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No Tofu

Category: Gay Male
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When my dear friend Bok called me and said he had big news for our next coffee date, I had a pretty good guess at what it was. He would probably tell me that things were official with Corey, the guy he’d been seeing for the last couple of months. What I didn’t expect was how the news would affect me.

“Oh my God, Arnold, I can’t get enough of his body. In the morning, it’s like…we don’t even want to get out of bed!” Bok exclaims, grabbing my hand.

We’ve been talking for over an hour at the neighbourhood coffee shop. Well, mostly him talking…no, gushing about how sexy and kind and hilarious and perfect Corey is. Looking at my close friend, who I’ve known for over half my life, I’m torn between two responses. I can say, “Young love…” with a wistful sigh and a roll of the eyes. Or, I can make up some fancy bedtime story involving Mason, my partner.

“And then you end up wearing yesterday’s pants to work, and hope nobody notices??” I suggest. That wasn’t a lie; I actually did that, years ago, after a wild bar night with my man.

“You’re a much better employee than me!”

Bok is laughing. Then in a conspiratorial voice, he adds, “I’ve been calling in sick. I say I have bad allergies.”

I’m actually really happy for Bok. Corey is such a solid guy: cute, business-minded but knows how to crack a joke. I’d date him in a heartbeat if I didn’t have my Mason. And the guy couldn’t have come into Bok’s life at a better time.

Bok had gotten to the point where he was sick of being single. He never had a boyfriend, just hookups. He had been totally fine with that, until he started seeing his “buddies” going steady, “All of them!” he told me emphatically. Maybe it’s because we’re getting older, and we’ve all bought into the myth of settling down. For Bok, though, it was also personal: why was it never him? Why didn’t anyone ever want something serious with him?

Suddenly, every time someone wrote, “I’m not into Asians” on one of those insane dating apps, Bok replied with “SEXUAL RACIST” and sent an army of links to prove his point. He was damn righteous. I don’t blame him; I’m Taiwanese by birth, and I know what’s it like to be written off in a second just because of my colour, or my last name, or the slant of my eyes. Before Mason…I refer to that time as the Dark Ages.

Bok had one strategy against the bullshit: when life got tough, he got tougher. That’s why I love him, and he truly inspires me. When guy after guy told him they weren’t into his ‘look’, Bok got serious about fitness. He was never really out of shape, but he relied on the Asian twink angle until age and his weakness for chocolate cake caught up with him. Then, one day last year, he got up and changed his lifestyle. We started having dinner at his place rather than going out all the time. He counted grams of sugar and weighted reps every day. Finally, Bok got abs.

And STILL the boys only wanted to be “buddies”.

Then Bok had to go to his cousin’s wedding. The poor guy really didn’t want to go, because he knew he would be surrounded by couples. And, it was a June wedding and the only suit he had was 100% wool. But he went because it was family. And one of his cousin’s gay, handsome, accomplished, funny, and SINGLE coworkers just happened to be Corey. End of story. Or, beginning of happily ever after.

So I’m actually really happy for Bok. And I’m so happy they’re crazy in love. But did I have the heart to tell him what would happen six years down the line? What your sex life becomes, even when you’re with the man of your absolute dreams?

Bok is staring at his phone with a smile. I may as well be wallpaper.

“Gurl, is it okay if we call it a night?” he asks, half sheepish, half ecstatic.

“Ugh, go put that dick back in your mouth,” I sigh, getting up from the table. We hug goodbye, and then I swear the guy is bunny-hopping to meet Corey.

And then I’m by myself in the busy coffee shop. Of course, I’m never really alone. I have Mason. My darling Mason.

It used to be fucking sexy Mason. It still is. Whenever I remember it, I thank the powers that be for bringing him into my life. Not just because he’s amazing on so many counts, but because I don’t have to bother with the craziness that is the dating scene.

So how did it come to this?

I love Mason. There’s not even a shadow of a doubt. He’s the one. But…lately we’d rather cuddle and fall asleep than get clean, dig out the toys from the closet, and go through the whole she-bang.

It’s 7-ish as I head back to our condo. Dinnertime. I don’t feel like making something from scratch, and I know Mason didn’t get up from his desk and make something either. True, I didn’t call and ask him to, but it would be nice if just once, he’d take the initiative…

“Now, now, Arnie…” I remind myself what a catch Mason is.

I can honestly say that my man has only gotten hotter with age. Before he met me, Mason used to be fat (his words, not mine). Through his work as a freelance photographer, he met a client one time who was hardcore into Crossfit, and next thing you know Mason was swinging kettlebells and doing as many reps as possible. By the time I met him, he looked like an Olympic marathon runner with the best abs I’d ever seen.

He’s never stopped, and now he has his fitness buddies who are all about trying the latest workout trend. I think, in his head, Mason never wants to go back to being fat again, and so he works his perfectly toned ass off to keep himself in his slim and ripped state. I swear in all the six years we’ve been together, he has never had more than 10% body fat on him.

He pushes me to be more fit too, which is good, but I’m nowhere near as hardcore as he is. I do three workouts a week with him, and I’m good. Mason does six days. I wish I had his discipline.

I can talk about his body and his discipline all day. And anytime I bring Mason to a work function, a few coworkers would always remind me how lucky I am. Don’t even get me started on his tattoos…his half-sleeves, and the design between his collarbone and his pecs…oof.

But there’s so much more to him than that. He’s creative and hardworking. As a freelance photographer, he does a mix of corporate, fashion, and wedding work, depending on the season. His hours are all over the place: sometimes he’ll be at a client’s office for hours, then come home and work some more at his desk. And with his workout schedule, social life, and date stuff with me, he’s always busy.

I’m so proud of him though. I’m so impressed he managed to turn his passion into his career. Being a freelancer, there is that constant question, “What’s the next job?” but that’s where I come in with my boring but dependable data analyst job. It’s not so bad: I don’t actually hate it, but I just have no interest doing my boss’ job or moving up in another department. I think I figured out that my passion in life isn’t my work, but my life with Mason.

A life that has been sexless for almost three months.

I hadn’t really thought about it until Bok went on and on about how amazing his sex life was. And then I remembered how it was when Mason and I first started dating. Then I realized it wasn’t like that anymore.

“What the hell happened?” I wonder out loud.

Have things gotten too familiar now? We can finish each other’s sentences. We don’t even have to speak sometimes, just share a glance and bam, there’s the entire conversation and decision all wrapped up. Has it all gotten too routine? Are we missing excitement?

We used to roleplay or get creative when we had sex. Mason would write out little scripts, and I’d get really into it. Now…I guess we just think it’s too silly, pretending to be these sexed-up roles. And we know exactly what gets us off, so why not just get straight to it?

I picture Mason naked. Do I still want to have sex with him? Absolutely. Does he still want to have sex with me? I think so. I still look pretty good for my age. Maybe that’s the issue? Is he not as attracted to me as before? I should talk to him.

“I’m home!” I holler, closing the front door behind me.

“Hey babe!” Mason calls back. Yep, still at his desk, deep in Photoshop. No sign of dinner on the kitchen table.

I can’t order takeout because we just had it yesterday; Mason used his cheat day already. If it were up to him, we’d have protein shakes, cold cuts and salads six nights a week.

I take a deep breath and exhale. Now, now, Arnie…

“So?” Mason asks from the office.

“So?” I ask back.

“So…how’s Bok?”

“He’s good,” I reply, looking through the fridge. “He’s crazy in love with Corey.” I can do pan-fried minced pork with tofu, if I had any tofu.

“Aww, so sweet,” Mason teases. “They’ll be just like us.”

I smirk.

“I need to head out again,” I announce. “We need tofu for dinner.” Then I decide egg tofu would be better.

“You sure?” he asks. He sounds concerned, but please note that he still hasn’t gotten up from his desk to kiss me hello yet.

I sigh dramatically in response.

“Why didn’t you text me to get it? I was back at 4.”

‘Then why didn’t you think of it yourself?’ I mouth silently.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I know you’ve been really busy with this client,” I say out loud.

“Yeah…” he trails off, probably focusing on a tricky edit.

As I put on my shoes, again, I add a few more items to my mental groceries list. One of us has to plan out the week.

Just before I open the front door, the artist decides to make an appearance. He’s wearing that tight ribbed grey tank top. Damn it. He’s gonna remind me to get quinoa and egg whites, unless we have enough.

Walking right up to me, Mason plants a big kiss on my lips. Then he stands there and smiles.

“Want me to go down?”

“No,” I shake my head, tickled by a rush of warmth. “Go back to work.”

But he stays standing there, holding my arms.

“Do you want something?”

“Quinoa and egg whites?” That mischievous smirk I love and sometimes hate. “I’ll love you forever.”

I chuckle and head out the door. “Called it.”

When I get out of the elevator, I feel butterflies in my stomach. It’s been forever since I’ve felt butterflies for…anything. I look at my phone. Quarter to 8. It’s gonna be a later night than I wanted.

So, I’m at the supermarket and I’m heading towards the tofu rack quicker than usual. In my head, I’m already thinking about how to make this the best tofu dish I’ve ever served Mason. I might even look up a sauce from scratch. It’s gonna be an amazing dinner, because I’m gonna make it exciting. It’s gonna be new, it’s gonna be fresh…

They have no tofu. Not even just the egg tofu, but any tofu. Nothing.

I grab the packets that are there. They have tempeh and seitan. They have fucking seitan. I don’t know how to make seitan. I only know how to make tofu. Pan-fried egg tofu with minced pork and an amazing sauce…

“Excuse me?” I call out to the female employee stocking the almond and soy milk fridge. “Do you have any tofu? Or egg…”

“Whatever’s there,” she answers as if she’s an automaton.

I stare at the empty rack where the Japanese egg tofu always is. How many times have I passed by them before? Maybe nobody bought them and they all got expired and binned. I missed my chance. I let it go to waste.

It’s only when the stock girl walks away from me with an awkward back glance that I realize I’m sobbing. I feel like I’ve just lost the World Cup. There were other things I was supposed to get but it’s all useless now. I failed. Mason probably won’t have sex with me.

I take out my phone. I call Mason but I don’t know what to do about dinner. I don’t know what went wrong.

“What the hell happened??” I ask myself shakily.

He picks up. “Did you get distracted by the ice cream special?” he inquires cheekily.

I suck in a big breath of air, trying to calm myself. Then I say, “They don’t have tofu.”

“Oh,” he notes. “What about egg tofu?”

“They don’t have anything!” I blurt out loudly.

“Oh.” I can hear that switch flip inside Mason’s head. “Okay babe, well…”

“They have fucking seitan. What the hell am I supposed to do with seitan?!”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about the seitan. It’s okay, Arnie…”

“No, Mason, it’s not!” I sob. “I can’t make dinner. I don’t have any idea what to do! I…”

“Arnie, listen to me, babe.”

Deep breaths, Arnie, c’mon. You can do it.

“There you go. Deep breaths.”

You got all his attention now. He’s probably walking around in a circle in the kitchen.

“Babe, how ’bout this? Forget about the groceries. Just come back home, and I’ll take care of it.”

“But how?! You already used your cheat day!”

“Don’t worry about that,” he soothes. “Screw cheat day. Just come back home, okay?”

I’m not sure whether I want to cry it all out, or if I want to push it down and stop making a scene.

“Here, I’ll come get you. Do you want me to come get you?” Mason inquires.

“No! No, that’s silly,” I chide. “I can make it home myself,” I assert, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand.

“Good. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

So, after composing myself a bit better, I walk out of the supermarket empty-handed. I never do that and it feels weird.

When I finally make it back home and open the front door, I smell pizza and my stomach growls.

“You wanted pizza?” I ask incredulously, as I watch Mason set up the kitchen table with plates and drinks.

“I thought you’d want it,” he replies with a smile, looking at me for confirmation.

I do. I really do want it.

He got a Supreme and a Hawaiian. I know exactly nobody who likes Hawaiian; the pineapple makes me feel healthier.

After we both scarf down a few slices, Mason says, “So…maybe that chef show did a tofu dish this week.”

I don’t get it till after I swallow my mouthful. He grins as I laugh out loud.

“Oh God, that Martha Stewart wannabe? She would.”

Mason’s hand slides over mine.

“She’d get all her viewers to Instagram their own delightful twist to the dish too…”

He looks at me calmly, and asks, “What’s up, babe?”

My cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Nothing. I was just being a drama queen.”

He leans forward and waits silently.

“I…really, Mason?”

I give him my ‘are you sure you wanna do this?’ look. He nods.

“Okay, here goes.”

I look down at my plate.

“We haven’t had sex in three months.”

“Yeah, I know,” he concedes, a tinge of defeat in his tone. “I’m sorry. This fashion job…”

“No, it’s fine,” I sigh. “It was Bok. He went on and on about sex with Corey. It just got me thinking back to when we started dating.”

Mason thinks for a moment, reminiscing like I am, maybe.

“Wanna do it tonight?” he suggests. Then he pulls out that naughty smirk.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so hungry anymore. We quickly clean up dinner. I feel a little like a kid on Christmas morning.

“The whole she-bang?” I ask Mason while rushing through the dishes.

“Anything you want,” he croons. Then he slaps my ass.

We end up in the bedroom, giggling. It’s there; it’s back. That tingly, stomach-swimming sensation I felt on our first date. Thank God.

That first night, after spending five hours making each other laugh from the restaurant to the ice cream shop to the park, Mason came over to my old apartment. The sex was so incredible that I knew I wasn’t gonna let him get away.

Our clothes come off in a hurry, and I whine when I feel his hot erection on my abs. He cups my ass and spreads apart the cheeks. We’re both clearly hungry for more than pepperoni now.

I want to do it all: keep kissing, move on to licking his half-sleeves, go down to his nipples and take hearty bites, run the tip of my tongue down his ridged abs while he shivers, take all his cock in my mouth and milk the cum out of it. But I need to get clean, and I might as well do it now so that Mason doesn’t have to maintain his erection like a porn star later.

He doesn’t let me go when I try to go to the bathroom.

“I need to get clean.”

He’s too busy kissing down my chest to care.

“I’ll be right back. The toys are in the big black bag.”

He groans as I successfully pull away. I go to the closet and rummage for a special item, then sprint to the bathroom as Mason looks on in naked amusement. Once I close the door behind me, I groan as well.

I hate taking an enema. It takes me forever to get clean with the squeeze bottle. I have to void myself at least twice, usually more, to really get the job done. Mason isn’t actually anal (ha!) about me taking an enema, but when I’m up for going through the hassle, I prefer to be totally clean for him.

It takes several trips to the toilet before I get all the solution in and out of me. When I’m finally all cleaned up, I lube my hole, then slip on my special item: a new designer jockstrap. I fully expect to do a Beyoncé-style naughty dance on my man, go all booty on him.

But when I get back to our bed, I find Mason not stroking his thick dick, or opening up himself with a dildo. No, he’s just passed out.


I gently shake his shoulders, which makes him turn to his side and snuggle up to the covers.


I get all clean and lubed up, and put on my new sexy jock, all for nothing. Who knew it would be so hard to get the love of my life to fuck me?

I cast my eyes on his prone figure. He usually sleeps in his jammies, so at least I’m getting eye candy out of this. It’s moments like now when I’m especially grateful for Mason’s hard work in the kitchen and at the gym.

I run my hands from his sinewy back to his rippling obliques, then around his deliciously firm buns, and finally along his fuzzy perineum to his soft scrotum.

“Goodnight, Masey,” I whisper, shutting off the nightstand lamp. Then I spoon myself behind my lover’s sleeping body.

My pre-sleep ritual kicks in: I run down the list of things I plan to do tomorrow. Aside from all the work stuff, we’re going to the gym after work, and then I really need to get groceries. Maybe I’ll try to get into his pants again before bedtime. Yeah, definitely that.

One thing’s for sure: I’ll never get tired of cuddling with Mason.

At some point in the night, I open my eyes and find myself in a Roman spa. I’m getting a back massage and foot rub from young nubile men in semi-sheer togas. The one working on my back is cleansing my soul of all its filth with his strong hands, and the delirious mixture of pain and relief has me calling out in heat.

“Oh FUCK…oh my God…”

He leans in and hisses, “You’re gonna be my little whore tonight.”

He sounds exactly like Mason. I jolt awake and turn around.

“What the?!”

“Whoa, babe!!” Mason exclaims with a laugh.

I’m back in my bedroom. The nightstand lamp is on.

“What…what were you doing??”

“I was giving you a backrub,” he answers, still surprised at how I almost jumped out of the bed.

“You were?”

“Yeah. I’m awesome like that.”


He’s staring at my two-tone jockstrap now.

“Did you…” I begin hesitantly.

“What?” he questions, eager to touch the stretchy fabric.

“Did you whisper something in my ear?”

Mason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, that.”

His fingers find their way under the waistband.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” I emphasize, slowly pushing the jockstrap down.

“So you did like it.”

I play coy and look away.

“You like being my little whore.”

Oh fuck. We haven’t done dirty talk in a long time. It just got silly, and Mason took it so far, he’d end up making me doubled over in laughter.

But now, it’s REALLY making me want to jump my man.

“Masey…” I whine salaciously.

“Turn around,” Mason orders.

My face betrays my delighted surprise. “But I wanna…”

“Turn around,” he asserts, firmer.

“Yessir,” I surrender. As soon as I rotate over, Mason snakes his inked arms around my torso, squeezing me tightly.

“Is my little whore hungry for cock?” he mutters from behind.

“Mason…” It’s turning me on, but I still feel a little embarrassed to jump in.

“Don’t play innocent,” my lover chides. His hands find their way to my nipple and my balls.

I finally get up the guts to blurt, “Then fuck me.”

“What’s that?”

“I said fuck me. Gimme what you got.”

Mason moves into position to spoon-fuck me. “You wanna take it like a slut, yeah? Ooh, you’re lubed up already…”

There’s a soft slicking sound, and then I feel him at my back door.

He pushes in and I grip his hand on my hip. It hurts more than it used to, probably because I haven’t been stretched out by him in so long.

“Shit, you’re so tight…” he croaks.

“Slowly…” I breathe.

He hits the sensitive spot, the curve of my canal. I hiss, then bend my body to take him at a better angle.

“There you go…yeah…” Mason encourages.

When I feel enough of his prick inside me, I start rocking back and forward slowly on the shaft.

Finally, we’re doing it.

“Oh Masey…” I murmur, trying to get past the pain and towards the pleasure.

He gives me a few minutes to adjust, but I can tell he’s itching to go. Eventually his dick slides into me all nice and smoothly, and I say, “Okay.”

Mason instantly gets down to thrusting. My bum smacks against his pelvic bone with every impale.

“Oh yes!”

“Yeah…that’s it…” he mutters, controlling the angle and speed he’s taking me.

“Fuck me, Mason!”

“Ohh yeah, babe, I’m taking that ass…”

I can smell the sweat emanating from his tight muscles. As I tilt my head back, he moves his head in and we make out.

The next thing I know, we’re kneeling on the bed doggie-style. He grips my shoulders and pounds into me hard, making me holler.

“Oh YEAH! Give it all to me!!”

I cling onto the bed frame as he stabs his thick, uncut dick over and over into my rectum. I can’t get enough of being taken like a bitch by my soulmate.

“God yes!! More more more!!”

“Ohh yeah…take the cock!!”

We keep going and it’s so good. All our pent-up passion comes out with every push and yell and fleshy slap.

Just as we get a good rhythm going, Mason takes it to the next level. He gets up onto his feet and drills down from a steep angle. We both moan loudly, bouncing on the mattress.

His balls are slapping against my taint. I push my face down onto the pillow and unleash my Mariah whistle notes.

“Yeah, babe, you like it!”

“Masey!” I squeak. “Oh Masey!!”

Drops of his sweat land on my slanted back. He’s going at it tirelessly, showing off his gym-honed stamina, reducing me to a high-pitched mess with every slam. I’m pretty sure I’m going to experience a whole new level of soreness come morning.

“Babe, I can’t!!” Mason suddenly shouts. “I’m gonna!!”

“On my face!” I order. “All over my face!”

“Arrrghh!!” He pulls out of me and I flip around onto my back. His hot semen rains down on me, down my neck at first, until his jacking hand points the tip right at my face.

I take the greasy blasts with glee, eyes closed, mouth wide open and tongue outstretched.

“Fuck!!” he grunts. “Oh fuck…”

The layer of goo covering my face feels warm and thick. With my tongue, I catch as many of the runny loads as I can.

Finally, when he’s done pelting me with jizz, I look up and see his sweaty, relieved grin. Then I look down at his softening, dripping penis.

“FUUCK!!” he exclaims as I take it into my mouth to clean it off. Oh, how I love the taste of his juice. It’s so savoury, the texture so slick and creamy. If I had my way (and Mason would argue that I usually have my way), I’d get daily feedings from this fat and juicy cock.

As I release his fucked prick from my mouth, I gaze up at Mason’s chiselled, slender torso, panning my view up to his sexy bearded face.

Life just doesn’t get better than this.

“Your turn, cumface,” he says, sitting down on the bed. His hand is already on my dick, and he’s giving me that amazing twisting stroke. I lean back and let out a raspy groan.

“Look at me.”

Yessir. Mason moves in and licks up his slippery seed from my chin. Then he spits it into my mouth and kisses me hard.

Our dueling lips, the scent of our heated bodies, his pungent taste, and his gripping palm lift me to orgasm.

“I love you!” I call out.

My cum flies everywhere, splatting against his chin, then down the rest of his body, then running over his milking hand. As I convulse uncontrollably, he keeps going.

“Masey stop!” I screech.

A few more tortuous jerks and he finally lets me go. I moan and tumble into his embrace. Gradually, as he caresses my back, my breathing returns to normal. We’re soaked in each other’s cum.

“That’s a good little whore,” he soothes.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What? You like being my little whore,” he insists. The nerve!

“Then what are you?” I question.

Mason thinks for a second.

“I’m your sexy hunk, of course.”

“Nuh-uh,” I correct. “You’re my bitch.”

He scoffs, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh yes you are. If I’m your little whore, then you’re my bitch,” I declare, rubbing my jizz into his inked chest.

“…why can’t I be your sexy john?” he asks, grabbing a box of wet naps.

“Why do you want me to be your whore?” I follow, wiping down my face and my crotch.

“It’s hot.”

“Is it?” I give him an uncertain look.

He throws away a ball of used napkins, then flips me onto my back.

“Mason, I’m serious!” I exclaim, my legs on his shoulder.

“Serious about what?”

My eyes avoid his as I whisper, “Am I still hot to you?”

He stays staring at me: still, piercing. Then he takes my hand and guides it to his erection.

Oh God. Twice in one night.

When he enters me a second time, there is no pain, only the sweetest ache. I hang on to his back as he makes love to me: deeply, gently, lovingly.


Hope you enjoyed that piece! There’s more relationship-focused pieces on the way. I’d love to hear your feedback on what turned you on, and what you’d like to see in my next story. Also, check out my Biography page for exclusive material from my Mechanic series.

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David wrote

A good story. Would be better if the plot could be longer. Keep up the good write.