by Layla Wolfe
It was awe-inspiring to see my beloved sitting on a rock, his threadbare T-shirt soaked to the skin. We would need the voice of bilagáana reason to lend credence to the film, and Fremont was it. He demonstrated his beeping radiation detection equipment for the cameras, and I had never been prouder of him. We went to the radioactive home of one of Joe Bloodgood’s old friends. In 2000 the EPA had determined the maximum safe level for uranium in drinking water at 30 picos per liter. Bloodgood’s friend Tabaaha’s well was measured at a boggling 139. The people were living in leetso, yellow dirt. Fredericka was going to enter Listen to Us in the Sundance Film Festival, among other competitions in the west.
It was a joyous reunion with my beloved. We could do no more than snatch a kiss when no one was looking, for we were forever surrounded by people. But at last, some of his EPA buddies wanted to go boating in Lake Havasu, home of the Bent Zealots. Twinkletoes became their tour guide, arranging it so Turk and Lock would take the men out on the lake in their boat.
We were finally on our own. At the rectory, we showered—separately, so as to maintain the suspense of my treat—and as I kissed him, I told him we were taking a road trip to Yuma.
“Yuma?” he said dreamily, stroking my face with the pad of his thumb. “That’s a two-hour drive.”
“It’ll be worth it,” I promised. “We’ll take your square rental care since it’s raining.” I admit, I couldn’t resist running my palm down his flank and giving his juicy ass a squeeze.
Was I ready to come out? Was Fremont ready to commit to me? All these things hung in the balance, and I tried to ignore them for the sake of the adventure we had in store at Sailor Jack’s. I didn’t tell Fremont what exactly Jack’s entailed, just that it was a gay club.
I had texted the owner that I’d be coming with a date. I resisted all attempts by Fremont to describe what went on at the club. I wanted him to be erotically charged and ready for action. What sort of action? Well, whatever Fremont wished. If he wanted another man to wrap his fist around his cock and jack him, that would have to be fine with me. I’d have my answer as to whether Fremont wished to be monogamous with me.
Was I being sly? Sort of. Sometimes men can display with action that which they cannot speak in words. At the club, Fremont could pretend to be a victim of circumstances, like the guy just overwhelmed him with his ravenous desire to jack his penis. Maybe he got off on being flattered. Either way, I would see that Fremont would not rest, now that he was somewhat “out” in the gay world. He could easily be cock-happy and go absolutely apeshit at the club. Either way, I wanted to know.
Now, you’d think that only buff, ripped guys would dare display themselves at Jack’s. In reality, the opposite was true. Sure, out of forty guys invited to the party, maybe one-fourth were fit to model underwear. That was about an average percentage. These guys, of course, were the belles of the ball. Their dance cards were full. The second we were greeted at the door I had two of these belles, who knew me from prior visits, plaster their nearly-naked bodies to me.
“Which color wristband would you like, Atlas?”
I know. I’d chosen the moniker of the buff guy doomed to hold up the world. I thought it apropos. “I think today we’ll go with no wristband.”
A red wristband meant “don’t touch my penis.” Green meant anyone in the basement room could touch you. The way most men went was wristband-free, which basically meant ask before you touched.
They ushered us into the locker room where we disrobed. Fremont’s nipples were stiff with anticipation. He asked for the hundredth time, “What sort of place is this? For, like, orgies?”
“We don’t think of it that way,” said the twink I recalled as being named Atticus. “We are Arizona’s premier jack-off spa, top shelf in every respect. No one has to come if they don’t want to. This is a place where men of every stripe can feel free to explore their desires for penis interaction.”
We were down to our skivvies, and that’s how I left it. Some men stalked around buck naked, but I liked the mystery and power of a thick half-mast penis straining against the thin layer of cotton. Now I plastered my nearly naked body to Fremont’s and took a handful of his pole in my palm and squeezed.
“It’s a place for men to see and be seen,” I murmured, licking his throat. “Since you’re such a mouth-watering buck, I want to display you to them. I want to see how turned on they get when I jack you.”
Fremont’s breathing picked up pace and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. He was into it. “Then why didn’t you give me a red wristband?”
I nibbled on his earlobe. “I want you to be free to do what you want. Your desire is my desire.”
“How can we be sure?”
He hesitated as we navigated the hallway, clutching at me for support. I felt uncertainty in him, so I stroked his head. “Nothing you don’t want to do. I just want to see you admired by other men. I want to see you through their eyes.”
Achilles explained, “The vibes at J.O. clubs are focused on physical pleasure and the cock in specific. This space is for cocksmen and cock worshipers. The incredibly powerful, sexy reality lies in exposing what is usually hidden, and the freely sharing of what is usually so private—the practice of our masturbation.”
“Makes sense,” said Fremont, but he didn’t sound convinced.
We entered a large, cozy room with wall to wall carpet and couches galore covered in canvas tarps. There were beds with fresh sheets, while scattered around were stations for paper towels, baby wipes, and lube. The lights were already dimmed while EDM played.
I recognized a few of the predatory bi-curious men from my last and only visit. While most were closeted or just starting to explore, I had an odd theory. Many could be genuinely straight men who were just curious. These sorts always seemed to go for me. In fact, there was a middle-aged bear who had jacked me last time. He looked up when we entered, and embarrassingly, nearly literally dropped the poor guy whose dick he was grasping. It was that bad. The bear did a double-take and boom, the poor guy being masturbated was left for dead. The bear even bowled him over a little in his haste to stand up from the couch.
But the bear obeyed me when I held up a halting hand. He saw that Achilles was still explaining stuff to Fremont. With an ingratiating grin, he tried to return to the guy who’d been so unceremoniously abandoned on the couch, but that guy had gotten up in a huff, already finding a new partner.
Achilles said, “Everything is supremely mellow. Everyone goes with the flow. I’ve never seen one argument in three years at this location.” Lowering his voice, he confided to us, “For straight or bi-curious men—”
“Such as Findley,” I inserted, using Fremont’s new given name.
“—there is only an occasional stigma, but it’s more like ‘boys will be boys.’ Masturbation is part and parcel of our coming of age.”
“Ah!” cried an older daddy type as he released his load onto the belly of a young otter. It was a fascinatingly big load, and I stared unabashed at the thick, gooey streams of jizz that slipped down the skinny abdomen.
“And our coming and coming of age,” leered a guy behind us.
I felt Fremont jump, not having expected that guy to be there. He moved closer to me and I took his hand. “If you don’t mind,” he told Achilles, “I think I’ll stick with this guy here. He’s all I know, really.”
I was touched to the core. That was honestly my goal in going to Sailor Jack’s, to force Fremont’s hand, to scope out the lay of the land. But I wasn’t convinced. I saw Fremont’s eyes flickering toward the twitching, ecstatic daddy Dom. I felt his mouth watering, too. He wanted that dick, and I’d give him plenty of opportunities.
“Here,” said Achilles, “try these two ottomans.”
Like I was born to it, I straddled one and leaned back on my palms, confident. Fremont was less so. Achilles blended into the woodwork discreetly, and Fremont glanced from side to side. It didn’t irk me that his glance landed on several well-endowed,
erect dicks. Most men seemed to come here to show off their endowments, and with good reason. The only below-average-size men were the submissives, twinks, and cubs, guys who would be performing on the hung men anyway. This was a performance piece, pleasure being equally distributed by the voyeurs as well as exhibitionists.
I have to admit, I was a mixture of both, too. Today, though, I would display my dominance over Fremont in front of fifty other men. My penis was already so stiff a few drops of jizz had seeped through my slit, and I eagerly reached for Fremont’s unsure hand, bringing it to my crotch.
“Just act like we’re alone,” I said, hoping my voice fell into a mesmerist’s cadence. The music was loud enough to cover all but the most orgasmic ejaculations. “Stroke me. Pleasure me. Here’s different kinds of lube.”
“Yeah,” said Fremont, half-laughing, looking askance at a few men. “Except for, a bunch of guys are drooling all over you.”
“Take off your underwear,” I commanded. “I want them to admire you, too.”
“Are you su . . . ?” Fremont didn’t finish his sentence, but stood and slipped his fingers between his skivvies and his bare ass. Some men made round mouths of appreciation. Some had even paused their hand work to admire Fremont. They would always return to it. Leisure and serenity were the watchwords at Sailor Jack’s.
“Come on,” I snarled, and without thinking, I’d clutched a band of cotton fabric between my teeth and was pulling.
“Father!” cried Fremont, ashamed. He made a feeble motion to push me away, hands on top of my skull and shoulder. But I liked behaving like a dog. I grabbed a handful of his juicy schlong through the fabric and twisted. It excited me to think he was like a boy in a locker room being “tormented” by older bullies. That’s what I was. An older bully. It was wonderful the wide extent of fantasies that could be enacted with certain men.
And Fremont played right along with it. “Stop it, stop it! You’re fucking—ah! God damnit! What are you doing? You’re hurting me!”
I knew I wasn’t, he knew I wasn’t, and all the men avidly watching knew it. But it was the thrill of the game to pretend I was, and at last I yanked his heavy dong free of the tight fabric. It bounced with such a meaty heft it took a lot of willpower not to gulp it down my throat. No, I was the master here. And all the other men were restraining themselves just as painfully.
So I slapped it. I loved the smacking, the dry crack almost like an electrical snap in the air. Fremont, having given up on protesting, laced his fingers together at the back of his neck and let his face do the talking. Wincing, grimacing, recoiling, he did it all like a master, his hard-on displayed for dozens of eager, nearly drooling men.
Wringing a handful of cotton in my left hand, I cinched his balls tightly, allowing only the penis to swing free. This gave a bigger dramatic impact to the game, and after slapping the appendage around awhile, I pumped a handful of lube from a nearby receptacle. I knew it would lend a sweet sting to the slaps, and would make for a shiny, beautifully red penis. Everyone would pant for my Fremont and that, in turn, would stroke my ego.
At length it was I who couldn’t tolerate it any longer. It was all I could do to withhold leaping on this man and terrorizing him with my mouth, not the sign of a Dom in control. I grabbed him by the wrist and whipped him into a sitting position on the ottoman. His ass hit the towel with a smack, and the room filled with ooos and ahs. Fremont’s face was a bright red, but he couldn’t tamp down the nervous yet aroused grin at the corners of his mouth.
“Okay, I said grimly. “You’re going to beat me off, slowly and erotically, like only you know how to do.”
Fremont leaped to the task at hand. He sprang my penis from its prison just as I had to him, the balls still tightly enclosed, throbbing and sensitive.
That was good. That would heighten our pleasure. His fingers moved lightly up and down my length. It had been so long since he’d touched me I thought for a brief second I’d shoot at once.
But then the dastardly devil threw me for a loop.
A sly look came over his face. “You want me to pull your pole,” he said, using locker room talk. “Well, tit for tat. I want something in return.”
I sat with thighs spread, leaning back on my palms, my crucifix, which I’d honestly forgotten to remove, jiggling in the pit of my throat.
“Do it,” a couple of men urged.
“Jack him,” even more urged. It was incredibly arousing to know I was exciting these men with a simple vision of my penis.
“I want to see that big prick blow,” said another, the bear who had wanted me at first.
“Oh, don’t I wish that was in my mouth,” sighed a twink. “It’d be like butter. I can taste it now.”
But Fremont’s desire was nothing so ordinary. He had already seized control of the scene as surely as he’d seized control of my penis. “That exorcist you mentioned.” His voice was low enough so as not to be heard by the hordes of drooling men. “Tell me about him. Were you in love with him?”
“Use lube!” I gasped, already at his mercy.
“Not until you tell me. Were you in love?”
“Yes!” I grabbed the dispenser and squirted lube in the general direction of his hand.
He just rubbed his thumb along the underside of my penis. “You were in love? And why did you split up?”
“Church,” I snarled. I went so far as to grip his hand and move it up and down over my dick. Very ineffective. I obviously wasn’t giving him what he wanted, but the crowd was going wild.
“Jack him!”
“Rub him off!”
“Crank his shank!”
These muppets had all sorts of colorful terms for their favorite pastime. Believe me, I wanted Fremont to proceed in a forward fashion, but all he’d do was take a dab of lube and rub it in a circular manner. I felt like a rawny ponce getting a medical exam, about to squirt Fremont one in the eye. “The church made you split up?”
“Yes.” I hovered over him now, our foreheads nearly touching. “We’re talking the Romans here. We thought we were being discreet, but we were called into the bishop’s office to explain ourselves. We were completely taken by surprise. I started out denying the accusations, then Antonio surprised me even more by admitting it.”
Fremont rewarded me by gripping my penis harder and pumping in long, even motions. I gasped, my hands lurching forward to grab his naked thighs. “And what happened to him?”
“He was sentenced . . . to a lifetime . . . of prayer and penitence . . . “ How could I explain all to Fremont when every last rational thought was going up in a spout of ecstasy? His dick reached for me, shiny with semen, reddened, hungry. To ground myself, I grabbed it. Feeling him jump and gasp gave me confidence. “I was in turmoil for a long time, having been the one to deny it. I loathed myself for being a weak, spineless hypocrite. Oh Lord, you’ve got such a long, thick dick.”
This spurred him to jack me more vigorously. I knew I’d better speed up my ministrations to his penis if I wanted us to release simultaneously. The men at the edges of my consciousness blurred now. I felt a couple of hands on my hips, my ass, but Achilles or someone must have reminded them of the rules, because they stopped. I was glad. I didn’t want anyone taking away from the bliss of the mutual pleasure I was sharing with my lover.
Now Fremont did press his forehead to mine. I thought of him stroking himself. He would do it the exact same way, knowing no other. Imagining him alone, pleasuring himself, maybe while thinking of me, brought me nearly to an insane climax. His words took the pressure off, allowed us to draw it out. “So you quit the church.”
“Because I couldn’t bear it, yes.” I kissed the lush bow of his upper lip. I took his lower lip between my teeth and nibbled. He raised his thighs and wove them over mine so we were scissored together, cockheads almost brushing. Two horny, lust-riddled men jerking each other off. It all seemed so natural, like something God had encouraged. The room breathed with testosterone. A warm splash hit my shoulder,
and I realized with a pleased grunt that another man had just ejaculated on me.
We were desirable. We were turning on other men. But we only had eyes for each other.
I licked Fremont’s lower lip fully now. “I couldn’t bear to serve a church that wouldn’t allow two men to be together. The way we are now. It’s natural, pure, raw.”
“Delicious,” Fremont added. He brought his free hand up to massage the back of my neck as he slipped his tongue-tip into my mouth. Now he chewed languidly on my mouth. “Wild, crude, and natural.”
That was it. I don’t know if it was the erotic kiss or the description of our actions, but suddenly my penis surged. Before I knew it, I was spending my immense load against his abdomen.
Wild. Crude. Natural.
My entire body tensed with such power that every last atom of energy was directed into my penis. It pulsed wildly as he drained me, and I drew myself up so I was almost standing, hips stabbing, shuddering.
“That’s it, let go.”
“Splatter him with your jizz.”
“Let him jack you—ah!”
Another splash of cum against my other shoulder now. Someone was being restrained from doing the same to the lovely slope of Fremont’s back. He coaxed wave after wave of delightful ecstasy from me. In my bliss, I forgot to masturbate him.
“Do him!” men were urging.
“Show him your love!”
It was ridiculous, that any man would be showing love in a J.O. club. Yet . . . weren’t we? I’d brought Fremont here to test him, basically, to see how he’d react with tempted with the juicy dongs of other men. He’d passed with flying colors, especially with that super-ripped otter masturbating in his general direction. No, he was focused, intent on me. I was his entire world, as he was mine.
As my penis continued to spurt onto his mound, I gradually amped up my pumping of him. I spoke dirty, to refine his attention on me.
