An Artist from the Past - Sex Stories

An Artist from the Past

... still hard dick deep inside. His hand left my dick as he fed me the cum that coated his fingers. It felt terrific to experience the strength, weight and violence of man-sex with a power top. Then, it was over. He quickly rose, dressed and was gone. I didn't even get his name. But I did sleep well that night, and my dreams were lurid re-enactments of man on man sex.

I'd like to say that experience became a routine, but it didn't unfortunately. Most of my drivers were old enough to be my father or grandfather. In fact over two years, there was only one other. And all he did was let me blow him in the front seat. But, I had renewed my interest in men. I was ready to cruise, but really didn't have the time or the opportunity.

*****

Fast forward about 8 years. My wife and I divorced after three years of marriage. She got the apartment (it was a rental at a good lease rate with two years left) and its furnishings, but there was no alimony. She made almost as much as I did. I finally left the investment banking firm after six grueling years—with a good-sized nest egg, and I took a job as CFO of a medium-sized New York start-up. I moved to a condo in Ft. Grant and tried to restart my life. My hours became human. I started back at the gym. I was running again on weekend mornings. And I dated a bit.

I should back-up here and tell you a little about me. By that time I was 35. I was medium everything—about 5-11, light brown hair (sun tipped after a beach vacation, but not ...

... otherwise), hazel eyes, reasonably handsome, but not a show stopper. I had rowed and run in college and after eight years of office work, my body had gone to seed. A rigid gym schedule and weekend runs had restored my slim physique and my long lithe muscles. I was by no means a body builder, but was quite proud of my hard pecs and six pac.

I did some cruising in New York at the gym, but nothing really worked. Then I tried a club in the Village and hooked up with a pretty nice guy who was in the art world. "In the art world" meant that he was a sales rep for a first tier East Village gallery. He wasn't an artist. Nor was he a gallery owner. Within a month or so, we were spending weekends at my place. I got to top mostly and learned it was my thing. He was the sort of guy that I had played with in college—about my size, with a little smaller dick than mine, similar build, well-dressed, well-spoken—a preppy sort of not-too-serious guy who had never played sports, but ran and worked out regularly. He became my bottom on a pretty regular basis. We were better friends than lovers. But, I liked having him around. And he was a reasonably good lay. He was available with no strings attached. On one of the weekends, he led me to discover an art colony of sorts—only two blocks from my condo.

Ft. Grant had originally been a bedroom community for New York with young families and lots of kids. They had built schools—many of them. But with the passage of time, the families moved west; ...