Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Monday Park and Ride

When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway.

Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.

But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.

This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.

I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I smile back.

He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.

“God, so are you,” he whispers back.

I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.

The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.

“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.

It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.

Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.

He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.

He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.

“Fuck,” is my only reply.

He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.

His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.

He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”

I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”

“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”

“Yes sir,” I whisper.

“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”

“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.

“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.

I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”

“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”

“I’d give it up for you, sir.”

“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”

“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.

“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”

“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.

“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.

I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I wrap my mouth around that stiff rod. All the way down I go, only to slide all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to make my mouth tight around his cock. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.

When he climaxes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.

I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home now?”

I nod.

“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.

“Yes sir,” I promise.

He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.

But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Just Like That

“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”

“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.

“You see me?”

“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.

The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”

“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”

The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.

“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.

You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.

“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.

The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.

Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”

Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.

He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.

“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”

Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.

“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”

He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.

“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”

“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.

“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”

“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”

“You better make him yell,” she says.

“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.

She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”

The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”

“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”

“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”

“If he worth it. If he earn it.”

I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.

“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”

I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”

I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”

So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.

I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.

“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.

Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.

And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.

Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.

After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.

I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”

“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”

Monday, April 22, 2013

Open Here

Rock Star. He’s told me that’s what they call him in his line of work. It’s what I call him in my head.

He’s got the long hair of a rock star—an impeccably-conditioned mane that hangs down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Sometimes he ties it into a knot at the top of his head, transforming him into a character from an anime; one moment he looks as if he should be balancing a Stratocaster on the sharp bones of his hip, and the next he looks as if he’s going to transform into a magic-wielding shaman spouting mysterious wisdom and lightning from his fingertips.

He needs his own theme song.

Up close, when we’re kissing, his features are almost too large. His eyes are dark and the size of saucers. I could julienne vegetables with his large, keen-edged nose. His chin is as pointy as the Wicked Witch’s, his cheeks as sharp and dangerous as rocks along the New England coast. Singly, his features might be off-putting. But together, they cohere into near-perfection. I’m afraid to look at him sometimes, when we’re together. He’s almost too beautiful for mortal eyes. Mine start to water when I stare for too long, as if I’ve been gazing directly into the sun. He’s as alluring as he is dangerous.

Rock Star. It describes him perfectly.

His house is old and grand and sits atop one of the rocky hills near my home. To reach his bedroom, I have to work my way through four rooms, four doorways, two hallways, and a twisting old servant’s stair. Morning light streams in through the eastern windows when I turn the knob of his bedroom door. I’m expecting to find him beneath the sheets, sprawled naked and waiting, his hair cascading down his shoulders like a raven waterfall.

My expectations are too low. I see him on the bed—it’s hard to miss the twin highways of his calves running a course to the vanishing point between his wide-spread thighs. But he’s not beneath the covers. His head is hidden beneath a mountain of pillows; his enormous hands are stretched to the mattress’ furthest corners. And he’s not naked. His round bubble butt is encased in a pair of gray designer briefs. There’s a rip in them, strategically placed over the hole. I can see the fur beneath licking out, tempting me.

He’s taken a pen and written on the briefs. OPEN HERE, they read. One word above the hole, the other beneath.

The message isn’t very hard to decipher. I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him for a long half-minute, afraid to end the perfection of the moment. I haven’t taken a breath. When I open my mouth to inhale, the room’s cool air pierces my lungs painfully. Again, so often as I feel when I’m in the Rock Star’s presence, I feel tears prickle behind the corners of my eyes. Some part of me, deep within, is convinced I don’t deserve this.

Earlier this year I’d been convinced that life was crapping on me endlessly. I’d had a lousy January and an even worse February when someone I trusted turned out to be unstable, even dangerous. I’d withdrawn from everything and was licking my wounds when the Rock Star walked into my life. It only goes to show—just when I was convinced that nothing could ever be good again, the wheel of fortune turned and dropped a little sheer perfection into my life. I’m astonished at the intensity with which this man desires me. I boggle when he texts me photos of himself—some nude, some dressed in my underwear that he keeps and obsessively wears. I melt when he whispers how handsome he finds me.

I’m constantly astonished how good the universe is to me, when I’m with this guy. I’m not much of a believer in traditional denominations, but brought up against this evidence of the universe’s bounty, and confronted by such effortless, unpracticed beauty . . . I’m suddenly the most devout of religious men.

So I kneel. On bended knee I approach the edge of the mattress. My hands scoop beneath his strong, hard thigh. I pull the Rock Star back until his ass meets my face. My left cheek rests on the OP; my hands caress the EN while I breath warm air through the hole, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He smells fresh from the shower. I tickle through the hole with a fingertip. He stirs beneath the pillows, letting out a muffled sigh.

He’s perfection. This situation is perfection; he’s planned it solely for the purpose of arousing me. Of pleasing me. And I’m about to ruin the solemn stillness, this frozen purity.

Because my cock demands it.

I grab the sides of the opening with hooked index and middle fingers. And I rip the fabric. The words disappear. I don’t give a shit. All I want is access to that hole. My fingers pull apart the round globes of his cheeks. My tongue strains for his hole. When the wetness of its surface meets the half-sweet, half-metallic tang he’s hiding deep between those muscles, I close my eyes and relax into him. He groans, and shoves back against my face. I bite his ass. I want to dig in my teeth, to rip into the flesh like a hungry wolf. He inspires my carnivore instincts. I content my urge by chewing on his hole, though. I nip, and rake my teeth against the tender flesh. I suck, and grind my incisors when it puckers out. I mash my beard against the pink flesh just inside the swelling, and hope that it feels like a thousand sharp knifepricks.

He loves the abuse. Over my animal growling I can hear him gasp, and groan. His hips arch. His dick is heavy with blood, and swing down between his legs. His fingers stop clawing at the sheets. They grab his cheeks and pull them apart. Wider, wider, so I can get deep. “Take them off,” I tell him, tugging at the waistband of the ruined shorts. He scrambles to obey. “These are mine,” I tell him. “I’m taking them home.”

“Please,” he whispers, once he’s kicked the ruined cotton to the room’s other side.

“Please what?” I ask.

“Please . . . fuck me. Please. Fuck me, please.”

My dick is swollen and angry. He’s like Spencer, this one. All that beauty makes me want to fucking punish him. All that beauty makes me want to punish him, fucking. There’s a bottle of lube on the bed. I squirt some of the clear fluid onto my fingers and slap them on his hole. He gasps and shudders as I finger it it in. “So you want me to fuck you?” I growl, as I massage more of the goo onto my dick. It’s already pumping out precum. Between my spit on the hole and the wet head of my dick, it hardly needs the lube.

He starts to answer, but I don’t give him a chance. I ram home my inches. He yells—a long, drawn-out cry of resistance and surprise, but it’s tempered by relief. Joy, even. When I first started to fuck the Rock Star, he was tight. So tight I had to sweet-talk my way in. Now though, after weeks of my cock, he’s primed for me. There’s not even any resistance as I sink in to the hilt. I grunt, and feel his prostate nudge my cock head as I hit home.

He’s feeling it too. Again he’s pulling at his butt cheeks, opening them as wide as possible for me. I start fucking him hard. No preliminaries. No buildup. No sweet grinding, no gentle lovemaking. This is a fuck. It’s as close to savage punishment as it gets. Relentless pounding. He’s yelling like a little boy taking a walloping from his daddy after a misdeed. He’s flinching with every stroke, shuddering and trembling like his body’s in shock from the abuse.

The difference between this and assault is that he loves it. “I want you in me,” he pleads, between thrusts. “I want you in me. All of you. All of you in me.”

He doesn’t mean just my cock. He means me, my body, everything. My essence, inside him. I’m about to give him just that. His head is hitting the wall above the bed. He’s going to get more loads from me that morning, but this one’s the one I’m pounding in the deepest. He coerces it from me by thrusting back. His pelvis hits my hipbones so hard that I’m sure I’ll bruise. “Take it,” I tell him, as I push his chest into the mattress. “Fucking take it.”

“Please,” he says. It’s his last coherency. He starts to growl obscenities as I make animal noises. We’re both brutes in heat, beasts with only the goal of mating. When I shoot, it’s at the bottom of a thrust. He knows the noises I make well enough by now to tell when I’m at climax. Greedily his butt clutches at my cock, coaxing the seed into him. He waggles his ass, shaking my dick to grab the last drops. Then he rolls over onto our sides—while I stay inside him—until he’s sprawled over my lap. His hand grabs his dick. One stroke. Two. Three. He shoots a geyser of semen across his chest. It lands on his right shoulder. Another spurt hits his nipple. The third lands on his belly.

Panting, we sink into each other, limbs tangled, chests heaving, his hair covering me like a blanket. We lie there until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. And then his head turns. He looks me in the face, and opens his eyes. I’m overwhelmed once again by his good looks. I’ve known many handsome men in my life, but this kind of sheer beauty is rare. “Don’t forget your shorts,” he murmurs to me, as he leans in for a kiss.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Department of Deflated Erections

So I’m sitting there on cam late one night, last week. My dick’s hard, and I’m double-fisting it for the benefit of guys who are watching. My legs are spread wide. Anyone watching can see me clearly from the nose down to the dark shadow between my butt cheeks.

I’m not the only guy in this chat room showing off on cam. Not by a long shot. There are four, maybe five of us, and a good thirty or forty men watching. I’m getting a lion’s share of the compliments in the public chat room, though. Men are asking giving me the kind of compliments that my voracious ego eats up—telling me they love the look of my dick, telling me my body type strikes their fancy, that my beard and smile are sexy. And of course, my pleasure at the compliments just makes me smile more broadly. Everybody’s happy and horny and sailing briskly on a sexual buzz.

And oh, the private messages. A lot of them were coming my way, that night. Most of them were of the Hot cock!! variety, to which I’d reply thank you!! Conversations as fleeting and short-lived as soap bubbles, for the most part. A few men have turned on their own cams in the private message window for me, so that I can watch and listen to them pleasuring themselves as they stare at me. I’ve got whispered compliments from these men coming from my laptop’s speakers. They overlap each other and form a sexy sound as I edge myself closer and closer to orgasm.

Then I got a private message request from a guy I didn’t know. I checked out his profile. He was a handsome older gentleman, fit and firm, well-groomed, from an expensive suburb of Chicago. I accepted the request and was rewarded with a message that read, You have the most beautiful dick on here.

Well. My ego lapped that one up. Thanks, I typed back, and then moved the head of it closer to my cam for him. I’m glad you like it.

Like it! I love it! said the guy. I remember when my penis used to look like that.

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he was saying something about how he used to get so hard in his younger days. Maybe he had erectile dysfunction, now. I didn’t say anything for a while. Then he typed another message. Then I got penile cancer, he said.

Oh, I’m sorry. The sympathy in my message was intended to be genuine, but there’s really only so much I can type when my brain is on sexual overdrive and my fingers are covered with my precum.
I was diagnosed when I was fifty-four, he wrote, and I went through four years of radiation and chemo, but there wasn’t much they could do. So now I’m left with a two-inch stump.

Gentlemen and ladies, I’m here to attest to the fact that nothing will kill a boner more quickly than someone telling you about his two-inch amputated stump. Absolutely, positively nothing. I’m one of those people who, when someone regales me in person with a jolly story about how they broke a finger in a slammed car door, will have to cover his ears and shout “LA LA LA LA LA!” at top volume to avoid fainting outright. Want to tell me about some YouTube video you saw in which a football player splintered his tibia ? You will watch me turn gray and slither into a puddle of moaning near-consciousness beneath my chair. I am a wimp when it comes to hearing about other people’s accidents and medical procedures and vaccinations.

So when this gentleman started going into what I thought was unbecoming detail about his amputation, my dick withered in my hand. All I could do was shudder, minimize his window, and put my softening toys away for the night. Sexy time postponed, at least for that night.

But then it happened again two days later. Same site, same kind of situation. I was stroking off on video and holding an outrageous flirtation with another camming top on the site in the public chat room when I got a private message from a sexy bottom guy who started out with some outrageous flattery along the lines of, OMG, I would pay to fly you out here to fuck me if I thought you’d do it.

I’d consider it, I told him.

That dick is so hot, I’ve got to have it, he told me. I’m serious about flying you out here.

And I was serious when I told him I’d consider it, I told him back.

All we’d have to do is wait until my swelling goes down, he said. I was just in for prostate surgery two weeks ago.

Wincing and already regretting the words as I typed them, I told him I was sorry to hear that.

Oh that’s okay, he said. I’m just lucky to be alive still! Then he proceeded in exquisite detail that wouldn’t have been amiss on an episode of one of the CSI procedurals to outline how he’d been diagnosed as having early onset prostate surgery. I started to go woozy when he began outlining for me the cocktail his anesthetist used to knock him out; by the time he was discussing exactly how much the surgeons carved away, I was so unaroused that my dick had actually retracted eight inches into my pelvis.

Then it happened a third time that same week, when I turned on my cam on another site and some guy immediately said, Wow, that’s a hot hard-on. I hope you know to use it or you’ll lose it, because after I came down with high blood pressure, I was never able to get an erection ever again. And now that I have testicular cancer. . . .

Well. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a fucking conspiracy. I was seriously beginning to wonder if I had a secret archenemy who was enlisting minions to deflate my dick and my puffed-up ego with salvos of medical chat that would attack me directly at boner ground zero. Because it surely was working.

My modest suggestion to viewers of cam shows is to keep the chat light. You know. Focus on sexy talk. Instead of talking about scalpels cutting into soft, diseased flesh, keep your focus on dicks shoving into tight holes. Instead of talking about how miserable are your bandages, talk about how hot you look in bondage. Don’t chat about hospital gowns. Talk about your fucking jockstraps.

As for the use of the word stump? I’m place a moratorium on it. Nobody wants to see me pass out on cam.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Jockstrap Night

It’s Jockstrap Night at a downtown bar. Most guys are still in their street clothes. There are a few guys who’ve left their clothes in the coat check cage on the floor below. One skinny thirty-year-old is hanging around the pool table, wearing nothing but a team jersey, an worn old white Bike jock, and a pair of beat-up athletic shoes. A beard hangs down to his nipples that’s thicker and fuller than his skinny white body. The jock’s elastic is so stretched out that the straps and back are hanging loose. When he bends over to take a shot, his ass cheeks part and I can see the hair cleft they conceal.

All in all, from my spot on the bench behind the pool table, it’s a pretty good view.

My friends are dispersed around the joint. One of them is up on the rooftop, having a smoke in the cold outdoors. Another is being manhandled by a pug-faced drunk near the boot-black chair. The drunken birthday boy disappeared a half hour before into the bathroom with a seventy-year-old leather guy wearing a harness and shiny black pants. (Later he’d deny it, but I saw it happen.) So I’m by myself, feeling overdressed in my jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket and boots, clutching a water bottle, and just watching the pool players.

Then a guy sidles along the opposite wall and stands in the corner. Not just any corner. The dark corner. Every room has corners, and this bar has many rooms, but when someone here refers to the corner, you never assume that they’re talking about the nearest junction of two walls. You know they’re talking about The Corner, an alcove on the second floor where the walls are black, the lights are low, and where no one sits merely to rest his tuckus. The corner exists for one reason only.

So of course I’m eyeing this guy when he heads to the corner. There are only a handful of us in this area of the bar, and this guy is hot. I might be overdressed a little compared to the jockstrapped pool player, but at least I fit in with the establishment’s theme. This guy looks sorely out of place. He’s wearing a striped dress shirt and a pair of dress pants. His shoes are dark and shiny—and not from the bar’s bootblack. He looks like he’s wandered in from Wall Street and left his suit jacket downstairs. What is he? Israeli? Middle Eastern? His skin is olive-complected and he’s got a giant club of a nose. I find it hugely attractive.

I watch as he backs into the corner. His hands fold in front of his crotch. His head turns. He stares at me. At least, I hope it’s at me. It’s dim enough in the corner, and there’s a relatively brightly-lit pool table between him and myself, that I’m not quite able to tell. What I can see, though, are his hands as they fumble for his fly, and then the length of already-erect meat that comes flopping out.

Against my will, my mouth forms the word fuck.

For the moment I’m just enjoying the sight of this buttoned-down suit lounging against the corner’s dirty wall, of the curve of his arms as he cups his balls and cock. He waves it around, still staring at me. He’s enjoying showing it off, and I’m enjoying watching.

The pug-faced shirtless guy ambles back into the pool table area, sees prey in the corner, and veers toward the guy. Instantly the suit folds his hands over his cock, turns his back to the guy, and ostentatiously ignores him. Like a rebounding eight ball, the shirtless dude wanders over to me. I laugh tolerantly as the drunk attempts to find my nipples beneath my shirt, and push him caroming in another direction.

Once peace has returned to our side of the room, the guy looks over at me again. Even in the gloom I can see his dark eyes glittering in my direction. I stand up, and prepare to slide over to the corner to join him.

I’m barely on my feet, though, when another interloper intrudes between us. It’s a guy holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and he walks right up to the guy in the striped shirt and attempts to grab his crotch. My guy reacts like he’s been branded. Still clutching his crotch, he strides away from the corner with the brisk steps of a man accustomed to striding down Manhattan’s windy streets on winter days, and disappears.

For a moment or two I seriously consider decking the cigarette guy.

It’s not necessary, though. Not even a minute passes before he’s back. I don’t hesitate this time; I don’t want to be interrupted again. I walk over to the benches in the corner, sit my ass down, spread my legs, and look up at him as he rounds the corner. He unzips. Out comes eight inches of cut cock. I can smell the slight musk of it, feel the warmth from several inches away.

That doesn’t content me, though. I want it down my throat. It’s a goal of his, too; he rests one hand on my forehead and tips it back so that I can see him staring down that impossibly long nose into my face. His other hand pries open my jaw, and pulls it down all the way. I grunt with gratitude as he slides the length of his meat into my mouth. Clutching my head like a sex toy, he pulls me down and down until I’m nearly choking on the entire length. He holds me there firmly so that my chin scrapes against his balls and my nose is abraded by thick pubes like wire bristles. He holds me there until I’m gasping for air, then releases me.

When I look up at him again, tears sting my eyes. My expression is of sheer gratitude.

Encounters in the corner don’t last long. There’s a guy who comes around and breaks things up on a periodic basis. This guy isn’t looking for an all-night affair, though. He doesn’t want to kiss, he doesn’t want romance. He wants someone to choke on his dick, and tonight I’m the lucky cocksucker. He stands back and watches as I slobber up and down the length of his dark meat. I encircle the girth of it with my thumb and forefinger, and draw the tight circle up and down the length as my lips travel back and forth. The extra stimulation draws from him an appreciative grunt. He starts to grind his hips as I continue to suck.

I’m confident enough in my cocksucking skills to know that with most guys, if I’m determined, I don’t need more than a couple of minutes to bring them off. I know exactly how to pick up on a man’s body cues and up the tempo, or increase the stimulation. I’ve got a great mouth. It’s had a lot of practice over the years. It’s not long before I can taste the pre-cum oozing from the tip of his cock and making my mouth even more slippery. He’s close, and he knows it.

When he’s about to unload, he tries to pull out. I’m having none of it. I worked for the load. It’s mine. He owes it to me. I grab him by the nuts and yank him savagely back into the deepest recesses of my throat as he starts to spurt. And now that he’s shooting, it’s a huge, huge load. It’s seems like a week’s reserves of sperm have built up in his nuts, and he’s juicing my mouth with a half-cup of the stuff. I swallow mouthful after mouthful of it and wonder if christ, it’s ever going to end.

But then, too soon, he’s done. Without a word he nods at me, folds that spongy dick back into his pants, and retreats. Something of a small crowd has assembled behind him while I was busy there, watching us go at it. Like a popping soap bubble, they expand and scatter in every direction as I wipe my mouth and stumble back to my chair.

My two friends and the birthday boy join me a few minutes later. “Anything going on?” they ask, when they see I’m back by the pool table. They’re assuming I haven’t moved from that spot during the half-hour they were gone, of course.

I don’t disabuse them of the notion. “Nope,” I say, chugging down my water. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

I let them interpret that as they will.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Boys' Night Out

Want to know the quickest and most sure-fire way to get drunk in New York City? I’ll tell you exactly how. You meet three of your friends there for dinner, one of whom is celebrating turning another year older. Then, when you walk into a certain Mexican restaurant on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen, you call out to the bartender standing just inside, “Hey, how are your margaritas? We have a birthday boy here.”

Because what will happen is that the bartender will decide you’ve thrown down the gauntlet. When you and your buddies order four margaritas to go with dinner, he will mix up four goldfish-bowl sized drinks that are actually nothing more than a salt-crusted glass filled with straight, lethal tequila, in the general vicinity of which the bartender has vaguely waved a lime that may or may not have been sliced at the time. And then, after dinner, both the bartender and the restaurant’s owner will come over to your table brandishing a bottle of tequila apiece, which they’ll pour directly into the birthday boy’s mouth until he’s choking and burbling like a fountain of Jose Cuervo.

No, I was not the birthday boy.

However, I was the most inebriated I’ve ever been that night, which admittedly isn’t saying much. At the meal’s conclusion, when I excused myself from the table to pee, I walked for several steps under the confused belief that one of my legs was suddenly shorter than the other. Then I figured out that it would help if I walked on the sole of my right foot, rather than its side.

And how do you follow up that kind of start to a celebration? Why, by walking a couple of blocks south to another gay bar, a saloon on the avenue’s east side. For the birthday boy it was a chance to continue the festivities. For me, it was a peaceful few minutes to chug down a bottle or two of water and hope that the world might stop spinning around me.

As I moaned slightly to myself and clutched the bar from my stool, my friends were having a friendly argument about power pop bands of the nineteen-seventies over by the jukebox. Then a fellow sat down next to me, ordered a drink, and pulled out his phone. He proceeded to doodle around on it with his fingertips. I looked him over for a moment. He was in his early thirties. Handsome. Jet-black hair that had been groomed into a swoop over his forehead. Dark eyebrows that formed natural commas at the brow.

I’d gone back to quietly praying that the floor would stop moving in ocean waves when suddenly the birthday boy loomed between me and the guy who’d just sat down. “HI!” he said, in the loud and confident way shared by both the inebriated and the developmentally challenged. “What’s YOUR name?”

“Steven,” stammered the guy, putting down his phone.

“HI STEVEN!” said the birthday boy. “You’re CUTE. Do you want to see MY ASS?”

For a moment I thought he was going to drop trou, right there in the saloon. But no, he thrust his iPhone into Steven’s face. On it was a picture of himself spread-eagle on a bed, naked ass up, knees digging into the mattress. “Oh, good god,” I said. Then I put my hand on the birthday boy’s wrist. “Put your ass away.”

“He SAID he wanted to see it!” said the birthday boy, all belligerence.

“Actually, he didn’t,” I said. Very persuasively, I got him to put away the phone. “Go back to the jukebox,” I suggested.

I shooed him along. Steven and I looked at each other for a moment, the broke out into genuine laughter. I’ll tell you—and those of you with considerate wingmen, take note—there’s no better ice breaker than if your buddy shows his ass photos to a perfect stranger. “It’s his birthday,” I told him. “He’s pretty wasted.”

“Ya think?” said Steven.

We talked casually for a little bit. He was an out-of-towner who was doing business in Hoboken for a couple of days, and he’d thought to take the train into the city to check out the bar scene. I told him about the bars I’d visited in the Hell’s Kitchen area. Nothing deep. I wished him a good time.

We were about to sink back into our anonymity once again when the birthday boy loomed between us. He put a hand on each of our backs. “Steven, you’re CUTE,” he boomed. People around us turned at the sound of his over-loud voice. “Did my buddy show you his COCK PICTURES?”

I gave the birthday boy a look that was intended to say, What the fuckety fuck? He ignored me and thundered, “He has ALL HIS COCK PICTURES on his PHONE. Did he show you HIS COCK PICTURES?”

Steven sat up straight in his chair. “No, he did not,” he said, humoring my drunk buddy.

“I don’t have all my cock pictures on my phone,” I told him.

His eyebrows shot up. “But you have some of them?”

That I couldn’t deny.

“You should get him to SHOW YOU HIS COCK PICTURES,” said the birthday boy with the general command usually given to the Voice of God in Technicolor extravaganzas.

“Yeah,” said Steven, smiling pleasantly at me. “You should show me your cock pictures.”

“SHOW! YOUR! COCK! PICTURES!” shouted my buddy, like some kind of horny male cheerleader.

“Cock pictures!” agreed Steven.

I sighed. I pulled my wallet out of my jacket. I keep my phone in a leather portfolio that doubles as a wallet. I opened the cover, pulled up my photos, and chose one of the shots. “Fine,” I said, acting like I didn’t flash my dick at strangers on a regular basis.

Steven jumped in his seat as if he’d been electrified. “Holy shit,” he said, genuinely shocked. Then he grabbed my phone out of my hands and cupped it in his own so he could study it.

“That’s my wallet,” I stammered.

“I TOLD YOU!” said the birthday boy.

“My credit cards. . . .” I said weakly.

“Is that really you?” Steven wanted to know.

I nodded.

“Holy shit,” Steven repeated. He looked at me, then looked at the photo, then looked at me again.

“My cash. . . .”

The birthday boy took my wallet from Steven’s hands. “That’s not even the one I like BEST,” he said, flipping backwards and forwards through the album. “HERE WE GO.”

He put the wallet back into Steven’s hands. I could see he’d found one of my fuck shots, in which I’m pointing the length of my cock, angry, red, and already covered in lube, at a boy’s ass. “Holy shit,” Steven said for a third time. Then a fourth. “Ho . . . ly . . . shit!” He began flipping through the album himself, looking at several of my self pics, a shot of me sucking dick, then lingering on a couple of shots I’d taken for friends: me grinning at the camera while I had my hand wrapped around my meat. I could tell they’d been taken very late at night, because the light was dim and I was wearing my glasses instead of my contact lenses. “Yeah, that’s you all right!” he said.

“HEY,” said the birthday boy to one of the other friends who’d been at dinner with us. “Have you seen his COCK PICTURES BEFORE?”

“No, I certainly have not!” said my other buddy. I shrugged and gave up as Steven handed over the phone to him. My other buddy looked at the late night shot, looked at me, looked at the late night shot, then raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Just wow,” he said.

“Wow what?” I asked. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t enjoying the attention. I just liked pretending annoyance.

“Wow. I didn’t know you wore glasses!” he commented dryly.

I gave him the middle finger.

Monday, April 1, 2013

The Pickup Artist

“So. I was talking to the bartender. And he told me all about you.” The guy sidled into the bar stool next to mine without as much as a hello. I think anyone can back me up on this—there are some strangers you don’t mind sitting next to you in a bar.

And then there was this guy. A little overweight. Badly dressed, in clothes that managed to make him look twenty years older than myself, despite being no more than thirty-three or thirty-four. Balding in George Costanza way, so that what hair remained formed a little saddle over the top of his head. None of those things usually puts me off. I like big guys, hair isn’t what attracts me to a man, and clothes don’t really matter when they’re in a pile on the floor. I just didn’t find this guy all that attractive, though, and I couldn’t really put my finger on why. I didn’t even want to look him directly in the eyes.

There were two bartenders working that night. I knew them both. One of them is a pretty boy who’s dumb as a paper bag full of gravel; the other is a skinny former twink for whom someone should throw an intervention because of his addiction to too-small tank tops. I cast a look at them where they stood at the bar’s far end, lounging and cleaning glasses. “Oh yeah?” I asked. “And what did your buddy tell you?”

I’ll be the first to admit it takes me a while to be comfortable with someone I’ve just met. I have to get used to his physical presence; I have to have a while to size a person up, to get to know what kind of person he is. I’m on guard until I decide someone’s not cruel, or racist, or one of those guys who mistakes being a Mean Girl as wit. This guy did nothing to make me comfortable. He sat sideways on the stool and leaned in to violate what personal space I tend to protect; he addressed me as if we’d known each other for years. I wasn’t expecting a personal letter of recommendation from a mutual acquaintance, like some grand old dowager out of Downton Abbey, mind you. But my instincts told me this guy was too familiar, too fast. “My buddy the bartender said you had a little bit of an attitude,” he said.

“Did he, now.” On winter mornings, I have to get up and turn up the thermostat to get the heat going. His information flipped a switch in me that felt like the furnace in my basement, roaring with heat and anger. I began wondering which of those assholes would have said such a thing.

“I have another buddy from Manhunt that you fucked a while back,” he continued on, while my eyes shot daggers away from him. “He said you kind of have a Midwest attitude about us East Coast boys and think we come up short.” The information stoked the flames even higher. The problem was, I couldn’t really deny that I’d probably said something to that effect to someone, sometime in the last two years, from Manhunt. “I told him was probably exaggerating, or misread you, or something.” He licked his lips. “He said the sex was hot, though.”

For the first time, I looked at the guy full on. He was still a little too close, hovering a little too eagerly. He was too expectant, too anxious. If I possessed some kind of Geiger meter for neediness, he would have been clicking off the charts. And I realized in a flash: I was being played.

A few years back I had to read and review a book by Neil Strauss called The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It was a dreadful volume on an alleged sure-fire pickup technique written by some raging dick in L.A. who’d transformed himself from an ordinary raging dick into a super-cocky raging dick who claimed he could pick up any hot chick he damned well pleased. At least, that’s what I remember, eight years on. To accentuate the message of being a dick, the guy had someone draw up line drawings of himself as a bald-headed ladykiller superhero who, in cartoon form, looked uncannily like a penis with a cheesy goatee. The whole package was bound in faux leather and embossed with gold lettering on the cover. Like a Bible. Get it?

The guy’s technique for picking up chicks—I’ll give it to you for free—is basically a combination of grandstanding for attention, ignoring the chick you desire, and then finally getting her attention by insulting her to her face—taking her down a notch or two, effectively. Attractive women are so used to compliments, he decided, that outright rudeness gets attention. So a guy using Strauss’ bible would approach a woman, tell her she had nice hair, and then ask who did her extensions. Or tell her she has a nice dress, and then comment that he’s seen it on three or four other women that night. Or just go all in, and tell her that he bets she’s really high-maintenance.

One of my big objections to The Game was that I really didn’t believe that so many women out there were so desperate for a little validation from a total fucking stranger that they would leap into bed with any schmo who walked up to them and said, “I guess vertical stripes aren’t as slimming as they say,” or “Do you need some advice on getting rid of that zit?” Maybe I just grew up with strong women who would deck a guy who came at them with such a lame approach. Maybe my female friends now are too confident and intelligent to be manipulated with such lame zingers.

Whatever it was, the realization that I was being negged by a total stranger in a bar situation was like a bucketful of cold water on the flames that had been roaring a moment before. I could practically smell the smoke from the dead embers. I looked down at the bartenders again and realized that both of them, if anything, thought more the big tips I gave them on a weekly basis than they did about their ‘buddy’ sitting next to me. As for the Manhunt guy, if he’s a local and I haven’t been back to fuck him again, I probably didn’t enjoy him all that much. So what did I care about his opinion of me?

As for this guy—well, when this happened, I’d just had the most rotten couple of weeks in some years. I just didn’t give a shit.

“So basically what you’re telling me,” I said very slowly and loudly over the bar’s background music, “is that you’ve heard I’m a total raging asshole, but you’re willing to let me prove otherwise. That's charming.”

He started to stammer. “I never said you were an asshole.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your buddies did,” I said. Then I asked, “Does this pickup technique usually work for you? Because it’s really not doing a thing for me.”

“I didn’t say. . . .”

I’d taken out my phone by then, and was poking at the screen to check my mail.

He leaned in again. “Men say I can suck the chrome off a bumper.”

I’ve always disliked it when guys used that phrase to sell themselves to me. It doesn’t sound remotely sexy at all. I’d like my bumper slobbered over, but I’d like the chrome to remain intact, thank you. (Do they even make chrome bumpers any more? Isn’t the analogy as timely as I’m as long-lasting as a 33 1/3 phonograph record, baby?) I managed to find my phone more absorbing than that come-on.

He sat there for what felt like the longest time while I studiously ignored him. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally slid off the stool. “Well, I guess if you’re not interested. . . .” he said.

“Nope,” I said to my mobile web browser. I was relieved when I felt him scurry away and vacate the space next to me.

“You doon’ all right down here?” asked the dumber and beefier bartender, slamming his hands down on the bar in front of me. For a moment I thought about asking him if he’d been the ‘buddy’ of the pickup artist, but I decided that it really didn’t matter. The quickest way to make me assume an attitude is to tell me I have an attitude, and we’d already managed to run that flag up the pole. I assured him I was dandy, and set my phone back down on the bar now that the coast was clear.

I felt a rush of air beside me, and then the pickup artist materialized beside me again, as if from thin air. “I’m really a hell of a bottom,” he pleaded.

It was kind of a shame he hadn't led off with that. I looked him in the eye. “No,” I said. For the final time, he slunk off.

If that’s ‘tude, so be it. I’d like to stress that it’s Southern-by-way-of-the-Midwest ‘tude, though. I’ve got some regional pride.