Coitus Interruptus

In a cozy apartment gently scented with lingering curry spices, Harold—mid-50s, with a warm roundness and a distinguished thinning of hair—relaxed on a couch that had become a trusted companion over the years. He wore a cherished Mega Quest III T-shirt that lovingly hugged his middle, and sweatpants that told stories of many joyful evenings with microwave enchiladas.

Today, however, was special. Harold’s personal day of reflection and joy.

He had orchestrated everything with the precision of a maestro preparing for a grand symphony. The blinds were half-drawn, casting a gentle, inviting mystery across the room. His laptop was fully charged. A fresh bag of cheese puffs stood poised, accompanied by a loyal roll of paper towels. And his browser? A thoughtfully curated array of bookmarked videos, queued perfectly to match his desires.

Harold stood and took a deep, satisfying breath. It was time.

With the grace of someone who had watched Magic Mike and embraced its spirit in his own unique way, Harold began his disrobing ritual. First, he removed the T-shirt with a playful flair, stretching his arms high as though the moonlight was there to highlight his form. The shirt slipped away easily, settling on the floor like a gentle reminder of relaxation. Next came the sweatpants—slowly, deliberately—gathered at his ankles and stepped out of with a touch of humor.

Now unencumbered, in his natural and proud state, Harold stretched and cracked his knuckles. He welcomed the coolness of the apartment on parts of him rarely exposed to daylight. This was the Harold his ancestors had celebrated.

And then—the fire alarm went off.

"FUCKING HELL!" he shouted, covering himself with one hand and his pride with the other. The building’s monthly drill. Today. Of course.

As the alarm blared, Harold stomped to the window and peeked through the blinds. Across the alley, in the building behind his, a man—mid-60s maybe, big, shirtless—was opening and closing his own blinds with suspicious frequency. Up. Down. Up again. Pause. Down. Was he airing something out, or just taunting Harold’s sense of privacy?

They locked eyes for a brief second. Harold flinched. The man vanished behind the blinds.

The alarm finally turned off and Harold was ready to get down to business.

With a sense of reclaimed privacy, Harold settled back onto his sofa, the leather cool against his bare skin. He positioned himself comfortably, legs slightly apart, and reached for the laptop. His fingers danced across the trackpad, navigating to a bookmarked site with practiced ease.

The video began to play—two burly men in a laundromat, their beards thick, bodies substantial and unapologetic. One was loading a washing machine while the other folded towels, their mundane tasks soon abandoned for more primal pursuits.

Harold's hand moved to his chest, fingers circling lazily around a nipple. He sighed, letting sensation build gradually. There was no rush now—the alarm incident had already eaten into his afternoon, but he was determined to savor what remained. His other hand drifted lower, through the salt-and-pepper hair of his chest, then down across the soft curve of his stomach.

As the men on screen pressed against a rumbling dryer, Harold's arousal grew. He caressed himself with unhurried appreciation, pausing occasionally to extend the pleasure. The rhythm of his breathing changed, deepening as he matched his pace to the gentle undulation of the video.

A notification pinged on his laptop. Harold frowned, momentarily distracted. An email from his sister about their mother's upcoming birthday dinner. He quickly dismissed it, refocusing on the screen where the laundry remained unfolded, the washing cycles forgotten.

Outside, a car horn blared. Harold barely noticed. His world had narrowed to sensation and fantasy—the weight of his body against the sofa, the warmth building within him, and the comforting fiction of the video where everyone was accepted exactly as they were.

He briefly considered the man in the window on the opposite side of the alley. Was that man also seeking comfort in his own private enjoyment? Harold found himself smiling at the idea, feeling a connection that was both in his mind and somehow tangible as he leisurely moved toward his own sense of release.

Before he could ponder further, there was a thump—a sudden weight crashed into Harold's unsuspecting lap like a wrecking ball with whiskers.

“GAHH—JESUS CHRIST, WHISKERS!”

Mr. Whiskers, Harold’s geriatric tabby, had mistaken his owner’s nudity for an invitation. With the single-mindedness of an animal who'd never heard of boundaries, the cat planted himself full weight on Harold’s belly and promptly began to knead—claws out.

“Off—OFF—you little bastard—!”

Too late. One paw jabbed Harold in the chests. He ran to the bathroom to stop the bleeding

Harold staggered upright, rubbing the fresh scratch and muttering obscenities. That’s when he heard the knock.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“Brother, have you heard the Good News?”

Harold tried to ignore the religious pitch but they just kept knocking

His eyebrows arched. Oh, he had some good news. And maybe they were finally ready to hear his gospel. Without hesitation, he strutted to the door—still naked—and flung it open with theatrical bravado.

“BEHOLD!”

His voice died in his throat.

It wasn’t a man with brochures and button-down shirts.

It was his mother.

“Oh, for the love of—MOM?!”

“Harold!” she cried, stumbling back, eyes wide with scandal. “What in God’s name—?!”

He slam the door and simultaneously ran to put some clothes on

“How did you even get in?!” he yelped, wrestling the laptop like a fig leaf on a windy day.

“The landlord let me in! I told him I was worried! You never call!” She shoved her way in past him, aggressively not looking anywhere below his collarbone. “Go put on pants!”

Harold scrambled back into his sweatpants while she marched in, oatmeal cookies trembling on the plate in her hands like a peace offering to an angry Roman god.

“You really need to open a window,” she said with motherly dismay. “It smells like... wet electronics and... defeat in here.”

As she bustled about, tidying with maternal love and insults, Harold glanced again at the window. The neighbor’s blinds were going up and down again. Slowly. Deliberately.

That man was watching.

He was definitely watching.

And now Harold was...worried….scared…. intrigued?

“I came to talk about your future,” his mother said, settling onto the couch with a sigh. “You’re not getting any younger, Harold. You live like a troll, you eat like a raccoon, and this apartment is not exactly wife-ready.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Harold mumbled, rubbing the scratch on his thigh. The cheese puffs had been tragically knocked over in the chaos. He bent to grab them—just as his laptop, precariously perched beside him, blinked awake.

And there, frozen on the screen, in cinematic high-definition, was a man bent over a washing machine in a scene decidedly not safe for mothers.

His mother gasped.

“Harold. HAROLD.”

“I can explain—!”

“Oh my God,” she said, hand to chest, face ghost-white. “You’re—you're—doing things to a plumber?!”

“It’s metaphorical!” Harold blurted.

Harold quickly moved forward, catching his mother's wrist before she could turn the doorknob. "Mom, please, let me explain. It's not what you—"

"Not what I think?" She turned sharply, her face flushed with anger, eyes flickering between the bare wall and a photo of Harold at the beach with a friend. "Who is that... your lover," she sneered.

"James is just a friend, Mom." Harold's voice trembled slightly. "You're misunderstanding everything."

She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress a sob. "No, no. This has to be a misunderstanding. Or maybe those people you spend time with are misleading you."

"I'm 55, Mom," Harold said, taking a deep breath, feeling weary of hiding the truth. "You've chosen to ignore it."

With that, his mother turned back to the door.

And just like that, she left, slamming the door so hard that it knocked over a pile of old PC Gamer magazines.

Harold stood in a crater of cookie crumbs, took a deep breath, then decided it was time to resume his “me-time.” He glanced at the neighbor’s blinds—they’d lifted half an inch. Cue the eyebrow-raising twinkle.

He could’ve wilted after Mr. Whiskers’ scratch and Mom’s cold shoulder, but instead he yanked up his slightly crooked sweatpants like a banner of defiance. Grabbing a black marker and a printer sheet still damp from spilled Diet Coke, he scrawled in mighty CAPITALS:

“APT 3B. BE HERE IN 15 MIN OR I’M CALLING THE COPS.”

He even underlined “COPS” twice, taped it smack on the window, then flicked on his desk lamp so the note glowed like an infomercial of revenge.

Fourteen minutes later—rap-rap-rap. Not a Girl Scout knock, but confident and urgent. Harold opened the door: arms folded, shirt off, chest hair bristling, the cat scratch wrapped in gauze and a crooked Pokémon band-aid.

There stood the man from across the alley: about sixty, solid build, balding up top but sporting a robust beard and forearms that looked built for hog wrestlin’. His eyes darted once over Harold’s chest before he cleared his throat.

“I saw your sign,” he grumbled, voice rough but not hostile.

“Good,” Harold said. “Explain why you’ve been playing peek-a-boo with your blinds.”

The guy offered a shy grin, licked his lips. “Look, I—I like watching you…you know, when you’re…busy.”

The neighbor’s shoulders slumped. “I’m Gary. Married thirty-two years. Kids, grandkids… but when I see you enjoying yourself, it just—does things.”

Harold shrugged and ushered him inside. “Fine. No shirt required.”

Gary peered at the paused screen and awkwardly smiled. “You really love that laundromat one.”

“Have a cookie,” Harold said, dusting crumbs off the floor with too much gusto. Gary took one, nibbled.

They sat in an awkward hush until Harold finally said, voice softer than before: “I just came out to my mom. First time I told her the real me.” He paused, looking at the ceiling. “Feels like I’ve been holding my breath my whole life.”

Gary met his eyes and offered a gentle nod. In the hush that followed, two neighbors—one a reluctant spectator, the other newly out—found a moment of unexpected connection.

Gary’s mouth fell open in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but Harold simply leaned in, lowering his voice to a calm whisper.

“You know,” Harold said, “you’ve been peeking at me like I’m some daydream you can’t resist. I get it—it’s easy to watch someone else’s life and imagine you’re in the starring role. But today…well, today’s different.”

Harold’s excitement prickled at the edges of his words. With a smooth, almost theatrical flourish, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants. The fabric slid down in a soft swoosh and pooled at his ankles. He stood there, unashamedly bare, the overhead light smoothing out any harsh shadows. He didn’t strike a pose; he simply was.

“Your turn,” Harold said, voice gentle but firm. “Clothes off, please.”

Gary froze, his cheeks turning a shade of pink that matched his confusion. Then, as if someone had given him permission to exhale, he began. Button by button, he peeled off his shirt, revealing a torso much like Harold’s—soft around the middle, stories hidden in every wrinkle. He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, never once looking away.

Harold watched with steady eyes, the room suddenly warm and intimate. “You’ve been getting off on watching me,” he reminded Gary softly. “Now I want to see you. No hiding, no daydreams.”

Gary’s shoulders shook—but this time not with tears. He let out a shaky laugh, half-nervous, half-relieved, and sank to his knees. “I…uh…this is wild,” he admitted, voice cracking with adrenaline. “What am I doing?”

Harold offered a small, reassuring smile as he sat on the edge of the couch. “Exactly what you came here to do. Show me what you do when you think no one’s watching.”

Gary hesitated, then stood. His pants slipped off with a quiet rustle; his boxers followed. He was fully exposed in the soft glow of the lamp, vulnerability and curiosity mingling in his stance.

“Touch yourself,” Harold said, his tone light but insistent. “Right here, right now. Let me see.”

Gary swallowed hard, glancing at Harold’s encouraging nod. With tentative fingers, he began. His first strokes were clumsy, uncertain—but as he found his rhythm, the tension in his shoulders eased. He glanced up, locking eyes with Harold.

“Hey,” Harold said, voice almost playful. “Look at me while you do it.”

Gary’s gaze fixed on Harold. “What are you going to do to me…?” His breath hitched when Harold’s hands settled on his waist. The contact sparked warmth through him, his body responding with a small shudder.

"Turn around," Harold whispered, his voice husky with desire.

Gary obeyed, still stroking himself as Harold moved behind him. With gentle pressure, Harold pulled Gary backward until their bodies melded together—Gary's back pressed firmly against Harold's soft, warm chest. The contact sent electricity through both men, a current of forbidden pleasure.

Harold's arms encircled Gary's waist, one hand splaying possessively across his stomach while the other traced lazy patterns on his hip. He lowered his head, his breath hot against Gary's neck before his lips made contact with the sensitive skin where shoulder met throat.

"Don't stop what you're doing," Harold murmured against Gary's skin between kisses. His lips traveled along the curve of Gary's shoulder, leaving a trail of warmth that made the older man shiver.

Gary let out a soft moan, his hand maintaining its rhythm as Harold's mouth explored the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Each kiss lingered a moment longer than the last, some gentle, others more insistent.

"Never thought I'd—" Gary's words dissolved into a gasp as Harold's teeth grazed his earlobe.

"Shh," Harold soothed, his chest hair tickling Gary's back as he pressed closer. "No more thinking. Just feel."

Gary leaned his head back against Harold's shoulder, exposing more of his neck.

They swayed together, movements slow at first, then surer as heat built between them. Gary’s breaths quickened, mingling with Harold’s soft encouragement. The sound of skin rubbing and their shared breaths filled the quiet room.

"Come with me," Harold whispered, his voice a gentle command as he took Gary's hand. He guided him down the short hallway to the bedroom—a space both ordinary and, in this moment, sacred. The afternoon light filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets.

"On your belly," Harold instructed, pressing a light kiss to Gary's shoulder blade. "Right there in the middle."

Gary hesitated at the edge of the mattress, his eyes following Harold as he moved to the dresser. The drawer slid open with a familiar sound, and Harold's fingers emerged clutching a small bottle.

"Is that—?" Gary's voice caught in his throat as understanding dawned. His eyes widened slightly, watching Harold coat his fingers with the clear gel.

"I've never..." Gary swallowed hard, perching tentatively on the bed's edge, one foot still planted firmly on the floor. "I don't know if I can..."

Harold paused, bottle in hand, and met Gary's gaze. The vulnerability there was unmistakable—fear mixed with longing, decades of denial crumbling in real time.

"We both need this," Gary said suddenly, the words surprising even himself.

Harold nodded, setting the bottle on the nightstand. He sat beside Gary, their thighs touching, and placed a reassuring hand on the small of his back.

Gary took a deep breath and finally climbed fully onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he stretched out on his stomach, arms folded beneath his chin. He turned his head to watch Harold, who was now climbing on top of him.

Gary closed his eyes, allowing himself to be touched—really touched—for what felt like the first time. Harold's fingers found knots of tension in his shoulders, working them loose with gentle pressure.

"That feels..." Gary sighed, melting into the mattress. "Just keep doing that."

Harold smiled, warming more lubricant between his palms before returning to his exploration. His hands moved lower, kneading the flesh of Gary's lower back, then the curve of his buttocks. When his slick finger finally traced the sensitive ring of muscle, Gary tensed momentarily before relaxing with a shuddering breath.

"Push out" Harold advised as his finger pressed gently in and then removed it.

"Push back against me," Harold whispered, positioning himself behind Gary. The mattress creaked as Harold's weight shifted. He guided himself to Gary's entrance, now slick and ready.

Gary gripped the sheets, his knuckles whitening as Harold pressed forward. There was resistance, then a gasp as Gary's body yielded.

"Oh god," Gary choked out, his voice muffled against the pillow. His back arched involuntarily as Harold sank deeper, joining them completely.

Harold remained still, allowing Gary to adjust to the unfamiliar fullness. He stroked Gary's back soothingly. "Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe."

After a moment, Harold began to move. Slowly at first—gentle, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as Gary's body relaxed around him.

"Is this—" Gary's question dissolved into a sudden cry of pleasure as Harold found the spot that made stars burst behind his eyelids.

"Yes, there," Harold encouraged, angling his hips to hit that same spot again. He established a steady rhythm, his hands gripping Gary's hips firmly.

Gary's soft grunts grew louder, more urgent. The afternoon light painted their bodies in golden stripes as they moved together, finding a shared cadence that felt both new and somehow inevitable.

"Never knew," Gary panted between thrusts, "it could feel like this."

Harold leaned forward, his chest pressing against Gary's back, and whispered against his ear, "This is just the beginning."

Gary reached back, his fingers tangling in Harold's thinning hair, pulling him closer. The intimacy of the gesture—more than the physical act itself—sent a shiver through Harold.

Their movements grew more frantic, the bed frame knocking against the wall with each thrust. Gary buried his face in the pillow to muffle a particularly loud moan that threatened to escape.

"Let me hear you," Harold urged, his voice ragged with exertion. "No one's listening but me."

Gary abandoned restraint, his cries filling the room as Harold drove into him with renewed purpose. The tension built between them like a gathering storm.

"I'm close," Gary warned, his hand moving frantically beneath him.

Harold reached around, replacing Gary's hand with his own. "Together," he insisted, matching the rhythm of his strokes to his thrusts.

When release finally came, it crashed over them simultaneously—Gary shuddering beneath Harold, who buried himself deep with one final thrust before collapsing forward.

They lay there, bodies slick with sweat, Harold's weight a comforting presence atop Gary's back. Their breathing gradually slowed, synchronizing in the quiet aftermath of shared pleasure.

"That was—" Gary began.

The bedroom door flew open with a bang.

"Harold, I came back to apologize for—OH MY LORD IN HEAVEN!"

Harold's mother stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of horror. Behind her loomed a tall man in clerical collar—the minister who'd knocked on Harold's door eariier

"Mom?!" Harold yelped, scrambling to disentangle himself from Gary, but only managing to expose more of their compromising position.

His mother's hand flew to her throat, her eyes wild with shock. "I—I brought Reverend Michaels to help save your soul, but now I see—" her voice rose to a piercing wail, "—you need …."

Her knees then buckled. The minister lunged forward, catching her limp form in his arms as she slumped toward the floor in a dead faint.

Gary, still facedown on the bed, turned his head just enough to take in the scene. He made brief eye contact with the stunned minister, who was struggling to hold up Harold's unconscious mother.

"Huh," Gary remarked, giving a nonchalant shrug. "Looks like the cat's out of the bag," he mused. Harold, observing the situation, let out a casual shrug of his own, realizing there was nothing to be done.