Quite some time had passed since my Matt and I had last had sex. During my last visit Matt hadn’t even acted interested, preferring to paint the entire day. Even when I teased about giving him a blowjob, he flatly replied, “No, it’s okay.”

To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.

The following Saturday Matt finally invited me over. “Debbie’s going to be out of town so plan on spending the day here,” he told me before hanging up.

I hurried over to Matt’s and practically bounded up the stairs to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited. Matt opened the door and smiled, ushering me in. I stepped by and I was jolted with excitement when he goosed me right on my asshole. I turned; ready to drop on my knees, but Matt pushed me forward and said, “In the living room.”

I smiled. As I walked toward the living room I heard the television. As I walked in I stopped cold. There was a large black man sitting reclined on the couch attentively watching a basketball game on the television.

“Hey, Cole,” Matt said. “This is the friend I was telling you about—James. James this is Cole.”

I said hello and Cole returned the greeting barely looking up from the game. Matt took the large chair and I was left with no choice but to sit beside Cole. Cole was a big man, probably about 30 to 35, dressed in a pair of shiny charcoal gray slacks with a short sleeved button down shirt and a pair of stylish Italian loafers. He had dark chocolate skin, short hair and was cleaned shaven and resembled a very athletic version of Sidney Poitier—a splitting image of the original black GI Joe.

I had just sat down when Matt said, “Hey James, why don’t you grab us another round of beers.”

I went off to the kitchen without commenting, frustrated and depressed. In the kitchen I opened a beer and slammed one just to take the edge off. I grabbed three more and headed back to the living room. I handed Matt one and he said nothing. As I handed one to Cole, he suddenly looked up as if noticing me for the first time and said, “Thanks James,” with a big friendly smile.

“No problem,” I said.

For the next half hour we watched the game. Cole often broke into the action to ask me questions, such as, “You play basketball James?” or “What sports do you like?” generally being polite. I could tell he was a kind person and by our third beer I decided I liked him.

Halfway through the forth quarter the phone rang. Matt turned down the volume and picked up a wireless received that was beside his seat. He said hello and after a moment I realized he was discussing a job with a client. He shook his head and left the room to continue the discussion down the hall in his office.

Cole looked over and said, “So, what do you like to do for fun James?”

The way he said it sounded like he was hoping for a specific answer. “You know—the usual stuff. Like I was saying earlier, I run every morning. Oh, and I like to paint.”

“That’s what Matt said. He said you were a fine artist.”

I glanced over. I felt a surge of pride. I had no idea Matt considered me a good artist, let along a