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.

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.