Jack didn’t do bars anymore. He’d lost his tolerance for sloppy drunks long ago and yet he’d been lured from the comfort of his den by an event that greatly resembled the Smoke & Ink gatherings that took place at IML in days of yore. He missed “the good old days” and given the smoke-free mood that prevailed he just couldn’t pass up the chance to enjoy a good cigar with a bunch of hairy tattooed guys, which was what he’d be doing if his fucking drink would finally arrive.
As cranky as he was, the wait was not sooo terrible that walking posed a temptation. There’d been a good turnout for the event, and the joint was teaming with eye candy and music that revved the old engine. “I’ll be good / I’ll be good tomorrow / I’ll be good another day”: lyrics he could live by. He quickly squeezed his dick through the black 501s that he was wearing before moving his hand north through the thicket of salt-and-pepper fur on his stomach and chest. His nipples were pierced and had ten-gauge circular barbells. His beard was hard to tame no matter how much he conditioned or trimmed. The hair was wiry, wavy, and had more salt than pepper. His eyebrows were jet black and he’d been accused on more than one occasion of having dyed them. Damned fools! Thinking that he’d bother to dye his eyebrows, but nothing else. He wasn’t that vain. He’d earned every damned white hair on his body and he wasn’t about to do a thing to change that.
As he stepped down memory lane, an array of aromas increased his visual pleasure. The testosterone-laden muskiness blended perfectly with the earthiness of blue cigar smoke wafting above them. He could detect the unmistakable scent of leather mingled with a hint of something very familiar that he just couldn’t place. In a Pavlovian response his dick twitched.
He was surrounded by men of all shapes and sizes. Nary a one was clean-shaven, although some had perfectly groomed beards or moustaches and one or two were even manscaped. That handful of guys wouldn’t even rate a first glance, let alone a second one. This was a private event and there was clearly a dress code, which was perfectly fine with his dick. Yeah, there were plenty of guys who were into younger, well-groomed men, but he wasn’t one of them. He liked his men to look like men—mature. Leave the baby-faces for others to admire. They had plenty of admirers and in several years would catch his eye. He wouldn’t rule people out because of their age, so long as they had reached the age of consent, but it didn’t happen to be what caught his eye. Jack wanted someone who looked like and had actually been around the block a few times.
Where the fuck is my drink? he thought. As if on cue the bartender arrived with a carafe on ice. Jack’s left eyebrow rose along with his irritation. Before he could growl his displeasure, the bartender apologized. “I’m so sorry, Sir.” You could hear the capital in the word sir. “We’ve been having issues with the refrigeration and I wanted to make sure that the vodka was properly chilled. I know that you only ordered a shot, but the carafe is on the house.” Jack started to reach for his wallet. “Oh, and the shot was paid for by the bearded tattooed guy in the corner.” WTF? There are 350 tattooed guys with beards in this place. Clearly, this evening’s crowd was not the regular crowd. Before he could say anything the bartender disappeared to assuage the next customer before he started grumbling.
Jack poured himself a shot. Normally, he’d hold it up to the light to check out the hue, but it was too dim to do so. He could smell the cranberry when he held the glass up to his nose. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised by the flavour. The raspberries were the perfect combination of tart and sweet. Jack took a deep breath, swallowed what remained of the two-ounce shot and exhaled. It was smooth with very little burn and no fumes to speak of. Not long after, he could feel the heat spread from his belly, into his chest, up his throat, onto his cheeks and to the tip-tops of his ears. “Divine,” he murmured.
He continued to cruise the crowd. As the DJ started a mix of “Trouble” by Bitter:Sweet, he pulled out and clipped an Arturo Fuente Curly Head and rolled it once counterclockwise then ran it in and out of his mouth to coat the end with spit. That’s the way he always prepped his cigars and…well…anything that remotely resembled oral sex was bound to get attention. Jack was in quite the mood. He was long overdue for some good head, but lately cruising felt like too much work. More often than not an Internet hook-up would fail to appear or the guys didn’t bother to read the damned ads. It didn’t help that he didn’t like to host. That required a bit of driving on his part. Sure some things were easier, but the chemistry was sorely lacking. If he had a nickel for every chat that started with “woof,” he’d have a full-time fluffer on staff. It was easier to hunt in public. He was assured that he’d have the undivided attention of the object of his affections.
Jack stopped swirling the cigar around in his mouth. He pulled out a matchbox and lit a wooden match. Cupping his left hand near the end of the cigar, he sucked several times, watching the flame rise and fall. When he got a good cherry going he flicked his wrist and put the match out. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a bear sporting an earsplitting grin. Jack made eye contact then gave a quick nod. It had taken him some time to graduate from the two-by-four school of “dating.” He was substantially better at picking up cues while they were happening rather than half an hour after the fact. As he puffed on his cigar, “Piggy,” by Nine Inch Nails, began to play.
And here he comes. As if on cue, the bear ambled over, allowing Jack to get a good glance at him during the approach. The guy appeared to be tall, but then just about everyone was tall when you stood at five and a half feet. The prick had a full head of auburn hair with a wee bit of gray. The maturing M hairline was starting to become slightly pronounced. His hair was short and neatly trimmed in comparison to his beard, which was full and busy. He was heavily inked over both his pecs and delts, but they were difficult to make out between the lighting and the jungle of fur covering his chest and arms. He had a bit of a belly and overall could be regarded as smooth and undefined, but it appeared that there was a slab or two of muscle under the insulation. His legs were like tree trunks and what was swinging between them was represented by a decent bulge.
“Evening,” he rumbled, sounding a little like Sam Elliott.
“Good evening,” Jack responded.
He extended his hand. “The name’s Gus. I couldn’t help but notice the red hankie in your left pocket.”
“Yeah, well, leopard and tan were a given, but I’ve never been quite fond of leopard. The tattoos speak for themselves. Tan seemed a bit redundant in this crowd.”
Jack stepped back slightly as he poured himself another shot. Gus caught the bartender’s attention in record time and ordered a Blue Loon, the local microbrew. Jack took a sip of vodka as an excuse to sneak a peek at Gus’s back pocket. He was flagging yellow on the right.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of buying you a drink.”
“That all depends,” Jack responded slyly. “Liberties have a price, and I don’t see you wearing a single stitch of red. “
“Nope, always wanted to try though. I’ve got a bit of a tight ass,” Gus said, matter-of-factly.
There was something to be said for handball. If you had the ability to collapse your hand down to the width of your wrist, nothing more than a handshake and a candid smile were required to get the ball rolling so to speak. Anyone who watched Jack maneuver his hand into another man’s ass, oblivious to any possible audience, hazel eyes locked intently, trying to gauge physical reactions, anticipate mental ones, and managing to fuck the cum out of 90 percent of his partners without so much as breathing on their dicks would quickly be waiting in line. Jack had a knack that made him very, very popular. If everything was just perfect—sights, sounds, tunes, breath, eyes and aromas—Jack could shoot a load without touching himself either. Handball was about asses and hands. Dicks were peripheral and rarely hard even when the bottom was shooting dust after cumming so many times.
Jack felt the all-too-familiar tightness of a hard-on starting and became slightly annoyed. And now we are going to ha
ve to have that fucking chat. Jack had done this so many times that he knew every possible reaction to The Conversation. The outcomes were varied and had torpedoed his plans more than once. Anyone who has had The Conversation can attest to the fact that things that were going rather well before the talking began could suddenly go off the rails. Sometimes what should have been a short conversation led to a much longer discussion followed by either sex, a raincheck, or ranging forms of rejection. It was the price that Jack paid for having pursued his deepest, darkest desires.
Months or years later that guy who rejected him came back around. He never held it against anyone. Whether they fucked depended on the connection and the attitude. Jack enjoyed a good fuck as much as the next guy, but he hated the assumption that the guy on the receiving end was a bottom pretending to be a top. He knew plenty of tops who loved being fucked and had no hesitation telling you exactly what to do and how to do it.
Jack looked directly into Gus’s eyes. He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. Before he could get the words out, Gus said, “I know, and I’m okay with it.”
That stopped Jack cold. He frowned. “Okay with what?”
“You know.” Jack could hear the twinkle in Gus’s voice.
“Really, and just what would that be?” Could it be? The Conversation is actually going to be amusing?
“Well, I know that you are into fisting, but as you know my ass isn’t that talented. I also saw you sneak a peek at my hanky, so you’re either not into piss or are piss shy. Frankly, I don’t care that you are HIV positive because I always play safe. You’re hot. None of it matters to me.”
Jack sighed. And here I thought—wow, a cherry! Jack looked down and saw the outline of Gus’s cock. “Always play safe” my ass. When some cock comes along you aren’t going to bother with the rubber, so long as the unspoken rule “don’t come in my mouth” is followed. A dime-sized circle of moisture was forming at the tip and beginning to spread. A good sign if there was any. Jack reached down and brushed the front of Gus’s jeans with the back of his left hand. He started tapping out a pattern. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
Gus gasped and pulled away before leaning into Jack’s rhythmic taps. He put his hands behind his back in parade rest position and spread his legs slightly. Jack shoved his right hand down the front of Gus’s jeans while continuing to thwack with his left. He grabbed Gus’s cock, smearing precum across the head and used his left hand to grab his ass. Jack lowered his mouth, maneuvered around the chest hair and took a nipple between his teeth before flicking his tongue. Gus sucked in his breath. Surprised at the sensitivity, Jack flicked out a pattern of quarter notes before speeding up to eighth notes. Having played a brass instrument in high school had its benefits. Jack felt the cock jump in his hands, stopped the tongue action and started sucking.
“Please stop or I’ll shoot.”
Jack pulled back but continued to circle the head of Gus’s cock. He removed his hand and traced Gus’s lips with the pad of his thumb. Gus immediately slurped Jack’s thumb into his mouth. Jack grabbed Gus’s crotch and started a slow downward pull, maneuvering Gus so that he was standing between him and the bar. Gus gracefully slid to his knees and looked up before beginning to nuzzle the front of Jack’s jeans. Jack resumed puffing on his cigar, back to the other patrons, his crotch trapping Gus under the bar.
Gus was intent on getting Jack hard. He rubbed his face and mouth all over the front of Jack’s cock. His efforts were not rewarded with the tumescence that he was used to. Jack was enjoying Gus’s struggle to please him. The DJ seemed to have a thing for Supreme Beings of Leisure. “Give Up” was playing.
Gus looked up, concerned that he was doing something wrong.
Jack smiled wickedly, enjoyed his second shot of vodka, then slapped Gus. He leaned down and said, “You bad, bad boy. I was trying to tell you something, but no. You had your own agenda, Mr. Know-It-All. It’s time to give up. Open your mouth.” Jack undid and removed his belt, yanked open the buttons of his 501s, and pulled his jockstrap out of the way. He looped the belt over Gus’s neck and held him in place before shoving forward.
Gus got a glimpse of a thick, fat, thumb-sized dick before it was rammed into his mouth and his head bounced against the bar, stunning him momentarily.
“Suck,” growled Jack as he used the belt to pull Gus farther onto his cock and prevent him from bouncing his head off the bar. Jack rammed into Gus’s face several times. Gus, panicked that he would gag, instinctively tried to pull away from the onslaught, but found himself trapped by the belt.
“Relax dipshit.” Jack pulled back slowly until a quarter of his dick was still in Gus’s mouth, then gyrated his hips forward, burying his cock again. It took a few strokes for Gus to realize that he didn’t have to worry about his gag reflex unless Jack slammed into him up to the balls. Gus was rock hard and drooling precum through the front of his jeans. He started to move his hand and suddenly found himself gagging on a throat full of cock.
“Don’t you dare touch yourself!” admonished Jack as he pulled back slightly. “This is about my pleasure, my needs, my desires. Right here, right now, in this moment, your mouth is mine.” Jack punctuated his next words with hard vicious strokes: “You-are-just-a-fuckhole-who-needs-to-be-filled.”
“In the Waiting Line,” by Zero 7, started to play. With the cigar clenched firmly between his teeth, Jack abruptly slowed his motions and moved his hips back in time to the music until just the head of his dick was in Gus’s mouth, before sliding forward and ordering Gus to suck harder. Legs shaking, sweat dripping down his spine, Jack threw his head back and around, grunting and moaning his pleasure. Gus had a purty mouth and sure as hell knew how to use it. Jack was torn between face-fucking him into unconsciousness or edging himself into cumming so hard that Gus’s face and chest would be dripping from his orgasm.
Jack managed to edge for just a bit. He believed in the adage that a bottom should be left wanting more. As Thrill Kill Cult’s “Hit and Run Holiday” hit its last refrain, he pulled back and shot all over Gus. Gus was shocked as the slick stream of fluid hit him on the jaw, dripping down his beard. A second and third shot caught him on the chest. Jack grabbed and squeezed his dick, shaking it twice before putting it back in his pants and buttoning up his jeans.
Gus wiped his hand up his chest, scooping up some of the fluid and bringing it to his nose. It smelled musky and faintly of piss. He stuck out his tongue. It tasted a little pisslike, but clearly wasn’t piss. For one, it was thicker. But it wasn’t semen.
Jack finished putting his belt on and swigged one last shot of vodka before leaning down to a perplexed Gus. Jack slowly approached Gus’s lips, getting as close as he could get, teasing him with his breath. He finally kissed Gus’s lips and flicked his tongue inside Gus’s mouth, tasting himself on Gus’s tongue before kissing him in earnest. Just like he had claimed Gus’s mouth with his cock, he now claimed it with his tongue. When he ended the kiss they were both breathless.
Jack placed his mouth near Gus’s ear and sucked the earlobe in. He rumbled in a voice slightly higher than a whisper, “You don’t know Jack, Mr. Know It All, but ya could if you continue to play your cards right. If you wanna know Jack, keep your hands off your dick and drop me a line tomorrow morning.” With that he stood up, dropped a trick card in between Gus’s knees, and turned on his heel. He left the bar without ever looking back.
The end of his cigar was chomped to bits, but he’d enjoy the last of it on his ride home. He was looking forward to a little edging and milking session tomorrow. Oh, they still needed to have The Conversation, because Jack wanted so much more from Gus.
CANADIAN SLIM
Shawna Virago
I moved to San Francisco with just a backpack and my guitar. As soon as I landed, I caught a cab in from the airport. I moved here to find myself, not love, but I wasn’t in the cab more than two minutes when the driver looked at me in his rearview and said, “My wife is a Jehovah’s Witness. She hasn’t given me a blow job
since our honeymoon! We just celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I’m a man! I have needs! Sir? Ma’am? Sir-ma’am? You look good to me. We could work something out.” I was speechless. I was tempted to demand free cab fare and have him carry my bags up the three flights of stairs to my flat. Instead, I started singing in my best basso profundo the old gospel standard, “Jesus Gonna Hunt You Down,” which deflated his profane desires instantly. He got the message and didn’t speak to me again the rest of the ride, his tail curled flaccidly between his legs.
Arriving in San Francisco and coming out as trans, I was afraid that being transgender would be a liability when it came to finding dates, but boy (or boi) was I wrong! Instead of being a liability, it made me the most popular girl at the dance. Literally. I remember going to a line-dancing event put on by the Tranny Chasing Society of North America, and I was on my feet all night, Texas two-stepping with a room full of lonely men. I was like honey attracting bees. I’d finish with one man and then immediately be scooped up by another. Still, even with all the attention I found it unsatisfying.
By day I worked under the table at a downtown hot-dog cart where I watched hordes of European tourists crowding into department stores to buy sweatshop clothes they could buy back home. By night I was getting dolled up, finding out that fishnets are a girl’s best friend and hooking up with guys who were very interested in transgender ladies. I’d meet them at bars or through personal ads for passable T-girls. I met a lot of nice guys who oddly had names like Thomas Jefferson, Jimi Hendrix, Captain Tennille and Friedrich Nietzsche. I realized quickly that guys using pseudonyms weren’t interested in calling me back the next morning. I was both a source of desire and shame, and it didn’t feel good.
Take Me There Page 17
