He knows I’m just out of a relationship and not looking for another. Bruised and jaded and still in love with the one before.
“Damn man, I just caught you at the wrong time,” he says minutes after I had fucked him hard missionary style, knifing my dick into his ass while he jacked off and busted a thick, creamy nutt on his brown stomach.
Before Morgan the Substitute might have been a good catch. He is in his early 40s but ran track in college and is still tall and slender as a rail. We both love House music and dancing and dogs and cats.
Plus the substitute could fuck seven days a week and his ass would stay tight — his walls always grip my dick like a glove.
But I know the deal. I’m a foxy motherfucker now. I’m not the green, just-out-the-closet married man I once was. Like a fortune-teller I can look at the tea leaves in the bottom of the cup and read the signs.
The Substitute is a professional and a manager but smokes weed and drinks as soon as he gets off and shuts the door behind him. He shows up, his eyes red and blurry and his speech slightly slurred. He always has to have a beer in his hand. The alcohol and cigarettes are starting to age him — his face is gaunt.
And the alcohol can make his breath smell like a cloud of garbage.
“Hey dude, go in the bathroom and brush your teeth. I got mouthwash too.”
“My breath stinks? No way.”
“Yeah it do,” I say laughing.
I don’t like guys who drink or smoke weed alone. That’s a bad sign. Plus he has two or three regulars he sees, including this 30-something Jamaican buck who wants us all to threesome.
So I don’t take his talk of liking me better than the rest all that seriously.
The Substitute is company to make this new stage in my life less lonely and scratch that itch when I feel it. At least for now while my heart and soul heals and I wait for the sun to shine again.