Coffee Tops Survey of Guilty Pleasures

The newspaper was calling it "The Cup of _______ Contest." We'd spent the last few weeks talking to coffee drinkers, latte enthusiasts, cappuccino connoisseurs, and everyone in between to discover the best coffee shops and coffeehouses in the city. We'd been interviewing grocers, importers, pastry chefs, hotel and inn managers, college cafeteria workers, vending machine companies, and dozens more to establish a city guide to all the "hotspots" that feature this magic, bitter bean in food and drink ... even cosmetics and spa treatments. And the newspaper had even created a Web site to help promote this contest which would basically make 10 businesses and people into local coffee legends.

So I was sitting at Millie's House of Mud ... casually called "The Mud" ... a local coffeehouse run by a retired hippie-turned-entrepreneur. The place had been in business for close to a decade and was very trendy with walls of mocha-colored stucco and exposed brick accented by dark trim and heavy beams across the ceiling ... many supporting chandeliers made from old coffee and tea services. Seating at The Mud was mismatched and overstuffed, reminiscent of everyone's favorite Grandma's house. There was one main room which contained the counter/order area, bakery case, and various prep stations. Other smaller galleries flowed off of the central space, providing secluded nooks coveted by local book clubs, senior citizen groups, and the occasional college late-night study group. Additionally, there was about a dozen cute umbrellaed tables outside for those who enjoy a blend of boisterous conversation and coffee alfresco.

But whatever room you're in ... even the great outdoors ... you couldn't escape the exotic and intoxicating smells of rich coffee, unique herbal concoctions, and wonderful pastries baked on-site by the owner's daughter, Turquoise. Personally, I was half surprised the daughter hadn't killed her mother in her sleep to repay her for the stupid weed-induced name. But according to an editor at my paper, until she turned 30 Millie was known to all as "Sunbeam" ... maybe Turquoise felt her mother had paid her dues!

Anyway, the vibe at The Mud was calm and slow. There was artwork all over the place ... paintings, mixed media pieces, baskets, pottery, and more ... made by friends of Millie's from all over the country. And it was all for sale at very reasonable prices. I had an interview scheduled with Millie in about an hour, but I arrived early to soak up the atmosphere. And if I could slip it into the conversation, I was also going to ask her about the possibility of placing a "hold" on the abstract canvas in the far corner of the main seating area ... it was a little steep for me right then, but it was gorgeous and I wanted it bad.

This was the fifteenth or sixteenth "espresso" interview I'd been assigned over the duration of the contest, and part of my "attack strategy" was to arrive early and enjoy a plain cup of rich coffee. I'd been slinging back java since I was about 16. I wouldn't consider myself an "addict," but every once in a while I needed a fix of the bitter brew to get me going. I also used my early arrival to watch how customers and employees interacted ... acquiring a sense of whether the environment was formal and no-nonsense or fun and laid back. The Mud was all about being casual but at the same time efficient and customer-focused. And I noticed that a good deal of the crowd was young. I'm gonna have to start hanging out here, I said to myself. There might be some frazzled college boys or stressed businessmen who need to work off some tension. And like always, my dick nodded its agreement in my pants.

Settling back, I took a sip of my coffee. The hot liquid jolted my system with both layered flavor and caffeine. I casually blew steam away from my mug when I noticed a man sitting a few tables over giving me the once-over and then dropping his eyes like there was something of great interest in his cup. He was maybe 20 feet away, dressed casually in worn jeans and a short-sleeved cotton shirt ... a soft blue that made his lustrous skin all the more clear and healthy looking. He was probably in his early 30s ... a few years older than me ... with a nicely-styled head of light brown hair. His nose had a "pug" appearance and I wasn't able to peg his eye color. The patron's forearms ... dusted with darker brown hairs ... flexed as he lifted his cup to his full, rough lips. He continued to stare at its contents intently. Since I wasn't going anywhere, I kept my gaze glued in his direction.

After a moment or two, his eyes flickered in my direction. I delivered a warm smile with a crinkling of my hazel eyes ... my "hey, sailor" look. His own eyes widened a bit, but he glanced back at the contents of his own table ... a folder newspaper and a plate that appeared to contain the crumbs of a long-gone muffin or biscotti.

Thinking this was more of a case of mistaken identity than an ongoing flirtation, I looked away and my eyes began wandering around the store, taking in the eclectic decor and even-more eclectic clientele. Now that I was more focused, I saw that, although The Mug was not what I called busy, its patronage ranged from 17 to around 70 and appeared to cross all kinds of demographic lines. One table had a babyboomer family complete with two high school-aged children sucking down dark brew. Another corner hosted a group of young female professionals, maybe taking their "coffee break" away from the confines of their office. And there was an elderly gentleman in a track suit ... a pair of middle-aged gentleman playing chess and probably cheating on their diets with some plum fritters. It was like old-time Ellis Island, but with piping hot macchiatos and spicy gingerbread lattes.

It was in this stupor of people watching that I was roused by a tap on my shoulder. "Excuse me," a honey-warm voice pealed, "but is your name Aaron?" I looked up into bright green eyes that seemed familiar. I hadn't noticed when the staring stud from earlier crossed over to my table. He was taller and huskier than I had originally estimated, but it was the bulk of heavy muscle. His chest was really stretching the fabric of his shirt, and small projections clearly marked a pair of aroused nipples.

"Yeah, I'm Aaron. And I gotta apologize up front because you do seem familiar, but I just can't seem to get your face to ring any bells in my brain." I worked up a smile to hopefully keep him from being offended in case he was some guy I'd met at a party and blown in a back bedroom, or a friend of a friend I'd been introduced to at a club and made out with. Man, please don't let me be "that guy," I shrieked in my head, the one who has so many meaningless encounters ... high double digits and counting ... that he starts forgetting names and details.

"That's okay," he responded, mirroring my smile with those sultry lips and a hint of perfect teeth. "It's been a while since we've seen each other." His smile took on a bit of slyness. "Would I be ringing a bell if I said the name Derek Dumbaugh?"

I wished I'd had the brassiness to say something like, No, my brain isn't ringing but my 8-inch prick is buzzing like a sonuvabitch! But the name was ringing a bell and my breath caught in my chest as I made the connection. "Derek ... Derek from Pine Street," I sputtered. "I haven't seen you for, like, a million years. I thought you lived in ..."

"Dayton ... yeah, I do ... I'm just down for the day helping Mom and Dad with a little home repair project. Dad still thinks he can do everything himself, so Mom calls me on the sly and has me just 'stop by' when things need done."

I thought about standing and shaking his hand, but instead I indicated the chair opposite me. He hesitated just a fraction of second but then slid gracefully into the proffered seat. "That's very nice, you helping out like that. Do you get a chance to see any old friends when you're in town?"

"Some ... there's a few couples we get together with a few times a year. Mostly, though, it's just to see the parents, or hit The Mud for a 'Funky Monkey.' Nobody in Dayton can do it justice." I, of course, asked what it was and he explained that the glass still sitting over at his table was a mixture of coffee, bananas, and a vanilla bean protein powder. He could have told me it was a glass of dog shit and dandelions ... I just wanted him to keep talking so I could memorize how much of a stud he had turned into.

I asked a few perfunctory questions about his life and he fell easily into his post-high school story. "You remember JoEllen Frasier, don't you? She was a cheerleader. We both went to Ohio State after graduation. We kept running into each other and soon study groups and barhopping turned into dating. The next thing you know, we were ..."

The words kept pouring out of Derek, and I just smiled and nodded at what I hoped were close-to-appropriate moments. I really wasn't seeing 30-year-old Derek anymore. I had rewound time and was seeing a much younger Derek ... the only child of a dentist and a florist who lived two houses over from me when I was a kid. In my mind, the seat before me wasn't held by a ruggedly handsome man but was occupied by my good childhood friend whom I spent countless summer and autumn nights with catching lightning bugs and playing hide 'n' seek ... huddled close and trying not to give our position away to the older kids. I saw the strong boy who went sledding with me at Nichols Park in the winter, and whose family hosted neighborhood ping pong tournaments for the kid and helped my parents and a few others with an annual Halloween haunted house. I also replayed memories of Derek and me building a tree house ... really a platform designed to kill children ... high in a pine tree that bordered his yard. Scenes zipped by of me going to the zoo with Derek's family and him to the big waterpark with mine, of the two of us ruining my Dad's favorite poker deck by putting the cards in the spokes of our bikes to look and sound cool, and the time we climbed on top of an old factory and got yelled at by cops that never did catch us.

But the recollection that really figuratively punched me in the gut ... and the nads ... was a day about three weeks before my fifth birthday. It was a typical winter day and we were playing outside. I was bragging about how my Mom was making me a cake in the shape of the U.S.S. Enterprise for my party ... old-school, not the "Next Generation" piece of shit ... and we ended up wandering into his parent's garage. His dad had an old sports car he occasionally pulled out on their driveway and "futzed" with, but usually it just sat underneath a car cover. The weather was turning windy and colder, so we crawled under the big tarp, me still blustering about the gifts I was hoping to get for my birthday. I know some cross words were exchanged, but the actual details are fuzzy. Regardless of the circumstances, I found myself kneeling on the Dumbaugh's cold cement garage floor and Derek shed his coat and gloves, dropped his pants and underwear, and presented me with his little pud. He was six ... a grade ahead of me in school ... and I was fascinated with his little dangling pee pee. I had one myself, of course, but Derek's penis was a mystery that my little brain wanted to explore. To hold. To taste.

Long story short, I blew him. I remembered that Derek did get kind of hard as I sucked and after a few minutes he pushed me away with a good deal of force. I sat there in the cold, dim garage ... enshrouded in a musty canvas tarp ... and watched him piss a small puddle that caused a burst of pungent steam to fill the enclosed space. After he was finished, a few drops of urine still clung to his prick. In the near dark, I could just discern him looking at me ... waiting. I took him in my mouth again, loving the sour, salty tang of his post-kindergarten meat.

I'm not sure how long I continued to suckle that little sprig, but I definitely remembered the sound of the door between the Dumbaugh's garage and their mudroom opening and his dad calling his name. I froze ... my eyes huge with fear and my juvenile bowels considering an unpleasant "fight or flight" response. I never understood why, but Derek called out a reply to his father. In the time it took his dad to cross the garage, shimmy around his vintage vehicle, and pull up the car cover, Derek had his clothes back in place. We claimed we were looking for ants and spiders hiding from the cold so we could kill them. Mr Dumbaugh told us to get the hell out of the garage and go play.

Things were suddenly different between us after that day. Derek always had excuses why he couldn't play. Also, that year in school we each bonded to a group of friends our own age. And my family moved across town so the neighborhood wiffle ball games became a thing of the past. We hardly spoke in high school ... him heavy into football and baseball and me working hard on the school newspaper and running cross country.

"Aaron ... hey, Aaron ... I asked you if you remembered all the crazy stuff we did as kids."

"Huh?," I mumbled, my mouth dry and my thoughts brittle with longing for simpler times. "What did you say?"

"I said that running into you got me thinking about when we were kids ..." His deep voice trailed off with a quirky smile playing on his face.

"Really?" I prompted.

"Sure ... you were such a wild kid! I remember that one time ..." My heart pounded in my chest and my dick was really straining ... I wasn't wearing any underwear and it felt like I was leaking gobs down there, "you beat the shit out of my Dad's tomato plants. He was so pissed! I don't think you were allowed back in our yard ... or me over at your house ... for like two weeks!"

Yeah, I did remember. It was the summer before our "hook-up." Derek's dad had really been into gardening and he had won several blue ribbons at the local community festival for his tomatoes. One early evening ... it was still plenty light out ... I went over there to tell Derek that my father was going to make us both rubber band guns. They were supposedly safe but still hurt like hell. I knocked on the door and Mr. Dumbaugh answered. He was a shorter man with bushy eyebrows and intense eyes. He could look scary, especially to a little kid. I asked for my friend but his dad said that Derek was busy with chores and couldn't play. "And tomorrow we're going to Derek's grandpa's house, so I don't know when he'll be over," his father stated, "but I'll tell him you stopped by." And with that, he closed the door. Something about his father's attitude got me steamed in a big-boy way, I recalled. As I stepped off their patio, I noticed the Dumbaugh's croquet set in it's neat little rack. Without considering the consequences, I removed a mallet and systematically bashed six out of eight tomato plants to pulp and salad fixins.

I chuckled at the memory. "He was royally steamed! I remember thinking that he was actually gonna smack me as he dragged me over to my house to tell my parents what I'd done. My dad had to buy new tomato plants for your old man and it slowly came out of my allowance money."

"Crazy times," muttered Derek, and then the conversation sort of petered out. He fidgeted a little ... I fidgeted a lot. "Well, it was really nice seeing you," he said as he climbed to his feet, "but I need to get a move-on." I stood and shook his hand; he clasped me on the shoulder with the other hand and then retreated back to his table. He stood there, I assumed collecting his newspaper or leaving a tip on the table for the bussers. I took a moment to memorize the way his beefy ass filled out his loose-fitting jeans.

Resigned to enjoy the 40 minutes or so I had before meeting the coffeehouse owner, I turned toward a nearby window and let my mind fade into the shadows of more pleasant childhood memories. The streaming afternoon sunlight then suddenly dimmed by an interceding shape. It was Derek standing at my table. He looked intense ... almost a little scared. He said nothing, just placed a scrap of paper on my table and then moved toward the back of the business ... not toward the exit.

My eyes followed his path for a few seconds then lowered to take in the torn piece of newspaper laying before me. I picked it up carefully ... like it was the most delicate thing in the universe ... and read the hastily scribbled command ... MEET ME IN THE BATHROOM. I swallowed painfully.

Without really thinking, I grabbed my messenger bag off the chair to my immediate right and walked up to the register. Once I got the attention of the cashier ... a trim 20 year old brunette with way too much mascara ... I explained that I was meeting Millie for a newspaper interview shortly and asked her if she could put my bag behind the counter while I "freshened up."

"Sure, mister ... I'm here all afternoon. Just come up and I'll get it for you." She ducked to place my bag in a cubby beneath the cash register. I thanked her over my shoulder as I hurried toward the restrooms.

I arrived in a dimly-lit hallway huffing in breathy anticipation. There were two wooden doors with gleaming silver handles ... one for men marked with a graphic of a simple-but-steaming cup of black coffee, and another for women decorated with a picture of a fancy coffee drink with loads of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. Here's hoping I can put a little "cream" in the men's room, I joked in my buzzing brain. I tapped on the door gently and received no reply. I tried the handle ... it turned so I opened the door and entered.

The bathroom was one large, off-white room with a toilet in the far right corner and a mirror-sink assembly just inside the door. In the left corner was a few stacked boxes of cleaning supplies and a cube-like plastic tote marked "miscellaneous." A large prominent drain sat in the middle of an unattractive gray-tiled floor. Not exactly a picture for a Health Department poster, I thought, but who the fuck cares. Because the truly seriously prominent thing in the room was hunky Derek sitting on the closed toilet seat with his pants and underwear around his ankles sporting a thickening, uncut beauty!

"Oh, fuck, Aaron ... I'm not sure what the hell I'm doing, but ever since I recognized you sitting there, I keep thinking about that day in the garage when we were little. I'm so hard and so fuckin' horny. I don't know what you're ..."

I just held up a finger to my lips and engaged the lock on the back of the doorknob. "It's okay, Derek ... we were just kids then. But I'm an adult now and I can handle a quick 'moment' with an old friend." I paused and then added, "can you?!"

He didn't really answer, or if he did I didn't notice ... I was pulling the plastic tote over to where he sat. Once arranged, I sat down myself and leaned over closer to get a better look at Derek's impressive rod. It was like a column of cafe au lait-hued marble rising from wiry brown pubes, equally thick at the head and the base. Probably nine inches in length and snaked with tiny veins, Derek's cock bobbed in the air ... hot and twitching ... between two powerful thighs dusted with brown fur. As he spread his legs wider, the sinews beneath his skin flexed and played. "Please, Aaron ... I need this so bad!"

I met his eyes and we shared a deep, unspoken intimacy. Then I lowered my mouth over Derek's wet dickhead and slowly used my tongue to tickle and lick the spongy flesh. "Ahhhh, fuck ... fuck yeah!" Derek moaned. "That's soooooo good. Soooo ... shit, yeah!" I listened to his profanities and worked myself farther down his thick shaft, enjoying the deep funk that eminated from his groin. With my left hand, I explored Derek's nuts ... very furry and smaller than I would have expected for a dude with such a massive member. As I cradled and squeezed the delicate chestnuts, I opened my own pants to free my agitated dick.

While I stroked my pre-cum down my length, Derek took hold of his cock at its base, isolating the now plum-colored crown. I increased my sucking action, making Derek shake with little convulsions as I ravaged his sensitive head and piss slit. I noticed that as he sat there and pushed his pelvis toward my eager suckhole, Derek's hairy asscrack occasionally lifted up exposing a deeper recess that had to be his hole. On one such occurance, I snaked a finger out and snagged it in the fold of his crinkled anus. "Noooo," he hissed and batted my hand away in a not-very-playful way. I went back to work on his cock, applying a bit of force myself by squeezing his thighs until the skin around my fingers is turning white. Derek winced and moved his hands away from his dick. In response, I took a few more inches of cock into the back of my mouth, narrowly avoiding the activation of my gag reflex.

I suckled Derek's prick for a minute or two more before he grabbed my head and pushed me back and slightly upward. "You gotta slow down, Aaron ... if you don't I'm gonna cum in your mouth."

"And that's a problem how?" I cheekily panted. He looked at me disapprovingly, but allowed me to take him back in. Not more than 30 or 40 seconds later, Derek forced me away again. "Oh, fuck, I'm gonna nut! I'm gonna ... aggghhhhh, aaahhhhhh ... AGGHHH!!!!!" He leaned back and I began pulling his dick in long, rough strokes. I actually saw his slit pulse and gape and then Derek proceeded to dribble a thick jizz load all over the floor tiles, nearly dousing his pants and briefs.

While Derek caught his breath, I rose to stretch the muscles in my lower back. My semi was still hanging from my open pants, so I gave it a few tender yanks. I saw that Derek had also stood and hitched up his clothing, not bothering to wipe up his cum-covered dong. No words had passed between us, so I began to drag the tote back to its original location. Sorry, Little Spike, I silently said to my waiting wiener, guess playtime is over!

Suddenly, my world tilted wildly as something knocked into me, forcing me into a sprawl on top of the storage container. I twisted into an approximation of a sitting positon and realized that Derek was crouched before me. He touched my chest, feeling the upgrade in my heart rate. Without looking directly at me, he tentatively moved his face closer to my dick. And then Derek froze. I looked down and saw that his neck muscles were twitching and his eyes were closed like he was communing with a higher power ... or a lower one. I was perplexed ... I was horny but I didn't want to force this guy into something he couldn't handle. And I WAS NOT going to beg. This is soooooo not how I saw this playing out, I said to myself.

Then, with no warning, the man who was probably my very first man crush, dove onto my cock with complete adandon. "FFFUUUUUCCCKKKKK!!," I literally screamed. Derek had no technique ... hell, he probably had no frame of reference ... but there was lots of slobber and enthusiasm and mumbled curses and loads of pent-up aggression and desire.

Derek worked up a good sweat, beads appeared on his forehead and in the neckline of his collar. He was also gagging on my prick, which just made me coo and moan more fervently. After a few more minutes of his handiwork, I politely told him that I was ready to blow ... I figured I'd show him the same courtesy. But Derek didn't move away. If anything, his lips clamped down more tightly around my pecker and he forced his face into my almost-nonexistent pubic patch. With another yell, I erupted and shot blast after blast of "white love" into his mouth. I watched his throat working as he gobbled my essense down, and his little squeaks and groans encouraged me to raise up and force my dick deeper.

Soon my parade of tadpoles dwindled and Derek sat back and caught my eyes. He was a mess ... eyes red and watery, and his nose was running like he had a major summer cold. Looking at him, I was so incredibly turned on. I gently clutched his chin and jaw to hold him immobile, leaning in for a kiss. We were so close ... our lips actually touching and I detected the scent of my own junk on his hot breath ... when I felt his body tense and his mouth slipped to the side. I still had his head in my hand and was about to reposition him so I could reestablish eye contact when the restroom door handle jiggled. A quick knock followed and the moment passed.

A few beats later, Derek and I exited the bathroom; most of his goo was off the tiled floor. The man waiting outside the door was surprised to see two people exiting the room, but his lavatory needs outweighted his interest because he ducked quickly inside.

I walked deliberately back into the main coffeehouse; Derek trailed a bit behind. I was hoping he would sit again and talk for awhile but his attention was immediately drawn to the young female cashier and one of her male co-workers. They were looking in our general direction and whispering conspiratorially. They could have been talking about anything, but I could see by the pained expression on Derek's face that he was sure their conversation was about us and our recent tryst. Without a further glance, he walked silently past me and left the building.

I stood motionless, guilt and satisfaction warring in my head. I absently patted my pocket and smiled, knowing I'd always cherish the little scrap of newspaper crumpled inside and the memory it would bring to mind.

HEADLINE: Coffee Top Survey of Guilty Pleasures