Today is Rick's birthday.
Rick is the married man I fooled around with in the late nineties. He was the head of a successful advertising firm with a wife and two kids in the suburbs, and a coke habit and an endless appetite for sex when he was in the city.
He had broad shoulders. Buzzed blond hair. Blue eyes. A bit of a gut. Strong legs - that's important. And a short, blunt brick of a cock that hurt going in, almost every time.
He also happens to be one of the smartest men I've ever met.
I worked for his company for months before I met him. My supervisor was a total son of a bitch, one of those account execs who should be selling used cars, not managing creative campaigns. He had the habit of leaving the office at four, and then calling in to randomly pester the staff until ten or eleven at night. Just to make somebody was working, because he sure the hell wasn't. We had an informal system in our department; we'd rotate the late shift and forward all our phones to one line, so no matter who he called, someone would always pick up.
Anyway. Six months into the job, I had had enough. One week, I offered to cover all the evenings so I could work on my portfolio in peace. Thursday night, my then-boyfriend Sam decided he was sick of eating alone, so he brought picked up a pizza and brought it to the office to share with me. After we ate, I took him on a tour of the agency, which was deserted by this time. We ended up in Rick's corner office, which had an impressive view of downtown Los Angeles.
"Someday, you're going to have an office like this," Sam said. Then he shoved his hand down my pants and kissed me. That's when the light flicked on. It was Rick.
I pulled away from Sam, and we did what you do in that situation - stammered and blushed, basically - but Rick didn't say anything. He just went to his desk and picked up his keys.
"I almost left these," he said. "Don't forget to lock up when you leave..." he squinted at me, trying to remember my name.
"Jake," I said.
"Jake," he repeated. And then he was gone.
We waited a few sheepish minutes, then Sam left and I skulked back to my cubicle. Even though it was too late for my boss to check in, I wanted to get some of my key projects packed up, just in case I got fired in the morning.
An hour later, it was past midnight. I was finally ready to go. But when I stood up from my desk, I saw Rick, watching me from across the room.
"You're busy tonight," he said.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about what happened earlier," I said.
"Was that your boyfriend?" He made a face as he said it, like he wasn't sure that was the right term.
"He's just a friend." I not sure what I was trying to accomplish with that lie. It wasn't as if Rick had caught Sam giving me a backrub. His hand had been around my cock.
Rick nodded. Then he asked, "Want to smoke up?"
Long story short, Rick didn't go home that night, and neither did I. We ended up sharing a joint in his office, and then kissing - he was a great kisser - and then I sucked him off while he sat on his desk. Afterwards, I thought it was over, but he drove me to a bar, bought us both a few shots, and then proceeded to take me to a nearby hotel and hammer his babymaker into my eager hole. It hurt so much that I almost came immediately. (Yeah, I'm like that.)
After he shot again, we took a shower together. For a straight guy, he was super curious: he had me bend over in the shower stall so he check out the ass he had banged up close and personal. "My wife won't let me anywhere near her butt," he said.
"I don't blame her," I replied. "That's some weapon."
He stood up and kissed me. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."
I smiled. "I can take it."
And I did, as often as possible, for the next three years.
Happy birthday, Rick.