Picking Up the Grocery Boy

Plains, March 2017

I hate shopping for groceries, especially:

1. The old people who act surprised that they actually have to pay, and rummage through their purse for their checkbook.

2. And who can't figure out how to use the card swipers.

3. The checkers who get into long, involved conversations with their friends.

4.  And who let their friends cut in line.

So I have a system: I go only on Tuesday mornings around 10:00 am (no old people, and the checkers' friends haven't arrived yet), and I go only to the Food Co-Op, which is much less crowded, and doesn't take coupons. Besides, it stocks fresh fruit and vegetables you can't get anywhere else, like jicama and carambola,

But today I need some things that can't wait until Tuesday --  mouthwash, bananas, protein bars, a can of cream of broccoli soup, that sort of thing -- and I'm too busy to drive all the way out to the Food Co-Op.  So I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and go to the Hy-Vee.  On a Saturday afternoon.

It's packed, of course. but I'm an expert at choosing the shortest line -- only five people, no full shopping carts, no one elderly.  And the checker....

The most beautiful guy I have ever seen -- or at least, the most beautiful guy since the highway rest stop in Iowa last summer.  A glimpse of supreme beauty in a supermarket on the Plains.

In his 20s, about my height, rather slim, but with a dreamy teen idol face. Sharp, classic features, dark eyebrows, a dazzling smile.

I feel a little shaky.  Even at age 50-something, supreme beauty makes me weak in the knees.

I watch him work, gazing at his face and hands, glancing down to see if he has a physique or a bulge, grinning like a teenager at a boy band concert, strategizing how to ask him out.

Get ahold of yourself! This is a supermarket. He's 30 years younger than you, probably underaged, and probably straight!  Besides, he's busy.  You can't cruise a guy at work.  

Now there's only one person ahead of me, a middle-aged lady who fishes around in her big purse for her small purse, pulls out a check book, and laboriously writes a check, including the memo line, then records the amount in her ledger.  Ordinarily I'd be fuming.

He sees me watching, mistakes my gaze for impatience, and says "It will just be a minute, sir."

I'm tongue-tied.  He's so stunning, I can't think! This must be what the ancients felt when Zeus or Apollo appeared before them.

His nameplate says Zack: Assistant Manager.

"Um...um...no problem, Zack...I'm in no hurry.  I've got nowhere to go this afternoon except the gym.  It's chest and shoulders day."  I unzip my leather jacket. Underneath I'm wearing a blue sweater that accents my pecs.

He looks!

He turns to my items while the bag boy is still bagging the middle-aged lady's stuff, and flashes that smile again.

"Bananas and cream of broccoli soup!  I'd like to see the recipe that calls for those."

I laugh.  "I'll invite you over to sample it."

He's cruising!

Get ahold of yourself!  This is a supermarket checkout line, not a gay bar!  Besides, do I really want to see him naked, his thin chest bare, his small penis aroused?  Perfection becomes imperfect very quickly in the cold light of the bedroom

"Any coupons today?"

Even his voice is dreamy!  I glance up and down, checking for a bulge. "Um...no."

"Any discounts?"

"No."

"Card?"

"What?  I've never been here before.  You'll have to explain that to me."

"It's a super-saver card that gets you..um...gas and stuff.  I can sign you up in a few minutes. I just need your email address or phone number."

My heart races.  Zack wants my phone number!  Then reason kicks in:  no, he doesn't.  He wants to sign me up for a card.

"No, thanks."

"Ok, your total is $21.06."

I pull out my wallet and fumble around for my debit card.  "So, assistant manager.  Why do they have you on checkout?"

"We're short a couple of people. I'm usually in the back.  But it's kind of fun coming up front and talking to the people.  Reminds me of when I first started here."

"You can't have been here that long.  What are you, 25?"

"23," Zack says. "But thanks for the compliment."

I hand him my debit card.  He shows me how to put it into the chip reader, and hands it back  It doesn't work the first couple of times.

He's going to think I'm some geezer who doesn't know technology.

I get it to work.  He grins.  "Success!"

"Not yet."  Why did I say that?  Was it a pick up line?  A pretty lame one.

"Paper or plastic?"

 "Um...paper please.  I try to be environmentally conscious."

Ask him out!

Do I really want to date him?  Do I really want to hear about his psychological traumas, job issues, problems with his parents?  To hang out with his crazy friends, and endure his boring conversation about sports?  

"Me, too."  Zack hands me the receipt.  Our hands touch.  Our eyes meet.

Ask him out!

"Do you need help getting this stuff to your car?" Zack asks.

Does he think I'm an invalid?  I bench press 300 pounds! Ok, so I won't ask him out.

"No, thanks."

"Have a nice day, sir."

"Thanks, Zack.  You, too."

I grab my bag and walk away, feeling a bit shaky.

I should have asked him out!  But he was working!  Besides, supreme beauty should stay ethereal, unsullied by the real world.

Maybe he'll be working again tomorrow...

No, he's an assistant manager, usually in the back...this was my one chance.

Feeling decidedly nauseous, I turn back.  The twenty steps to Zack's check-out lane seem to take forever. It's like walking through molasses.

The face of supreme beauty is busy with another customer.  He looks at me and frowns.

"Did you forget something, sir?"

"Yeah...um...the banana and cream of broccoli soup recipe...I promised to invite you over to sample it....um...here's my card.  Text me."

Still frowning, he snatches it from my hand and puts it into his front pocket.  "Thanks."

I turn away and walk slowly out of the store, to my car, where I sit for a few minutes, fuming.

I made a complete fool of myself.  No way I'm ever setting foot in Hy-Vee again!  What was I thinking, trying to pick up a checker in a grocery store?

Twenty minutes later, I'm just pulling into the gym parking lot.  My cell phone buzzes.



The most beautiful guy in the world is coming over for dinner Monday tonight!

Now I just need to find a recipe calling for bananas and cream of broccoli soup.

Next: What Happened on My Date with the Grocery Boy

See also: A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop; My Date with Jack the Vacuum Cleaner

The Joy of Pecs: X-Rated Version

You see an attractive guy in the gym, in the Student Union, or walking down the street, or working on his car.

He returns your cruising smile, so you start a brief conversation.  Now it's time to make a move: you have to let him know that you have erotic intentions, or he'll write you off as a passing acquaintance.  But you can't be too blatant.  What do you do?

You touch his chest.

Specifically the top of the pectoralis major, that flat area above the nipple, over his heart.

The chest is not an intimate zone, like the face or the crotch, so if you made a mistake and he's not interested, he will not be offended.

But it is not a "friendly" zone, like the hand or the shoulder.  The only reason to touch it is to let him know that you find him physically attractive, that you want a date or a hookup.

When you're talking to a pair or a group, it clarifies which one you're interested in.

There are occasional circumstances where the first touch is somewhere else.

If you managed to arrange a first date without a touch, you'll probably begin the intimacy by putting your arm around him rather than touching his chest.

At sex parties and bathhouses, guys sometimes sit aroused, waiting, so you can drop to your knees immediately and go down on them.  But still, a chest-touch is recommended, just to make sure he's up for it.

You can tell a lot about his physique by touching his chest, even if he's fully clothed.  Are the muscles big or small, hard or soft?  Is the skin tense or elastic?

More after the break.

The Best Date in the History of the Plains

Plains, March 2017

I met Reynard (not his real name) on Grindr at the beginning of the fall 2015 semester. He was 18 years old, a freshman theater arts major, and in my intro class!  I don't hook up current students, so I turned him down.

Then he dropped my class so we could date!

Thinking that he was unstable, I turned him down again.

Last week, a year and a half later, he contacts me.  He's transferred to another college about 100 miles away.  He'll be driving through town on the way home for spring break, and he wants to stop by.

This time I say "yes."

We've never met in person.  We've spoken barely a dozen words.  I know nothing about him except the fact that he's driving 100 mils for a meeting he's been anticipating for a year and a half.

Obviously a simple blow job won't do the trick.

I plan the Best Date in the History of the Plains.

I instruct Reynard to meet me at the gay-friendly coffee house in the early afternoon, after lunch, and to bring his jogging clothes.

2:00 pm: Coffee

He arrives at 2:00 pm sharp: cuter than his profile pic, with a round face, unruly black hair, and dark eyebrows that give him almost a Mediterranean look.  He's trying to smile, but can't quite make it -- he's almost trembling with nervousness.

We shake hands -- he has a loose, moist handshake.

"I've never done anything like this before," he says.

"What?  Gone out on a date?"

"Not with -- you know, a professor."

"Call me Boomer."

We sit down at a little table for coffee and scones, and I tell him about the schedule for our date.  I reach under the table and take his hand.  He tries to smile.




3:00 pm:  Jogging

It's a brisk March day, perfect for jogging.  We go to the YMCA, change into our jogging clothes -- I give Reynard a good view of my penis, but he turns his back -- and then go jogging on the trail that goes through the woods for about 5 miles (we just go 2).

This gives him an opportunity to dispel some of his nervousness and chat some more.

Reynard has changed his major twice, first to psychology and then to biology, though he's still dancing.  He strikes me as a little flighty, not focused.  I tell him that I changed my major eight times as an undergraduate.

Afterwards we shower -- a good time to check each other out, and get some other sausage sightings -- and change back into our street clothes.

He's average sized but nicely shaped, cut, with low-hanging balls.



4:30 The Art Center

Just down the street from the YMCA, the Arts Center has monthly exhibits of local artists.  This month it's countless paintings of lakes and rivers, but at least it's cultural.  It gets the brain thinking about something other than getting laid.  And it allows for more chatting -- and, in one of the secluded galleries, a bit of kissing.

5:30 Dinner

We go out to dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant, sure to impress Reynard.  I don't usually emphasize the age difference on a first date, but tonight I tell him about my 13 years in West Hollywood, including my hookup with Michael J. Fox.

He's never seen Back to the Future -- he doesn't care for science fiction. But he's into fantasy like Harry Potter, and cosplay.  He likes to dress up like a wolf -- not for sex, I hope.

We discuss our favorite sexual positions.  He's an anal and oral bottom, naturally, and he's never tried interfemoral.  I promise to show him what it's like later.

7:00 Theater

Reynard has been stimulated in body and mind, and we've been talking on and off for four hours.  Time for a break.  I take him to a local high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  

Unfortunately, Joseph stays fully clothed the whole time, but the palace guards are shirtless.  This one is quite buffed.

9:30 Cruising

We go to the straight bar downtown to cap off the night with hot chocolate -- I don't drink, and Reynard is too young.  It's a straight bar, but on Saturday nights the clientele is mostly college boys.  Wall-to-wall beefcake, and a lot of cruising.

The function of cruising on a date is not only to look at the hot guys and get revved up for the sex later -- it's to get approached by other guys, thereby increasing your date's perception of your attractiveness.

But it's not working tonight.  Reynard becomes quiet, and even starts to doze off.

"I think it's about time to go home to bed," I announce.

He nods.

As we drive back to my apartment, he puts his head on  my shouler.

11:00 Sleeping

I skip the nightcap, since we already had hot chocolate, and bring Reynard into the bedroom.  I unbutton his shirt and kiss and fondle his chest.  He moans.  I pull down his pants.  He isn't aroused.

He lies down onto the bed, his butt in the air.

"I'm not into anal," I tell him.  "Could we do interfemoral?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean that.," he murmurs, not looking up. "Um...do you mind if we, like, just cuddle tonight?  I'm zonked -- been up since six, and all that stuff we did wore me out!"

"Sure, no problem."  I take off my clothes, climb into bed, and pull him into my arms.  In a few minutes he's snoring.  And I'm fully aroused.

The problem with the Best Date in History is: it leaves you too tired for sex!

6:00 am Sunday: Sex

Sunday morning, I wake him up with a blow job, enter his mouth before saying "hello," and then push between his legs in interfemoral to finish.  Twice before breakfast.

See also:  A Student Drops My Class So We Can Date.