Show-Offs, page 4
I ventured a glance into the living room. Slim, dishwater-blond, impeccably groomed Christopher stood with his back to me. His guest, a slightly older, dark-haired man with broad shoulders and thick arms barely contained by the sleeves of his Polo shirt, stood staring into Christopher’s eyes. Both held drinks.
Christopher was a regular at the Cock and Bull, one of several establishments I frequented in search of appropriate marks, but his guest was unfamiliar. When the older man wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and ran the backs of his fingers down Christopher’s cheek, I knew I didn’t have much time. Christopher immediately placed his unfinished drink on an end table, took his guest’s hand and turned in my direction. As they approached the bedroom I backed away from the door and slipped into the walk-in closet. I left the door open a fraction of an inch so I could peek through the crack and see what was happening.
The two men didn’t waste any time. They barely made it into the bedroom before the bigger man pushed Christopher against the wall only inches from the closet door. He covered Christopher’s mouth with his, and one hand groped the smaller man’s crotch. Christopher’s slender hands fumbled with the bigger man’s belt, button and zipper and soon freed his long, thick-shafted erection.
They spun around so that the dark-haired man’s back was against the wall and Christopher dropped to his knees on the carpet before him. He wrapped both hands around the thick cock jutting in front of his face and took the spongy soft mushroom cap into his mouth. He licked, he sucked and then he drew in another inch of the bigger man’s shaft.
That wasn’t enough for the bigger man. He grabbed the back of Christopher’s head and thrust his hips forward, sinking the entire length of his cock into Christopher’s oral cavity. I expected Christopher to gag, but he didn’t, unexpectedly impressing me. Then the bigger man drew his hips back until just his cockhead remained in Christopher’s mouth before he pushed forward again. His heavy ball sac bounced off Christopher’s chin, and he did it again and again.
As I watched the dark-haired man face-fuck Christopher so close to me I could have reached out of the closet and touched them, my cock began to thicken and rise. I carefully shifted position to untangle it from my briefs.
The bigger man’s hips began pumping faster and then he suddenly stopped with his cock buried deep inside Christopher’s mouth. I watched Christopher’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed wad after wad of the bigger man’s cum, and I swallowed hard, too, because I almost came in my shorts.
When Christopher finally pulled away, a thin string of cum stretched from his lips to the bigger man’s rapidly deflating cock until it finally snapped as Christopher stood.
The two men stepped away from the wall and out of my line of sight until I realized I could see the entire bedroom reflected in the mirror hung above the dresser. I watched as they stripped off their clothes. Christopher had the light, all-over tan of someone who spent time in a tanning booth. Though his face, neck and arms were the leather-brown of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, Christopher’s guest was eggshell white beneath his clothes, his only color provided by a light dusting of black body hair.
By the time they finished removing their clothes, the dark-haired man’s cock had begun to resume its former stature. Christopher reached into his nightstand and retrieved a partially used tube of lube. He handed it to his guest and then lay back on the bed. His guest lay beside him and opened the tube. After he slathered lube between Christopher’s asscheeks and on his own thick cock, he lifted the slender blond’s legs and nearly folded Christopher in half. Then he pressed his cockhead against Christopher’s lube-slathered sphincter and pressed forward until he buried his cock deep inside Christopher’s ass.
Christopher’s cock was trapped between them and, as the bigger man drew back and pressed forward, his abdomen rubbed against the underside of Christopher’s stiff shaft.
Christopher came first, covering them with his sticky effluent. Then his guest made one final deep thrust and he came, emptying himself within Christopher.
I was so excited I felt my underwear dampen with precum, and it took tremendous willpower not to pull my cock out and stroke it into submission. I didn’t dare though. I knew that getting caught in a man’s closet with his valuables in my pockets was bad, but getting caught in his closet with my hand wrapped around my valuables was infinitely worse. So, my erection and I waited patiently while the two men snuggled, fucked yet again and then snuggled more.
I waited a long time in that closet, until I was certain, from the sound of their breathing, that both men were asleep. Then I slipped from the bedroom, across the living room, out through the sliding glass door, and over the rail to the ground one floor below. My nondescript car, parked two blocks away, remained undisturbed.
Once home, I sat on the toilet, took my still-hard cock in my hand, and churned butter until I came with a rush that painted the back of the bathroom door with cum before I could catch it in the tissue I held in my free hand.
The next day I fenced Christopher’s jewelry, more valuable for its gold content than its craftsmanship, and pocketed the cash. That evening I took myself out for a steak dinner accompanied by a moderately priced bottle of wine and flirted with my handsome waiter. Tony had waited on me several times over the years I’d been dining at Carvello’s but was half of a committed relationship and had long ago made it clear that nothing would ever come of my flirtation.
Then I relaxed that evening at Leon’s, a dark neighborhood bar where I could enjoy myself without thinking about work. Other evenings in other bars led to other apartments and other homes. As nondescript as my car, I watched the pickups and kiss-offs, learning the routines of potential marks. I paid attention to who went home early and who remained until closing, who left alone and who left on the arm of another man, and who actually had money and who merely fronted. I followed the best marks, learned where they lived, and determined whose homes were easily accessible and whose were best avoided. Then, when I felt confident that I would have sufficient uninterrupted time, I visited some of those homes, leaving with hundreds and sometimes thousands of dollars worth of cash and easily fenced valuables.
And every time I was inside one of those homes without an invitation, I thought about what I’d seen in Christopher Melon’s apartment. I’d never thought of myself as the type of guy who liked to watch other men having sex—I hadn’t even watched porn since dropping out of junior college—but I frequently found myself churning butter while mentally replaying that scene.
I worked a circuit, never too many consecutive nights spent at the same bar, never at the same bar so often that bartenders and barflies recognized me, but often enough that I knew the routines of their most affluent regulars. Then one night I found myself back at the Cock and Bull, Christopher Melon’s favorite watering hole, and he was there, leaning against the bar, waiting to be approached. My cock twitched at the memory of Christopher giving his dark-haired guest a blow job only inches from me.
I plied Christopher with drinks, maybe even using his own money, and soon felt his hand between my thighs, cupping my balls and squeezing my tumescent cock through the material of my chinos. I already knew what he looked like naked, what he looked like with a cock in his mouth, and what he looked like in the throes of passion. What I didn’t know, until that moment, is what he felt like, and I liked the way my cock felt in his hand, even with layers of cloth between them. I watched his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, much like I had watched his reflection that night in his bedroom, and I suggested there might be somewhere private we could go.
Christopher removed his hand from my crotch, finished his drink and took me back to his apartment. Once inside he offered me a drink, apparently following some long-established script of seduction.
I declined the drink, took his hand and led him to his bedroom.
“You act like you’ve been here before,” he said.
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I opened the closet door and looked inside.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Humor me,” I said. “This will just take a moment.”
I enjoyed watching but I wouldn’t enjoy being watched. I switched on the light, saw nothing but clothing and shoes, and switched it off again.
Then I turned to Christopher, pulled him into my arms, and covered his mouth with mine. We kissed long, deep and hard before I peeled off his clothes and fucked him until he screamed with pleasure.
HAREM
Jeff Mann
Gawking. It’s undignified and a little pathetic, but I can’t help myself. Outside, rangy Conrad, the arborist, directs his crew of compatriots. Inside, I stand by the window, longing.
They’re taking down dead branches over the driveway. One worker’s in an elevated bucket three stories off the ground, brandishing a chainsaw. Conrad paces on my back deck, giving orders. It’s a cool October day. He’s dressed in a Virginia Tech baseball cap, a sweatshirt, jeans, and work boots, but I’m trying to visualize him in nothing but briefs. I’d kill to see the guy stripped down. As it is, there’s a rip in the seat of his pants—seems almost deliberately placed, as if he knows I want him—that reveals teasing flashes of white underwear.
Like most men, I’ve done this all my adult life: peering surreptitiously at someone I’d fuck in a heartbeat given a more conducive state of affairs. When it comes to erotic satisfaction, my circumstances have rarely been ideal. I’m not gorgeous, not charming, never have been. I’ve always been shy, insecure, for the most part incapable of making a pass. I grew up in and have chosen to remain in the Highland South, where many homophobes and conservatives lurk, where there is relatively little gay life or queer-friendly spaces. Finally, I’ve always been attracted to butch men and country boys, meaning the objects of my lust are most likely straight and thus not approachable.
And now middle age has become a handicap. I’m chunky, with a graying beard. I shave my head, the only dignified response to male pattern baldness. Yeah, I’m fairly handsome for fifty-two, if I may say so myself, and I’m lifting heavier weights than I ever have in my life, meaning that my chest, shoulders, and arms are pretty impressive for a man my age, and, thanks to the stationary bike, I still possess a decently defined set of hairy legs. But let’s just say that I am acutely aware of erotic possibility drying up, and that slow recession makes me frantic, the “quiet desperation” Thoreau spoke of. Like anyone with a libido, I want to be desirable so as to successfully attract the desirable, but the seasons come and go, faster and faster, it seems, and I can imagine with ease a day not too far distant when I’ve lost whatever appeal I have left. Doug, my partner, he’s vanilla, while I’m compulsively kinky, a rabid fan of ropes, gags and rough sex, plus we’ve been together for fifteen years, meaning by now we’re more comfortable companions than lovers, and so my erotic interest is more and more directed elsewhere.
Elsewhere today is Conrad. After so many decades of studying good-looking men, up close and from a distance, I’m an expert at calculating what a clothed man might look like naked. I’m good at gauging, despite the concealment of garments, a guy’s musculature, cock size, and body hair. Conrad’s very lean, that’s obvious. My guess is that his chest is lightly muscled, very pale, with light hair rimming small nipples. His cock’s big, like most tall, wiry men. His butt’s tight, white and curved just right, with abundant golden fur in the crack. His legs are coated with hair just as golden.
Distance and secrecy—hiding behind cracked blinds or barely parted drapes—give peepers like me the advantage of staring at prey without being noticed. Believe me, most guys I furtively admire in this little mountain town would passionately, even violently, object to an openly lecherous stare from another man. Not only do I not want to end up in a fistfight, I don’t want to give offense. I was raised with good manners. I don’t want men like Conrad to feel uncomfortable or insulted or regard me as an old lech or pervert. So I ogle them from the shadows.
But there’s something to be said for proximity. Near them, I can’t stare freely, but I can interact with them, listen to their deep voices and country accents, even get a faint whiff of their bodies. So now I step outside.
“Howdy,” says Conrad, smiling. He’s about thirty, with pale-blue eyes, a thin face, high cheekbones and a prominent Adam’s apple. His chin and cheeks are coated with a tasty layer of blond beard-stubble. Curly blond hair covers his lean forearms. Sun glints off his wedding ring.
“Uh, uh, we’re about done. You want those hemlocks treated while we’re here? And, uh, we could dust that crabapple with lime.”
We confer. I want to hug him, to pull his sweatshirt up to see if there’s any hair on his belly. When he bends to brush sawdust off a boot, the sweatshirt rides up in back just far enough to give me a glimpse of his briefs’ waistband, and above that, a strip of skin.
I get tired of being a human being in a world of law. Don’t you? I want to growl like a hungry wolf, grab Conrad by the shoulders, push him back against the wall and kiss him hard. I want to feel his beard-stubble against my face.
Doug’s up at daybreak. He heads down the hall to his home office to work. I lie here, groggy, the tabbies sprawled at my feet. I stroke myself into hardness, then reach for a Kleenex.
Conrad struggles beneath me as I bind him, but his resistance only excites me more. Soon, I have his sinewy nakedness trussed so tightly he can do little more than flop around like a landed trout. Silvery strips of duct tape secure his arms and wrists behind him; his knees and ankles are similarly restrained.
“Let me loose, man! Please!” Conrad pants.
“Shhh,” I say, cutting another long strip of tape off the roll with my army knife. I press the tape over Conrad’s mouth, wrapping it around his head till he’s silenced with three layers’ worth. “You need to keep very still now.”
Conrad lies there, trembling, as I trail the blade’s sharp point over his hard nipples, along the slight curves of his pecs, down along his flat abs, along a prominent hip bone and into the blond shrubby tangles of his pubes. When I run the edge over his soft cock, it hardens.
“You like this, huh?” I say, stroking his stiffening length with steel.
Conrad whimpers. He blinks his blue eyes. A tear rolls down his right cheek. He shakes his head.
I keep stroking the shaft. He shudders and grows harder still.
“Tell the truth,” I say, placing the tip of the knife against his glans. A few drops of precum have collected there. I wipe them up with the knifepoint and lick the juice off the steel. “You don’t like this, do you? You love it.”
Conrad nods. Another tear courses down his cheek, then another and another.
“Beauty broken down. God, I love it when you cry,” I say, stroking the knife along his prick again. Halfway through my fifth excursion from cock-base to cock-tip, Conrad goes taut and releases a strained sob. Wet eyes clenched shut, he cums.
The boy’s short and lean, in filthy jeans. Hard muscles line his tanned, tattooed arms; his chest swells beneath a dirty white tank top. His hair’s wavy and golden-brown, the color of his close-cut goatee. He’s probably in his late twenties and looks country as they come. I move from window to window like a cat would following a hopping robin, watching as the guy works. He climbs up and down the ladder, balances along a scaffold, shoulders packs of roof tiles, and pushes a wheelbarrow of debris across the lawn to his truck. I should be writing; I should be reading. I can’t. I’m transfixed. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else until the day is done and the guy leaves with his fellow roofers.
The new roof comes with a lifetime warranty. Six thousand dollars, not bad for such a big job. Chalk the reasonable price up to living in southwest Virginia, where the cost of living is low, the mountain landscape beautiful and religious fundamentalists plentiful as fleas on a street-cur. Certainly there are no leather bars around where I might meet a perverse, submissive version of my little roofer, some savory cub aching to spend an afternoon ball-gagged and hog-tied on the floor of his Daddybear’s closet.
Today’s another day I’ll have to forego sex and settle for scenery. Right now Roofer-Cub’s taking a lunch break beneath the Norway maple in the front lawn, while I stand in the shadows of my study, squeezing my crotch, memorizing him for later. He leans back against the trunk, chewing a sandwich and enjoying the shade; he smokes a cigarette and chats on his cell phone, probably to his wife or girlfriend, some lucky buxom blonde who’s likely to bear him several children. In ten years they’ll be living in a trailer, she’ll be fat-slabbed, the children will be shrill and frenetic and he’ll be gaunt, irritable and aging fast.
I see my opportunity for closer inspection when, done with lunch, he gets out an odd implement and starts rolling it over the lawn. When my cock’s softened sufficiently not to be an obscene projection in my cargo shorts, I step outside onto the stoop.
“Howdy,” I say. So many pretexts I’ve composed over the years, just to get nearer to delectable strangers. Today’s is simple: putting a letter in the mailbox.
“Hey, buddy. How you?” The cub looks my way and smiles.
I glance up at the pitched roof. “Tiles are looking great.” I grew up around here, patterning my version of manhood on the rural and blue-collar types I grew up around. I can make redneck small talk with the best of them.
I extend a hand. “I’m Jeff.”
He wipes his hand on his pants. “Kinda dirty, bud. Sorry. Name’s Luke.” We shake firmly, skin pressed to skin—two lives, two strengths briefly aligned.
Our hands part. I resist the urge to pull him into my arms. I’ll probably never get to touch him again. “So what’s that thang there you’re using?”
