Show-Offs, page 5
“It’s a roller magnet, buddy. See here?” He runs it across the lawn. “It’s a’pickin’ up nails and tacks from the grass.”
Luke has the kind of voice that always turns me on: low, casual, with thick country vowels, what I used to call “uneducated Southern” before Doug pointed out to me that I sound much the same when I’m drunk, pissed off, horny or high, or when I’m around other small-town Southerners.
“Cool,” I say, moving closer, doing my best to veil my hungry fascination. I’d give anything for a whiff of his armpits. They have to be ripe, after hours working in the warm May sun. It’s all about the senses, isn’t it? The more stimulated, the better. Sight’s been feasting all morning, hearing’s just been titillated, now smell wants something to savor. Taste and touch, they’re snarling with frustration, aching to finger the small buds of those nipples, tiny protuberances beneath his tight tank top, to lap that gleam of sweat on his clavicles, to nuzzle the musky dark between his buttcheeks. Small and compact as he is, I could lift him into my arms and carry him into the house. I doubt that such an enthusiastic gesture would be welcomed.
“Where’d you get the ink? I got this done in Blacksburg.” I lift a tattoo-sleeved arm.
“That’s a lotta fine work. Me,” Luke says, flexing veiny brown biceps, “I got all this in Harlan. Kentucky, y’know. Worked as a miner for a while.”
In an ideal world, I’d offer him a beer and a blow job. Instead I say, “My best friend in college was the son of a miner. Damned hard work.”
“Buddy, don’t you know it! There I was, a’diggin’ deep in the earth, and now I’m high in the sky. Risking my ass either way. But a man’s gotta work, right?”
“Well, I better let you get back to it,” I say. I can’t sustain these little chats for long. Between my innate shyness and the struggle to appear not ravenous but calm, they sap me of energy fast. “Sure, buddy,” he says with a nod, returning his attentions to the lawn.
I go inside, back into my rapt shadow-cloaked study of him. When he leaves the front yard, I pad through the house, checking each window, tracking him like a hunter would a deer. I find him on the roof scaffolding again, just outside the small window of the upstairs laundry room. Good god, he’s taken his tank top off. There are more tattoos on his chest and belly; his torso’s covered with sweat and a dusting of golden-brown fur; his nipples are tiny, brown and erect; and there’s a scar on his back, a shiny swelling where a serious injury might have been, perhaps even a gunshot wound.
I step back, where I can still see Luke but he can’t see me. I pore over the lines and colors of his exposed torso; I grip the cloth covering my cock and squeeze. I keep squeezing. Before a minute’s out, I’ve shot a big load into my boxer briefs. “Thanks, buddy,” I whisper. Chuckling, I head into the bathroom to clean myself up.
The roofers leave at four. I’m relieved. Finally I can concentrate on something else. I catch up on email, then make notes for an essay I plan to write tomorrow. Later I’ll make Doug and me martinis and throw together some dinner; right now I’m going to do my best to retain the “muscle” in “muscle-bear” by lifting weights in the basement gym.
My “Macho Room,” I call it. There are several posters of muscled, half-naked guys; a stationary bike; a television on which to watch porn while I pedal; racks of free weights; a punching bag; and a bench press, with a barbell in the stand at its head and an inclined pad for preacher curls at its foot. Listening to country music, I work through biceps, then deltoids, then biceps again, finishing with triceps. A long shower next, since my husbear is always complaining about my strong body odor. I think I smell sexy and butch; he thinks I stink.
Water runs down my body; it feels like hands stroking me. I close my eyes, think of my little roofer and get hard again. Why can’t it be him touching me, our bodies pressed together in the shower? Why can’t I find a part-time boy who looks like that? The world’s so fucking unaccommodating. Absentmindly, I tug on myself for a few frustrated seconds before drying off.
Luke’s groaning with discomfort when I step out of the shower. He’s stripped, bent over, tied belly-down to the preacher-curl bench. His arms are spread, tautly stretched out, wrists roped to the heavy barbell resting in the stand before him. His head’s bowed; a ball-gag’s strapped between his teeth; drool drips from his mouth, spattering the black bench press.
“Want loose yet?” I say. I run a hand down his tanned back, then over the white mounds of his ass. “It’s been two hours. You’ve got to be sore.”
“Uhhmm-huh.” The boy lifts his head and nods, then elevates his butt, pressing it against my palm.
“Want to be fucked first, huh? I hope so, ’cause it’s happening whether you want it to or not.”
I slip a finger between his buttocks. Here’s his moist hole, at the bottom of this shallow valley forested with fur. When I nudge it, Luke groans and cocks his rear higher.
“How about some torture to warm you up? Think you can endure a little pain for Daddy?”
His nod’s pure eagerness.
I snap a leather parachute around the base of his balls, then hang a work boot from it. I slip weighted clamps on his nipples. I take a riding crop to his back and shoulders, then to the snowy curves of his ass, then to his upper thighs. He squirms and whines, yanking hard on his bonds, then, as the blows get harder, thrashes and shouts. The weights hanging from his tits and ball sac sway and jolt. His slobber puddles on the bench. His strained screams shatter, melting into sobs. Soon, tears join his pooled drool.
Nothing moves me like manly helplessness and manly tears. I stop beating Luke only after I’ve covered him with red welts from his shoulders to the back of his knees. He lies heaving across the tilted pad. “Good, good boy,” I say, dropping the crop. “You took a lot.” Kneeling, I spread his blow-heated, crimson-etched buttocks and give his hole a long tonguing. He quivers and slumps; he whimpers and moans.
Now I stand. I lube us up. I finger him, stretching him open. When I push my cockhead up his ass, he jerks, tugs on his wrist-ropes, and whines with pain.
“God, you’re tight. Feels great.” I edge in a mite deeper. His channel’s narrow resistance is making my balls throb.
“Ever had a man’s dick up your butt before?”
Luke winces. He shakes his head. His bound hands claw air, then clench.
“Does it hurt?” I slide in an inch deeper still.
Luke nods.
“Too bad. You’ll get used to it.” I pull out, rub my cockhead up and down his crack and then shove all the way inside. Luke howls. I wrap an arm around his tight torso, press a hand over his mouth, and spear him hard. One minute he’s struggling, shaking his head frantically, begging me to stop; the next, I’m jacking him, he’s bucking back against me, then prick-pounding my fist; and the next, I’m cumming up his ass and he’s cumming in my hand.
“Jeff, you might want to get up here,” Doug says softly from the head of the stairs. “I don’t think you want to miss this.”
Outside, a gray-grim day in mid-December, another set of workers moves up and down ladders set against the front of the house. Last year was the roof; this year we’re having storm windows installed before winter sets in. As usual, I’m mesmerized by a member of the work crew. Once again he’s younger and smaller than I—in his midtwenties, about five-nine—contrasts that bring out the BDSM Top in me, the doting, stern/tender Daddy. He sports wavy brown hair and a close-trimmed dark goatee. His sweatshirts have been close-fitting enough to let me know his chest, shoulders and arms are solid and muscular. Talk about eminently fuckable. He’s very handsome, resembling a younger version of Tim McGraw, my favorite country music star. In the couple of days the guy’s been working here, Doug and I have nicknamed him “Baby Tim.”
“It’s your new boyfriend.” Doug’s voice is a mocking singsong. “Best view yet.”
I take the steps two at a time, which is more difficult than it used to be. When I enter Doug’s office, my quarry’s atop a ladder right outside the window.
“Watch now,” says Doug. “When he stretches up to put the new window frame in.”
As much as I want to stare openly, I don’t. Doug and I pretend to be engrossed with something on his computer monitor.
“There. Look,” Doug whispers.
Trying to seem casual, I lift my head. When Baby Tim lifts the window frame, his sweatshirt rides up. For a precious handful of seconds, I can see the top of his loins’ lean lyre and a brown line of belly hair leading into his jeans.
“Oh, fuck!” I gasp. I put on an elaborate show of false focus, pointing at something supposedly significant on the monitor, meanwhile watching like a raptor out of the corner of my eye. Once again, the brief stretching; once again, the sweet exposure of Baby Tim’s furry belly. Storm windows are supposed to be about keeping the warmth in and the cold out, but right now it feels like the opposite. I’m the chilly one, separated from all that hairy heat by a pane of glass, a titanium wall of social custom, heteronormativity, several decades and my own cowardice.
Doug’s out of town, so I play the soundtrack to Thor extra loud. It’s flurrying outside; my study’s dark except for the light of one candle. I’m sipping a peaty Irish whiskey, one boot propped up on my handsome human footstool.
Baby Tim’s naked, on his hands and knees. His wrists are roped together in front of him. A leather dog collar and leash are buckled around his neck; there’s a butt plug up his ass and a camo bandana knotted between his teeth. He grunts, shifts his hips then settles back into acquiescent stillness.
I finish my drink, lift my boot off the small of his back and rise. “Good meal you cooked tonight, cub. You ready for bed?”
He nods. Bending, I work the plug around. When I pull it out, Tim whines with disappointment.
“Don’t worry, boy, I have something larger that’s going up your ass real soon.” Taking the leash, I lead him upstairs, where we can enjoy the gas fireplace. I strip, then push him onto the bed, tie his wrists to the headboard, position him on his elbows and knees and enter him roughly from behind. His butt’s small, very tight and coated with dark hair.
“Like this?” I say, pounding him vigorously.
“Ooo yah! Ooooo yah!” he shouts. His words may be muffled by cloth but his ardor’s more than clear.
“On your back now?”
“Yah, yah!” He nods wildly.
I pull out, roll him over, bend him double, and plunge in again. “Want it harder?”
“Yah!” Tim growls. His ankles lock behind my back, pulling me more deeply into him. I’ve only managed a dozen thrusts when he goes taut and gasps. His untouched cock spurts, jetting onto my chin and pulsing over his hairy belly.
Chuckling, I rub cum into my beard and lick up the pool on his stomach before pulling out and untying him. “I’m tired, cub,” I say, folding him into my arms, fondling his nipples. “Let’s just cuddle. I don’t need to cum right now. I’ll plow you again in the morning. Would you like that?”
“Uhhhhhh huh!” Baby Tim nods, nuzzles his gagged mouth against my chest and scoots closer. Tomorrow morning, I’ll teach my new houseboy to make buckwheat pancakes. After breakfast, he’ll spend a few happy hours hog-tied in the closet.
The dick-dancer gyrating before me began in a skimpy pair of underwear on the big center stage, but now he’s naked, on a brightly lit dais only yards away. Unlike the other performers, he’s not gym-chiseled. His body is simply a young man’s: lean, with muscle-thick, hairy thighs and some slight definition in the shoulders and chest. His dick isn’t particularly big, and he isn’t much of a dancer. He pretty much just moves his hips forward and back, flopping his soft cock around. But for some reason I can’t explain, I’m attracted almost invariably to Caucasians, and he’s one of the few white guys dancing. I dote on facial hair and body hair, and he’s got a chinstrap beard and the slightest dusting of fur on his torso, while all his fellow dancers are clean shaven and smooth chested. Finally, his pale body is scattered with tattoos, which are always an erotic addition, and he’s wearing black harness-strap boots exactly like a pair I own, making him look like a country boy.
It’s late, and I’m tired. I only came here to please Doug, who relishes such venues. Strip clubs always make me uncomfortable. I feel old, ugly, frustrated, like a supplicant. The contrast between middle-aged patrons and young, well-built dancers is painful, really. I don’t want to want men I can’t have. I don’t want to stare lustfully at someone I can’t fuck, someone who feels my need, finds such need pathetic, yet revels in the ego-food my attentions provide. If I’m going to ogle, I want to ogle while unseen. I don’t want someone to smile at me and flirt with me only because I might give him money. It’s humiliating, one-sided. My desire makes me feel weak, not powerful; ashamed, not proud.
But, minute by minute, this dancer’s winning me over with his limber body and shaggy brown hair. His face is only vaguely handsome, almost coarse, but when he smiles, his features transform: he glows, he’s endearing. He’s a gay farm-boy come to the big city, I tell myself, making a living as best he can, relishing his new life in the nation’s teeming capital but still homesick for Southern hills and fields. If only he found the right Daddy to take care of him. This guy’s the most delicious fuel for fantasy I’ve encountered in months.
Doug’s amused by my interest. He rises—as I definitely cannot, thoroughly paralyzed as I am by my own sheepish desire—steps over to the dancer, whispers to him and slips bills inside the high socks the boy’s wearing beneath his boots. The dancer nods, flashes me that amazing smile and turns his back to us.
“I told him you were an ass man,” Doug says, grinning.
The dancer bends over, cocks his rear-end in my direction, wriggles it then slaps his right buttcheek hard. He drops to his hands and knees, still swaying to the music. Light gleams on the bunched muscles of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the lift of his buttocks. He’s presenting his ass to me like a gift. I can see, as clearly as any beauty I’ve ever adored, fine hairs like gold thread covering the pale mounds of his buttocks.
Dizzy, almost stunned, I sit back. I gulp my gin and tonic, feigning an exterior of cool dignity, but inside I’m feeling like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes bug out a foot and whose jaw drops to the ground like an anvil. The boy slaps his left buttock now, looks back at me and grins, then pulls the mound of flesh aside, far enough for me to see his cleft’s copper hair and his asshole. The tiny aperture clenches and relaxes. “I think he’s winking at you,” Doug says in my ear.
I am, simply put, enflamed. Dry mouth, beating heart. I might as well be a love-struck adolescent. For once, I give over my shame and pride and simply wallow flush-cheeked inside infatuation, gawking at those two low hills, the mossy vale between them, and the tight delight waiting there. That a man might give me such a show, offer me such blessings, and then leave me unsated is simply unthinkable. Obscene, really. What’s right is that I stand up, stride over, beat his ass scarlet and then plow him in front of this room of strangers.
Too soon the besotting butt-show’s done. He stands, turns around, gives me another white smile, fingers his nipples a little, which only maddens me more, and then the song’s ended. He hops off the dais, lopes over and drops to his knees before us. “Hey, I’m Byron,” he says, placing one hand on my knee, the other on Doug’s.
We chat; I do my best not to stutter, not to pounce on him. He’s from Alexandria, just finished college in North Carolina. We have matching tattoos: daggers on our left forearms. He seems innocent, cheerful, friendly, polite. I wonder how much of him is façade, meant to win more bills from us. I don’t beg him to go home with us. I don’t ask him if more money might buy a lengthier, more intimate show back in our hotel room.
Too soon, the naked boy kneeling at my feet rises. “Real nice meeting you all,” he says. With a smile, he disappears into the crowd.
It’s after midnight; Doug and I have to drive home early tomorrow. But we stay; I want more of Byron. In a little bit he’s back, this time dancing on top of the bar. He locks one leg around a ceiling pipe, swinging nimbly from it like a tattooed Tarzan. He talks with a hideous Asian man who’s clearly as smitten with him as I am. I feel jealous, absurdly possessive. “Get away from him, you troll! That’s my boy!” I want to shout.
Instead, as soon as said troll strolls on, I gather my courage, walk over and slip a bill into Byron’s sock. He grins down at me, his penis flopping mere inches from my face. All I’d need to do is open my mouth and lean forward, and his cock would be pulsing between my lips. I could fondle him—prominent signs around the club make clear that you can touch a dancer below the knees and above the navel. I could run my fingers over his hairy calves, stroke his mouthwatering nipples, caress his armpit hair. I want to touch him as much as I’ve wanted anything. But why madden myself more? Why open the floodgates further? Instead I ask him about several of his tattoos, slip another bill inside his sock, say, “Thanks for the great show. Really amazing,” and head back through the crowd to my gin and tonic. As soon as the song ends and Byron descends, Doug and I depart.
Daddybear’s harem, I wryly call them, the men my memory’s collected, the ones I make love to in my mind. I plug them into a simple erotic equation (scruffy butch man + bondage + gags + torture + ass-rape) that never fails to stoke me up and get me off. Now it’s time for Byron to take his turn.
It’s a windy evening; I spend hours reading. I look up from my book often to admire my guest, who’s lying naked before the fireplace. He’s silent except for an occasional discomfited grunt as he shifts about on the carpet. Every now and then, our eyes meet and hold. Every now and then, his limbs strain, a struggle as brief as it is futile, before, defeated, he bows his head, sighs and surrenders.
