Wednesday, August 17, 2016

I Become Jameer's Boy Toy

Plains, August 2014

I love the first day of class: new classes, new opportunities, and acres of new beefcake to scope out: collegiate jocks in tight t-shirts, nervous freshmen, cute nerds, chubby mid-life students with chest hair peeping out over their shirts.

I see Jameer in all three of my classes, front row center.

He's hard to miss: not a lot of black guys on campus, especially black guys in "midlife," returning to college after several years away, typically in their late 20s or 30s.  He is taller than me, broad-shouldered, and extraordinarily handsome, with a broad flat face, dark eyes, and thin-cropped furry hair.

"You can't be in the advanced class without taking the intro class first," I tell him.

"Oh, I want to finish my second degree in a year," he says, flashing a dazzling smile that has probably been getting him exceptions to rules his whole life.  "I'll work hard, I  promise."

"Won't you get sick of looking at me three hours a day?"

He smiles again.  "No, not at all."

Jameer turns out to be one of those guys who answers every question, comments to everything, and stays after class to ask my advice on everything from how to deal with a crazy roommate to what career he should prepare for.  But after three weeks he suddenly drops every class.  No warning, no nothing -- he just vanishes.

I feel hurt.  Did I offend him somehow?

October 2014

I run into Jameer in the Mexican restaurant near the campus.  He's elegantly dressed in a business suit.

"Hey, Professor, sorry to cut out on you," he says.  "But they offered me a managerial job for like ten times the salary I had before, so I had no choice but  to take it.  Can I make it up to you by buying you dinner?"

I agree, expecting a free dinner at the Mexican restaurant.  Instead he says "Great, how about Whiskey River?  I'll pick you up at 7:00 pm tomorrow night."

Whiskey River is one of the more expensive restaurants in towns, usually reserved for birthdays and anniversaries.  I plan to order just a salad, but Jameer insists that we have appetizers, drinks, expensive entrees, and dessert, for a tab of nearly $100 -- which, true to his word, he pays for.  "Hey, nobody goes hungry on my watch."

We tell our coming out stories.  Jameer talks about growing up black and gay in a small town in South Dakota, his first experience -- with his high school swimming coach -- and his first degree, in psychology. A job in social services that he hated.  A series of office jobs.  A sudden midlife urge to return to academe, forestalled by an offer of a managerial job.

Sounds like my life, English and modern languages forestalled, a midlife urge to return to academe.  Except I completed my second degree rather than being lured by high salaries.

After dinner we go back to Jameer's house near the campus, an older Queen Anne style with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings.  We sit on a leather couch, surrounded by African art -- he shows me several statues of gods and chiefs of the Igbo tribe -- and kiss and grope.



Then we go into the bedroom.  Jameer has a tight, firm physique, smooth except for a little hair around his belly, and a cut Mortadella+, which he lets me go down on a little, but he's not really into it.  He prefers to go down on me, and finishes with his penis between my legs while we're kissing.

Sounds perfect so far, except I'd like a little more alone time with his Mortadella+.

He shows up for our second date with presents: an expensive silk shirt and tie.  "Hey, I like my boys to be dressed properly."

Boys?  I'm twenty years older than you.


A silk shirt and tie seems a little much for karaoke night at the gay-friendly coffee house, but I change.  Then he says: "No two-bit karaoke for my boy.  We're going to see John Legend."

"Who?"

He laughs.  "I love Midwestern farm boys.  You're so sheltered!"

Ok, I never lived on a farm, and I've walked down Hollywood Boulevard at Highland at 2:00 in the morning.  Sheltered?  And about that "boy" stuff -- is it some sort of African-American slang?

Turns out that John Legend is a famous R&B singer and songwriter, who's won 10 Grammy awards, a Golden Globe, and an Oscar.

He looks good shirtless, too.

We go back to my apartment to spend the night.  In the morning I make breakfast.

"That's the way I like to see my boys," Jameer says.  "Hot, naked and in the kitchen."

Our next date will be #3, when all of his friends get to meet you and judge your potential.  Jameer shows up at my apartment with another gift, a very expensive gold chain.

"I'm not much for jewelry," I tell him.

"I want my man to look good," he says.  At least that's a step up from "boy."  "Besides, how am I going to impress my friends with you unless you are looking super foxy?  You could go in naked."

So I wear the chain.  We drive an hour south to the nearest big city.  Jameer introduces me to five friends, three African-American, two white, all in their 30s and 40s.  We have  a very campy, double-entendre laden dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and then go back to someone's apartment for dessert and more double-entendres.

"If you're lucky," Jameer says, "My boy will do a little strip show for you, show off his cute butt and basket."

He wants me to be the entertainment?  

"Does his mouth come with the show?"  one of his friends asks with a leer.

"If I tell him to, it does."

Ordinarily I would have no objections to going down on a boyfriend's friend, but the way he describes it makes me sound like a sex slave.

"I feel a cold coming on," I say curtly.  "I'd better not."

Jameer looks surprised, but says "That's fine, that's fine.  I just thought you might like going down on some of these very well-hung gentlemen.  You can't give anybody your cold that way."

After a few more double entendres, we leave.  On the drive home, I ask Jameer, "Do you think they liked me?"

"Sure, sure.  They would have liked you more if you showed them some of your fine mouth action, but there's plenty of time for that later.  I like to share my boys."

"I'm all for sharing, but I think..."

He reaches over and caresses my knee.  "My boy don't have to think.  He just has to sit there and look hot, and make my friends go green with envy."

I'm 20 years older than you, two inches shorter, and two inches smaller beneath the belt, but I'm your boy toy!  You're dating me solely for my face and physique, and I'm dating you for the...gifts?

I ask Jameer to take me home rather than spending the night.  The next day when he calls to ask me for Date #4, I say "I think I'm going to be busy for awhile."  Translation: Get lost!

A few days later, there's a package in my mailbox on campus, with a note from Jameer.

"Sorry I made you mad.  Hope we can be friends."

Inside the box was a heavy gold bracelet.

Jameer likes his friends to look good, too.

See also: 15 Boy Toys, Hustlers, and Boyfriends for Pay

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