Love on Site

by Plakcy, Neil

  I frowned and replaced the phone. I wandered over to examine one of the marble columns that climbed two stories to the vaulted ceiling.

  “It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?”

  I turned to see an older guy next to me, holding a wine glass. His name tag read Roberto Calderon, class of ’85. He was handsome in a well-put-together way—a perfect haircut, clean shaven with a hint of aftershave, manicured nails, trim figure. His polo shirt was from Brooks Brothers; I recognized the hanging sheep crest. His razor-pressed slacks and gleaming loafers said money too.

  He saw me appraising him, and something in his eyes said he liked what he saw as well. “The workmanship is amazing,” I said.

  Roberto was a financier and amateur architectural historian, and he knew a lot of details about the building’s construction. We walked around, and he pointed out details, and we began a subtle flirtation—standing a bit too close to each other, making the occasional innuendo. By the time Larry and Gavin showed up, I was ready to grab Roberto and find a secluded part of the hotel where we could make out.

  I drained my second beer as they walked up. I introduced them to Roberto, and then the president of the alumni association stepped up to a microphone and began a welcome address. “Would you like something else to drink?” Roberto whispered to me.

  “Sure. How long does this thing go on?”

  He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex. “He’ll be speaking for at least a half hour.”

  I groaned.

  “We could go somewhere else,” Roberto suggested. “I know a bar not too far away.”

  “I’d like that.” I whispered a good-bye to Larry and Gavin, to their raised eyebrows, and walked out with Roberto.

  I followed his Mercedes out to Coral Way and down a few blocks. I’d never been to the place before, but I recognized a gay bar when I saw one. “This is all right?” he asked when we’d both gotten out of our cars in the parking lot.

  “Perfect. Even better if they’ve got a dark room at the back of the bar.”

  “You are a little devil,” he said, smiling broadly. “I can see we will get along.”

  The bar did have a dark back room, and after Roberto had gotten himself a large glass of wine, and a beer for me, we walked back there and snuggled up in a booth. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned over and kissed his smooth cheek. I caressed his thigh with my hand, and he shivered. “You must not move too quickly,” he said. “The seduction is just as important as the climax.”

  “I’ve got a couple of climaxes stored up,” I said.

  “Ah, but when you get to my age, you must guard them carefully, and make each one worthwhile.”

  Roberto gently moved my hand from his thigh and kissed the edge of my chin. “Let me show you the way,” he said.

  We talked, and flirted, and shared intimate gestures—the caress of a cheek, legs pressed close, his hand on my arm. He ordered a platter of nachos for us to share—an uncharacteristic dish for such a suave man, but we gulped it down like it was our last supper. He kissed me and let me fondle him briefly. Then he stood. “I must visit the restroom,” he said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He shook his head. “I am not interested in a sordid encounter in a men’s room, my beautiful Manuel. When I take you, it will be as you deserve.”

  I wanted to tell him that what I deserved was the chance to suck his dick or have him fuck my ass, but I could tell he was serious. When he returned from the men’s room, he said, “Sadly, I must leave you now. But I hope you will allow me to take you to dinner one evening so we can continue to get to know each other.”

  “I’d like you to take me to dinner,” I said. “But more than that, I’d like you to take me to bed.”

  “All in good time, my boy.” We walked out to the parking lot together. I was hoping for at least a kiss in the dark, but he said, “I’ll call you,” and got into his car.

  I drove home with a serious case of blue balls. I didn’t think I’d been so sexually frustrated since high school, when I lusted hopelessly for my gym teacher, Mr. Napolitano, who poured his hunky body into tight shorts and T-shirts and liked to blow his whistle at us boys. I remembered hurrying home to jerk off to thoughts of Mr. Nap asking me to stay after school for extra practice, then ravaging me in the shower. I almost had to pull off the highway and pound one out, but I held back until I was home.

  I rushed into the bathroom as soon as I walked in. I peed copiously, then started to pull on my dick, which stiffened. I closed my eyes and remembered being next to Roberto, smelling him, feeling his leg against mine, leaning over and kissing him. The problem was when I tried to remember his face, the only one I could see was Walter Loredo’s.

  It didn’t matter; I jerked myself off to a magnificent orgasm and collapsed into bed without saying anything to Larry or Gavin.

  Site Work

  By that Monday morning, after I’d been working at Loredo for a month, I started to feel like I belonged out at the construction site. I watched the walls being placed to sheathe the steel exoskeleton of warehouse one and the completion of the steel for warehouse two. I knew my way around the site, knew all the names of the foremen and which trades they belonged to.

  My biggest problem was Camilo. He had taken a dislike to me, starting that first day when he criticized my clothes, and it was difficult to deal with him when I had to make changes to the sitework schedule. I could count on Adrian to make suggestions when something slipped that was under his control, but Camilo was combative every time I asked about a problem.

  Camilo never had the information I needed at hand—he was always promising to get it to me later. When I made suggestions, he sneered, even if he ended up accepting them. Behind my back I heard him make derogatory comments about me—I had tiny huevos or balls; I sat down to take a piss; I had a pinga, or dick, like a needle; I liked to take it up the ass.

  The only one of those that was true was that I did like a stiff dick up my ass —but I wouldn’t admit that to Camilo. His most common greeting was “Fuck you,” to which, I learned, the correct response was “You’ll never go back to dogs.”

  I wasn’t accustomed to that kind of casual sexual profanity, and I admit that it made my dick stand up and salute. It was a struggle sometimes to mumble out my question, then, with a shaking hand, scribble down his response. I’d hurry back to my office, desperate to jerk off in the john. But the trailer was rickety and the walls paper thin, and if you spent too long on the toilet, somebody was always banging on the door, accusing you of beating your meat.

  It didn’t help matters that by the middle of June, most of the workmen on-site were shirtless, many of them wearing shorts so tight they were molded to sculpted asses. There was more testosterone and muscle mass on the site than you’d find in any city gym, and the guys were always teasing each other about pieces of ass, about dick size and stamina.

  Taco22, the graffiti artist, had shown up over the weekend. But in addition to the usual crap, he had sprayed Manuelito es un lavahuevos on a steel beam on the ground, waiting to be lifted into place. There was no mistaking that I was the Manuelito he meant. He was accusing me of being a ball-licker—usually translated as a brown-noser. But I had a feeling the literal meaning was the one it was meant to convey.

  Walter found me outside, staring at the beam. “Don’t take it personally, Manny,” he said, clapping me on the back. “Consider it a rite of passage. You’re one of the guys.”

  I was so upset I didn’t even register his touch. “Yeah, great.” He walked off to talk to Adrian, and I continued my walk around the property. When I got out to where the pump was working on draining the swamp, I saw that Taco22 had been out there too—and he’d sprayed Manny es un chupapollas on the side of the concrete catch basin, where the pump drained. Manny is a cocksucker.

  Everybody driving past the site could see it when the gate was open, and we’d have to drain the basin and let the concrete dry before we could paint over it.


  For the first time, I considered that our graffiti artist was someone connected with the site. How would anyone outside know my name or have any suspicions about me? I thought about it that evening, and the next morning I waited until the meeting had broken up to rap lightly on the door frame to Walter’s office. “Got a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure, come on in.” He motioned me to the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”

  “I think maybe our graffiti artist is somebody who works here.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The thing yesterday. About me. How would Taco22 know who I am?”

  Walter waved his hand. “You’re not the only Manny in the world. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Yeah, but there’s another one,” I said. “Calling me a chupapollas.”

  I could tell that Walter knew what the slur meant. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll bring it up at lunch.”

  “I don’t want to call attention to it. You know how it is—when you make a big deal out of something, it gets a life of its own.”

  He nodded. “You’re probably right. But make sure both of those get covered up today. Talk to Camilo—he’ll handle it for you.”

  Yeah, not gonna happen, I thought. “I don’t need to bother him. I’ll talk to Jorge myself.” Jorge was the painting superintendent, and I had to see if he needed more of the graffiti-resistant paint anyway.

  “That works,” Walter said.

  I spoke to Jorge about covering up the graffiti. “Walter wants it done today,” I said. “You have enough paint?”

  He didn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah, got enough,” he said. “For now.”

  That wasn’t good, I thought as I walked back to the trailer. Did Jorge know who was behind the graffiti? Or did he believe that it would go on as long as I continued to work there?

  That afternoon I was out on-site with Walter, the two of us looking like twins in our matching polo shirts and khakis. “What do you think of this form work?” he asked, pointing to the way a workman had laid out the wooden forms for the grade beams—short walls of poured concrete—for warehouse three.

  “Doesn’t look strong enough to me,” I said. “Seems like the concrete might blow the forms out unless they’re real careful.”

  Walter nodded. “You’re learning,” he said. He crossed his hairy forearms over his chest and smiled. “Go over and tell Camilo.”

  Fuck me, I thought. I didn’t want to get into an argument with Camilo in front of Walter. But I had to man up and do what I was told. The last thing I wanted was for Walter to think I was a wimp.

  “Hey, Camilo,” I said as I approached him. He was looking at an order form on his clipboard, and the way he was concentrating on the numbers made him look like one of those cartoon characters with a thought bubble coming out of his head.

  “I’m busy,” he said in Spanish. He was the only one of the supers who forced me to speak Spanish.

  “The forms on the northwest corner of warehouse three…”

  He didn’t even let me finish. “No jodas conmigo,” he said, which, loosely translated, meant “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “Yo te piso,” I said—matching him expletive for expletive. In slang, I told him that I was on top of him—the way a rooster mounts a chicken. I switched to English, just to further piss him off. “The forms over there are crap, and they’re going to blow out as soon as you start to pour. Don’t fuck up my schedule by being a mariquita. Vete a hacer puñetas and get them fixed.”

  I turned and stalked back to Walter, who was grinning broadly. He looked so damned handsome that I wanted to walk right up and kiss him on the lips. “Muy cojonudo,” he said. Very ballsy.

  I shrugged and my face reddened. “I’ll check on the forms later this afternoon and see if it worked.”

  “You’re turning into a hell of a good worker, Manny,” Walter said, and I looked up and met his gaze. If I’d seen a man look at me that way in a gay bar, I’d have dragged him to the men’s room, or the back room, immediately. Instead I just blushed more, and Walter laughed.

  He was so natural with the men who worked for him, ruffling one guy’s hair, patting another one on the back, smiling and charming them into working late, rerouting a cable or a conduit, carting the debris out to the Dumpster. The guys liked and respected him and wanted to do a good job for him. I did too.

  I wanted to do a lot more than just be a good worker, but if that broad grin was all I could ever get from Walter Loredo, I’d take it.

  I went back out late in the afternoon to see if Camilo had followed my instructions. I let out a deep breath when I saw that the bad formwork was gone and a couple of laborers were redoing it. I lingered there for a minute, overhearing the workmen as they complained about the way Camilo had reamed them out for shoddy workmanship the first time around.

  When I turned around to leave, Camilo was there. “I know you’re Loredo’s little butt boy,” he said in a guttural whisper. “I’m watching you.” He turned and strode away.

  My heart was racing. Had I been trying too hard to cozy up to Walter Loredo? Did the guys on the site take that for something sexual between us?

  Not that I’d mind, I thought as I walked back to the trailer. But I was sure Walter would. I’d never heard him make the kind of nasty comments about gay men that Camilo and some of the other supers did. But that didn’t mean he’d want those kinds of things said about him.

  The next afternoon, I was working in the trailer when Nilda, the real estate agent Walter had hired to lease the warehouse space, showed up to talk to Walter. He was busy, so she was hanging around with Estefani as I walked out to the reception area. She was a hard-looking Latina in her forties, with long, coral-painted fingernails and lacquered hair in an unnatural shade of red. “I’m getting a new appreciation for backs,” she said as I passed.

  “What do you mean?” Estefani asked.

  I couldn’t help overhearing, because I was looking for a file in the cabinet next to Estefani’s desk.

  “Los descamisados,” Nilda said. The shirtless ones. “Smooth backs I want to lick like ice cream. Tattoos I want to trace with my fingernails. Even the hairy ones give you something to grab on to.”

  Estefani giggled. “Oh, Nilda, you’re terrible.”

  “No, you mean, ‘Oh, Nilda, you’re old,’” Nilda said. “You wait until you get to be my age, mi pequeña. You’ll appreciate the chance to see a half-naked man.”

  Estefani leaned closer to her, but I could still hear. “Last Friday, a couple of the guys were playing with the hose,” she said.

  I remembered that. The plumbers had been testing a new main for warehouse one when it sprang a leak. The plumbing super, a beefy, dark-skinned Haitian guy named Pierre, scrambled to shut it off, but by the time he did, he was soaked through. He’d been wearing a pair of cheap denim overalls and a T-shirt, and the material was plastered against his skin.

  I’d been wondering about Pierre—was he one of those big guys on whom even an average-sized dick looked tiny? Or did he have the meat to match his frame?

  My question had been answered when he turned toward me. A very respectable-sized sausage had been outlined against his groin. My dick had jumped in response.

  The other four plumbers, a mix of black and Spanish guys, all had guffawed at him. Pierre had grabbed a hose and turned the water on, soaking them. It had been a hot, humid day, and I’d wanted to run over and romp under Pierre’s hose. Too bad I was management.

  “It was like watching a porno movie,” Estefani whispered to Nilda. “All those guys with their clothes soaking.”

  I wondered what kind of movies Estefani watched.

  Nilda barked with laughter. “What happened then?”

  “All the guys peeled off their soaking T-shirts,” Estefani said. Nilda leaned closer to her, and I couldn’t hear anything else they said, but there was a lot of giggling going on.

  One of the plumbers, Marcelino, was about thirty and a real hunk. He’d had a weight
y tool belt around his waist, and when he pulled off his shirt, I got a good look at the top of his ass crack, sparkling with water in the bright sunshine. I had to resist the urge to go over to him and stick my tongue right there.

  The memory made me hard. I got the folder I needed, placed it strategically over my crotch, and went back to my office.

  For the rest of the week, I was careful about how I worked with Walter. I made sure not to follow him too much, not to be such a puppy dog around him. I skulked behind walls, overhearing what guys said after I walked away, trying to see if everyone felt the way Camilo did.

  Most of the supers didn’t pay much attention to me unless I was asking a question, and most of the workmen thought of me as just another manager in a hard hat. A couple of times I overheard Camilo make cracks about me, but never in conjunction with Walter.

  Our graffiti artist continued to make random visits, always a mix of his tag, Taco22, and sexual innuendos. Even Walter got accustomed to it, as long as we got the tags covered up quickly.

  * * * *

  During the week, I got a couple of texts from Roberto, the guy I had met at the FU alumni event. Innocuous messages like thinking of you or stay dry (on a day when it was raining). I replied in kind. But by Friday I’d had enough. I texted him to ask if I would see him that weekend. By see I meant see him naked—but I hoped I didn’t have to spell that out.

  He called me that afternoon when I was out on-site, and as I answered my cell I walked over to the shade of one of the few trees, a tall, spreading ficus. From there I could keep an eye on the site but also have some privacy.

  “How are you, mi amorcito?” he asked.

  “Horny. Are you going to do something about that?”

  He laughed. “Your generation gets right to the point. I prefer a more seductive approach.”

  “Your seductive approach last week left me with blue balls, jerking off in my bathroom.”

  “We can’t have that again,” he said. “If you will meet me for dinner tomorrow night, I guarantee you will not depart unsatisfied.”

  I felt a shiver of anticipation, and my dick stiffened. “Where and when?”