Dreamspinner Press Year Eight Greatest Hits

by Brandon Witt

  “Ahh….” Patrick sighed as his bladder started to drain. He leaned back further and pulled his hand out from under mine. Suddenly I was touching pure dick: soft, delicate, spongy skin with the prickle of pubic hair brushing the back of my fingers as I gripped him. I automatically took a firmer grip, sliding my entire hand around his length, not just a finger and thumb I needed to aim. I hoped to hell he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow.

  The piss continued to flow and flow. “Jesus Christ, Patrick. How many fucking beers did you drink?”

  His head fell backward until it was resting against my shoulder. “Ahh. That feels so good.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes at the situation. Finally the stream began to peter off until it stopped altogether. I gave him a little shake, the same as I would do for myself, and stepped back. The man nearly fell over before I caught him. “Here, dude. Come on. You need to put this stallion back in the stable.” I was still holding his flaccid penis in my hand and couldn’t help but give it a little squeeze and rub my thumb over the flesh, hoping to draw Patrick’s attention to the area, but he just leaned against me and rolled his head until his forehead was bumped against my chin.

  I groaned. This was not one of the shining-star moments of my life. I turned his body until he was side-on to me and carefully tipped him back inside his undershorts. I pulled the elastic up and made sure he was well away from the metal teeth before pulling the zipper up and arranging his pants. His head was nestled into my shoulder, and he sighed.

  “Thank you.” He perked up a bit then and turned away. I pushed him to the basin.

  “Come on, Patti-cake. Wash your hands while I take my piss.”

  Thankfully, he obediently followed my instructions and I heard the tap run while I relieved myself. We had to shuffle around a bit in the confined space so I could wash my hands, but finally we were finished. I dragged the door open and muttered, “Well, that was a little more personal than I had planned on being tonight.”

  Patrick spluttered but grabbed my arm close as I led him back to the noise and crowd of the bar.

  TO MY surprise, Patrick’s empty bar stool was being zealously guarded and was awaiting his return. Patrick happily sat back down and was immediately surrounded by his new friends. I left them to it and returned to my duties, snagging empty glasses and bottles from where they had been stashed and neatly taking them out of harm’s way.

  The crowd thinned out at midnight, some returning home, others moving on to the nightclubs in the city that were allowed to be open past 1:00 a.m. I hauled a load of steaming glasses out of the dishwasher and stood them on the counter to cool as I stacked another round inside.

  Charlie sidled up to me. “Jake, go grab your man and take him dancing.”

  “What?” Flabbergasted was an understatement.

  But Charlie was serious. “I’m the boss here, and I’m telling you to take a fifteen-minute break on the clock, grab that man over there, and drag him out dancing. Now do it before I change my mind and don’t expect it to happen ever again.”

  Charlie didn’t need to tell me twice. He tried to act like a hard taskmaster but I’d seen him help out some of the other employees. A meal on the house here, an extra shift that he didn’t really need there, and a couple of bonuses in the pay packets when you least expected it. I’d never been the recipient of his generosity before—apart from a couple of small bonuses—but I wasn’t turning him down. I reached Patrick’s side, plucked the cane out of his hand, and stowed it behind the bar.

  “Let’s go, dude. We’re dancing.”

  “What?” Patrick stuttered, clearly horrified at the prospect. But I ignored him and pulled him to his feet and over to the dance floor.

  I loved to dance. It was something that was truly enjoyable, free, and such a tension relief. And I was good at it. I think dancing is God’s gift to gay men all over. It’s like God made us gay, and knowing what a shit time we would have from homophobes and discrimination and all, he gave us the gift of dance. The pleasure of losing yourself in the music sometimes manages to eclipse all the crap that’s thrown your way when you’re not straight.

  Of course there are gay men who can’t dance, just like there are straight men who can, but on the whole, God was pretty nice, giving most males either the heterosexual gene or the dance gene.

  I was the happy beneficiary of the dance gene.

  I pulled Patrick into the crowd and began to move in time to the beat. But he stood with his hands out, clearly afraid of the surrounding bodies and the lack of guidance and orientation. He needed to calm down and trust me, and since he was at least three-quarters drunk (if not all the way!), and since I’d already had my hand on his dick, I thought I’d give myself a treat. I moved in behind him and wrapped my arm securely around his waist, brushing up against his denim-covered butt as I moved in time to the music.

  “Relax,” I murmured into his ear. “Just break loose and move. I’ve got you.”

  And astoundingly he did. At first he just moved his hips with mine, swinging side to side, but after a minute he found his groove. His shoulders joined in and finally his arms, no longer outstretched to catch himself if someone bumped him, but waving and pumping with the bass.

  We became a bit more adventurous then, moving away from one another, but always holding on. I gripped his waist as I boogied on down and back up again. He held my forearm as he turned slightly, bouncing in time to the beat and shaking his arse with happiness. I laughed in delight. He turned completely until he was facing me and I could see the glee on his face as he danced. I kept my hand on his hip, letting him know I was still there.

  Someone came up behind me then, grinding their arousal into my butt, and moved in to kiss my neck. This was the best part of dancing, the anonymous touching of gay and not-quite-gay-but-I-want-to-have-a-feel hands.

  I’d discussed it with Lizzy before. She told me that girls (women!) hated when strangers used the darkness of a club or the dance floor to “cop a feel.” I had laughed and told her never to visit a gay club after midnight. Once you were sure that a man didn’t have a huge daddy for a boyfriend, the dance floor provided ample opportunity to touch and be touched.

  The Tav was not a gay bar, but for some reason, there was a high percentage of queers who chose to hang out there. Maybe it was Charlie’s tolerant attitude—or maybe I should say, intolerant to homophobic attitudes—that made them feel welcome. And, of course, word of mouth then spread the information until the LGBT community felt comfortable enough to make it their establishment. The people who complained about the queer crowd taking over were just firmly directed to the next pub a couple kilometers down the road.

  On my first day, Charlie had looked me up and down and crossed his beefy arms across his bearlike chest before saying, “You weren’t the best applicant for the job, but I thought a cute gay guy would be a hit with the customers. Don’t make me regret my decision, boy.” I had tried hard to be the best employee ever, so that Charlie wouldn’t be disappointed in his choice. I liked to tell myself that some days I succeeded.

  So despite the fact that The Gardie Tav wasn’t a full-on gay bar, there were enough customers who were not on the straight and narrow to make dancing at the establishment an arousing pastime. I’d never had the chance to dance before, but I’d shuffled through the crowd in search of empty beer bottles and had received enough arse pats and crotch rubs to know it frequently went on. The straight regulars at The Tav had picked up on the touching habit, and half of those wayward hands belonged to women.

  I laughed and leaned into the embrace of the stranger for a second, enjoying the touch, but pulled away with a grin and bump so as not to offend. The strange hands moved on, and I noticed Patrick was not immune to wanderers either. A blonde chick with a micromini had snuck up behind him and had her hands splayed across his chest. I saw Patrick’s face blank for a moment and I moved in close to reassure him.

  “Enjoy it. It’s just a little feel. If someone gets too personal,
just turn away from the touch. Most people move on within a minute.”

  I danced even closer to Patrick until our legs were touching and our groins had only an inch of space between them. The idea of rubbing up against Patrick on the dance floor was arousing, and I could feel my cock start to fill and harden. The blonde behind Patrick let go of him with one arm and ran her hand down my shirt front to my hip before moving around to feel the curve of my butt. She squeezed once, then pulled me in, drawing me flush against Patrick and sandwiching him between our bodies. I put my arm on his shoulder and danced in, rotating my hips as he gripped my jeans to keep his balance.

  This meant all green lights as far as my cock was concerned, and it rose to full arousal, ready to play. The three of us swayed together for ages, at least half a song, until Miss Blonde turned away. I stayed close to Patrick, rubbing myself against his hip and wondering furiously if he realized. He took a step back and put space between us but kept one hand on me for guidance, so I turned away and presented my back to him to allow him to feel less uncomfortable.

  I was disappointed, but what did I expect? For the guy to turn instant gay from the feel of my cock against him?

  I made eye contact with a hot guy. He looked so young, I marveled he had been allowed inside the door. He grinned and took the eye contact as an invitation to wrap his arms around my neck and initiate full body contact. He immediately found my arousal and circled his hips to provide friction. I hugged him, taking a bit of comfort from the fact that at least someone wanted me. I found his arse and pulled him close for a while, dancing and swaying to the beat. Young Hottie responded by licking and nibbling at my jawline, jerking my arousal up another notch. With one hand on me, I’m sure Patrick could feel the second body against me, but instead of letting go, he moved in behind me until I suddenly found I was the meat in the sandwich.

  Fuck me fuck me fuck me!

  With Young Hottie providing friction and contact against my front, Patrick leaned in and rubbed his pecs against my back before taking a firm grip with both hands on my jeans and pulling me into his crotch.

  Oh, holy dreams of gay boys. The man was as stiff as a poker.

  I nearly fainted with shock and pleasure before Young Hottie briefly kissed my collarbone, adding a small lick to the end of the kiss and moving on. But Patrick stayed with me, continuing his rhythm and pressing his hard dick into my butt.

  I could’ve stayed there all night, feeling his arousal and glorying in the feel, but my conscience was beginning to yell through the ecstasy and pleasure.

  He’s drunk and high on fun. He’s going to hate you in the morning. Don’t throw away a perfectly good friendship for the sake of a couple of minutes of sexual gratification.

  With great reluctance, I pulled away and turned back to him, no longer dancing. I shouted to be heard over the music. “I have to go back to work now. Do you want me to find you a dance partner to look after you? Or do you want to sit?”

  Patrick opted to sit, and I placed another bottle of water in front of him before hauling a loaded rubbish bin out the back. In the alley, I took in great gulps of air and asked myself what the hell did I think I was doing? I couldn’t be coming on to my employer like that. Apart from the loss of a friendship I was enjoying, it would mean the end of a job and probably heartbreak for me. I’d had my share of one-night stands and casual hook-ups, but I’d also managed a couple of semipermanent relationships along the way. And fuck, they hurt when things went south.

  I returned to the front to find Patrick finishing up another beer and groaned. The man seemed bent on getting shitfaced.

  Sure enough, by the time final drinks were called, he was leaning heavily on the bar with a loopy grin on his face. As Mikey shut down the music, there was a general exodus of bodies toward the front doors. Sav was standing guard, watching like a shepherd over his sheep.

  “Hey, Sav? I need a taxi for my mate. Can you put him in a line for one?” There was usually a line of people who waited for a lift to their next venue. Taxi services in Perth charged an-arm-and-a-leg and were chronically late and understaffed.

  Sav nodded. “No problem. It will be another thirty minutes by the looks of it.”

  I waved my hand in acknowledgment and went to prop Patrick back up from where he was beginning to slip off the stool. I pushed his head down until it rested on the wooden bar. “Heya, Patti-cake. You just have a nice nap here on the table while I get you a taxi, okay?”

  He mumbled something and closed his eyes, so I ruffled his hair in amusement and began stacking glasses and collecting rubbish. Finally Sav called that Patrick was next in line for the taxi. I wondered what the hell I was going to do because I didn’t think he could make it that far, let alone into his house, until Charlie stuck his head around a door.

  “Jake,” he roared. “Take that loser home. He’s cluttering up my bar.”

  “Can’t, boss,” I yelled back. “I still have the fridge to stack for tomorrow and the floor to sweep.”

  Charlie just pointed a finger in my direction. “Beat it, kid. It won’t be the first time I’ve stacked a fridge. You did good tonight. Grab your stuff and take Patrick home. Your bike can stay here overnight, no problem. Have a good night and I expect you on time tomorrow.”

  I grinned and waved away his empty threat. I was on time every day. I grabbed my bag from the back room before hoisting Patrick to his feet, his arm slung over my shoulder.

  “Let’s go, Patti-cake. That’s it—left, right, left, right.”

  Sav held the door for us and I thanked him, telling him I’d buy him a lemonade the following night; the guy didn’t drink a drop of alcohol. The air was crisp and cool, but not cold. Summer was definitely just around the corner.

  After a five-minute wait, the taxi finally pulled up and I opened the back door, stuffing Patrick in and pushing him across so I could crawl in after him. I pulled the seat belt across his torso and clicked him in.

  “Where to, mate?” The taxi driver was Nigerian with a deplorable attempt at an Aussie accent, but his face was friendly and he looked wide awake, which was something I watched for. The last thing I needed was a taxi driver on the tail end of a sixteen-hour shift.

  “Birdwood Circus, thanks. The easiest way is to take Preston Point Road and follow it around. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  I turned to Patrick, who was dozing with his head against the window. “Patrick? Come on, man. Can you stay awake about ten more minutes until we get you home? I’ll put you in your bed and you can have a nice, long sleep.”

  “Sleep. Ni-shh. Ni-shh, Jake. Ni-shh sleep.”

  “Yeah, buddy. It will be nice. Now cough up your wallet. I don’t have enough money in the bank to be forking out taxi rides for idiots.”

  By the time the turnoff loomed, I had managed to wrestle Patrick’s wallet off him and fish out a twenty to pay. I half-carried, half-dragged him out of the car and waved good-bye to the driver before making Patrick walk himself to the door. Luckily, I had my keys to his house on me because I didn’t want to have to turn Patrick’s pockets inside out looking for his. He was completely drunk, which he showed me by lightly slapping my butt as I fumbled with the door and alarm.

  “Ni-shh Jake. I liked dann-shing wiv’ you, Jake. You have a ni-shh body.”

  I ignored the slap, figuring he was aiming for my back for a friendly pat, and propelled him through the front door. Gregor came running and sniffed Patrick all over, so I rubbed his head and praised him, “Good boy. We’re home now. Did you eat all the burglars?”

  Patrick was leaning on the wall as I reset the alarm. “Mustn’t eat burglars. Too many of them are druggies and that might affect dogs. Don’t want my dog to be doped up. He’s my eyes, and one of us needs to know where we’re going.”

  I laughed. “Right. I’ll remind you of that in the morning. Now, come on. Beddy-byes for you.”

  He wobbled on his feet, making his way down the hall toward his bedroom. He reached up and discarded his dark sunnies on
the kitchen table on his way past. “Are you going to put me to bed, Jakey?”

  I chuckled at his attempt at a nickname. “Nope, not me, Patti-cake. You’re going to put yourself to bed. I’m just here to make sure you make it. Then I’m going home.”

  “You can’t. Taxi gone bye-bye.” I was having a lot of fun with this drunken conversation.

  “I know. But my legs still work, unlike yours. I’ll just walk home, mate. Now shoes off and into some jarmies.”

  Patrick sat on the edge of his bed and flopped back. “No.”

  “Come on, man. Don’t be like that. You have to get undressed.”

  Patrick was starfishing on the bed, his arms and legs spread, taking up the whole space. “No,” he mumbled. “I mean, don’t go. Stay. I have beds.”

  I knelt in front of him and began attacking the laces on his shoes. Stay with Patrick? He did have a guest room after all, and I would feel better if I were in the house tonight to make sure he was alright. Besides, it was me who had to change the sheets and clean the guest bedroom. If I stayed over it wasn’t like I was making work for someone else.

  I eased his shoes off and put them in his closet. The worst thing for a blind man or a drunk is to leave things on the floor for them to trip over. But a drunk, blind man? Or was that a blind, drunk man? Or then again, it could’ve been a blind-drunk, blind man.

  Patrick still hadn’t moved, so I pulled his socks off as well. He was staring at the ceiling, not twitching a single muscle. Well, to tell the truth it wasn’t like he could see the ceiling. So to be more accurate, he was lying with his eyes open.

  “Patrick? You’re supposed to be getting undressed, dude.”

  His hand flopped to his chest where he fumbled with his T-shirt for a minute, unsuccessfully trying to pull it out of his jeans where it was tucked in, before I huffed in exasperation.