Saturday, July 21, 2007

Chester the Molester: First Meeting

I never intended to tell this story, for reasons that it is both preachy and the fact that I still find it mildly embarrassing. I'm mildly drunk, a heavy buzz at least, and figured what the fuck. So, here it goes.

In my narrow, fairly conservative worldview, there are still many things I find objectionable to my sense of moral dignity. The homos typically seem to find ways to raise my ire in just about every way. When Zane told me about this great house party at some old rich tech guys house off the end of Broadway on north Capitol Hill, I was skeptical, but, figured what the hell.

We ate dinner at a place not far from the site of the party, a tasty restaurant called Deluxe. After paying our check, we got into the car, and headed for Broadway and then onto 10th Ave. We reached the house, and my first thought was “holy fuck!”.

When Zane said that it was a rich tech guy, I figured he would have a nice place, but not, you know, rich rich. This guy, Chester, apparently was actually rich. Good god, what a house.

Between the three stories, picturesque views of both down town Seattle and Lake Union, you knew this wasn’t the type of home that went for less than several million. We parked the car on a side street, walked to the door and rang the bell.

Chester answered the door promptly. My first impression of him was that he was a decent, middle aged computer guru enjoying his money. About 5’8”, thinning, lank blond hair, a round melon like face, and the pudge of a man in his 40s who enjoyed life and didn’t work out.

He held out his hand, and introduced himself. We all shook hands, followed him into his gorgeous house, and followed as he played the consummate host. He led us on a quick tour of the premises, and from the upper floors, the sound of music and conversation drifted down.

When the tour ended at the third floor at the party, a fairly small affair in terms of number of attendees, the first thing that struck me was the age and type of guys at the party. At 26, I looked to be the oldest person at the party, minus Chester. Zane, 2 years older than I, looked about 20 and his perennial twinkish looks made him a perfect candidate for the crowd here.

As I looked around the room, noting some of the conversations, the looks, the booze, the image forming in my mind rapidly resolved into clarity. Picture this: a wealthy, older, fairly unattractive man, generous with his money, throws a party for young, cute, twink guys most of whom were undoubtedly underage. While I wasn’t certain any of them were young enough for the label to be accurate, the word “pedophile” was certainly prominent in my mind at that moment.

Fuck. Not the sort of place a closeted marine homo needs to be if the cops descend.

Eh, fuck it.

We mingled around, my attention falling on a sexy, mixed heritage guy and rapidly struck up a conversation. Most of the guys here, cute as hell to be sure, were undoubtedly bottoms. The fact that I was older, good looking, and very obviously a top, was attracting a bit of attention in and of itself.

At that moment, Chester, came up and started the conversation, with the boy I’d been talking to taking the hint and drifting away. He handed me a drink, a rather well made Long Island, watched his as yet untouched drink in his hand while I sipped at mine and conversed. He made a lot of the usual small talk, asked my thoughts on Iraq, how was life in the service, yada yada yawn, until he politely excused himself and drifted away.

Blinking, I noticed that I’d drained my glass during the interminable chit-chat and already felt trashed. As a fairly large guy, who drinks regularly and greatly, I knew my limits. There is no way in fuck that one Long Island, especially in the size cup he’d used, could get me this fucked up, this fast.

Holy shit. Did that fucker drug me? I managed to stagger my way to the balcony, avoiding any possible confrontation and resulting beat down with Chester, and sat down heavily. Almost immediately I heard a noise behind me, and, before I could react, was greeted to my sexy boy rubbing my shoulders.

Within seconds I’d managed to grope him into position on my lap, and for the next hour we made out, groped and managed to do everything short of put my dick inside him on that balcony. Instead of feeling better, however, as time went on, I felt even loopier.

The next morning I woke up, naked, in a spare bedroom, the boy on the other side of the bed snoring, and rubbers all around the room. I groaned, trying vainly to remember what had happened, and rubbed my pounding head.

Holy shit, I had to get the fuck out of this fucked up house.

I grabbed my clothes, uncaring if the boy woke up or not. I left the room, ignoring the site of Chester at the bar casually drinking coffee in a terrycloth robe, and left the house. I thumbed on my cell phone, noticed the 14 or so missed texts and calls from Zane and promptly flagged down a taxi to head for his house.

I’m not sure what was in my drink, what Chester had had in mind, or what the hell happened between me and that boy, but I’ll tell you one thing: rich old guys being “nice and generous” to hot young guys are all trying for one thing. To get laid.

Thank god my hole didn’t hurt.


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