Bernard has been seeing Nathan for three years now, and while he loves him like crazy, during that time it’s been like dating two separate men. At weekends, the sex is mindblowing, but during the week, Nathan refuses to be distracted from his work. Bernard makes it his mission to spice up their weeknights.

ReM/Mixed Erotica: Any Day of the Week
Authorized reM/Mix by Confidant of "Any Day of the Week” by Jeremy Edwards.
Find the original M/F story here.
© 2012 Jeremy Edwards. All rights reserved.

"You’re obsessed with my ass, aren’t you?” said Nate, as he scooted the aforementioned attribute onto the passenger seat of my car.

"What do you mean?” I asked this question knowing, of course, exactly what he meant.

He gave me a perfunctory after-work kiss. "I mean that you look at it the way most people look at a sunset.”

"I can take or leave sunsets,” I explained. His ass, tonight, was wearing the lime capris within which it looked more mesmerizing than a hundred sunsets. In my humble opinion.

"I can take or leave my ass,” he shrugged. "I don’t see what’s so special about it. Even when I stand totally nude in front of a three-way mirror, all I see are six boring buttocks.”

A punctual erection challenged my ready-to-drive-the-car posture. As I answered Nate’s observation, I grasped the parking brake—classic displacement, if you’re of the Viennese school. "That’s why it’s my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of. Furthermore, I defy you to find anything in our vehicle more deserving of my obsessive fascinations.”

He smiled. "Always the logical one, aren’t you? I guess I’m just blasé.”

I patted his hand and attempted to put things in perspective. "You’re not blasé. You’re just ass blasé. And not even consistently. For example, you weren’t blasé about your ass last Saturday night, when I was squeezing and tickling and patting and fondling it . . . and, if I recall correctly, you emphatically urged me to keep doing all of the above.” I recalled correctly, all right.

"Did I? I don’t remember.”

"It certainly looked like you, anyway.” I put the car in gear.

"Fine. So I’m un-ass-blasé on weekends. I’ll collect my prize at the door. But this is Monday, and we need to get groceries more than we need to talk about my ass.”

"Speak for yourself. But I concede that we do need some groceries.” I always try to meet him halfway in these situations.

We pulled out of the parking lot of Nate’s workplace. I had picked him up here almost every weeknight for years, and I’d learned that the post-work decompress was not the time to catch him in a sexy frame of mind. He was tired, preoccupied . . . and unnervingly practical. He was hot stuff from 5:00 Friday till midnight on Sunday; but it was as if all his sexual mechanisms shut down during the work week—as if the hormones went into hibernation and the libido went out of town on business.

As we drove the two miles to the supermarket that evening, I realized that I wanted desperately to seduce Nate on a weeknight. We’d been together for three years, sleeping in the same bed every night and rocking each other’s socks on weekends. Now I was intent on coaxing the socks-rocking side of his personality out of its dormancy on a Monday night.

Everyone needs a hobby.

In the weeks that followed, we observed our accustomed rhythm—hectic activity and quasi-platonic companionship during the week, capped by abandoned sexual indulgence on weekends. I relished the weekends as much as ever, but my desire to carry our lust across the weekday threshold was becoming increasingly strong by lingering unfulfilled. Nor had I neglected the task of trying to fulfill it. Every Monday, I hinted, I caressed, I teased . . . but his response always extended to affectionate appreciation, and no further.

Spring turned to summer. When we got home with the groceries one Monday night in late June, we were both drenched with what the meteorologists quaintly call relative humidity. I made a gambit.

"Whew! I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to put on some fresh clothes,” I prompted. Nate concurred.

"Since you have to change anyway, how about wearing the blue shorts?” Though I tried to sound casual, the significance of this suggestion was clear to us both. He owned several blue shorts, and he knew precisely which one I meant. My favorite. The short shorts. Iridescent peacock blue. Always, by household custom, worn without underwear.

He spoke tenderly but decisively. "Bernard, I’ve absolutely got to work on that presentation this evening. I’ll be up and down from computer to printer to fax for the next three or four hours. Do you really want to see my balls every time I sit, stand up, and bend down?”

Hmph. He wouldn’t have asked a question like that on a Friday. "Of course I do.”

He shrugged.

"You know,” I teased, "you’re not only ass-blasé, I think you’re also c—”

"Shh! I’m getting the shorts, okay? We sincerely hope you’ll enjoy yourself . . . but don’t take it as a commitment on my part.” His eyes twinkled—playfully but not, I had to admit, lasciviously. Not yet. He smiled indulgently at me before bopping briskly into the walk-in closet.

I got myself a microbrew and a Wodehouse, made myself comfortable on the love seat that faced his workstation, and settled in for a challenging evening. Was I correct in surmising that he could not go sans underwear all evening without becoming aroused?

Nate had been at the computer for about forty-five minutes when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand dart between his thighs and his hips subtly pivot.

I’m the kind of person who is not above saying "Aha.” This I now did.

"Aha! It may be Monday . . . but you, my dear, are getting horny.” What I’d phrased as a fact was really just optimistic speculation, and I cocked a hopeful eyebrow his way as I awaited confirmation.

He gave me a weary but tolerant look. "I have to piss, if you must know.”

"Indeed, I must.” I am nothing if not adaptable, and I was right behind him as he headed toward the bathroom. "Mind if I come with?” Nate has pointed out that I have a tendency to drop objective pronouns when aroused.

He paused outside the door, turned, and shook his head dismissively. "I’m right in the middle of what I’m doing. I was hoping to make it quick in there.”

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who—only a couple of Saturdays ago—had phoned me from a urinal in Bed Bath & Beyond’s men’s room to tell me he was having the best piss of his life, and that he wanted me to listen. "Wish you were here,” he’d giggled, like a kinky postcard. Now I was here, but business was just business. I waited just outside the bathroom door as the brief auditory duet of waterfall and flush marked his efficient absence with musical precision. His efficiency made me all the more aroused.

He settled back into his work, and I bided my time. Apart from studiously including him in my field of vision, I did not intrude on Nate’s agenda while he worked at the computer, dashed to the printer, and ferried documents to the fax machine. But every time he rose, sat, or even shifted positions, I got a glimpse of balls. And I began to notice that his eyes usually met mine, just instantaneously, after such a moment. It was as if se were silently asking, "Did you see my balls that time? Did you see them?” It was driving me wild to know that he knew, all the time se was working, that he had exposed balls, and that I was watching, waiting for them to swing toward me. And that, somewhere beneath his conscientious attention to his all-absorbing business presentation, he was, I could sense, turned on by this.

I began to home in on his rhythm. His fingers tapping on the keyboard, his legs shifting position, his papers rustling . . . these themes interacted to establish an erotic beat that was punctuated by his unconscious flashing, which was becoming more frequent. Tappity-tap WINK rustle-rustle WINK shift-rustle-rustle-shift WINK.

And, every time he flashed me, I looked for the first hint of precum. At last, at the moment when he momentarily parted and closed his legs in conjunction with a particularly emphatic click of the mouse, I was sure I saw a wet stain that subtly glistened. I put down my book and gave him my full attention, waiting for the next development.

When I seemed to see his hand flit once again between his legs a few minutes later, the motion was so quick that I wasn’t sure of what I’d seen, despite my unwavering focus.

"Horny now?” I asked, in a tone falsely calm, as though my interest were mere idle curiosity.

"Um, I—” He was actually blushing. My pulse began to race.

"I thought I saw you touching yourself.”

"I don’t remember. I was concentrating.” He tried to get back to work.

I stood and walked toward him, meeting his eyes and offering what I hoped was my most seductive smile. "Concentrating or not, you can at least tell if you’re getting wet, can’t you?”

"Fuck!” he suddenly said.

"I thought you’d never ask.”

"It wasn’t a request, Bernard, it was a garden-variety expletive. I just lost a contact lens.”

"Oh. Well then, let me help you find it.” I began to explore the carpet at his feet. I didn’t see the lens. I looked up, about to relay the bad news. But, as I raised my eyes, I found it. It had dropped onto the edge of his shorts. And, just as I spied it, it toppled a bit further and came delicately to rest on his person, nesting exquisitely in his pubes. I grinned from ear to ear.

"Don’t move,” I coached.

"I won’t. Where is it?”

"Where indeed. Hold perfectly still.” I kissed his ankle.

"Mmm,” he said involuntarily, and his legs twitched. "What are you doing?”

"Kissing your ankle,” I specified.

"I thought you were picking up my contact lens.”

"I’m multitasking.”

"Perhaps you should do a little less multi and a little more tasking,” he suggested. "Ohh . . . that feels good,” he added.

I kissed my way up his right leg, as far as the inside of his knee. I paused there to note the effect of my attentions on what a meteorologist might call the "glisten index” above. I was gratified by what I saw. I began anew on the left leg, beginning once again at the ankle.

"Bernard . . .”

"I’m busy.”

"No, I’m busy. You’re distracting me. Ohhh, wow . . .” I had just reached the back of his left knee, where I lingered. His legs were definitely indulging in a hip-driven swivel now, and his cock was morphing into a creature that wakes up hungry.

The contact lens was still resting safely in his thatch, so I knew I could stretch this out a little longer. I kissed upward along the inside of his left thigh.

"Bernard . . . oh . . . the lens, Bernard.”

"Got it,” I said. And I had. It was between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. The other fingers were now pressing gently on Nate’s bulge.

I offered up the contact lens, which he claimed, and I immediately returned my hand to the place where I’d found the lens. You never know, I thought—there might be another lens, or something else of importance, lost in his garden. I duly explored the area with gentle motions of my hand. He began to purr, so I inserted the forefinger of my left hand just to his moist slit. He parted his thighs a bit further and shivered sensuously. I intensified my intimate caress and resumed kissing the most delicate parts of his leg.

His groan told me that he had psychologically passed the point of no return, had finally resigned himself to a toe-tingling sexual release on this busy Monday night. As I sped up the motion of the finger that tickled his cock tip, I cooed my admiration.

"You’re gorgeous,” I told him. "Gorgeous,” I repeated. "GORGEOUS,” I said an unnecessary third time, at a slightly higher volume. By now he was oozing precum, and I knew that he would want my articulate tongue. I eased my finger off, gently clenched his knee joints, and began to smother his delicate cockhead with wet tastes along every bit of his exposed masculinity. Every squirm of his ass pressed his hot spots sensuously against the earnest mouth that titillated and sizzled.

As he ground his crotch compulsively against me, his groans intensified and shaped themselves into a consonant. "Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he intoned, with rhythmic insistence.

My tongue worked harder, and his hairy thighs began to tremble around my ears. His ass cheeks were hot as fresh-baked rolls. "Mmm . . . mmm . . .” He was trying to say more. As he gasped between the incipient cries of urgent, orgasmic bliss, a word emerged, belted with ecstatic surprise:

"Mmmm . . . m—m—Mmmonday,” he crooned, shaking, his song diffusing into tender, rapturous whimpers, his cock kissing me wetly, his arms flopping gracefully, gratefully onto my shoulders.

I stood up, and he led me to the love seat, where he collapsed on his flank. I had managed to remove only one trouser leg before he reached into my shorts and pulled me toward, onto, and into him. His hole was so relaxed that I slid in effortlessly. He was still wearing the peacock blue short shorts, and they tickled my belly as I rocked languidly through the few short moments it took for me to spasm giddily into his slippery, tingling embrace and fill him with sticky weeknight distraction.