of his only daughter.
However, for Carlos, there was no line to be crossed; it was just sex. Sex with a man or with a woman, made little difference to Carlos; the attraction was the same. He laughed about it once in a while, if he even thought about it, which was not often.
Which made him think of this trip to Mexico City: he had been hustled by the cab driver from the airport, and the bellboy who carried his luggage to his hotel room, as well as the young woman at the hotel reception desk, and the waitress in the hotel dining room, and the maître d' of the dining room. He began to think of himself as merely fresh meat; that caused him to laugh aloud.
The waitress came to his table and asked if everything was acceptable, perhaps motivated by Carlos' laugh; he smiled and assured her that he was fine and only needed more wine. The pino grigio from Argentina was merely passable, not commendable, but it served to complement the pollo en mole he was eating. He had a friend from Mexico in his firm who insisted that only beer should be consumed with Mexican food, but Carlos felt a lot more eclectic than that. Only gringos fell for those Corona commercials on American television.
Feeling the tingle at the back of his neck that usually accompanied a full-body overall inspection as someone viewed his entire frame and especially his crotch, Carlos tried to be patient as the receptionist in the anteroom of the City building inspector's office gave him the once-over. She was a remarkably beautiful woman; Carlos had come to realize that women were especially objectified by Latino society, from the news-women on TV to the receptionists to the ticket counter personnel at the airport or the bank tellers. They all fit the Latino cultural stereotype, tall, thin, waist-length black hair, big tits, big smiles, too much makeup. This one was no different.
She offered him coffee while he was waiting; he declined, and sat on the shell-shaped grey sofa, glancing around the anteroom. In another five minutes, the assistant building inspector came out from a side office; this time, Carlos was surprised. Here was another beautiful Latin woman, tall, thin, long waist-length black hair, combed back and pulled into a single braid, wearing a grey gabardine pantsuit and carrying a hard-hat, which she extended to Carlos as well as her hand in greeting.
"Imelda Brazos" she explained in her greeting; Carlos smiled and shook her hand and accepted the hard hat. She informed Carlos that they would be visiting three sites that day, so that it might be a long day of traveling from one site to the next, but she would try to make it as convenient for them as possible. She handed a folder of drawings and building specifications to Carlos, which he could review in the car as they traveled.
He was not consciously aware of it, but something intrigued him about this woman; she did not have the vacuous smile of the TV news-readers, but seemed to be his intellectual equal, and had a poise and confidence that belied the typical Latino objectification. Something stirred in his groin; he was not that far from home to be already thinking about sex, he chided himself.
Their first stop was a church, purportedly from the eighteenth century, which had severe cracks along the adobe exterior. Carlos was certain the cracks were caused by the shifting earth under the foundation, and not necessarily from seismic activity, but he asked for any test results which would make that obvious. He mentioned a few remedies for the cracking, including trenching a narrow excavation along the foundation on each side to inject new concrete beneath.
Imelda suggested stopping for lunch and tea before visiting the second destination: they had their driver take them to a little café near the church where they had tacos and tea. After watching her eyes, which fascinated Carlos, he blushed as she caught him staring at her. They silently finished their short lunch and returned to the car, as Imelda directed the driver to a building near the airport.
It was a long trip, nearly a half-hour since the lunch stop. Carlos was sleepy, probably from the lunch. The building was a long low warehouse which contained crated archeological objects to be mounted eventually in the museum at the Parque Nacional near Carlos' hotel. The warehouse itself sat across a fault line, which was obvious to Carlos; there were prominent cracks in the concrete walks and in the street paving on both sides of the warehouse, running in a jagged pattern from the hills on the east toward the rain gullies on the west.
It would not be a huge task to get the contents of the warehouse removed to a different storage site, nor would it be a serious effort to raze the warehouse; it had no architectural significance. The serious question on this site was the fault line; City managers had taken a look at it several times and were concerned that it probably ran further west through a barrio of low-income apartments, all with shoddy construction.
Carlos knew that most of South American and central American construction, both residential as well as commercial, utilized concrete. Walls, floors, and sometimes even ceilings were of concrete, because it was cheap, readily available, and easier to manipulate than wood, which was rare and expensive. Wood was used decoratively instead.
An earthquake fault line running through a cheap residential neighborhood would be another in a long line of catastrophes in Mexico City; it had a history of seismic disasters which had claimed hundreds of lives. This barrio was not politically important, but it would potentially be used by anti-government groups to focus the TV news crews on how the people were mistreated.
Carlos could read the political fault lines as well as the seismic ones; he suggested to Imelda that the most expeditious actions that the city could take would be to either reinforce the apartments in the barrio or to destroy the ones which were directly in the path of the fault line. He knew that neither action would be taken by the city; they did not have either the financial or political capital to do so. He could already read some future news bulletin: `Mexico City earthquake kills hundreds'.
Their final stop was an old monastery; it was not architecturally significant, but it had historical significance. It was the remains of the original Franciscan headquarters following the conquest of the Aztecs by Hernán Cortez. Now, it looked like a crumbling old horse stable: the roof was collapsed, one wall was missing, and the surroundings were covered in weeds.
Carlos wanted to suggest bulldozing the building, but in Mexico, one spoke carefully about the fault-lines of historical and political and cultural significance. After taking a series of photographs on his cell phone, Carlos was satisfied that he could make recommendations about restoring the building.
It took more than an hour through late-afternoon Mexico City traffic to return to Carlos' hotel; he invited Imelda to stay for dinner and drinks with him, which she declined. After a shower to rid himself of the day's dust and sweat, he lay on top of his bed for a short nap; he was awakened about an hour later by a knock at his room door. Answering the door in only a towel, he was greeted by a bellboy with a tray of wine and snacks. The bellboy did not face Carlos eye-to-eye; his eyes were focused on the bulge behind the towel.
The bellboy, who looked to be one of the hundreds who came into the capital city from the hinterlands by the busload, mumbled something about a gift from the manager of the hotel for Carlos, and took a single step forward into the luxury suite. Carlos stood aside and let him enter, and then realized that this was the same bellboy who had brought his coffee in the morning. The same bellboy who had sucked a huge load from Carlos' cock that very morning on this very spot. There may have been a blotch on the carpet to memorialize the event.
After placing the tray on the credenza nearest the window overlooking the national archeological park, the bellboy turned and slowly, anxiously, looked toward Carlos and again his eyes were focused on the bulge. Carlos was now engaged enough in the thought process, guessing at what was coursing through the mind of this young man from the countryside, to realize he was waiting for two things. A tip, and THE tip.
Carlos dropped the towel, revealing his huge Venezuelan cock, which was now starting to come to life; the bellboy's eyes grew large at that prospect. Carlos reached for the bellboy's hand and drew him toward the bed; the boy followed with staggering steps. He was not reluctant, just unfamiliar; Carlos said nothing, but gently and deftly began undressing the bellboy.
By the time they were both on the duvet covering the bed, both were also naked and hard. The country boy had an adequate cock: about seven inches, covered with a long foreskin, dark brown, hard and quivering, and a nice set of balls hanging below. Carlos dove onto the cock, engulfing it in his mouth, and reaching toward the chest of the boy with one hand to play with his nipples and stroking his balls with the other.
The bellboy was moaning and thrashing as his cock was being sucked by one of the expert cocksuckers in the Western hemisphere; Carlos was not a cock-hound but he thoroughly enjoyed sex, and the foreplay leading up to penetration was just as much fun as the finished product. He backed off the sucking when he felt the boy start to lunge deeper into Carlos' mouth, not wanting him to cum too soon; he pushed his hand running over the ball sack deeper into the crevice that hid his ass-hole and found the warm spot he was searching for.
The boy cried out when Carlos found the hole and thrust his finger into it; there was no ceremony, no lubrication, and no mercy as he forced another finger into the hole as well. Carlos was pretty sure that this young man was a virgin; that was about to change.
Carlos turned the boy onto his stomach, and forcing his legs apart, found the hole again with his tongue, slathering it with his warm wet saliva, penetrating the boy's virginity with his tongue. The moaning and writhing were the clues Carlos needed: this was indeed Nature's gift, a virgin country boy with a tight wet hole ready for fucking.
Pushing the legs further apart, Carlos knelt between them and reached across the bed to the lamp table and grabbed a small bottle of lube which he always brought when travelling; Swiss Navy was his favorite.
Applying the Swiss Navy to his cock and to the hole as well, the boy was shaking, probably because he knew what was next. What was next was Carlos gently shoving his fat long cock into the hole, barely an inch at a time, first just the crown of his cockhead, merely piercing the hole, prying it open with just a half-inch of fat cock. Then, another inch, another thrust, another yelp from the boy, and the entire crown of Carlos' cock slipped inside. He waited a moment, then two, until the boy started breathing again, then pushed another inch into him.
This process continued for another ten minutes, Carlos enjoying the conquest; he recalled clearly the first time he himself had been penetrated by Stuart Warden, Mason Taylor's nephew, in the apartment over the garage at the house in Malibu. Carlos had been a young college student then and was having his first taste of gay sex. The warmth of the memory flooded him, just as he flooded the bellboy's hot hole with the entirety of his big cock and began a thrusting rhythm.
Each downward stroke into the ass-hole of the country boy pinned beneath him face-down on the bed caused another grunt from the boy; the grunts soon turned into moans and the moans turned into the begging, pleading, `please fuck me more, fuck me harder' kinds of moans, which Carlos readily and willingly accommodated.
He wanted to plant his cock as deeply into this boy as he could, so that the boy would have the same memories of his First Fag Fuck as Carlos did of his own with Stuart. He wanted to plant a ton of cum into this boy, which he realized was soon: the orgasm rushed past his ability to control, and cum was immediately splashing into and squeezing out of the no-longer virgin hole.
After a decent interval, which for Carlos was maybe five minutes, he pulled his cock out of the wet hole with a warm squishing sound and lay next to the boy on the bed. The bellboy then turned toward Carlos and displayed his still-hard country cock. Carlos looked at it and smiled, and fondling the hardness, spread his own legs apart and said "coje-me" (fuck me).
The bellboy was startled at first, but then smiled. Carlos lubed them both up, first the country cock and then his own hole, and planting his feet flat on the bed while laying on his back, Carlos showed the boy how to enter him. He was awkward at first, but soon developed a rhythm which Carlos enjoyed; he had not been fucked in several months, and realized he would need to call Phil Downey, the former Los Angeles County Sherriff's deputy, as soon as he returned to California from Mexico City. Being fucked by Phil Downey was a mind-blowing experience; there is probably no larger cock in LA, even in the porn industry.
The bellboy came quickly; first fag fuck, after all. He pulled out just as quickly, leaving a mess on the duvet cover and on Carlos' legs. The boy grabbed the towel from the floor where Carlos had dropped it, and wiped himself somewhat, then dressed and left without a word.
"He forgot the tip" Carlos thought, smiling.