The sun’s beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the motel parking lot, still damp from the morning’s brief rain shower. There’s a faint metallic air of ozone in the air from its rapid evaporation. I knock at the door—110—and am greeted by the rattle of the chain, and a thunk of metal as someone draws back the deadbolt.
It’s pitch black inside. To my sun-bleached eyes, anyway, it seems as if I’ve stepped into a state of blindness. The door closes behind me. I sense noises from every corner. There’s a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it,” whispers a voice in my ear. I feel the long bristles of the man’s mustache scrape my ear, shiver as the pads of his palms press into my shoulders, massage my neck. “Make yourself at home. You’ll be in demand.”
I let the host guide me to the back of the room, where there’s an open sink by the washroom door. I kick off my flip-flops, slowly remove my shirt. I’m trying to kill time until my eyes adjust to the dimness. By the time I’m down to nothing more than my rubber cock rings, I can see the noises are coming from shadows, and that the shadows are moving all around the small hotel room. There’s a cluster of them in a corner, where I can see the outline of a man bracing himself against the wall while another kneels behind him, licking and snuffling his hole. There are a few on the other side of the washroom door frame, where the sounds of grunting and sucking and the wet squelch of mouth meeting mouth echo on the tiles. And there are many on the bed, which is a mass of writhing naked flesh.
How many men are here? I can’t tell. I’d guess between a dozen and fifteen. I fold my clothes neatly, place the sandals atop them, and store them on the highest shelf in the closet, where I hope they’ll be safe.
Then I move to the bed.
I realize I’m a magnet, and the men are iron filings. At my approach they all move toward me. A hand reaches out to seize my hardening meat. Another hand reaches up, pulls me down by the neck. A tongue invades my mouth. Someone’s standing behind me, rubbing the downward-facing bulge of his cock into my butt crack. There’s a mouth on my nuts, and then another on my hole. I’m pulled down by the current of hungry men seeking to consume me. I sink into the mattress, and find myself drowning in flesh.
It’s the sweetest kind of drowning I can imagine.
I spent a lot of my life hating my appearance; I could go weeks without any but the most cursory glances in a mirror. It’s only been the last half-dozen years that I’ve actually been at peace with my exterior and what it’s become. My gifts are modest, but hey. They’re my gifts. It would be folly not to enjoy them. So I think of myself as foxy, rather than toxic. I dress to present myself to advantage. I use my smile to disarm men, and my eyes to let me know how much I want them. I put my modest gifts to their best possible use.
But here. Fuck. I’ve got too much confidence. Arrogance, even. I know I can have anyone I want in this room. These men are hot, too. The guy sucking my dick and staring up at me gratefully is a compact, bald, muscle stud, smooth all over and with a round bubble butt that twitches and gapes and closes again as he grinds against the bed. There’s a black man demanding my mouth. His body is as hard and muscular as my skin is pale and soft. A guy my age with long, curly hair to his shoulders stands staring at me from the other side of the bed. He’s stroking his cock, and pushing off a tall man trying to play him.
I don’t know where this insane confidence I’m feeling comes from. Maybe it’s the mood of the room. Maybe it’s long experience telling me what I know will happen. I just know that now I’m here, these men are mine to direct. Mine to choose. Mine to fuck and fill.
This is my party. The dark is my territory.
I start with the muscle dude. He’s not letting go of my meat, anyway; he’s determined to be the one who gets the first and best of my inches. I haul him up between my legs as I lay back against the headboard of the rickety bed. I shove my mouth against his and thrust my tongue deep into his mouth. I can taste my own precum inside. He gets angry when another man—short, solid, built, mustached (I find out later that he’s a state trooper)—dives for my cock when I’ve pulled the bald guy off it. He shoves back with his feet, tries to push the trooper away. He wants the monopoly on what I’m offering.
But the trooper is determined. He forces his head beneath the bald guy’s crotch, attaches his mouth to my cock, and sucks like he’s starving. The bald guy breaks away from our prolonged kiss and for a moment, looks like he wants to deck the trooper.
And I’m sitting there, smirking a little bit, and enjoying the near-fight as my just due. Yeah. I deserve this.
The trooper will get his turn before the afternoon’s end. I choose the bald guy first. I just use my hands to turn him around. I pull up my knees so they’re pointing at the ceiling, spread them wide, and let him grapple with finding a comfortable position to sit on it. He’s been popped before I got to him. His hole is slimy and wet and juiced, but it’s also warm and hungry as it slides down on my shaft.
This fucker knows what he’s doing. He’s not messing around with any half-hearted wiggles or coquettish jiggling. Fucker is slamming down to the base. Clutching at my rod with his expert hole. Angling it expertly to give me the maximum friction and sensation. He’s squeezing it, clamping down on it like a vise. Other men are trying to get to me. There’s a mouth on each nipple. Guys take my hands and rub them over their bodies, so I can feel the muscle and the meat. But the bald guy owns my mouth and cock, and he’s determined to get the first load.
He does. I let it out in a loud gush, crying out with mingled joy and need as it arrives. It’s an animal cry muffled by the bald guy’s tongue down my throat. For a moment we stare at each other in the darkness.
He nods. I nod back. Mission accomplished.
Next.
There’s a mouth on my dick, cleaning me off. It’s the black guy who’s been waiting his turn. His mouth completely consumes my dick; his tongue flicks out to lick my balls. Then he’s pushing me into one of the two thin pillows. His hands close around my wrists, locking them up and over my head. I’m hard again at being dominated that way. His dick is thick and nearly as long as mine, but he doesn’t give a shit about it. He just wants to kiss me, softly and tenderly. It’s a style completely different from the bald guy’s. This man is a lovemaker.
A lovemaker on his own terms, though. He refuses to let me up. His wrists still hold my arms. I offer a token resistance; his grasp tightens. He only lets go when he goes down between my legs to suck my dick again. Someone shoves a dick in my mouth. I open up and obediently take it. There are hands pinching my nipples and a mouth at my hole—probably the black guy’s. I don’t care who’s doing what to me. All I know is that on that bed, for the eight or nine men crowding around, I’m the center of attention.
And a cocky part of me, deep inside, sneers and thinks that’s just as it should be.
It takes a while for me to get to the point of orgasm again, but when I do, it’s deep inside the black man’s gut. He’s enticed me onto my knees, so that I can pound it into him while he’s gobbling down the dick of the state trooper. “You married?” the trooper asks, nodding down at my ring. I reply that I am. “Me too,” he says. “Kids?”
I nod.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. Past doubts be damned. At that moment, as I juice up the black guy’s hole, I know it. The tide of red recedes as my pulse slows. My vision returns to shades of black. The men close in around me. I’m a nocturnal beast, surrounded by shadows. This is my home. Like I said: my territory.
I’m in just about every mouth in the room at some point. I fuck eight different asses, shoot in four. Men jostle for their turn between my legs, and I sit there like some kind of god-damned king of the night, relishing every fucking second of it.
Men come and go. Three hours pass. At last it’s just two of us. Me, and the party’s host. He’s a handsome older man, a fine specimen with long wavy hair and a retro mustache like Sam Elliott in Lifeguard. He’s standing at the end of the bed, naked, his dick still hard and angled off to the side. “You think you’re cock of the walk, don’t you?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say. I’m sitting at the top of the bed again, dead center, like it’s my fucking throne. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms resting on their crowns.
“You just assume everybody wants to worship that thing,” he says, nodding at what’s hanging down, four times spent, between my thighs.
I look him up and down. My dick stirs yet again, coming to life and rising obscenely into the air. It’s still wet from a dozen men’s mouths, still stinking of too many holes to count. “I think you do too,” I tell him, feeling arrogance swell my chest.
He stands stock still, like small prey caught in my sights. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I do.” Then he slides down onto the sheets, and up between my knees to claim his long-awaited prize.
And the nocturnal beast in me roars, satisfied.
Showing posts with label department of blatant ego fluffing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label department of blatant ego fluffing. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
Magical Thinking
I don’t think there’s a single person alive who, when a kid, didn’t hope he could affect the world with his thinking. Coincidence happens when the paths between the wished-for and the actual cross, and little kid brains become convinced some mystical assertion of will is the cause. Is there anyone who hasn’t clenched his juvenile fists and closed his eyes and tried to move mountains with one desperate, silent wish? I doubt it.
Last week I was playing bingo at the local watering hole, and when the bartender wandered over to look at my card, he asked what numbers I was looking for. “I need two,” I replied, trying not to stare at the guy’s biceps, “G-55, for one.”
Then right at that moment, the drag queen pulling the bingo balls yelled out, “G-55!”
I felt a momentary rush of imaginary power over the world for a moment. The bartender fist-pumped the air. I just grinned, shook my head, and chalked it up to the persuasive power of coincidence. But that didn’t stop me from concentrating really hard for the rest of the game and thinking, B-9. B-9. B-9!!!
Just in case.
This story I’m about to tell took place on Tuesday. I’m in the city, walking across 48th Street. It’s a beautiful day out—sunny, temperature hovering around seventy-two. The kind of spring afternoon on which anything seems possible. I’m running errands, but I’m in no particular hurry to get them done because of the balmy weather. So I’m passing the uptown stop for the B train and for some reason remembering that bingo game from the week before. And I’m mentally shaking my head at my silliness and thinking, I just WISH I could get what I want by thinking it. Then my eyes light on a guy stepping up onto the sidewalk from the subway station steps.
He’s handsome. Oh my god, so handsome. The guy looks like Gerard Butler’s beefy, impossibly hard-bodied animated character from 300 has stepped off the screen and into business casual. He wears a lilac-colored pressed dress shirt that hugs every muscle in his considerable chest. His slacks, dark and fine-woven, cling to his hard ass. His face is rugged, his hair thick and wavy. I don’t usually notice eye colors right off, but it’s impossible to miss the sapphire blue of his. When I pass the guy, we’re no more than three feet apart. I take in the tight shirt, the beefy body, those glittering gemstones of eyes, and think to myself, If I could make stuff happen just by thinking it . . . Fuck.
That’s when our eyes meet.
I feel that shock that sparks when two men lock stares. The pop of electricity that leaves me startled and breathless. He isn’t just looking at me. He actually stops still at the top of the stairs. His eyes only break from mine to flick down the rest of my body. I’m wearing a dark gray sport shirt and a pair of dress jeans—nothing special, but I’d found the outfit flattering when earlier I’d left home. Then our eyes fasten back on each other.
And I walk on, while my brain wildly thinks, Holy crap! Did I make THAT happen?
It’s tough to justify why I don’t stop walking. It’s a Manhattan thing. We have places to go. Things to do. Strolling is for tourists, people. Our little legs keep moving in the direction we’re pointed. It’s not until I’m a few steps past that I’m thinking, God damn, I wish I’d stopped. Or that I even realize that stopping is an option. By the time I do, only three seconds have passed. He’s still standing there by the subway stairs, looking after me.
So I pause, then turn and walk back to him.
I don’t know how to talk to beautiful men, generally. Built fuckers in their thirties whom I’m half-convinced and half-afraid are only staring at me because I’ve stunned them in the tracks using solely the power of my brain waves? That’s even tougher. But I fake it. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Hi,” he replies, staring at me like I’m the answer to his god-damned prayer, and not the other way around.
“I—“ I start to stammer.
At the same time, he says, “You—“, then trails off.
We both laugh a little. That ice is broken. “Are you hung?” he blurts out. “You kinda look like you’d be hung.” I nodded and reply that yes, I am. “Top?” he ask.
“Yes again.”
He looks at my crotch, then looks into the steady stream of people meandering by. “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he says, using the preamble that men use right before they do something they’ve done many times more than once. “But I’m horny as shit. Do you wanna come home with me for a little bit? I’ve gotta stop off at my office real quick, but . . . maybe you’ve got something you need to do, right?”
“I don’t usually do this either,” I fib. “But yeah. I’ll go with you,” I say. In the back of my head, that little part of me begins to nag. It’s the part that always pipes up I’m not worthy, that he’ll laugh at me when I got my clothes off, that I’m being set up for some massive Carrie prom night-scaled disaster. I switch that obnoxious twat right off. There’s no earthly reason I don’t deserve to be with this man. I swallow, then say with more assurance, “Yeah. Let’s go.”
The stop-off he has to make was on 50th; I sit in the lobby under the watchful eye of a security guard while he dashes up to his office and back again in the space of ten minutes. Then we’re off again to push through the crowds on the way to his place on Ninth. We don’t speak much beyond pleasantries. But I can’t help but notice, on the way over, how both women and men glance at him with appraisal as we pass. Nor can I help from inwardly crowing, Yeah, but I’m the one who stopped him in his tracks with my magical thinking.
He starts to shed his clothing the minute we’re through the much-varnished door of his Hell’s Kitchen flat. He kicks off his tasseled loafers on the mat, flips open his cuffs and shirt buttons as we pass the efficiency kitchen, drops the shirt at the entry to the living room. The belt hits the floor by his flatscreen. The pants he tosses on the armchair. He peels first his black dress socks from his feet and then the tank from his chest as if they’re layers of onion skin, and lets them fall so that he’s standing there in nothing but his underwear. Andrew Christian, they are.
Designer underwear baffles me for the most part; it seems as if most men buy and fetishize it as if they believe pulling up a pair of overpriced briefs over their knees and thighs will magically transform their bodies into those of the sleek and muscular models on the boxes. It never does. With this guy, though. Fuck. That underwear probably fantasized that it’d be lucky enough to find someone like this piece of work to wear them. That underwear probably prayed that could ever be cozying the junk of a guy like this.
Now I’m stunned. I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor and stand there, hands at my side, and stare as the musclebound god faces me.
He correctly assumes I’m admiring his physique. He’s incorrect to think that I wanted to see him pose, though. He makes a stupid duck face and curls his arm to show off his guns, then hunches over to flex his chest. I find that crap phony and off-putting, so I hold up a hand and twirled an index finger at the ceiling. “Turn around,” I tell him. Perhaps not entirely coincidentally, it’s the same finger and motion one uses to signify Big whoop.
He turns. He puts a leg out, shifts his weight. He looks to the side, his eyes sidling back to mine. He’s posing again. His thumbs hook into his underwear, and he teases me by pulling down the waistband. I haven’t taken off a thing until this point, but as he puls his undies up and down over the round perfection of his ass, I unbutton my shirt. I slide loose my belt buckle, unbutton my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. My own underwear—five bucks a pair, Uniqlo with a Keith Haring print—fall into them. I cup my dick in my hand and point it at him. All the phoniness of his poses evaporates.
“Fuck, you are hung,” he says.
“I don’t lie,” I say. “Not about that.”
He licks his lips. We stare at each other again, eyes locked as firmly as they had been on the street. “I want it in me,” he admits in a half-whisper. I nod, once, in the direction of the sofa. He grabs the back with his hands, and settles his knees on the seat. I kneel down behind him. “I don’t know if I’m real fresh,” he says from over his shoulder. “I’m clean to fuck. But I don’t know about rimming. Sorry, dude.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up. He’s got a bottle of lube and some poppers on the glass table behind the sofa. He takes the lube, squirts some on his hand, and rubs it on his hole. Then he reaches back to grab my cock. It’s the first time he’s felt it. He gives it a good squeeze, tests the heft, feels the length. Then he clasps the lube and poppers in his hands like talismans and nods over his shoulder at me.
This isn’t a romance. We haven’t kissed. We’ve barely talked. He hasn’t made a move to suck my dick or get my number. This is a fuck, raw and simple. My dick’s hard and already dripping, anticipating pushing its way into that muscle ass and owning it for a few minutes. He’s not easy to get into, either. I can’t tell whether he’s bearing down against me, or trying some exotic technique to make himself appear tighter than he actually is, but getting the head past his outer ring takes effort and a minute of battering my dick against him. But once I’m in, I’m in. All the way to the base.
And it feels good.
He’s clamping down on the last inch of meat where my dick meets my pelvis, waggling his butt around and refusing to let me out. “Dude,” he’s gasping out. “That feels amazing. That’s a real top’s dick. I knew you were going to be hung. I don’t know why. I just knew when I saw you.”
“You feel gooooood,” I drawl, beginning to get into the fuck. I slide in and out, watching my cock thicken and swell with just a single sweet stroke.
When he huffs deeply from the bottle of poppers, his hole deepens even more. I feel the warm flesh soften and blossom around my stem. His arms cross his chest. With the poppers in his right hand and the lube in his left, he reminds me of a pharaoh posed and carved onto an ancient Egyptian mastaba.
From the waist up, anyway. From the waist down, he’s all slut. His cunt makes soft squelching sounds as I push in and out. He moans in time with my fucking, and raises his hips to push back against me. Forty minutes before we’d been strangers passing on the street. Now we’re tied in copulation like two dogs going at each other, and I’m not pulling out the knot of my dick until I’m done.
I fuck him on the sofa for several minutes until he begs to switch positions; with admirable athleticism he flips himself onto his back, raises his butt to the level of my hips, and begs for me to drive it in. He hangs onto his own ankles as I plow deep. A couple of minutes more and he’s oozing lube from the bottle over his cock and balls. Some of it drips down onto my feverish dick and slides into his already-wet ass. Then he starts to jack.
I can tell by the way he’s playing with himself that he’s going to shoot quickly, whether he wants to or not. I don’t intend to find out whether he’s one of those bottoms who’ll let me continue fucking after he comes, or whether he’ll start complaining and twisting to get me out of him the minute he’s shot. I intend to get my orgasm, too. And it’s close enough that all I have to do is pick up the pace a little, grind into him a little more aggressively, and let my nuts do the work.
Our orgasms are close. He shoots first, loosing a blast of semen that slops across his chest and nipples and forms a rope of pearls across his sternum. I’m there with him, seconds later, painting his guts in a climax so overwhelming that I clench my face in what has to look like pain. I feel his legs swing down; my cock pops out. I’ve barely got my vision back than he’s wiping my dick down with a hand towel and chattering about how he’s got to get to the gym before five.
Doesn’t matter. I get the message. We did what we were meant to do, and now it’s done, past tense. I pull up my pants, button my shirt, make sure I look respectable in the mirror, and I’m on my way. He pats my ass on the way out, says we should do it again sometime. Sure thing, boss.
Whether or not we will, I don’t really know. Probably not.
But that’s okay. I’m not mournful when I leave. I don’t know the guy’s name. I don’t have his number, didn’t ask for his email. I’m looking at it this way: if the universe hadn’t wanted us to meet, it would’ve sent me down 49th instead of 48th. It would’ve distracted me with some kind of fucking Elmo or Statue of Liberty performer in my path closer to Times Square, or held me back at a traffic light so that by the time this guy emerged from the bowels of the B train station, my legs would’ve carried me in another direction.
But the universe, or coincidence, let this encounter happen. If it’s meant to happen again, it’ll push this guy in my path at some future point. I don’t care. I’ve had fun. The whole thing was kind of fucking crazy, right? And besides, I’m leaving his place feeling good. I’m feeling incredible, in fact. I’m cock of the walk, the proudest fucking top in the whole damned city. I’m grinning like a god-damned fool.
And why? Here’s where I want to write, Because things like amazing-looking studs stopping in the street to check me out just don’t happen to me. But it’d be a lie. Things like that do happen to me, now and again. However, they don’t drop into my lap because of anything I’ve thought, or some magic brain-wave I transmit that stops hot men dead in their tracks. I don’t believe my brain has magical powers.
My preferred form of magical thinking is more a way of looking for the magic in the world around me, for noticing opportunities. It takes more than wishing to make magic happen.
So I look handsome men in the eye. I stop my legs from walking and turn them in the other direction, on whim. I say hello to strangers.
I keep my sails unfurled for adventure, and sometimes let unknown winds steer me where they may. An alchemy of good luck and an openness to taking chances—that’s all real magic often is.
Last week I was playing bingo at the local watering hole, and when the bartender wandered over to look at my card, he asked what numbers I was looking for. “I need two,” I replied, trying not to stare at the guy’s biceps, “G-55, for one.”
Then right at that moment, the drag queen pulling the bingo balls yelled out, “G-55!”
I felt a momentary rush of imaginary power over the world for a moment. The bartender fist-pumped the air. I just grinned, shook my head, and chalked it up to the persuasive power of coincidence. But that didn’t stop me from concentrating really hard for the rest of the game and thinking, B-9. B-9. B-9!!!
Just in case.
This story I’m about to tell took place on Tuesday. I’m in the city, walking across 48th Street. It’s a beautiful day out—sunny, temperature hovering around seventy-two. The kind of spring afternoon on which anything seems possible. I’m running errands, but I’m in no particular hurry to get them done because of the balmy weather. So I’m passing the uptown stop for the B train and for some reason remembering that bingo game from the week before. And I’m mentally shaking my head at my silliness and thinking, I just WISH I could get what I want by thinking it. Then my eyes light on a guy stepping up onto the sidewalk from the subway station steps.
He’s handsome. Oh my god, so handsome. The guy looks like Gerard Butler’s beefy, impossibly hard-bodied animated character from 300 has stepped off the screen and into business casual. He wears a lilac-colored pressed dress shirt that hugs every muscle in his considerable chest. His slacks, dark and fine-woven, cling to his hard ass. His face is rugged, his hair thick and wavy. I don’t usually notice eye colors right off, but it’s impossible to miss the sapphire blue of his. When I pass the guy, we’re no more than three feet apart. I take in the tight shirt, the beefy body, those glittering gemstones of eyes, and think to myself, If I could make stuff happen just by thinking it . . . Fuck.
That’s when our eyes meet.
I feel that shock that sparks when two men lock stares. The pop of electricity that leaves me startled and breathless. He isn’t just looking at me. He actually stops still at the top of the stairs. His eyes only break from mine to flick down the rest of my body. I’m wearing a dark gray sport shirt and a pair of dress jeans—nothing special, but I’d found the outfit flattering when earlier I’d left home. Then our eyes fasten back on each other.
And I walk on, while my brain wildly thinks, Holy crap! Did I make THAT happen?
It’s tough to justify why I don’t stop walking. It’s a Manhattan thing. We have places to go. Things to do. Strolling is for tourists, people. Our little legs keep moving in the direction we’re pointed. It’s not until I’m a few steps past that I’m thinking, God damn, I wish I’d stopped. Or that I even realize that stopping is an option. By the time I do, only three seconds have passed. He’s still standing there by the subway stairs, looking after me.
So I pause, then turn and walk back to him.
I don’t know how to talk to beautiful men, generally. Built fuckers in their thirties whom I’m half-convinced and half-afraid are only staring at me because I’ve stunned them in the tracks using solely the power of my brain waves? That’s even tougher. But I fake it. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Hi,” he replies, staring at me like I’m the answer to his god-damned prayer, and not the other way around.
“I—“ I start to stammer.
At the same time, he says, “You—“, then trails off.
We both laugh a little. That ice is broken. “Are you hung?” he blurts out. “You kinda look like you’d be hung.” I nodded and reply that yes, I am. “Top?” he ask.
“Yes again.”
He looks at my crotch, then looks into the steady stream of people meandering by. “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he says, using the preamble that men use right before they do something they’ve done many times more than once. “But I’m horny as shit. Do you wanna come home with me for a little bit? I’ve gotta stop off at my office real quick, but . . . maybe you’ve got something you need to do, right?”
“I don’t usually do this either,” I fib. “But yeah. I’ll go with you,” I say. In the back of my head, that little part of me begins to nag. It’s the part that always pipes up I’m not worthy, that he’ll laugh at me when I got my clothes off, that I’m being set up for some massive Carrie prom night-scaled disaster. I switch that obnoxious twat right off. There’s no earthly reason I don’t deserve to be with this man. I swallow, then say with more assurance, “Yeah. Let’s go.”
The stop-off he has to make was on 50th; I sit in the lobby under the watchful eye of a security guard while he dashes up to his office and back again in the space of ten minutes. Then we’re off again to push through the crowds on the way to his place on Ninth. We don’t speak much beyond pleasantries. But I can’t help but notice, on the way over, how both women and men glance at him with appraisal as we pass. Nor can I help from inwardly crowing, Yeah, but I’m the one who stopped him in his tracks with my magical thinking.
He starts to shed his clothing the minute we’re through the much-varnished door of his Hell’s Kitchen flat. He kicks off his tasseled loafers on the mat, flips open his cuffs and shirt buttons as we pass the efficiency kitchen, drops the shirt at the entry to the living room. The belt hits the floor by his flatscreen. The pants he tosses on the armchair. He peels first his black dress socks from his feet and then the tank from his chest as if they’re layers of onion skin, and lets them fall so that he’s standing there in nothing but his underwear. Andrew Christian, they are.
Designer underwear baffles me for the most part; it seems as if most men buy and fetishize it as if they believe pulling up a pair of overpriced briefs over their knees and thighs will magically transform their bodies into those of the sleek and muscular models on the boxes. It never does. With this guy, though. Fuck. That underwear probably fantasized that it’d be lucky enough to find someone like this piece of work to wear them. That underwear probably prayed that could ever be cozying the junk of a guy like this.
Now I’m stunned. I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor and stand there, hands at my side, and stare as the musclebound god faces me.
He correctly assumes I’m admiring his physique. He’s incorrect to think that I wanted to see him pose, though. He makes a stupid duck face and curls his arm to show off his guns, then hunches over to flex his chest. I find that crap phony and off-putting, so I hold up a hand and twirled an index finger at the ceiling. “Turn around,” I tell him. Perhaps not entirely coincidentally, it’s the same finger and motion one uses to signify Big whoop.
He turns. He puts a leg out, shifts his weight. He looks to the side, his eyes sidling back to mine. He’s posing again. His thumbs hook into his underwear, and he teases me by pulling down the waistband. I haven’t taken off a thing until this point, but as he puls his undies up and down over the round perfection of his ass, I unbutton my shirt. I slide loose my belt buckle, unbutton my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. My own underwear—five bucks a pair, Uniqlo with a Keith Haring print—fall into them. I cup my dick in my hand and point it at him. All the phoniness of his poses evaporates.
“Fuck, you are hung,” he says.
“I don’t lie,” I say. “Not about that.”
He licks his lips. We stare at each other again, eyes locked as firmly as they had been on the street. “I want it in me,” he admits in a half-whisper. I nod, once, in the direction of the sofa. He grabs the back with his hands, and settles his knees on the seat. I kneel down behind him. “I don’t know if I’m real fresh,” he says from over his shoulder. “I’m clean to fuck. But I don’t know about rimming. Sorry, dude.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up. He’s got a bottle of lube and some poppers on the glass table behind the sofa. He takes the lube, squirts some on his hand, and rubs it on his hole. Then he reaches back to grab my cock. It’s the first time he’s felt it. He gives it a good squeeze, tests the heft, feels the length. Then he clasps the lube and poppers in his hands like talismans and nods over his shoulder at me.
This isn’t a romance. We haven’t kissed. We’ve barely talked. He hasn’t made a move to suck my dick or get my number. This is a fuck, raw and simple. My dick’s hard and already dripping, anticipating pushing its way into that muscle ass and owning it for a few minutes. He’s not easy to get into, either. I can’t tell whether he’s bearing down against me, or trying some exotic technique to make himself appear tighter than he actually is, but getting the head past his outer ring takes effort and a minute of battering my dick against him. But once I’m in, I’m in. All the way to the base.
And it feels good.
He’s clamping down on the last inch of meat where my dick meets my pelvis, waggling his butt around and refusing to let me out. “Dude,” he’s gasping out. “That feels amazing. That’s a real top’s dick. I knew you were going to be hung. I don’t know why. I just knew when I saw you.”
“You feel gooooood,” I drawl, beginning to get into the fuck. I slide in and out, watching my cock thicken and swell with just a single sweet stroke.
When he huffs deeply from the bottle of poppers, his hole deepens even more. I feel the warm flesh soften and blossom around my stem. His arms cross his chest. With the poppers in his right hand and the lube in his left, he reminds me of a pharaoh posed and carved onto an ancient Egyptian mastaba.
From the waist up, anyway. From the waist down, he’s all slut. His cunt makes soft squelching sounds as I push in and out. He moans in time with my fucking, and raises his hips to push back against me. Forty minutes before we’d been strangers passing on the street. Now we’re tied in copulation like two dogs going at each other, and I’m not pulling out the knot of my dick until I’m done.
I fuck him on the sofa for several minutes until he begs to switch positions; with admirable athleticism he flips himself onto his back, raises his butt to the level of my hips, and begs for me to drive it in. He hangs onto his own ankles as I plow deep. A couple of minutes more and he’s oozing lube from the bottle over his cock and balls. Some of it drips down onto my feverish dick and slides into his already-wet ass. Then he starts to jack.
I can tell by the way he’s playing with himself that he’s going to shoot quickly, whether he wants to or not. I don’t intend to find out whether he’s one of those bottoms who’ll let me continue fucking after he comes, or whether he’ll start complaining and twisting to get me out of him the minute he’s shot. I intend to get my orgasm, too. And it’s close enough that all I have to do is pick up the pace a little, grind into him a little more aggressively, and let my nuts do the work.
Our orgasms are close. He shoots first, loosing a blast of semen that slops across his chest and nipples and forms a rope of pearls across his sternum. I’m there with him, seconds later, painting his guts in a climax so overwhelming that I clench my face in what has to look like pain. I feel his legs swing down; my cock pops out. I’ve barely got my vision back than he’s wiping my dick down with a hand towel and chattering about how he’s got to get to the gym before five.
Doesn’t matter. I get the message. We did what we were meant to do, and now it’s done, past tense. I pull up my pants, button my shirt, make sure I look respectable in the mirror, and I’m on my way. He pats my ass on the way out, says we should do it again sometime. Sure thing, boss.
Whether or not we will, I don’t really know. Probably not.
But that’s okay. I’m not mournful when I leave. I don’t know the guy’s name. I don’t have his number, didn’t ask for his email. I’m looking at it this way: if the universe hadn’t wanted us to meet, it would’ve sent me down 49th instead of 48th. It would’ve distracted me with some kind of fucking Elmo or Statue of Liberty performer in my path closer to Times Square, or held me back at a traffic light so that by the time this guy emerged from the bowels of the B train station, my legs would’ve carried me in another direction.
But the universe, or coincidence, let this encounter happen. If it’s meant to happen again, it’ll push this guy in my path at some future point. I don’t care. I’ve had fun. The whole thing was kind of fucking crazy, right? And besides, I’m leaving his place feeling good. I’m feeling incredible, in fact. I’m cock of the walk, the proudest fucking top in the whole damned city. I’m grinning like a god-damned fool.
And why? Here’s where I want to write, Because things like amazing-looking studs stopping in the street to check me out just don’t happen to me. But it’d be a lie. Things like that do happen to me, now and again. However, they don’t drop into my lap because of anything I’ve thought, or some magic brain-wave I transmit that stops hot men dead in their tracks. I don’t believe my brain has magical powers.
My preferred form of magical thinking is more a way of looking for the magic in the world around me, for noticing opportunities. It takes more than wishing to make magic happen.
So I look handsome men in the eye. I stop my legs from walking and turn them in the other direction, on whim. I say hello to strangers.
I keep my sails unfurled for adventure, and sometimes let unknown winds steer me where they may. An alchemy of good luck and an openness to taking chances—that’s all real magic often is.
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Winner
I know my faults. I’m competitive. Too competitive.
Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.
To fuck.
He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.
“I love it,” he gasps out.
“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.
“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.
“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”
He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.
That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”
I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”
“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”
Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.
I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.
“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.
“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“
“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”
I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .”
“Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”
“In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“Fuck.”
“Say it.”
“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“. . . All I think about is you.”
He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”
“And how you fill me up.”
“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.
“And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”
“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.
“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.
“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”
I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”
He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”
I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”
“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”
“But you need it.”
“I need it.”
“And he doesn’t give it to you.”
“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”
“He never could.”
“Please.”
This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.
“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”
“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”
“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”
“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.
“You win.”
“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.
Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.
But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.
Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.
To fuck.
He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.
“I love it,” he gasps out.
“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.
“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.
“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”
He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.
That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”
I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”
“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”
Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.
I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.
“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.
“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“
“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”
I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .”
“Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”
“In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“Fuck.”
“Say it.”
“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“. . . All I think about is you.”
He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”
“And how you fill me up.”
“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.
“And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”
“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.
“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.
“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”
I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”
He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”
I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”
“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”
“But you need it.”
“I need it.”
“And he doesn’t give it to you.”
“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”
“He never could.”
“Please.”
This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.
“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”
“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”
“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”
“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.
“You win.”
“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.
Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.
But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Untamed
We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move.
I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.
The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”
“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.
Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.
That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.
“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”
“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.
“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“
“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.
“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”
In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.
“That’s you, man.”
“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.
But I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”
I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.
“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."
I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.
"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”
I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.
“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”
Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.
My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.
“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."
The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.
“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”
“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.
His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.
Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.
I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.
The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”
“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.
Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.
That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.
“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”
“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.
“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“
“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.
“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”
In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.
“That’s you, man.”
“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.
But I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”
I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.
“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."
I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.
"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”
I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.
“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”
Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.
My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.
“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."
The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.
“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”
“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.
His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.
Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.
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