Living with a fellow musician had its quirks. Paul and I were very free with each other’s bodies. But neither of us would have dared to touch one of the other guy’s (musical) instruments. They were off limits. We’d suck each other’s dicks and swallow each other’s cum. We’d give each other tongue baths, licking up each other’s sweat. We’d rim each other. We’d fuck each other in the ass, and come, breeding each other. But our instruments’ mouthpieces, and the reeds we used on our saxes, were also strictly off limits. We devoted a lot of our time to finding the right reed and scraping it and breaking it in so that it would be just right. Putting my mouth on one of Paul’s mouthpieces, or one of his reeds, was simply unthinkable to me—and he felt exactly the same way. It wasn’t very logical, but rationality had little to do with it.
We were a lot more tolerant when it was a question of doing other things with our mouths, as well as our cocks and our assholes. Paul wanted us to have an open relationship. A lot of his friends were also his fuck buddies. We enjoyed threesomes with several of them.
I assumed that Paul felt free to fool around with other guys on his own, behind my back—and that I was free to do the same. On more than one occasion, I let myself get picked up by a good-looking number on the street.
Just for the fun of it, too, I began hanging out at a coffee shop in our neighborhood. The place had an open mic night several times each week. People would sing, do stand-up comedy, or play music. I often showed up and played my new SML sax. Even though these gigs didn’t earn me any money, they were a great way to meet guys. They’d come up to me after my set, compliment me on my playing, we’d have a coffee together—and, often, one thing would lead to another, namely an invitation to go home with my admirer. If these dudes liked my sax playing, they really liked the way I performed in bed!
But, as often I strayed, I still thought of myself as Paul’s boyfriend. Sex with him, or just sleeping with him, cuddling up next to him in bed at night, remained my favorite thing. My other erotic adventures paled by comparison—which didn’t stop me from indulging in them. I was still horny—still curious—still eager to enlarge my range of experience. In other words, I was a slut!
One afternoon, feeling a bit the worse for wear after a night of lovemaking with Paul, I dragged myself to class. After all, if I started to neglect my studies, I’d flunk out of music school. And then I’d not only be out of a career—I’d no longer have an excuse to go on living in New York.
And that would have been a real disaster. I couldn’t imagine moving back to the small town I’d grown up in, now that I’d had a taste (much more than a taste, actually; more like a surfeit) of gay life in a big city, where hundreds of attractive, available men now seemed to be throwing themselves in my path everywhere I went.
After class, I deliberately wandered in the direction of Lincoln Center, because I’d been told by one of my tricks that an “active” subway john, or “tea room” as such a cruising spot was sometimes called, was located in the vicinity.
I was eager to check out the place. It looked innocent enough on the outside—just another subway john, although possibly darker and dirtier than most. Some of the light bulbs were missing from the fixtures, and, naïve though I was, I realized that the dimness was probably no accident.
I went inside, trying my best to look and act casual, as though I was actually going in there to take a piss.
There was a good-looking black dude in the john when I strolled in. No more than twenty-four or so, he was taking a long, leisurely leak into a urinal when I entered.
I stepped up to the adjoining urinal and pulled out my cock, which was already in a state of semi-erection from a combination of first-time nerves and anticipation. Next to me was the black guy’s nine-inch ebony prick, sticking almost straight up in the air, so that its proud owner had to grasp it tightly by the shaft and hold it down at an angle in order to keep from spraying drops of urine on himself as he pissed. He reminded me of Harold, Paul’s well-hung black buddy.
My own urine had just begun to flow—sluggishly and reluctantly—through the core of my stiff dick, when the black stud turned toward me and mutely offered his mind-blowing erection to me, by means of a smirk and a nod of his head.
“Take it,” he grunted, when I hesitated. He stopped emptying his bladder and his cock dripped the last of its piss into the urinal.
Reacting by pure instinct, without thinking about it at all, I got down on my knees, right there on the dirty john floor, by the urinals. I opened my mouth, and I went down on the dude’s dick.
It filled my mouth completely—almost uncomfortably, in fact—and it felt like a mouthful of hard rubber sheathed in black satin. I forced my jaw to relax, tucked my tongue down out of the way, and moved my lips up and down on the shaft a few times, until I had worked up a mouthful of warm, slippery saliva.
I was already developing into a good cocksucker, if I do say so myself. I’d been doing a lot of practicing—so much, in fact, that I now felt as comfortable with another man’s cock in my mouth as I did fastening my lips upon the mouthpiece of my clarinet or saxophone. The black stud seemed to appreciate my oral efforts. He quickly reached down, put his hands on my head, and shoved me down—all the way down!—until his fat cockhead plunged deep into my throat.
I gagged. But I held on, sucking him furiously, and in a few seconds I discovered that I could still breathe through my nose around the bulk of his phallus while I pumped my wet mouth hungrily back and forth on its full, rigid prick.
“Suck it, white punk!” the bastard growled, fucking my face roughly, his hips swaying, his groin battering into my forehead. “Get that pretty mouth of yours all the way down on it. Suck it, bitch!”
I sucked it.
“Yeah, your mouth feels like a pussy,” he gloated. I took that as a compliment.
In the middle of the blow job, we both heard a noise coming from just outside the john door. The guy whom I was fellating so industriously, so unselfishly, quickly yanked his prick out of my mouth, and he spun around to face the urinal. He aimed his saliva-dripping fuck tool at the stained white porcelain.
“Cool it, you dumb bitch,” he hissed at me under his breath. “Stand up, for Christ’s sake! It could be The Man. Don’t you know anything?”
Blushing, I quickly jumped to my feet, and I stood next to the guy, pretending to piss into the urinal in front of me. My erection lost some of its stiffness as a result of sheer anxiety. I wasn’t soothed when I saw a big, Irish-looking uniformed cop, husky and red-faced, come swaggering into the john.
The cop marched right over to the row of urinals, twirling his thick nightstick in his hand, and he stared hard at the two of us. Our two big, stiff dicks seemed to fascinate him.
“All right, what the fuck’s going on in here?” he barked.
“Nothing, officer,” the black guy replied, with a shit-eating grin.
“Nothing, sir,” I echoed him, with a cocksucking smirk on my own face. “I’m just trying to take a leak.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell taking long enough to do it. Try harder, and make it quick,” the cop grumbled. “What’s the matter, kid? Is your hose clapped up, or something? Your piss won’t go through it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my cock,” I boasted, taking it in my hand and giving it a shake to show him that it was indeed in perfect working order. In fact, I was getting hard again.
“Don’t mouth off to me, punk. Goddamn it, I ought to bust both your asses,” the officer of the law threatened us, in a loud, belligerent tone of voice.
“Maybe I don’t have to piss, after all,” I said, quickly and apologetically.
I stuffed my dick back inside my jeans and made for the tea room door. The black guy stood his ground, though. He gave the cop a calm smile, and then he started to piss into the urinal all over again. The cop touched my arm with his big stick as I tried to slip past him, stopping me.
“I’m going to let you go this time, because you’re just a dumb
young kid who obviously doesn’t know any better,” the cop lectured me, while the black dude sneered at us both. “But we both know what you were trying to do in here, don’t we? So don’t let me catch you in here again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I babbled, with all the phony shame and gratitude I could muster. I hurried out the door, back toward the subway platform.
But, as the john door swung closed, I heard the young black man say, bluntly, not bothering to keep his voice down, “So, Officer Kelly, my man! How’s it hanging today? I haven’t seen you cruising this tea room in a while. I guess you’ve been busy over on the East Side, sucking black dick and taking it up your ass?”
I freaked out when I heard that. I leaned against the wall and listened through the now-closed door.
“Watch your mouth,” the cop warned, still in the same super-butch, authoritative tone of voice he’d used with me. He paused. “Did that white boy suck you off?”
“He started the job, and he was pretty good at it. But then you had to come along and interrupt us.”
“Give me your cock. I’ll finish the job—and I’ll do it right.”
I couldn’t believe I’d heard correctly—that the cop was offering to suck the black stud’s dick! But then I heard Officer Kelly slurping loudly and eagerly on the same big, black prick which had been jammed into my mouth, down my throat, only a few minutes before.
“Suck it, pig!” the black guy groaned, as the handsome young cop devoured his meat with audible relish. “Aw, shit—there’s nothing as hot as a butch white policeman’s mouth going down on a brother’s big, black cock—and loving it! Suck that dick, you dirty white trash motherfucker!”
I waited until he came in the cop’s mouth, both men grunting and whimpering with lewd pleasure. Only then did I abandon my listening post. I fled up the stairs to the street.
I was halfway back to the apartment before I realized how stupid I’d been to leave the tea room without getting my own rocks off. I was so nervous after being—almost—caught in the act by a cop that I didn’t stop to think that Officer Kelly would probably have been delighted to go down on me, as well, if only I’d played my cards right. Unless, of course, he was prejudiced against white guys.
I shrugged, making a mental note to stay on the lookout for him the next time I rode the subway.
Paul had his cell phone in his hand when I came in the front door.
“Oh, so there you are, finally,” he greeted me. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Studying,” I lied.
“I bet.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. And besides, what business is it of yours?”
“None, I suppose.” He looked and sounded rather sullen. “We just got an invitation.” He held out the phone.
“From whom?”
“My buddy Harold. You remember him, of course.”
“How could I forget?”
“Here.” Paul held the phone so I could see the text message displayed on it.
I read bb party @ my place tonight @ 10 cum join us?
“Bareback party at his place,” Paul translated for my benefit, when he saw the puzzled look on my face.
“Oh.”
“Harold’s got a really nice apartment. I know must of the guys he invites to these sex parties of his. There’s a core group of regulars, but a couple of newcomers always show up. It usually turns into a real free-for-all, and goes on all night.”
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Does Harold do this sort of thing often?”
Paul shrugged. “Once a month, or so.”
“And do you go?”
“Sure. Why shouldn’t I?” He sounded a bit defensive. “A lot of hot guys always show up. It’s just sex.”
“Are you going?”
“Yeah. But it’ll be more fun if you come along.”
“Harold invited you, not me,” I pointed out.
“Don’t be silly. He knows we’re rooming together. He probably meant the invitation for us both. Anyway, it’s understood that you can bring another guy or two along with you—if they’re hot. Of course,” Paul added, “maybe you’ll be too tired. You’ve been so busy lately, you must be tired out. I haven’t seen much of you, these past few days.”
“Yeah, well, so what?”
“It’s almost as though you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t like to get in your way, that’s all. This is your apartment, after all.”
“You’re paying half the rent. This is your place, too.”
“I know that, Paul. I just want to respect your privacy. Which means I’d appreciate it of you’d respect mine, too. I don’t need to come home and be given the third degree about where I’ve been, and who I’ve been with, and what I’d been doing.”
“Yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “Not that there’s any mystery about the answers to all three of those questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fuck!” he yelled, shocking me by his sudden vehemence. “You’ve been out screwing around every night for the past week. What’re you trying to do, suck every cock in New York before you turn twenty-two?”
“I pay half the rent, like you just reminded me,” I retorted. “I can do what the hell I want.”
“Yeah, sure, but where does that leave me?”
“Huh? What about you?”
“I thought—” He broke off, and bit his lip. “I thought we’ve been having some good times in bed together,” he said, more calmly.
“Sure we have.” I hesitated. “You aren’t jealous, are you?”
“Jealous? Of a whore like you? Don’t make me laugh.”
But he wasn’t laughing, so I went up to him and put my arms around his waist, and held him, tightly.
“Sorry,” I told him.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He returned the hug, and then he released me. “We don’t have to go to Harold’s sex party if you don’t want to.”
“Do you want to go?”
Paul shrugged. “It might be fun.”
Chapter Seven: Jizz Session
“Fun” was one word for it. “Frenzy” might have been another, and a much more appropriate one, as things turned out.
Harold lived in an old brownstone in a quiet, gentrified neighborhood. When we arrived at his place, we could hear the inevitable jazz coming from his apartment.
“Are you nervous?” Paul asked me, with a sly smile, as he pressed Harold’s doorbell.
“No,” I lied. “Why should I be?”
“Oh, you being such a baby, and all,” he teased me. “Such a complete innocent.”
“Well, I expect to gain some experience before this night’s over.”
But the truth was, I was nervous. I’d come out only recently. Casual tricking was one thing. But the prospect of participating in an orgy with twenty or more guys at once? I honestly didn’t know what to expect.
Impatiently, Paul leaned on the doorbell again, and finally the door was opened—by a guy I didn’t recognize, who was no doubt one of our fellow guests. He was an unusually handsome number, about forty, with a silver streaks in his hair and beard.
“Hi,” he greeted us, brightly. “Friends of Harold’s?”
“Yeah,” Paul said.
“You’re right on time.”
At least fifteen men were already assembled in Harold’s large living room. Most of them were sitting or standing around in small groups. Some of them were listening to the jazz record being played on our host’s stereo system, which consisted of components stacked on a free-standing rack. Others were talking in undertones, so as not to compete with the music. Virtually everybody was drinking, and smoking pot. The aroma of the marijuana filled the air. Apart from the weed, though, there was nothing indecorous going on. For an orgy, it struck me as kind of tame.
Then I noticed two guys making out on the couch. They had their arms around each other’s waists, and their mouths locked together in an extended and extremely pas
sionate kiss. Nobody but me (who gawked at them) seemed to take any particular notice of their display of affection.
“Where’s Harold?” Paul asked the guy who’d let us in.
“Circulating, I guess. Maybe he’s in the bedroom. Some of the guests were impatient. I saw a couple of them head that way, already.”
Paul laughed. “Come on, Keith,” he told me. “Let’s check it out.”
He led me down a short hallway, at the end of which he pushed open a door. We both looked into the room. Its interior was mostly dark, but a couple of fat pillar candles were burning, casting a warm, yellowish glow onto the unmade bed. Most of the bedclothes had been pushed down to the foot of the bed, where they fell in folds onto the floor. On the mattress, which was still encased in its fitted bottom sheet, two stark naked guys were going at each other, hot and heavy.
One was on his belly with his arms and legs spread wide, moaning while the other man lay on top of him and jack hammered his prick in and out of his ass. The jar of Vaseline they’d obviously used for lubricant was open on the nightstand beside the bed. There was enough light in the candlelit bedroom for me to see the fucker’s dickshaft, gleaming with its coating of petroleum jelly as it caught the additional light spilling into the room from the hallway, sliding relentlessly in and out of the other dude’s stretched-open, rapidly flexing asshole. Both men ignored our presence in the doorway as they moaned in mutual pleasure, their bodies breaking out into a hot, fine dew of sex sweat while we watched them fuck.
“No sign of our host here,” Paul remarked. “Which kind of surprises me, in fact. Usually, he’s the first one to take off his clothes and get the ball rolling. Maybe he’s in the kitchen. Anyway, let’s get ourselves something to drink.”
Retreating back down the hallway, we went into the kitchen, which by contrast to the bedroom was brightly lit. Harold was there, all right, and he greeted us effusively, throwing his arms around Paul’s neck and kissing him long and hard on the mouth, and then giving me the same treatment.
Jazz Baby Page 5
