02 March 2012

White or Blue Collar

I'm torn. White or Blue? I just don't know.

On the radio this morning, the gaggle of radio personalities were in cacophonous make-believe disagreement over the daily debate question: what is hotter? White collar guys or blue collar guys? I thought about it. Having been with bothm I really don't have a good answer. BUT I do have good arguments.

Little Boy Blue
Drew was someone I hit up on Craigslist about five years ago. He was a contractor in upstate New York, right across the Jersey border. What was it about him? He had a fucking rocking construction worker body with a perfect farmers tan - that started at his waist - melt! He had huge calloused hangs that were bear paws on my body. Now, despite the hotness that was him, the first time and every time after we met was always something weird.

He asked me if I wasnted to meet at his place, I said of course - I just had to drive about an hour into Upstate. Not too big of a deal, I've done worse for a hook-up (Michigan). It was up the windey roads of the side of a mountain. When I got there, he was outside with his golden retriever and he was wearing his dirtied jeans, red flannel, and Timberland boots sporting 5 o'clock shadow. I just wanted to fuck in the woods right there!

He brought me into his house, a pretty average looking house from the outside, but renovated as shit inside. The kitchen had stainless steel appliances, the color scheme was monochromatic. I didn't want to ruin anything. But he was . . . blue collar. "Yo, yuh wanna beer uh somethin'? Yuh good? I'd have one, but I hafa get tuh the site afta this. Guys'll be askin' fuh me." Then he pulled me in for a kiss. Rough and uneven goatee with five o'clock shadow coming in. The smells of lumber on his flannel. The sand paper hands that positioned my face so his tongue could taste every inch inside my mouth. "Let's head up, bro."

Through his living room, we went up a carpet-less staircase that made so much noise - the thumping of his work boots and the clickety-clack of my dress shoes which sounded like my Friday night heels.We walked past a den area . . . clean. Then a pink room . . . cute. Then a blue room . . . crap. He was married with kids.

White Light
A suit and tie guy does it for me. The thought of a Mad Men scenario with Don Draper smoking a cigarette whilst sipping a whiskey in a rocks glass calling me in to the office with a Steno pad for his routine suck off at 9am is so thrilling. Even better when the guy comes over and talks about the financials at the firm while un-knotting his tie to use it as a means to tie me up a la Men at Play.

Mike was a product of Craigslist. In town for business every two weeks, we hashed out the details and figured to meet at my place right after work. He promised a relaxed and chill meet up so I figured I would get all my ducks in a row and clean up properly - like a lady. The anticipation was pretty high. It was a little after 6 and after I gave him a call to check on his whereabouts, it sent me straight to voice mail. Now, friends: we all know the natural follow up to that. That's right: log back in to find someone else. Well, as I was about to do that, my buzzer sounded and I let him up.

When he walked in, he had his suit and tie on toting a pretty sweet briefcase. He was on his blackberry and motioned a "one sec' with his forefinger, but managed to kiss me on the lips in between answering a question about briefs and reports. And truth be told, I wanted to see his briefs so I could also report back. (Ba dum bum.! Thank you, I'm here all night!) As he was talking, he put his stuff down and motioned over to my bar and pantomimed a drink. Swoon! I poured him out some whiskey that was rarely touched and the while he was undressing like it was the end of the day for him. I remember looking over to the clock on the wall and heard him say: get undressed now.

I quick looked over to him and his friendly disposition disappeared. With the top button of his shirt open and in his Brooks Brothers slacks he stood there staring at me and waiting, phone off. I was quickly undressing looking down and he lifted up my chin and whispered "slower." Oh, geez: one of those. As I stood there named, I felt like a sorority girl at the semi-annual circle of fat event. Yikes! But there were only positive comments. He turned me around and spread my buns. I felt his forefinger press up again my balloon knot and then heard him put it in his mouth with a faint "mmmm" sound. He whispered: let's go to your room.

Excited, I had to control myself ffrom skipping towards the boudoir. He calmly doled out orders. "Face down." "Ass up." "Arch your back." "Do my laundry." Ok, so he didn't say that last bit, but if he did, I would have. As he got behind me, I felt his tongue trace my back down to the crack of my ass. "Spread your ass." I did so with my hands to reveal my chocolate starfish. As he went in for it, I stopped the mood and reached for the light switch. He grabbed my wrist: "No, I want to see your hole as I'm fucking it." Wow.

Point of the conversation: It don't matter if you're blue or white. (Thank you, Michael Jackson.)

- DeeCue

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