5:43 p.m.

It had been a whole hour and he was already horny again.  He knew the problem but worked himself through the denial about it:  his hand was not enough. Jacking his dick every day, sometimes several times a day, sometimes with the assistance of Juan, was not enough.  Teju needed physical contact, a hand other than his, a hole to slide his plump dick into, a tongue to lick his navel, a wet ass to smother his face for a spell.

              He pulled out his phone and opened up Scruff.  He scrolled through the app trying to find the thread he had been enjoying, the one with a very hot, older guy with a gray goatee, brown skin the same color all over with no deviation and a solid body.   They had been talking for a while.  Great conversation, everything from lack of racial equality to the corrosive way celebrity worship allowed Cosby and R. Kelly to go unchecked for so long.

              Then they got to sex talk.  This dude liked long lick downs with lots of physical chest to chest contact, off center a bit so that they could feel each other’s hearts beating. He wanted soft lighting and heat to make the sweat and cum glisten better. He wanted to lay around naked in afterglow and rub around in each other’s juices. 

              Teju liked all this talk. 

              He also liked the fact that this dude loved having safe sex. And was fine with Teju’s positive HIV status. After all, this was the reason Teju was loathe to meet anyone and do anything to begin with:  he had never quite gotten over the shame.  In fact, he had not even told anyone his status to experience the shame in front of another human being, so Teju was over himself for not having the courage to face shame.

              Maybe he would meet this dude. Maybe he would experience the candlelight, the lubricating body juices, everything.  

              There is one favor I need to ask you

              Sure thing.   Teju felt safe now. Anything was probably going to be okay.

              Will you go on me?

              Go on you? What do you mean?

              Will you just sit above me and let it all go.

              Teju was dumbfounded.  He couldn’t even type the word shit in the Scruff window.

              You mean defecate?


              Teju was crushed. Finally, a guy he had invested in, a guy who had a brain and stimulating conversation, and was open, too open maybe. And he wanted him to add poop to the experience. It didn’t even go with the other stuff.  The guy must have known that these thoughts were happening, or maybe he just judged that they might be based on the time it took Teju to think them.

              Come on man. Its totally natural

              Natural? Yeah but it’s not sexy. A placenta is natural too, but nobody wants to be bothered with it after the baby gets here, Teju thought. He still had not responded.

              I never get the issues with you guys / All I’m asking is for you to wait to do the same thing you would do anyway / its no big deal

              I gotta run. Let me think about it and get back to you

              Teju slid the phone across the table. It landed near the samples, vials.  This is when he noticed that he had left a few vials open, the last two that he had been working on.  

              He panicked. He stared in horror, wondering if any of his jizz made it anywhere in the area. Even a fraction of a drop would contaminate the results.  Teju’s eyes widened as he thought of all the protocols he had broken just to have video sex with “Juan,” not even considering the ones he broke in his actual job.  It shouldn’t have even been possible for him to expose the sample in the plate, or any of the liquid moved from pipette to tube because of the way it should be done. 

              He rushed over to investigate the samples, as if looking at them thoroughly could give him any answers.  Running the tests to look for HIV would not necessarily tell him whether a positive result would show his specific strain, or if the virus was simply there already. There were at least two samples that could have been ruined – one belonged to Judy Williamson, and the other to Rafelo Torres.

              Teju sighed. A feeling of complete failure came over him.  He wished he did not have the smarts to understand the irony: he was so adamant about not having sex so as not to endanger taking anyone through the pain of hearing they’re positive, only so that he could end up potentially creating that same result anyway.  He wondered if it was worse to hear it and then find out it’s not true than to find out that it is.   

              To tell a superior or even a colleague about this mix up would cost him his job, his entire career pursuit.

              He would have to get in touch with Judy Williamson somehow and urge her on the DL to take another test.  He also needed to figure out when Rafelo Torres was going to wake up. And he needed to be around to have this conversation.


9:45 a.m.

              It was a pretty straightforward gig. I just had to get the RFID tracker on the guy so that we could figure out who he was working for.

              This was becoming too big to chase and I have a full plate at the Bureau.  I figured I’d follow him one time and get the tracker in there so I could multi-task a bit, keep an eye on him remotely.

              After he got checked into the Salvia, I waited a while and tried to find him on Jack’d—that’s his favorite. I know gays have lots of options but that seems to be his go-to.  Good thing about GPS tracking is that he came up pretty fast because there wasn’t another punk closer to target him.

              The tricky part was that Jack’d takes longer.  Intel is that guys on Grindr, mostly white guys, they don’t take too much time. They mean business.  The bros on Jack’d don’t always hook up, barely talk, sometimes only talk.  But Torres must have be an exception, because I started the talk and he went for it.

              Hey bro



              Nice dick. White?

              Yeah. Croatian

              You close.

              Same hotel.  


              Scanned my mind for the shorthand:  JO = jack off, BJ = blow job, PNP = party and play.

              Jo, bj, finger bang, no pnp

              You giving the bj

              Taking one.  

              There was a breather there that made me think I would have to up my game.  People think fucking for work is always good when you’re an agent.  It’s not. I didn’t want to do any of this.  But sometimes it’s the best way to get the tracker on the target.  Started to come up with more bait but he came around before I had to.


              Yeah what room


              After he opened the door a crack to let me in, he closed it fast and backed up.  He was standing there naked with a bigger cock than mine, and that’s saying something.   

              “Take your pants off.”

              I pulled my pants off, not saying a word if I didn’t have to.  He looked at my cock and nodded.  Then he walked over to the bed, sat down and motioned for me to stand in front of him.  What happened next was some crazy shit.  He kind of fucked my cock with his mouth.   At first it was slow and thorough, and I gotta admit, it was right up there with some of the best blows I’ve ever had. But when he started raking me in with his face, it was top five for sure. Top three. I had to stop myself from coming.

              I grabbed my cock back, put it in my hands, motioned with the other one for him to turn over. My first thought was to find some lotion to use for fingering him, but after getting two in there he started lubricating himself. It was some crazy shit.  Kind of hot.   

But I hoped it wouldn’t make it hard for the tracker to stick.

My guy at the shop added more adhesive to make it bond with the inside flesh more, but I wasn’t sure it would even get up there.

“Oy papi.”

              Using my other hand with the tracker, I wedged it between two fingers, I slid it up in all that wetness, wetter than any cunt I’d had lately.  Almost lost the tracker too soon—it’s the size of a grain of rice.

              “Fuck that shit, my dude.”

              The job was done really, and I could have gotten out of there right then. But his command made sense for me too; if I fucked him, I could make sure to push the tracker up high enough. It would eventually run out of him, but not before the 24 hours I needed to find out the location of his donor pimp.

              I didn’t even have to ask for a jimmy.  Torres passed it to me before I could ask.

              Yeah, yeah, I kind of wanted to know what an ass wet as a cunt felt like too. This was as good an excuse as any. My dick wasn’t going down without fucking him.  Nobody would know about this anyway—no camera at the Salvia. And even though I’m not gay, just committed to the job, my co-workers would have given me a hard time about it if they knew.

              Best fuck I’ve had all year.  Had to unbutton my shirt so that I could grab him from behind and keep pounding.  He relaxed more and more and the hole opened up for me and started gushing. I angled my cock up and my chest hair rubbed up on his back. My thighs were tired but it felt like butter.

              I came in a few minutes. Didn’t expect that but it was good because I was still working and had a whole bunch of shit to do.

              When I pulled out, I took the condom off.  Tracker must have been up deep, lodged. It would take at least a day and half of meals for it to work its way down.  He gave a half-smile, showing some dimples that probably helped him get his wife to marry him.

              This all went tits up later when after some other Bureau odds and ends, I checked the tracker and learned he was at Presbyterian, in a coma on top of it all.   I got in there to grab his phone and delete our conversation, but I knew there was no evidence by way of text message or phone call.  We had tapped his phone for weeks and could not figure out how he was moving dozens of thousands of dollars so quickly from selling sperm on the black market to desperate couples, some single women. 

              His wife Martina, who called him Fel for short, came lurking around later and my partner on this investigation figured it might be good to detain her, see if she knew how Torres was doing it.  See if she knew it was illegal to sell sperm in California, and if she knew who was giving it and how much was being paid for it.  We knew that vetting wasn’t part of the racket, but we couldn’t even throw out bait without understanding the pipeline.

              It was a soft blow to the head. And we did not tie her up.  She came to, cozy on the sofa, thrown by two big ass blowhards looking at her.

              “You’re fine Martina. Relax.  We’re FBI,” I told her.  “We know your husband is has been trafficking sperm samples from unspecified donors. We just want to know who he’s working for. Any ideas?”