The Horny Cheerleader

The Israeli in the bunk below me is pissing with the bathroom door ajar, and from the sound of it he’s taking hydration seriously. I guess three years of military service in the Negev will do that to you. It goes on and on, splashing against the water like a garden hose, while I lie in our shared dorm at Generator, staring at a ceiling close enough to touch.

Fresh out of the shower, he walks out with a towel wrapped around his lean, muscled body, tanned skin still glistening with water. Good guy. We had beers last night, two lonely travelers trading stories while night fell on Dupont Circle. The kind of straight guy completely aware of his hold on your attention and wholly uninterested in what men have to offer. Married, two kids. A good dick I’m trying hard not to look at while he changes.

“So, what’s the program for you today, man?” he asks me, buttoning his shirt, pants still neatly folded on the wall-mounted desk.

“Lunch with a client,” I answer, pretending I’m just noticing his presence. I wonder what he tastes like. Hotel soap, probably. “It was totally unnecessary, but sometimes it’s good to remind them that you’re available.”

“Right, you did mention that. Go get that contract. Beers tonight?”

The door opens and a perky older woman walks in, trailing a pink suitcase behind her. My erection disappears halfway through greetings and small talk.

This is what a hundred and fifty-five dollars a night gets you in Washington. A top bunk, a locker that threatens to bite your finger every time you close it, and a rotating cast of Europeans on gap years who treat 2 a.m. as an appropriate time to discuss Sisyphos.

I could’ve expensed something nicer, but hostels are a good way to meet people and an even better way to avoid spending my time on Sniffies, fucking strangers on a king-size bed. Hotels feel too much like cheating. Anyway, the flight was cheap, the client is a friend, and I needed to be anywhere but home, so here I am.

Dorothy has not stopped talking since she entered the room. By now I know her medical history and the names of all her grandkids. I check the time, grab my laptop, and let her ramble to an empty room.

I’m working in the lobby when they arrive all at once. Two dozen of them, matching duffel bags, matching jackets, matching energy. Cheerleaders. An actual troupe, swarming the front desk in a cloud of laughter and lanyards.

I watch them file in, looking for Monica Aldama, the coach of my pandemic guilty pleasure. One of the cheerleaders peels off from the group, tight jeans hugging his lithe frame. He wears his gayness like his tan, exposed by a crop top that says Barbie in rhinestones. His abs move as he stretches, one leg high up on the back of a chair, negative body fat that makes me self-conscious.

He walks past my table on his way to the elevators and looks at me, keycard in hand. Not a glance but a look, up and down, slow enough that there’s no mistaking it for anything else. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the elevator and his teammates.

I stare at my laptop and read the same sentence four times.

Zach cracks open a cold beer and hands it to me. He puts his feet up on the coffee table like he owns the terrace, legs crossed at the ankles, and downs half his bottle in one go, before sighing like he just came.

“How did the meeting go?” he asks, balancing the beer bottle on his flat stomach. “Good business, I hope.”

“Very good.” That might be a stretch. But it was good enough to keep me employed and worry-free for the upcoming months, which, considering my current situation, is virtually priceless.

“Cheers to that.”

Our bottles clink in the evening warmth, sending drops of condensation on my shorts. He drapes an arm along the backrest, so relaxed his hand almost touches my shoulders. I wonder if he knows what he’s doing, or if he’s clueless. I take a sip. I don’t even like beer.

“We should get ourselves some cheerleaders,” he suddenly says, nodding behind me. I turn around in time to see a throng of red and white filing onto the hostel’s terrace, laughing and high-fiving each other. Most of them are still wearing their uniforms. Short, pleated skirts twirling as the girls move, sleeveless tops hugging their breasts as tightly as possible. Two blondes are already looking at us.

“These two would be nice,” Zach says, raising his beer in their direction. Definitely not clueless.

“I prefer them with more muscles, more hair and a dick,” I say. “I’m into dudes,” I add when he looks at me.

“No shit. I meant those two would be nice for me. You can probably fuck the twink following them, though.”

I look up and there he is, his smile so big I can see his teeth from twenty yards away. He traded the Barbie shirt for a cheer uniform that shows off a waist G would call slutty. He waves. I could swear he’s biting his lips.

“I—”

“And for the record,” Zach cuts me off with a swing of his beer, “I don’t mind a dick if it’s attached to a beautiful woman. Protect the dolls.”

“Cheers to that.”

“Imagine Dorothy’s face if we all came back to the dorm.”

“I guess she’d have a story to tell her grandkids. Looks like we missed our chance, though. They’re gone.”

“So?” He cracks open another beer, popping the cap off against the armrest. “Just open Grindr and talk to that guy.”

I’d rather be celibate than endure another second of Grindr’s relentless ads. It stopped being annoying years ago to fully enter profiteering territory, another app price-gouging its way through our community.

I’m not perfect, so I open Sniffies instead. He’s sent me a couple of messages already, our dots sitting so close together on the map that I could already be inside him. His cute, smiling face shines like a beacon in a sea of dicks and holes. His waist is even tighter without the clothes. A couple of mirror selfies. An ass shot.

“Hey Daddy,” his first message reads. I guess I better get used to this. “You look good. Show me that dick.”

I do, and things escalate quickly. “I can’t host though,” I type. “Sharing a dorm with several people.”

“That’s okay, you can fuck me in my hotel room. My friend won’t mind, he won’t hear anything.”

“Are you sure?” Because I’m not. Not about any of this. I look at the mirror selfies and close the app.

Dorothy snores like a freight train. An unending, rhythmic thud that seeps from the closed curtains around her bed and reverberates around the room. I jerked off under the shower, trying to cool down and push the cheerleader away from my thoughts.

It’s not working. I’m lying naked on my bed, putting down my book every paragraph to check Sniffies again and stare at his tight hole. I want to feel it against my tongue, feel it open against my cock. I’m hard again when he messages me. They fly in small sentences, one after the other before I can answer anything.

“Come! Room 206. My name’s Casper. My friend is asleep. We won’t wake him up, I promise.”

“I’m already in bed.”

“So? You don’t even have to put shoes on. Come fuck me. I need your dick daddy.”

The door opens before I knock. Casper stands in the small hallway, between a full-length mirror and the bathroom door. He’s naked but for a pink thong and his infectious smile.

He pulls me inside without a word and kisses me, closing the door with a kick. It slams so hard I wonder how he expects anyone to sleep through it, but he doesn’t seem to care. Before I can say anything, he drops on his knees, frees my dick and starts blowing me.

He is very, very good at this. There’s no warm-up, no ceremony, just enthusiasm and a complete absence of gag reflex. He works me with his whole face, his hands flat against my hips, looking up at me every few seconds like he’s waiting for a good grade. His mouth is soft, his rhythm relentless, and when he takes me all the way down he holds me there, breathing through his nose. I put a hand in his hair and he mumbles around me, pleased with himself.

I look past him and take in the carnage for the first time. The desk and dresser are covered in Red Solo cups, few of them still standing. A bottle of vodka stands upside down in an ice bucket, surrounded by empty cans of Coke and Red Bull.

A forgotten protein shake sweats on the nightstand, surrounded by spilled glitter and two little bottles of poppers. Clothes are strewn everywhere, covering half the bed. On the other half, under a heap of blankets, the unmistakable shape of a sleeping twink.

Casper moans so loudly around my dick he could wake up the entire hotel. I try to tell him to be quieter, but he just keeps blowing me. Behind him, his roommate stirs, rearranges the blankets around himself and turns his back to us.

As if on cue, Casper leaves my dick alone just long enough to grab the poppers, two pillows and the blanket. He arranges them in the room’s hallway, like a little nest, and brings me down to the floor with him.

He turns around on all fours, ass up, and pulls the thong aside himself. He’s so hungry I can read it on his body, no words necessary. I spread him open with both thumbs and go in. He’s clean and warm and he tastes like fresh skin and soap, like someone who spent an hour getting ready for this. I take my time, catching his enthusiasm.

I lick him slow at first, then deeper, working my tongue into him while he pushes back against my face. His whole body responds. His back arching, his thighs trembling, the muscles across his stomach flickering under his brown skin. He’s built like an instrument, for vault and pikes and splits, and he plays himself against me.

He moans so loudly when my tongue reaches in that I worry again his roommate will wake up and find us there, naked in a nest of fabric.

“Come on, man, quieter,” I whisper.

He ignores me and reaches for the poppers. I hear the crack of the cap, the two hard inhales. Then he drops his forehead onto the folded blanket and lifts his ass higher, offering it with another moan. We’re done with the preamble.

I spit on him, taking a second to watch it drip in his crack, then I press the head of my cock against him. He opens without resistance, taking me in one long, slow slide until I’m all the way inside him and he’s shaking around me. I grab him by the thong and pull him on me.

The full-length mirror is right there in the hallway, an arm’s reach away, and I can see all of him in it. His face pressed sideways into the folded blanket, eyes shut, mouth open. He’s gone somewhere, all of him focused on his ass. His fingers are curled into the fabric. Every time I move he makes a sound that isn’t quite a word.

“You’re so fucking hot,” I say, pounding a little harder, using my hips as punctuation. “So. Fucking. Hot.”

He doesn’t say anything back, just grabs the poppers and takes another hit before pushing himself back against me. I can feel the pressure mounting deep inside. I can feel I’m about to come but we never discussed this.

“Do you want me to cum in you?” I ask, slowing down a little.

He ignores me, just pushes on my cock again, picks up my rhythm and moans.

“Casper? Can I cum inside you?” I try to think about something else, but his perfect ass is eating me again and again and I’m about to burst.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” he says, every syllable just a little too round. It’s only then that everything clicks into place: the door he slammed without a second thought, the moans he never once tried to swallow, the fact that he never answered when I whispered for him to be quieter. Nobody’s going to hear us because Casper can’t hear himself. I want him even more.

I’m two seconds from coming in him and I have never actually asked for his consent.

He looks back at me in the mirror, confused about why I stopped, until I hold up a finger.

“Wait,” I can’t help myself from saying out loud.

I’m still deep in him when I do the least dignified thing I have ever done, and that covers a lot of ground. I make a ring with one hand and push a finger through it in the universal motion we’ve all learned in school. Then I hold up my fist and open it, miming an explosion. Inside, through the finger ring. I raise my eyebrows. This is the silliest game of charade I have ever played.

He watches me do all of this in the glass, then tightens his ass around me and laughs. Loud, delighted, deeply unbothered. He starts moving against me, clenching and releasing like he’s trying to milk me, taking exactly what he wants.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Afterwards we lie in the makeshift nest, sweaty and tangled, our bodies taking up the whole space between the doors. The roommate is still asleep six feet away. Casper found a way to let me know he’s deaf, too.

He turns onto his side to face me. Now that I know, I understand the way he angles himself. He needs my face, my mouth, the light from under the bathroom door. I just want to hold him close and fall asleep right there.

He types on his phone and turns it toward me. “San Francisco. You?” I take his phone and type back. I don’t feel like talking about me. “You’re beautiful.” He reads it and laughs, then puts the phone down.

He points at me, then moves his hand across his face. A graceful movement, deliberate, the shape of a word he mouths at the same time. He points at me, then does it again, slower, so I’ll remember. I sign it back to him and he laughs again.

Then he grins, wicked, and signs something else. A different shape, faster, and I have no idea what it means until he takes my hand, presses it flat against his stomach, and mimes an explosion. He signs again then he mouths it, carefully, so I can’t possibly misunderstand: “Can I breed you?”

I laugh so hard the roommate stirs.

Next week, on The Sexistentialist: we can’t put it off any longer, The Baby’s coming!