Lunch Meet

“I’m off to meet a friend for lunch,” I said.

“Oh RIGHT!” snapped one of the catty gay men in my office.

“We know where YOU’RE off to!” chimed another catty gay in my office. There are quite a few of them. (OK, us.)

“Are you meeting a trick at the Marriott, or the W?” they asked.

“Yeah, right.” I replied. “I would never.”

Ok, the truth is, I would. And I have – just not in a couple years…

The first time it ever happened was probably 5 years ago. I’d met a British tourist at Therapy, and we’d hooked up. Later that week, he emailed me in the middle of the work day. It turned out his hotel was just a few blocks from my office. It didn’t take much negotiating for him to convince me to leave work for an hour and come find him in his room, waiting naked on the bed.

A couple years later at a different job, I was bored enough at work one day to log on to a popular hookup website. Sure enough, I found someone who not only worked less than 10 blocks away, but who lived in the neighborhood as well. Heading out to “lunch,” I went to his place, found him waiting in a jockstrap, and we had a fast, furious, sweaty, sticky fun time. A quick shower and I was back to the office in just under an hour.

Not long after, while I was still working at that same place, I had an old trick unexpectedly text me one night that he was in the neighborhood of my apartment. I invited him over and he arrived quickly, very drunk. We of course continued to drink, and while we did have some fun naked-time, he eventually realized that he’d had too much to drink, and decided to go home. The next morning while I was at work he texted me, apologizing that he’d left. I told him to forget it, but he insisted on “finishing what we started.” His apartment was a 10-minute walk from my office, and again it didn’t take much convincing. I soon found myself in the middle of my third-ever Lunchtime Trist.

* * *

“Did you have fuuuun?” chorused the gays as I walked back into my office after lunch with my friend Adam that was truly just that – a lunch.

“You have a little something right here,” said another, tapping the side of his mouth.

I rolled my eyes, but suddenly had a thought. If everyone in my office thinks I’m off having sex at lunch, then I probably should be. The fact is that my current job is in the heart of Times Square, and my apartment is in Hells Kitchen, just a few blocks away. I could easily have a boy meet me at home, spend 30 minutes with his legs to Jesus, and be back at my desk freshly showered with time to spare for a grilled chicken salad.

Now all I have to do is find some slutty boys in Midtown at lunchtime. I hear there’s an app for that.