“The Dandy & The Cub” 1

Illustration by Pete Shorney. For more of his erotic artwork, visit https://peteshorneyart.co.uk/

Age Difference | Romance | Seduction

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This started off as a story I posted to a suit & tie fetish forum years ago, and I’ve reworked it into a longer slow-burn romance. A construction worker learns about a whole new side of himself through a crush on a well-dressed architect.

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“Who wears a silk suit to a construction site?” Gabe turned to his coworker Fred. “I mean, that is silk, right?”

“Don’t know,” said Fred. “Why? He’s just showing off his fancy clothes. Thinks he’s better than us.”

Gabe scoffed. Typical straight guy thing to say. He wasn’t about to ask Mr. Bruce about his beautiful clothing. With a wardrobe like that, he had to be CEO of the architecture firm. Gabe was a construction worker on lunchbreak, not one of Mr. Bruce’s consultants or whatever.

Handsome. Studly. On Mr. Bruce’s thick, daddy-bear frame (Gabe thought) it looked stunning, this suit and tie that he was wearing, and his shoes.

Gabe looked down at his work jeans, his sturdy button-down work shirt, boots with concrete dust all over them, a safety vest. The yellow hardhat was the only item of clothing both he and Mr. Bruce had in common.

Unattainable.

*

On the subway back home, Gabe clutched one of the handles. It was too crowded to sit His body swayed, still in his work vest and boots, earbuds immersing him in one YouTube after another, each one by some style guru about the finer points of menswear. Ever since lunch, Gabe had been itching to learn more. The car lurched to a halt. Passengers shuffled off and on. Gabe scanned the seats, hoping one would free up, when he saw the familiar sheen of pinstripes pass through his periphery.

Mr. Bruce grabbed a handle nearby, clutching his copy of The Economist in one hand, steadying himself with the other as the doors shut. The subway swung back into motion.

Gabe hit pause. Beneath his dirty work shirt, his heart picked up pace. Sure, suits were all hot and masc and all—but there was something special about the way Mr. Bruce wore his clothing.

Gorgeous man, thought Gabe. He studied Mr. Bruce’s outfit. It was a “double-breasted” suit, with a “peak lapel.” The “silhouette” looked sharp and solid on Mr. Bruce’s frame. Gabe was pretty sure those were the right terms. The sleeves’ glossy pinstripes hugged the peaks of Mr. Bruce’s biceps. The shoes were loafers. That much Gabe knew. Maybe cordovan? It was a bit odd, Gabe thought, for such a powerful, solid guy to finish off his outfit with dainty shoes that looked kind of girly, like soft little slippers. His socks looked the same way, too. Silky socks, thin enough for Gabe to see the hairs on top of his feet, kind of weird, like his mom’s hosiery. But somehow it all worked. Only a guy like this could pull it off.

Gabe let his eyes follow the gunmetal pinstripes. Somehow the big man had wandered through a whole construction site and not gotten so much as a spot of dust on him. The only change was his hard hat, now replaced with a beautiful white hat. A “panama” hat, Gabe remembered. A full silver beard like a Russian czar, a trimmed mustache, and fine wire-framed glasses balanced on a dignified nose. He could have stepped right out of one of those black-and-white photos.

As the subway car slowed to a halt again, Mr. Bruce closed his magazine and stepped out, the glossy loafers falling off his heels every step of the way, giving just a split-second glimpse of his soles through the silky thin hosiery. Gabe caught a glimpse of his distinguished profile right before the doors closed.

Gabe turned back down to his phone with a sigh. Unattainable.

*

Not on Growlr. Not on Scruff, either. All bots and fakes, anyway. Hell, Gabe even looked at DaddyHunt—not that there were ever any actual daddies on there. This one wasn’t.

Gabe’s bedroom glowed in the cold light of his phone. Maybe Mr. Bruce was straight. There was no way someone could have no online presence these days, right?

Desperate. Horny. Gabe scrolled through his usual Instagram crushes. Most of them lived in faraway places. The few who lived here—the few he liked—were already taken. And none of them dressed like this guy.

It had been four years since he had graduated high school and started working construction. Mama said to save up for college, so he’d been living in this broom closet of an apartment. High school friends graduated, migrated off. And sure, he was a regular at the local gay watering hole. He had his collection of harnesses and skimpy little tanktops. He went to the gym four times a week. A hint of muscle beneath his chunky, hairy frame. Even so, his last boyfriend from three months ago dumped him for someone who was more “cut.”

Too chubby. Not white enough. “I don’t date Mexicans.” Bullshit. Gabe’s family was Puerto Rican. And he was so sick of all the MAGA morons on dating apps. They might as well be wearing white hoods.

Gabe rolled over in his bed, letting the phone tumble away in the sheets. He remembered what his friend Luiz said at the Ru Paul viewing party at the bar the other night: “You’re always chasing. You need to let the other guy chase you for a change.”

Gabe then had a thought. He picked up his phone again, pulled up the maps, and started searching along the subway route. Mr. Bruce had stepped off in a revitalized historical neighborhood. Gabe knew, since the company had him working on converting a warehouse into lofts last year. Within a few minutes, he found the subway stop and scrolled around. Craft beer pubs and boutiques. Shared workspaces. An escape room. The signs of gentrification.

A menswear boutique in a renovated townhouse. Gabe tapped on it, and his retinas were bathed in images of rich navy blazers, sportscoats that somehow looked both rugged and refined, handsome loafers and gleaming dress boots.

Then, as he scrolled through the boutique’s gallery, he saw a portrait of someone familiar.

That beautiful hat, that coiffed beard. That gleaming watch and those powerful hands. Gabe could recognize the distinguished nose, too. The picture was taken at an artful angle, the brim of the hat covering the top half of Mr. Bruce’s face, but Gabe knew it when he saw it. He wanted to think so.

Gabe looked at the schedule. He had a few days off in the middle of the week next week. Maybe it was time to buy a shirt that had sleeves? Retail therapy. That’s what he told himself. Though, in truth, a corner of his brain fantasized about seeing the man himself there, lounging in that parlor of reclaimed wood, handmade jackets, and fine whiskeys.

*

It was still hot as hell in September. Global warming. But Gabe thought this new/old historical neighborhood looked nice. They’d planted it with new trees. Old-timey brick storefronts with columns and quirky Victorian details. Some buildings with historical plaques.

Gabe’s workboots clunked on the pavement. This morning, it had taken him 20 minutes to get the dust off the soles. He wasn’t just going to the gay bar. He was going to a menswear store. He had to make an impression. And these were his newest jeans. Nervous, too: nothing he owned was as nice as the stuff he saw on Instagram—beautiful suits, wool trousers with the adjustable buckles built into the waistband, so that they fit like a glove and emphasized every curve of a guy’s thighs and muscular calves.

Of course, the menswear guys didn’t really have “curves,” did they? They were all white guys who were seven feet tall and could lift monster truck tires or whatever. Guys who somehow had time and money for a top-of-the-line crossfit experience, a bespoke wardrobe, a shiny car, and who lived and worked at a dozen offices in glamorous cities on three continents.

Hell, he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea even to be in this neighborhood. Did he have the right bank account to walk down this street? But he wanted to explore. Something about taking the plunge, making a change. Making the guys chase after him. Suited daddy drag. That’s what it was.

He opened the door of “Proof Clothiers.” There was a sale sign on a repurposed whiskey barrel out front.

The aroma hit him all at once, of rich wool, polished wood, fragrant leather, hints of bourbon. Gabe gulped as he saw a pair of bearded hunks in beautiful jackets and chinos, one wearing a bowtie and boots, and the other open-collar with sockless loafers, both coiffed to within an inch of their lives.

“Good morning, and welcome,” said the one. His silhouette made him look like a carrot. All shoulders, not an ounce of fat anywhere on him, all muscle. A model from an Italian runway. He shook Gabe’s hand. “My name’s Jake. Is this your first time with us?”

“Hello, Gabe. Is there anything specific I can help you find?”

“I—uh—” He took a breath. “I’m looking for a suit.”

“Great! We’ve got a custom suit program, or you could try one of our off-the-rack models. We do have a sale on summer suitings over in the corner, too.”

Even these few options made Gabe a little dizzy. But he remembered what he read on a blog somewhere about how to order your first suit, how you should be up front about it. “I—uh—this is my first time buying a suit. Can you help me out a bit?”

“Not a problem, sir. What kind of suit are you thinking of? A going-out kind of suit? A business suit? Something that can go for either?”

So the questions kept coming. Are you looking for something with all the bells and whistles, or something simpler? How often will you be suiting up? Single breasted, notch lapel, double vent—half lined? quarter lined?—button cuffs? flap pockets? Sure, Gabe had read about all these different options online, but he had no idea there were that many.

But a part of him was starting to like it. As he stroked the fine fabric of each garment, he couldn’t believe the smoothness. Silky and cool against his fingertips. He imagined what that would feel like covering his whole body every inch of him in contact.

Why was his cock starting to plump in his tight jeans.

“May I try some of these on?” Nervousness. He couldn’t let this sales associate know how desperate he was to get in the fitting room.

“Sure thing,” said Jake, leading Gabe to a corner of the store.

The door of the dressing room closed. In the full-length mirror, Gabe undressed and caught sight of his body in the mirror: his short brown curly hair in a buzzcut, and a bit of scruff on his cheeks accentuated with a porn ‘stache, a round belly with love handles and generous thighs, a treasure trail that his past few boyfriends liked, chest and shoulders starting to show from his gym visits. But even those hints of muscle seemed curvy, not at all like the chiseled, dapper hunks he had just seen. As he stripped, he thought about how he got here. Nights of scrolling through menswear blogs, noticing the businessmen who strolled past the work site. Most guys wore suits and ties like they were a chore.

What if Mr. Bruce stepped in right now? And saw that he was trying to buy a suit? Would Mr. Bruce even recognize him?

No, no he wouldn’t. Shaking his head, Gabe stepped into his first set of suit trousers. Why would the head of the architect firm recognize some rando construction worker? No, thought Gabe. He was doing this for himself. A taste of some better life, outside of the cycle of working at the site, then heading to the gym, then coming home and frittering the evening away on his phone before falling asleep alone on his bedsheets. This was clothing for someone who was put together, who had his life in order. Maybe if Gabe could wear the clothes, he could feel that way too?

The soft, sharkskin suit fabric was a grayish blue with a bit of a satin sheen, and it slipped over his calves and thighs like a sheath, hugging his every curve—cradling his cock and balls a bit. Why did he suddenly think about going commando? He wondered what that would feel like.

(But what if some other guy had tried these trousers on before him? His cock stiffened at that thought.)

He slid on the dress shirt, the crisp cotton resting on his nipples as he buttoned up. Each sensation of the fabric felt sensual. Sexy. Already, Gabe thought, he was starting to look different, and he wasn’t even halfway dressed. He loved how the shirt emphasized his chest. Serious daddy vibes, maybe? He closed the third button. He wanted to leave it open. He could get away with going tieless, couldn’t he?

But this was just for a fitting. He had to focus, had to stop pawing his crotch in these trousers. So he slipped the jacket on, completing the look. Fuck. Such a transformation, amazing how just adding a jacket made all the difference between half dressed and full. His cock was plumping up even more. He had no idea it would feel . . . this . . . good. How could a piece of fabric do this to him? Fuck. Even the aroma of the wool—so fine and soft around his nostrils—

A knock at the door. “Just checking in on you, Mr. Lopez. Is everything alright?”

Gabe’s cheeks burned. He had no idea he’d been burying his nose in this suit, gathering the luxurious fabric around his cheeks. He cleared his throat, spreading the lapels. “Uh, no. Almost ready.”

“Of course, sir.”

Shit. Gabe took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He sat down, putting on his construction boots, which looked clunky and ridiculous beneath this fine garment, and thumped across the hardwood floor as he stepped out of the dressing room.

Jake’s chic good looks didn’t help Gabe’s hard-on, either. Jake smiled, spreading his arms wide. “What do you think, my man?”

Maybe that was part of the whole shtick: Jake had to make the experience seem personal, as though he’d known Gabe for much longer than a few minutes. Gabe cleared his throat again, clutching the jacket’s lapels. “I—uh—I think I’ll need a new pair of shoes.”

“Of course,” said Jake. “We’ll take care of that whenever you’re ready. But what do you think of the suit? How does it feel?”

“I—uh—it feels great. I mean, it doesn’t feel, like, tight or anything.”

Jake instructed him to button the jacket and stand in front of a three-way mirror. The salesman stepped around him, tugging this fold of the garment or smoothing that part. “You, Mr. Lopez, are one of the lucky ones. Your shoulders and arm length are perfect for a size 46. I can only see a few minor spots for adjustments.”

Gabe examined himself once again. What was he doing here? Why didn’t this suit have a price tag on it? Could he really afford this? “Uh, thanks?”

“I believe there were a few more suits you could try on, if you’re interested.”

So he repeated the process for two more suits. There was a navy tropical wool one, unlined, that somehow managed to make his thick physique look like an hourglass, broadening his shoulders and nipping his waist. His cock bobbed in that one, already at full mast, just with the way the soft fabric felt around his seat and crotch. But then there was a light gray pinstripe—

Gabe mouthed the woods “ooo fuck.”

How was it that a garment like this could somehow make him look taller? Slimmer, more muscular? Yes, thought Gabe, this had to be the one. Right down to the sky blue lining. The silky flow spilling down Gabe’s back, hugging his sides, embracing his shoulders, cushioning his arms. Cool, soft silk, like moist lube all over his body. Fuck. He could barely get the zipper up, his cock was so thick and engorged. He had to work to stuff it into his briefs—it kept popping out, the head drooling straight into those soft, velvety pinstripes.

“Mr. Lopez?” It was Jake again, outside the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Uhh, yeah—” Shit. Just—calm down, Gabe told himself. “Hey, is there a price tag on this one? I mean, didn’t you say it was on sale or something?”

There was a pause from the other side of the door. “No, none of our custom suits have price tags, sir. A suit in this fabric line is going to run somewhere in the $2500 range.”

Gabe’s eyes went wide. He could see his disbelief in the mirror.

“Does that give you an idea, sir?”

Gabe’s whole body deflated with a sigh. He began sliding the trousers off. “Yes. Yes, sir, it does. I’ll be right out.”

Piece by piece, Gabe stripped it off. He should’ve known. The shirts alone were $95, and he didn’t even look at the shoes and ties. With $2500 for the suit, the total price of just one outfit of clothing would’ve been—what?—three, four months’ rent? And Mama had always told him credit cards were a scam. If you wanted something, you’d better be able to afford it. That was her motto. And he couldn’t afford—couldn’t, couldn’t afford—

So Gabe came back out, wearing the same button-down and jeans that he wore on the way in. Jake, who was chatting with another salesman up at the counter, looked him over. “Changed your mind, sir?”

“I—uh—this just isn’t the right time, you know?” Gabe rubbed the back of his head. A hunk like Jake had to be straight, too, but Gabe was way too crushed right now to flirt, even with this groomed specimen of masculinity. “I mean, how long does the sale go on?”

“Just this weekend.”

“Okay,” said Gabe extending his hand in a feeble handshake. “It was nice to meet you, sir. I’ll see about that suit.”

“Of course.”

Gabe sighed. “I really liked that last one I was about to try on.”

“Well, hopefully it’ll be here for you if you return.”

If. Gabe noticed that word. He nodded, mumbled some goodbye, then shuffled out the door, back into the dry heat of the September afternoon.

*

After several months, Gabe finally gets to talk to his crush, and learns a thing or two about loafer play.

The Dandy and the Cub 1.2

Months passed. Gabe didn’t come back.

He thought about that encounter a whole lot in the weeks that followed. Was Gabe supposed to subsist on rice and beans, and put his rent on his credit card, just to afford one single suit and tie? He had his college savings fund, too. Was he supposed to just sacrifice that, just for a garment?

Oh, but it was a fine, fine garment. Why did he regret it, passing it up? Why was he still ruminating about it? And why did he still look in the subway car every day to see if he happened to catch the same ride as his debonair boss?

So the “sartorial savings account” began, at a rate of $20 a month. And this led to three acquisitions.

The first was from a thrift store. He started shopping at those in the months that followed, brushing his fingers along the worn, faded seams of old suit jackets. It was a let-down, at first. Everything about these castoffs seemed lackluster. The wool didn’t feel as silky or lustrous as that one suit. The shoulders all seemed baggy, and the lining smelled musty. All of it—all of it smelled of disappointment. But he did find one blazer that was halfway decent. A size 46, just like Jake had said. Blue linen, lined in a beige bemberg. Gabe was at least getting better at his knowledge of menswear, even if he could only afford to wear the leavings of someone else’s closet.

The second was a pair of loafers at that same thrift store last month. One of his friends teased him when he wore them out to the bar. “Old man shoes.” But Gabe couldn’t keep them off his feet. (Or on his feet, so glossy and slick was the leather.) The Filipino shoe repair guy in his neighborhood didn’t charge too high a price to get them resoled. He guessed they might have been cordovan. He found it hot that he could see the soles of the previous owner imprinted into the buttery soft lining. And the aroma of the shoe polish—just knowing how much effort he was putting into this one pair of shoes, and wondering how big the feet were of the shoes’ previous owner. He thought of that whenever he slipped them on, sockless. His bare sole against that soft, soft leather.

The third splurge was the time he saw the street vendor from Hong Kong selling sheer socks. Except on Mr. Bruce, Gabe had never seen socks like that in real life: thin and seethrough, ribbed. A bit femme. A bit kinky, thought Gabe. They were OTC, “over the calf. He had learned that from one of those style posts about different kinds of socks, so he bought a 10-pack. Another expenditure from his tiny budget. But when he slipped the silky hosiery over his heels, and felt the fine mesh stretching over his legs, cushioning and compressing his beefy calves, gliding against the leather lining of his loafers, letting every hair on his calves and the tops of his feet show through—he was hooked. Why would he wear any other dress sock, ever again?

It had now been three months since that trip to the menswear store, and three months since Gabe had last seen Mr. Bruce. The architect had not made a single appearance at the construction site at all. It was almost done now, mostly the indoor work, which was the part that Gabe really liked anyway. Installing lighting and drywall and all that. The cool little details, like hardware and tile. Other members of the architecture team had been on the site for inspections, but—maybe Mr. Bruce was away or something? Gabe missed seeing him.

There were no boyfriends for Gabe during that stretch. Something about that whole encounter at the suit shop . . . something about sent the dominoes falling. Something about being told that he couldn’t afford this thing that he really, so badly wanted.

But he also wanted to go back to college, which was why he was now two fast-track terms into his associate’s in electrical engineering. Another domino that fell: why was he hoarding that college fund for some four-year school, when he had a two-year college right here?

So those months had passed. Work, gym, and now school. The linen jacket, the soft little cordovan loafers, and those kinky sheer socks were now his standard “days off” uniform.

“Gabe’s gone all Dapper Dan on us,” one of his friends joked. “Serious daddy vibes.”

And Gabe lapped those complements right up. It was the closest he was ever going to get to that gorgeous gray pinstripe suit anyway. And he had to focus. It was his new thing, visiting coffee shops around the city on his days off to catch up on his homework. He was developing a taste for different blends. Growing up, it was just Café Yaucono all the time. Made him feel collegiate, sophisticated, camping out over a cortado at one café, or a cortadito at the Cuban place. He’d tried out several dozen coffee shops all around the city, until his phone revealed a new coffee shop that had opened up in a certain revitalized historical neighborhood, where Gabe recalled a certain encounter at a certain haberdashery.

This April day was just as hot as that September one was. It was one of his days off, so he had on his usual: the jeans, his button-down shirt, his linen jacket, those silky soft sheers, and his soft little low vamp loafers. He packed his laptop bag and hopped aboard the subway.

He ordered his drink and set up camp.

It was difficult to concentrate at first. It always was, when he first sat down in these loafers and sheers. If he dared pick one foot off the ground, the shoe would just slip off his heel. And something about that was just hard-wired straight to his cock. Maybe a nervous reflex or something? He kept his heels in and focused.

He was halfway through his calculus assignment when he saw that perfect silhouette. The broad shoulders of a single breasted suit hugging an ample belly. Navy linen with wide, rolling lapels. French cuffs framed his wrists, crisp white, in contrast with the body of the shirt, which had delicate lavender stripes.

Fuck. Gabe’s cock grew at the sight. Mr. Bruce stepped up to the counter, sweeping his panama hat off his gleaming head. Bald with a full silver beard, just like Gabe remembered. With three months of menswear knowledge at his disposal, Gabe drank in the details.

The tie was a wide-bladed sevenfold, gleaming and satiny, lavender with fine stripes in gunmetal gray. It blossomed out of a contrasting white tab collar, a massive, conical knot, dimpled and draped, framed by the luxurious folds of wool lapels. Gabe noticed that the suit had surgeons’ cuffs with working buttons, and Mr. Bruce wore one button on each surgeon cuff undone, just to hint that this was a custom piece. A fine wrist watch with a leather band glittered on his sinewy wrist, with bulky enamel cufflinks that looked like some kind of art glass, like something Gabe’s abuela used to collect.

Of course the architect ordered an espresso. As he sat down, he unbuttoned his jacket, giving Gabe a glimpse of a beautiful silver striped lining, and greyish blue braces. A handkerchief ruffled like the petals of an orchid spilling out of his pocket. The veins and sinews of his large hands, the salt and pepper fur even on his knuckles, and all over the back of his hands—all hinted at raw masculine energy somewhere beneath all those beautiful layers of finery.

Relaxing in his seat and unpacking his tablet, Mr. Bruce crossed his legs, revealing those soft suede Belgian loafers, falling off the arches of his feet. Gabe swore a moment ago Mr. Bruce was going sockless, until he saw the sheer, nude sheen of those translucent dress socks, revealing every last hair of the man’s calves and feet.

Fuck. Oh fuck. Gabe’s cock was plumping in his jeans. He couldn’t keep his eyes off—

Mr. Bruce had a fine little tablet with a stylus, along with a sketch book and a beautiful fountain pen. Halfway analog, of course.

Gabe exhaled a deep breath. Just . . . concentrate. Nervous as hell, Gabe chose a spot right at the corner of his laptop screen, somewhere where he could pretend he was looking at differential equations, while still stealing glances.

Didn’t work. The architect’s eyes flicked over to Gabe.

Fuck. Eye contact. Gabe fixed his eyes down at his screen. He had made about sixteen rows of “fffffffffffffffffffff” all the way down his blank screen where his hand had been resting on the keyboard.

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Hungry for more? Purchase and download the full .PDF version here:

Dandy and the Cub 1 (suit + tie, sheer socks and loafers, infatuation, flirtation, slow burn romance, discovery of suit fetish).