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.