Papi - J. P. Barnaby.pdf

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Papi |
J.P. Barnaby
2
Papi
W
HAT
the fuck am I doing here?
Kyle Lang surveyed the street with distaste. The area
was rundown, almost like a warehouse district. Grimy
buildings, faded paint peeling with age, stood as silent
witnesses to the street‟s illegal and immoral goings-on.
A
woman in a short, slinky electric blue skirt and jacket looked
around quickly before grabbing her latest score from the
dealer and slapping bills into his outstretched, dirty hand.
Shoving them quickly into a large bag, she walked away on
four-inch heels. As his car rolled along the stretch of road,
he moved slowly around vehicles parked against the curb.
The occupants of one parked car, a jacked-up Honda, leaned
out of the window and leered at a couple of working girls.
It had been nearly a year since his old lady had split,
taking their two kids and moving in with her mother. She
had called him “emotionally unavailable” during the divorce,
and Kyle didn‟t contest that. He thought that “not remotely
attracted” would have summed it up a little better, but he
was rid of her, and that was really all that mattered. Though
he would miss the boys, they were probably better off
without him. Better for his ex to find someone else and get
married again to give them a real home, a real family. Kyle
just wasn‟t a family guy.
Kyle had gone out during the last year and fucked his
share of barflies. Each of them wanted more than he wanted
to give. They all wanted “the dream”. Apparently, they didn‟t
know that there was no fucking dream. There was no cute
little house, no white picket fence. That was the bullshit
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J.P. Barnaby
3
guys told girls to get them to give it up. He was surprised
that half of them still believed it.
The last month, however, he hadn‟t hooked up
with
anyone.
The thirty-five-year-old with the salt-and-pepper hair
and the nice body, who always scored with the women in his
neighborhood bars, had decided he wanted something
different. After years of carefully concealed stares at the gym
and lingering around the locker room, Kyle decided to be
honest with himself and explore the possibility that he might
be attracted to men. The normally confident Kyle was
shaken, but it didn‟t matter. After four weekends of fruitless
attempts to hook up at various gay bars near his home, he
felt old and out of touch. At least at the straight bars, he
recognized the classic rock blaring from the speakers. In the
gay clubs, he was completely out of his element, as if he
were on a different planet. Their hair, their clothes, their
tight hot little bodies rubbing and grinding against each
other, had been a completely foreign experience.
When the car rolled farther up the street, Kyle saw what
he was looking for.
Rolling down the window on his beat-to-hell Ford, Kyle
scanned the few young men who mingled with the women
trying to score a “date” from passing cars. A few of them
looked strung out, like tweaked out little meth queens, high
on shit they probably scored from a john in return for sex—a
blow for a blow. One of the guys actually tried to pass for a
girl; too bad for him he didn‟t own a scarf to cover up the
prominent Adam‟s apple. Just a few feet away stood a boy
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J.P. Barnaby
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helping one of the girls into a jacket. She was a hot little
mamacita
with black, wavy hair and very long legs. Kyle
could only see her from the back, a tight little ass wiggling
under a too-tight jean skirt. As he watched from his car, she
turned around, and he would have bet anything that she
was a popular girl. The pair both had sweet, heart-shaped
faces and full, pouting lips. In fact, the boy and girl were too
similar not to be related; it wouldn‟t have surprised Kyle to
find out that they were brother and sister. The boy spoke
quietly as the girl walked toward the car in front of Kyle‟s. A
tender expression
passed across the kid‟s face as
the girl
stepped into the car.
“¡Texto
que me tarde!”
the boy called as the car sped off,
pausing briefly at the stoplight on the corner before turning
left and out of sight. His shoulders fell as the boy watched
where the car had been. Shoulder-length black waves framed
his face, appearing angelic by the moon‟s light, a sharp
contrast to his mouth, which looked like it was just made for
sin. Without any trouble at all, Kyle could imagine those
sweet lips wrapped around
his cock while the boy‟s innocent
eyes looked up at him through those long lashes. His face
was clean-shaven,
and Kyle‟s gaze followed the smooth lines
of the younger man‟s throat to the top of his chest, clearly
visible above a tight black tank top that looked painted on.
As the boy turned and bent to grab a well-worn jacket
from the ground behind him, Kyle knew that he had found
exactly what he was looking for in the shape of the boy‟s
sweet rounded ass.
The focus of Kyle‟s keen attention turned then, almost
as if he knew that someone watched him. The boy may have
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J.P. Barnaby
5
blushed from the attention, but no hint of it showed on his
warm caramel skin. A street-like arrogance covered up the
raw innocence in the kid‟s face almost immediately.
“Hey,
papi,
you like what
you see?” the boy asked,
stretching his arms out to his sides and strutting toward the
car; the vulnerability that had been in his face only a
moment before was gone. Pulling up the front of his ribbed
tank top, which he‟d artfully ripped to match his battered
jeans, the boy ran a hand along his soft stomach and toyed
with the top button just below his navel. Slowly, he traced
the bare skin in a tiny circle, entrancing Kyle so that he
couldn‟t tear his gaze away.
“Yeah, I do,” Kyle replied, still watching
the incredibly
erotic trail of the boy‟s fingers as they strayed to the
waistband of his jeans. “What‟s your name, kid?”
“Jesse… you looking for someone to play with,
papi?”
the boy asked, letting his hand dip into his jeans, his eyes
never leaving Kyle‟s. The contrast between the innocence in
the boy‟s open expression and the blatant sexual behavior
made Kyle ache.
“How much?” Kyle asked, not wanting to play games.
His tongue flicked out to moisten his suddenly dry lips. The
zipper confining his interested cock started to get
uncomfortable. He wanted the boy in the car, and then he
wanted his dick down Jesse‟s throat.
“Depends on what you want. I got a place, if you wanna
go there. It‟s one-fifty
for the hour. If you want to stay in the
car, it‟s fifty for a blow and a hundred for a fuck,” Jesse
rattled off in a businesslike tone, and then added, “oh,

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