Four-Hour Layover

I was stuck in Detroit, of all places, to endure a four-hour layover in flights from New York to Key West. I assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that I’d be bored out of my gored for hours here. Who designed these flight routings anyway? At least I could stay at the airport and not have to go into Detroit. From here it was Miami and then another two-hour wait for the commuter plane into Key West. From there I could almost walk back to when I was staying.

I wouldn’t get there until dark. Luckily, there was a whole lot of good stuff to get into in Key West after dark. Two weeks there in a rented house with more play time than on-the-job time. I hunkered down into the seat at the waiting area for my flight–and probably several flights before mine came up. I could use a drink and maybe some tacos, but I had plenty of time to work that in before my flight to Miami came up. Four hours of time.

No flight was up on the board at this gate, so it would be a while before the waiting area would fill up. I’d have privacy and quiet to work down my e-mail lists. The waiting area for the next gate over was deserted as well other than one guy working on his laptop, and there was no flight announcement up on the screen there either.

The other guy and I were facing each other across a half dozen deserted rows of black upholstered chairs and he looked up as I was scanning across him between e-mails and gave me a smile. He looked familiar. It would take a few minutes, but I’d place him. I was good with faces and his was a good one–ruggedly handsome. He was a tall guy and solidly built. He looked muscular, which caught my attention because he must be in his forties. You don’t often see well-built men in that age bracket–except in my line of business. So, I passed his features through my mind against all of the men that age I’d worked with but came up with a blank. It was something in the entertainment industry, I was sure, though, now that I thought of it. I was zeroing in on him. Athletic bearing, self-confidence, well-dressed, great smile, buzz cut like a Marine or maybe to cover going bald.

I also must have been holding his gaze while I was thinking because his smile deepened and he was getting up and walking toward me.

Then it hit. It must have been the loose, almost dancing way he was walking–his assured gait. It was Ted Buckley, a former, if only briefly, quarterback with the Denver Broncos. He was a hunk and a half. Many had been the time that I’d sighed over seeing him in a post-game interview.

“Excuse me, do you mind?” he asked when he was standing in front of me. He was lifting his laptop and nodding toward the column rising beside the seat across from mine. “I need a charge,” he added in the way of explanation.

You can charge me anytime you want, I thought, but then I looked and saw that there was an outlet in the column. The man was saying he needed to recharge his laptop.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said, moving a couple of seats further away from the column.

“Thanks,” he said, sat down, plugged in, and looked at me with that dazzling smile of his again. “You stuck in a long layover too?” he asked.

“Yep. Airline craziness,” I answered. “New York this morning and Key West this evening, so why am I sitting for four hours between flights in the Detroit airport just after noon?”

“Right. Tell me about it. It’s a three-and-a-half-hour wait for me between Baltimore and Denver.”

“Excuse me, but you’re a dead ringer for Ted Buckley, the football player. Are you–?”

“Yes, got it in one,” he said, turning on his smile again. “But it’s ‘former football player.’ I do TV commentating for the Baltimore Ravens now. They just lost their last chance at playoffs for the year, so I’m headed home for a break.”

“Right. Denver. You settled down there after a couple of years on that team, I guess.”

“Got it again. You look familiar too, Mr….”

“Ken Franklin,” I said, extending my hand. His grip was firm but not bone crushing, and he held my hand a fraction longer than necessary. “I’m a commercial model in New York. Maybe you’ve seen me on a TV commercial.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. If it’s not sports, I don’t watch it on TV,” he said.

“I do depict tennis players in a couple of commercials.”

“Not my kind of sports. But it seems somewhere else I know you from.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of guys who look like me.”

“A lot of perfectly put together young men, yes, but few as good looking as you, I’m sure. But I suppose looking like you do is a problem that goes with being a commercial model. Bet you get hit on a lot too.”

I probably blushed on that, although there wasn’t much that made me blush anymore. If he’d seen me from anywhere else, it would be saying something about him–and that would be interesting right there. Since he brought it up, I had to wonder too if he was hitting on me here.

When I didn’t respond, he went on himself. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry and thirsty and it looks like we both have a long wait in front of us. What say you to finding a sports bar with me, checking in on some of the sports going, and getting something to eat and drink.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said. “I think I passed a SlapShotz Bar and Grill not too far back on Concourse A. Would that do?”

“That sounds perfect. Let’s go there,” Buckley said, giving me another dazzling smile and pulling the plug for his laptop out of the column and coiling it up. His laptop must not have needed much of a charge to be all charged up in that short amount of time. But I wasn’t going to think further on that. The man was a hunk and a half.

This long layover wasn’t going to be as much of a chore as I had thought it would be.

* * * *

Initially while we ate and drank lunch at the SlapShotz bar, Buckley’s eyes were darting all around, taking in the various sports action on the screens, but within a few minutes he gave me a startled look and settled down and was concentrating only on me.

“It must be rough on your family for you to be moving back and forth between Denver and Baltimore all the time for your job,” I said.

“There’s no special place to be for family,” Buckley answered. “It’s wherever I want to be at the moment.”

“You’re not married?”

“Twice divorced. Having a blonde bimbo in tow was pretty much a requirement for the job while I was playing. That wasn’t my style, though. Kids? Yeah, a couple, but they’re spread out and grown and I probably see them as much as if we lived in the same town full time. I have a ranchette I enjoy working up in the Rockies outside of Denver and a small apartment in Baltimore. The Ravens are on the road a lot, anyway, so I just do a lot of flying–and my share of long layovers in airports. The life suits me, though. And you? Do you have a family tucked away somewhere?”

“My mother’s still alive. She’s in Tampa having the time of her life. I’ll stop in and see her after my Key West vacation is over. She’ll take me clubbing and drink me under the table.”

“But no wife or girlfriend anywhere.”

“No, that’s not my lifestyle,” I said, looking him in the eye. I was getting vibes off him. I decided I might as well just run that flag up the pole and see if he saluted. “I’m gay. I’m between boyfriends in New York. The apartment’s mine, though, so I don’t have to move every time I change boyfriends.”

“And you’re going to Key West on vacation or to do some work?” he asked.

He hadn’t batted an eye over my revelation that I was gay. Hadn’t I heard some rumors about him? “Some of both,” I answered.

“Making a movie down there?”

“Yes, but how did you figure that out?” He’d hit. Unicorn Productions was filming a movie tentatively named the uninventive Guys of Key West and some of my time the next two weeks in the keys would be working on that.

“I was sitting here, still bothered by you being familiar and I didn’t know where from, when it dawned on me that you star in gay male porn. You’re Kyle Allen in films, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s me, Kyle Allen. I more feature than star,” I said, with a laugh. “Still it pays well enough.” Buckley had nailed it. In addition to commercial modeling, which paid pretty well, I worked for Unicorn Productions in gay porn movies. I didn’t do many. It was easy to be overexposed–pun unavoidable–in gay male films, so I was picky about the quality of the movies I was in and how many I’d do in a year. Still, the films brought in more money than the modeling did. Unicorn Productions, taking its name from the slang term for “unicorn” meaning a perfect male–rare as a unicorn–was a slick, glossy-film production company. I specialized in what they called “boyfriend” movies, meaning usually just two guys with beautiful bodies, making love more than sex in what appears to be their shared bed, filmed with high-art techniques and interesting positions.

“You star with me. Do you mind if I call you Kyle now rather than Ken?”

“Sure, that’s fine,” I said. He’d reached over and was running his finger through the light matting of hair on my forearm. He’d nailed what my name was. He’d outed himself in the process too. He knew me because he’d been watching gay porn. Where was this going? Was he going to nail me now? Would I like that? Hell, yes, I’d like that. But we were stuck in an airport terminal for the next few hours. And we were headed in different directions from here. This didn’t seem the right time or place–damn it. But it was a nice thought.

We chatted some more without this going any deeper and a couple of games on the TV–a football team still in the hunt and an early-season ice hockey game–heated up. Buckley’s attention got divided again, although his fingers kept coming back to my forearm and I didn’t move my forearm off the table to accommodate that degree of his interest. I had gone hard and was panting lightly. But this didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go in our circumstances.

“Do you have a card?” I asked. “In case I should ever be in Denver or Baltimore when you are there and we both have free time and opportunity.” I was making myself available. It was up to him to say that was what he wanted.

“Opportunity, yes,” he said, pulling his attention away from the TV sets. “Sure. And you’ll give me yours in case I’m in New York and footloose. I, in fact, am in New York a lot.”

We exchanged cards, our hands coming together. He folded his thumb under, pressed in my palm, which I recognized as a declaration of a seeking top. I folding my fingers around the thumb and rubbed, a submissive’s response.

So, had there been an opportunity… and maybe someday there would be. Reluctantly, I rose and said. Guess I’ll go back to the waiting area where my flight–someday–will be taking off. Three more hours. Will you be coming back too?

“In a few,” he said, remaining seated and his gaze returning to the bank of TVs overhead. “See you back there for the long wait.”

“Yeah. I wish there were–”

“Me too,” he said, but his attention was divided between me and his sports.

* * * *

I returned to my “eventual” gate somewhat despondent that my encounter with the former professional football player, Ted Buckley, hadn’t been able to go any further. It didn’t help my disposition that when I got back, the waiting area at the gate was aswirl with passengers in the midst of boarding for an earlier flight. Where I had been sitting before was about as far from the tunnel entrance as possible, though, so the movement was generally away from me. I found my former seat, sank into it, and shut my systems down while the waiting area was emptying out.

“Did you know they have a hotel right here in the terminal? The Westin. You can enter straight from the terminal and they have their own security check to get back into the departure area.”

It took me a couple of seconds to realize that he was talking to me, but I recognized Ted Buckley’s voice and looked up.

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said. He was standing in front of me, extending an arm toward me. There was a card in his hand.

“I decided my layover was long enough to check in and get a couple of hours of rest on a real bed rather than have to sit in these uncomfortable chairs. I’d like to get a shower too.”

“That sounds like a good idea for someone loaded with money,” I said.

“The room has a king-sized bed. I don’t see any reason not to share it. Here’s a key. Room 709. They gave me two. I did tell them there would be two in the room. You think you can remember that while you’re deciding whether or not you want to join me?”

“Join you?” I wasn’t being real quick on the uptake–on fully understanding what he was proposing. Still, I took the key card from his hand.

“Walk to where the concourses intersect, go down a level, and take Concourse B,” he said. “Room 709.”

“Room 709,” I repeated, but he already was gone.

* * * *

I got lost looking for the entrance into the hotel–I even had forgotten the name of the hotel. But I did have the room key, with Westin printed on it, I remembered the room number, and I asked a little old lady driving a transport cart for directions.

When I opened the door to the room, Buckley was coming out of the bathroom with just a towel around his midsection, which he dropped as I closed the door. I sucked in air. He was horse hung and in erection. He was in great shape for being over forty–solidly built, hard-bodied, and muscular. He was slightly hirsute too, which was a surprise as closely cropped as his head hair was.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming,” he said. “Strip down for me, please.” When I hesitated, he said, “Do you want to do this or not? Our layovers aren’t long enough for much of a seduction. And I thought we already took care of that part.”

“I got lost and had to ask for directions,” I said, as I pulled my T-shirt over my head, kicked off my shoes, and unbuckled my belt.

“You can take a shower and then I’ll fuck you on the bed. We might have time for seconds.”

“You’re assuming I’ll let you fuck me, aren’t you?” I asked.

“You’re stripping down for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, and then I had.

“Very nice. You’re what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two,” I said.

“Beautiful body–as good as you look in your movies. You’re a model, you said? Walk for me. Yes, like that. Turn. Take yourself in hand and stroke it for me. Maybe we do have time for a bit of seduction.”

I did as he asked. He was taking complete command and that turned me on.

He walked slowly across the room to where I was standing near the door to the outer corridor. He pressed me against the wall with a palm to my sternum and came in for a lingering kiss on the lips. His other hand went to the small of my back and he was coaxing me to jut my pelvis out from the well, which I did. The kiss started tender, went to full possession as a hand went to grasping and stroking my cock, and then went back to tender. He kissed his way down my chest as he went down on his knees in front of me. He dragged his tongue through my trimmed pubic bush and took possession of my cock. He grasped my thighs in his hands, coaxing me to crouch, spread my legs, and extend them from the wall, supporting myself by pressing the small of my back on the wall. I moaned as he gave me head, held my left hip in one hand, and snaked his right hand under my balls, seeking out and entering my ass with, first, one finger, and then another. I gave a little yelp as he plunged deep with the fingers, but then held steady as he set up a rhythm of finger fucking me and moving his mouth on my shaft.

I held his head between my hands and panted as he sucked me off and finger fucked my ass. I murmured that I would come in his throat if me didn’t pull off me. He didn’t pull off me and I came in his throat. He pulled away from me then and let me sink down to the floor.

“Take a shower and clean yourself out good,” he said as he walked to the window, picked up a pack of cigarettes from the night stand while in route, lit up, and, at the window, pulled the draperies apart, took drags on his cigarette, and looked at the activity on the airport runway. “Don’t take long. You got me hard and throbbing.”

He certainly looked hard. Everything was a command, given with assurance, and assuming I would follow–which I did.

When I came out of the shower and knelt to him as he sat on the bed and sucked him into full erection again, he fucked me on the bed in a doggie. He took me efficiently and totally, but not all that quickly. He was a master of getting full value out of the fuck, taking me to the edge and sensing when to pull back before marching to the edge again. I knelt on at the bottom edge of the bed, with my ass elevated and my chest and cheek plastered to the bed. He grasped my wrists in his hands, extending my arms over my head and spread wide. He saddled up behind me, standing on the floor at the foot of the bed; mounted me; penetrated me slowly and deep; and fucked the hell out of me.

When it seemed inevitable that he would come–that he’d pull out of me, jerk the condom off, and nail me on my back–he didn’t. He pulled out, but only to readjust me. He pushed me up the bed and onto my side. Pausing long enough to pull his belt out of his trousers, he made sure I could see and gave me a querying look. A flash of fear jolted through me–which was arousing in itself. At first I thought he meant to strap me with the belt and I wondered if I’d try to resist. Another jolt went through me when I realized I wouldn’t resist that if it was what he wanted.

But it wasn’t what he wanted. He mimed wrapping the belt around his wrist and I understood that he wanted to bind my wrists. With a shudder and shiver, I nodded. He resumed fucking me on the bed, my wrists bound and my arms raised over my head, with Buckley kneeling behind me, grasping the ankle of my left leg and running it up his chest, as he fucked me from behind–this time to his ejaculation.

“I saw you being fucked this way in a video,” he said, “and I wanted to do you this way too.”

He did me masterfully, as well as any dude who had been paid to do it on film.

We dozed briefly stretched out against each other and arms entangled, between fucks. We whispered to each other, telling each other how beautiful our bodies were, how much we had enjoyed each other, and how lucky we’d both had a long layover between flights.

“You’re a great lay,” he whispered. “I can understand why they pay you to fuck on film.”

“I just wish…” I started, but stopped.

“Wish what?”

“That this wasn’t just a stolen hour with me going one way and you another,” I said. I hesitated to say it. I’d always taken sex casually–purposely so, not wanted any encumbrances, no entangling relationships.

He kissed me on a nipple but said nothing else. I got the message: no entangling relationships for him either.

We fondled each other’s bodies with our hands and Buckley held our cocks together and frotted us both back into full erection. Then I rolled him onto his back, straddled his hips, facing his head, impaled myself on his cock, palmed his pecs, and rode him to cowboy heaven.

“You can shower and dress first,” he said afterward.

“I think your plane leaves first, doesn’t it?” I said.

“I’ll have to check out. You do ahead.” So, I did. As soon as I came out of the shower, he went in, so there was no talk at the end.

It was just an encounter–a one-time hookup–a pleasant way to make our separate layovers to separate destinations pass quickly.

Much too quickly, I thought. I would have liked more. The shower was going when I was dressed. I called out a good-bye and an “It was great,” at the closed bathroom door before I left, but I have no idea if he heard me.

In bed, while we were recovering for a second go at it, I’d said, “I bet you do this a lot on layovers as much as you travel and as good as you are at it.” I don’t know what I was expecting–what I was hoping–he would answer, but he didn’t answer as I would have liked.