Flash Job

I could tell the guy had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. While I’d sat with my friends at a table in the far corner of the dark room, he’d sat at the bar, clutching his vodka and tonic and bobbing his head to the thumping beat, his body angled so that he could snatch little glances my way from time to time. When I went to the men’s room to wash my hands, he swiveled around to watch as I passed. I thought he was going to say something when I stood near him, picking up another bottle of water from my bartender crush on the way back. He remained silent, though, while I received my dewy plastic bottle and left my money and a tip on the bar.

It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said.

Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully.

“Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.”

One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!”

He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures.

My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?”

Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added.

I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.”

He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?”

I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.”

I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again.

The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show.

He licked his lips, nervous.

“So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?”

“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice.

I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?”

At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.”

“All right then.”

When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested.

But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room.

He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went.

I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better.

“Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go.

I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening.