Pedro Pascal's Doppelganger Closed His Santa Fe Jewelry Boutique so We Could F*ck in the Backroom
My brothers were off shopping while I was devouring 'The Last of Us' actor's hole.
The paperback for Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto is out now. Order it here!
Original illustration by Eduardo
Exactly six weeks after weening myself off Zoloft, I found myself in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with my two (biological) brothers. (I may be asking too much, but if possible, please keep the comment section free of incestuous fantasies.)
While these two factoids are seemingly unrelated, they’re pertinent to share for one reason: I was fucking horny to the point I was getting erect looking at inanimate objects. (I got hard looking at a speed bump because it—what? Looked vaguely phallic? Two butt cheeks? I have no idea.)
Zoloft tempers my sex drive, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. When I’m not fucking anyone with a pulse, I can focus on other things (like writing about fucking anyone with a pulse).
When I’m off my OCD meds—I feel like a teenager, ravenously horny and insatiable. (I also find myself crying at any piece of shmaltzy media, but that’s separate.)
Usually, this wouldn’t be an issue. Eve would reap the benefits of my resurfacing libido, and so would a few of my more casual fuckbuddies.
But I was with my brothers in a hotel. One of them, a world traveler who’s been to over sixty countries, had our schedule packed where I couldn’t even leave thirty minutes for a Cum-N-Go.
Finally, on the last day of our trip, I told my brothers I needed an hour of “me time.” (Otherwise, I would have ended up getting arrested on the plane for indecent exposure.)
“You can just say you’re going to fuck some guy from Grindr,” my eldest brother said, very aware of who I am.
“I am going to fuck some guy from Grindr,” I replied.
“Nice! Just text me when you’re done, and we can meet up.”
I had been talking to this Silver Daddy for the past 24 hours. He told me he could shut down his downtown shop for thirty minutes, and we could fuck in the backroom. Perfect.
On the way to his boutique, I passed multiple jewelry stores selling gold, turquoise, and other precious gems at exorbitant prices. A clothing store selling leather jackets with fringes and heavy wool sweatshirts. But the art galleries were what caught my eye. I’m unfamiliar with Native American art, and I made a mental note of the galleries I wanted to return to after I came. (If I entered with full, heavy nuts, I would have purchased a painting that I couldn’t afford or hang in my tiny apartment.)
I texted Silver Daddy, “Two minutes out!” He responded with a thumbs-up emoji.
He met me outside his shop, wearing a baseball cap, short-shorts, tank top, and gold Nikes. Nearly every finger wore a ring with a large, geometric design—gold intersecting triangles with diamonds and black agate. I hugged him briefly, and he ushered me inside, flipping the open sign to closed as he shut the shop’s front door.
Looking around his store, I first noticed the monochromatic pants and jumpers, functional yet fashionable—something Georgia O'Keeffe would have worn. Then I noticed the way his ass swayed in his tiny shorts. It wasn’t a massive ass, but he did have a bubble butt—perky that popped with each strut.
He took me to the backroom of his store, which was filled with miscellaneous items, such as hangers, mannequin busts, half-packed boxes, cleaning supplies, and the like.
I wasn’t going to waste any time chatting. I was like an emaciated squirrel in the depths of winter, desperate for a nut.
I wrapped my hands around his body, grabbed each ass cheek in my palms, and brought him closer to me. He turned his baseball cap backward, and I looked into his brown eyes. That’s when it hit me—my Silver Daddy looked nearly identical to Pedro Pascal. It was uncanny.
He had the same dark brown eyes, thick aquiline nose, and scruffy mustachioed grin. Singlehandedly his eyebrows could tell an entire story at the Moth. I should have just enjoyed hooking up with such a handsome man. Instead, I found it jarring, and a part of me couldn’t help but think: Is this actually Pedro Pascal? Is he doing some research and character acting for his role as a gay New Mexican jewelry shop owner?
Then Daddy slid his hand underneath my sweats and grabbed my dick. I didn’t care who this man was. He could have been an actual leper with discolored, flakey skin, and I would have been turned on. (Zoloftless Zach is a beast.)
I pulled down his shorts, revealing a sleek, gold jockstrap. I licked my middle finger and massaged his hole. He puckered for me, and I slid my finger inside him. He exhaled, and his shoulders dropped. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. He was so sensitive to my touch and at 10:30 am, no less!
He pulled down my track pants and out flopped my hard cock, throbbing anticipatorily. Then he squatted down to his knees and started to suck my head. Each suck made a loud, suctioned pop.
“Fuck, Daddy,” I said. He opened his mouth wider and took more of me. “That’s it,” I said. I rested my hands on the back of his head. I didn’t pound or throat fuck, but did apply a slight pressure, encouraging him to go deeper. He took the rest of me in his mouth, and I flexed my filled cock down his throat.
“Fuckkkkk,” I exhaled.
I needed a hole, specifically, Pedro Pascal’s hole. Telepathically, he knew my need, and just as I was going to tell him to get up and turn around, he did so without me asking. He placed one elbow against the wall and spread his cheeks with the other. There was lube and poppers on the sink next to us. I grabbed them both. Multi-tasking, I fed him poppers while lubing up my cock.
Pascal was ready for me. I slid in effortlessly, and he squeezed my shaft. The Screen Actor’s Guild award winner had anal control. I placed my hand on his shoulders and started to thrust slowly and deeply.
Deep breaths, I told myself. I was close to cumming and didn’t want the party to end before any guests arrived. I reached around and grabbed his dick over his jock strap. I squeezed his bulge before massaging his testicles. His dick grew with my touch, and his cock popped out through his jockstrap. He was a hung bottom, 8 inches, uncut. I wasn’t expecting that. (But I mean, this is Pedro Pascal after all, so maybe it’s exactly what I should have expected.)
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to BOYSLUT to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.