East Village, August 1999One afternoon shortly after I returned from my summer in France, I walked into my apartment on 13th Street in the East Village of New York to find a very attractive young man in a business suit on the couch. His thick Kielbasa was out and fully aroused. My housemate Edward was on his knees, his tongue working feverishly on the shaft.
I was shocked. Edward was a fey art appraiser in his 60s, who rarely dated and never hooked up. And his cardinal rule was: no nudity in the living room.
"Hi!" the very attractive young man said.
"Hi. I'm Boomer, Edward's housemate."
Edward hastily stood, his pants tenting. "Terribly sorry to break a house rule. I lost control of myself. Boomer, this is my new assistant, Andrew Marvell (accented on the second syllable, Mar - VELL). I hired him while you were in France."
"How are ya?" Andrew said, holding out his hand to be shaken. It was very big, almost drawing attention away from his still-aroused Kielbasa.
"Nice to meet you. Not very coy, are you?"
"Huh?"
"You know, Andrew Marvell, the Metaphysical poet? 'To His Coy Mistress'?"
Metaphysical poetry was that obscure, metaphor-filled Restoration-era stuff from the English Restoration that you had to read in your Survey of English Literature class in college. You were probably assigned "To His Coy Mistress," in which Andrew Marvell tries to convince a woman to have sex with him:
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
Andrew stared blankly. "Where are my manners?" Edward said. "Would you like to go down on him? Please be my guest."
My guest? It was Andrew's penis! "Is it ok, Andrew?"
"Sure, go for it."
This was weird,but I never turn down a Kielbasa. I got on my knees. Andrew responded perfectly, with just the right amount of groaning and shaking, erotic but not ostentatious.
He finished quickly with a gallon-sized spurt -- Edward must have been working on him for awhile. Then Edward said "Won't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"
We had never shared before, but ok. We took Andrew into the bedroom, stripped him out of his clothes ("Be careful -- that's an Armani suit!"), and found a hundred more things to do with him.
Andrew had a firm, tight physique, with a smooth chest, thick biceps, and toned abs, pleasant but not spectacular. But he had a face that would make you melt, and a magnificent Kielbasa that was always aroused.
Of course, I had to share him with Edward, who was thin, hairy, wore rings and a rather feminine cologne, and never took off his socks and garters. But I could work around that, going down on Edward for thirty seconds and then returning my attention to Andrew.
He finished a second time while Edward was going down on him and he was going down on me. Then he sprang to life again, lay on top of me, and finished a third time while kissing me and thrusting between my legs. Edward finished by topping Andrew. He sprang up again, ready for #4, but Edward said "I think we'd better call it a day. We wouldn't want to get totally spent."
We all showered and dressed and returned to the living room. Edward went out to the kitchen to make tea.
"So you're Edward's assistant," I said, to make conversation.
"Yep." He grinned.
"That must be interesting, cataloging all those rare works of art."
"Yep. Hard, though. I get stuck on the titles sometimes, and Edward has to type them in for me."
"Did you major in Art History in college?"
"I just took General Humanities at Laguardia (Community College), but I had a job as a model for an art class once."
Um...ok. So...what's your favorite period? From your name, I'm going to guess the Baroque."
"My name?"
"Andrew Marvell was a poet who lived during the Baroque era."
"Oh, Edward named me -- I thought it was about Marvel comics. My real name is Andrew Balboa."
"Italian Stallion, huh?" (Rocky Balboa was the name of Sylvester Stallone's character in the Rocky series).
"No, I'm American."
Ok, this guy was as dumb as a post. I bet he couldn't even find Europe on the map. Why would Edward hire him to catalog objects d'art and correspond with dealers in French, German, and Italian?
"Edward gave me this suit, too. Do you like it?" He took my hand and ran it over the material, then down to his crotch, where he was aroused again.
"Still ready for action, I see."
"I'm always ready. I won a contest once, five times in an hour. But then I didn't get aroused again for almost two hours!"
Ok, I figured it out. Andrew was a Boyfriend for Pay, hired for his handsome face and ever-aroused Kielbasa, not for his administrative skills or knowledge of art history.
Sometimes I went down on him right on the couch in the living room, while Edward was working on his computer nearby.
I didn't mind. I even invited my friend Yuri to help out.
Familiarity usually decreases the frequency and intensity of your arousal, but not with Andrew. He was just as eager the 20th time as the first.
Then one day in December, Andrew came into my room. He was shirtless, wearing a Santa Claus cap.
"What's up, Andrew? Did you bring a package for me to open?"
"No. I just came in to say goodbye. Right after Christmas, Edward is going to Europe for two months, and he said he won't need an assistant anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that. But you can still come over and hang out, right?" Translation: We can still make out on the couch while watching Rocko's Modern Life.
Cheaper than a hustler. "Well, I don't really need an assistant. I was thinking more of friends hanging out."
He frowned. "Then how would I pay my rent?"
See also: Edward Tries to "Make" My Boyfriend
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