It had been a long, rough evening at work. The restaurant had been far busier than usual for a Thursday night and it was one of those nights when, as a chef, you just have to wonder whether you shouldn't have gone into a line of work that's a tad less stressful-- something like air traffic control or bomb disposal.
I was very relieved when I could finally split around ten-thirty, leaving my assistant and the apprentices to see to the needs of our final half-dozen or so tables. I felt as though I could murder a pint of ale; so instead of heading straight home, I walked up the street to Seepy's, a homey neighbourhood joint that caters primarily to West End Vancouver's burgeoning coterie of "confirmed bachelors".
It had been more than a year and a half since I'd moved to the coast from small-town Ontario. Just another refugee from a typically sordid domestic breakup, I'd chosen Vancouver because it seemed about as far away as I could get from my shithead ex-boyfriend without actually emigrating. Despite the relatively long time I'd been there, I still considered myself to be on a rebound of sorts. That is to say, rather than actively looking for a new "permanent" boyfriend from among respectable company, I would meet men in bars and take them home. Seepy's was as good a room as any to meet likely candidates, and a damn sight less noisy than most.
The first thing that caught my attention, as soon as I accustomed my eyes to the opium-den ambience Seepy prefers, was the strong, lean back and shoulders of a youngman in a burgundy flannel shirt. Backlit by the lights of the service bar, he cut a fetching figure as he perched on one of the mismatched stools near the cash register. He wore loose-fitting bargain brand jeans with an incongruous silver and turquoise belt that would have set me back half a week's salary. He had his lean, bleached-denim legs jackknifed under him and he caught the edge of the stool's rear foot rail with the heels of his scuffed black cowboy boots.
I admired what I could see of his firm, plump peaches through the rungs of his chair back as I made my way to my usual seat on the other side of the bar. While I waited for Seepy to draw my pint of Smithwick's, I craned my neck, none too subtly, to get a look at the guy's face.
He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with a fresh, healthy complexion and perfect teeth. He wore his hair in a longish black buzz cut, a sort of grown-in flat top. His dense, expressive eyebrows bobbed up and down as he made smalltalk with Seepy in a rich, convivial baritone. But the hottest thing about him, on my scale, was the generous tuft of fine black hair that showed near his open collar. I assumed, at first, that he must be meeting someone (men who look that attractive are always meeting someone). I gleaned, from what I could overhear of his conversation with Seepy, that he was from out of town.
It was one of those nights when the place just fills up in a matter of a few minutes and, as luck would have it, the object of my affliction and I found oursleves sitting next to one another after being forced to play musical bar stools with a large party that wanted to sit together on my side of the bar. I extended my hand in introduction and caught Seepy's cryptic look of amused disapproval from the corner of my eye. I wondered what was up-- he'd seen me do this dance scores of times.
It turned out my new neighbor's name was Glen and he told me he was an assistant audio engineer who'd just finished doing the sound for a well-known singer/songwriter who'd been booked for an early show at the theater around the corner. He and his boss had been recording the event for a future radio broadcast. We chatted amiably about the current state of the recording industry and a host of other neutral topics.
Now that I could get a better look at him, everything about him screamed 'married'-- right down to the gold band on his left hand. Nevertheless, I decided to up the ante a bit. I had this vision of myself ruffling my fingers through that spikey black hair of his while he gnawed appreciatively on my bone.
I "accidently" let my thigh press his and he pressed mine back, just as accidently. Form that point on, the conversation got just a little quieter, though no less general, and our eyes never left each others'. While we talked-- Glen casually downing shot after shot of single-malt scotch along with his ale-- the unspoken sexual tension between us deepened. Through the contact of our thighs, we continued to telegraph that time-worn tattoo of mutual need. I felt his heat through the two layers of denim and knew I had to have him.
When he stood up to go for a leak, Glen clasped my left knee and gripped it firmly in one warm palm until he'd finished his thought, all the while locking my gaze with those intense emerald eyes.
Seepy leaned into my face and sounded on me when Glen finally split for the loo, "Put it back in your pants, Tiger. That one's straighter'n Billy Graham."
"Sez you, Seep'," I hissed back at him. "you're not sittin' where I am."
"No... " Seepy drawled, "No, I'm not. But you weren't yappin' with him a little while ago, before it got busy. Now, I ask ya': what kind of cat comes into a faggot bar in a strange town and proceeds to talk the bartender's ear off about where he went on his honeymoon-- last month? I tell ya' man, you're pissin' in the wind. He may be in here soakin' up a little local color, but he definitely ain't on the take-out menu."
"We'll see." was all I could muster by way of a rejoinder.
"Look," whispered Seepy, leaning in close, pointing to a single figure at a table for four. "There's Robert over there, sittin' by himself, just waiting for somebody-- anybody-- to pay him the slightest bit of attention. On the other side of the room, ya' got lonesome Tony. I'll admit he's got a few rough miles on 'im, but I KNOW he'd be game for a few bars o' heavy breathing."
"Been there, done them," I told him, taking a long pull of my pint.
"Okay then," said Seepy, shrugging as he left to dump some ashtrays, "I ain't your mother. But don't crawl in here tomorrow night with your dick in a sling and tell me I didn't warn ya'."
"Sly dog," I thought to myself, smirking. "That old acid casualty just wants Glen for himself."
On his trip back from the pisser, Glen was visibly swaying and narrowly avoided knocking the tray out of a waiter's hand. Before he could sit back down, I suggested we go somewhere and get a decent cup of coffee-- somewhere like my place, a scant three blocks away.
I was alone with Seepy at the cash register when I paid him. He shook his head ruefully as he rang in my tab. "I dunno... I still say you're asking for trouble, man. I mean, he's pissed as a bishop AND he's been married less than a MONTH, for crissakes. Where's your sense of propriety?"
Could it possibly be that C. P. Babbington, as he's known to police departments in three provinces, was actually trying to take the moral high ground with me? 'Propriety'? I couldn't believe his nerve. I knew his ex-wife. And his last couple of husbands.
"Look, Seep'," I leaned in close behind him, pinching him on his buttcheek. "You know as well as I do that if that cupcake didn't get lucky in here tonight, he'd have wound up looking for a blowjob from one of those syphilitic dick-vampires in Stanley Park. This way," I said, smoothing down my eyebrows theatrically with a spit-dampened finger, "This way he gets the best."
"Wrong-o, chump, 'the best' has to stay here and close his goddam bar while his so-called friends have all the fun," griped Seepy, in a curious blend of self-aggrandizement and self-pity.
"That's why you get the big bucks," I explained over my shoulder.
"Yo' mama." he explained back.
It was pushing 1:00am and all four of the people I shared the house with had to get up early for their day jobs, so Glen and I would have the downstairs, where I had the only main floor bedroom, to ourselves. I spooned some coffee into the bodum and filled it with boiling water, anxious to get the show on the road.
A few minutes later we were slouching, side by side, on the sofa, drinking our coffees and still playing the old "getting to know you" game. I casually draped my arm along the back of the sofa behind him and toyed idly with Glen's shirt collar while he babbled away, a mile a minute. He began speaking even more quickly and disjointedly when I traced a line with my fingertips along the strong ropes of tightened sinew that formed the back of his sexy neck. I could have sworn I detected a faint stirring in his basket as I slipped my hand down into the front of his shirt and began to rub his lightly-furred upper chest, but the way those damn darted jeans bulged out as he sat in the deep leather sofa made it impossible to be sure.
"Fuck it." I thought to myself, "Time to boat this bass," Putting a single finger on Glen's lips, I cut him off in mid-sentence. I took the cold, half-drunk mug of coffee from him and grasped each of his wrists, pulling him up to a standing position. He regarded me with heavily-lidded eyes and a goofy, lopsided grin.
"C'mon, guy," I told him, "Let's you and me get ourselves horizontal." Obediently, he followed me to my room.
I lit a candle and we stretched ourselves out on our sides atop the duvet-covered futon in the center of the floor. I leaned over Glen slightly to trail the backs of my knuckles along the inside of his nearest thigh, deliberately pressing the back of my hand firmly against the base of his package when I came to it. He sighed his approval and he spread his legs a little more, by way of encouragement. Instead of going straight for his business, I decided to see if there was anything else I could do for him.
I moved in to nuzzle the front of his now half-open flannel shirt near his breast bone. Curling my other arm under his lower back, I drew him upwards, closer to me. I found a tit and made several wet circles with my tongue in the fine black hairs that surrounded it, before finally zeroing in on his stiffened little nipple. Glen draped a long arm over my shoulders and began to caress my biceps abstractedly.
Every so often I'd feel him convulse a little, which I, ever prone to self-flattery, took to be surges of passion brought on by my inspired, protracted titwork. Turns out I was wrong. As if shot from a cannon, Glen ejected himself from the futon and sprinted for the door, practically rolling me onto the floor in his haste.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he hissed in a loud, staccato whisper, causing the candle flame to flicker as he bolted past it. He rattled the the doorknob frantically until it finally relented. After he disappeared around the corner I heard him scramble and thump his way up to the second floor, like someone trying to escape a house on fire. The bathroom door clicked shut and I detected the faint sound of running of water. A few minutes later, just as I was considering going up to see if he was okay, I heard his plodding, uncertain steps as he left the bathroom and made his way back downstairs.
When he finally stepped back into my room, Glen's shirt was wide open, his top jeans buttons were undone, and his extravagant belt hung, undone, from his waist. His face was positively ashen, despite the fact that he'd obviously just spent no small amount of time splashing it with water. He walked a crooked line to the opposite side of my bed and I could smell the sour fumes of spent whiskey on his breath when he leaned over me. "Jeez, I'm so sorry. I feel like a jerk."
"Now, now. Don't give it another thought," I said, trying to dissipate his manifest embarrassment with some attempt at humor. "Happens all the time, Glen. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. In fact, I've been thinking about getting a chamber pot, just for these moments."
But Glen wasn't laughing. He continued to hover over me, wobbling, as if unclear whether to rejoin me on the futon. "No man, I thought for a second there that I was going to spew!" he slurred.
"And I'm rather hoping you still might..." I mumbled to myself in double entendre, knowing that he was refering to the fact that he'd almost tossed his cookies. It was perfectly obvious that this studlet had poured just a little too much of the old John Barleycorn into himself to be much more fun that night. Glen confirmed my worst fears that very second: he flopped face-down beside me and immediately began to snore into the pillows like a stevedore.
I threw my shirt back on and left my besotted guest to go upstairs and throw a whiz; but mostly I went up to find out if he'd woken anyone else up. I straightened up the bathroom a bit, grateful that I'd chosen roommates who were heavy sleepers. Bringing home a drunken, probably straight, trick is the kind of thing they'd have ribbed me about for days, with that brand of cruel, insect glee that seems to be particular to the young, urban homosexual.
By the time I made it back to my room, Glen had rolled over onto his back. He'd succeeded in pulling one arm completely out of his shirt, exposing a firm, well-sculpted shoulder and one side of his long, rippled belly. I gathered he must have abandoned the project of undressing himself in favor of alcoholic oblivion. I sat in a chair across the room and smoked an entire cigarette watching the kinetic poetry on my bed, as the exposed half of Glen's torso rose and fell, moving in sympathy to his deep, regular breathing.
Finally, I extinguished my smoke and wrestled the duvet out from under Glen's sleeping form. I considered the merits of my only sensible option: I knew I ought to just cover him up and write the night off to an error in judgement. Mentally, I composed an apology to Seepy for not having heeded his sage advice.
I could picture the scene the next morning too. I was dead certain I'd be treated to one or another variation on the old: "Boy Did *I* Ever Tie One On Last Night" theme. It's an old line, I know, but I'm equally sure every "bi-curious" person I've ever heard it from, in the cold light of dawn, thinks they're the first to have that excuse occur to them. Not that I mind that old dodge particularly, but there's usually some sex involved beforehand. My Sleeping Beauty had obviously not yet figured out just how much alcohol he needed to apply in order to give himself over to his darker side-- not without embarassing himself. Sawing logs in my bed like that, he was the very picture of overcalculation. Yet I bore him no particular malice. I knew the pattern well enough, having played the same dumbass game of liquor roulette myself for years-- that is, before I finally clued in to where I actually fit on the Kinsey scale. Anyway, good sense and experience told me to tuck him in and let him sleep it off.
But I didn't. I mean, I just *couldn't* let him sleep in his clothes all night like that. Despite the fact that I'd abandoned any expectation of sex with Glen, he looked SO hot laying there. But if-- purely as a simple courtesy, you understand-- if I removed his clothes for him, the disappointed letcher in me would at least be able to have a peek at what that the rest of that hard bod really looked like, when it wasn't being swallowed up by those baggy-ass jeans of his.
Glen had taken off his boots when we'd first arrived and his belt and the top couple buttons of his jeans were already undone, so it was a simple enough matter to just grab them by the cuffs and slide them off his hips. Even in his present stupor, Glen must have realized his pants were being tugged at, because he obligingly lifted his rump, yawned profoundly, and finally settled his head back into the depths of the pillows, smacking his lips. One good pull got the loose jeans completely off.
I could scarcely believe what I'd revealed.
"Oh, sweet Jesus! He's packin' a fuckin' pouch!" I marveled out loud.
Glen lay sprawled before me in the candlelight like he was posing for some cheesy beefcake calendar-- naked, except for athletic socks, half his shirt, and a classic ribbed, white jockstrap with its three familiar stripes on the waistband; well, familiar to me anyway. I froze, unable to believe my good fortune at the beauty of what I was seeing. As I'd suspected, his legs were long, lean and covered with a sparser version of the same ultra-fine black hair that dusted his chest. Lean, hairy, AND athletically supported, Glen was practically a dream date. Except for that 'falling down' thing. I thanked whatever deity was responsible, adding that next time, I'd prefer a live one. Dead to the world or not, Rip van Glen was really getting my juices flowing. I felt that welcome rush of need and, in less time than it takes to tell about it, my dick thickened to full mast, threatening to bust out of my jeans and y-fronts all on its own.
Now, you have to understand my pleasant surprise at the revelation that Glen was a pouch puppy. Cotton junkies like me can make a life's work out of trying to predict what kind of drawers a guy's got on-- or not. Why, on a good day, I can spot a jockey leg seam on a denim-covered butt from clean across the room and tell you what *color* the dude's laundry is.
But Glen had had me flummoxed. Because of those loose, baggy jeans and the lopey way he carried himself, I never really got a sporting look at his butt when he moved. If I'd seen a sign of Glen's legstraps back in the bar, I'd likely have gone after his dangling bits right there and then, instead of wasting all that time playing footsie with him like some schoolgirl.
I eased him all the way out of his shirt, my eyes never leaving that soft, modestly-packed jock. You could tell he'd worn worn it often, and over a long period of time-- his jock had that stressed, slightly frayed suppleness to it that you just can't wash into 'em overnight. There was a small rip where one seam was beginning to fatique and several unruly black ball-hairs escaped from it. His dick's outline told me that he was currently flaccid, which was hardly surprising, considering his inebriation. The ridge of his slightly flattened dickhead was exquisitely defined by the soft, elastic cotton. Tempting twin plums filled out the bottom of the worn pouch so well that, had the light been better, I could have seen part of them where the pouch met his crotch. I wasn't about to let an opportunity like this pass by. I wondered, chuckling to myself, if any of the laws governing sex with the dead applied.
I set a new land speed record for shucking clothes and plunked myself down between Glen's firm runner's legs, trying to determine how best to proceed. I felt like someone who's been given a gift that's wrapped so exquisitely that it seems an act of desecration to open it. But in my case, I wasn't even a hundred percent sure the present was meant for me.
When dealing with a guy who's unsure of his sexuality, all the normal conventions of homosexual courting behavior go out the window. If I'd been absolutely certain that his sudden departure for the bathroom and his subsequent coma were, in fact, ONLY the result of mere drunkeness, I'd have had no qualms about what I did next. But sometimes you bring home a "sexually adventurous", ostensibly straight, man who's not really sure whether he should be there or not. When that happens (even if he's reasonably coherent) you generally have to take most of the initiative, as I had with Glen before he passed out. Could be he was one those kinds of "straight" tricks who certainly want you to do them alright-- they just don't want to be there while you're doing it. So they pretend to flake out. Did it myself. Plenty of times.
But it can be also be dangerous. You're always hearing stories about faggots getting the shit kicked out of them by cats like that. It's just not prudent to underestimate another person's capacity for self-hatred, or how it might manifest itself.
Anyway, a smart guy in my position would have waited until morning to figure out which kind Glen was, and I probably would have too-- until I saw that damn jockstrap. I decided to see just how out-of-it Glen actually was by caressing his calves a bit, as innocently as possible. That way, if he did wake up and got testy with me, I could always claim that I was only giving him a friendly massage (yeah, right). On the other hand, if he didn't wake up (or continued to pretend not to be awake, as I used to, when I was like him), I could be fairly certain of being able to move that strap aside and have my way with him.
Glen shifted the leg I wasn't massaging after a couple of minutes, bending it at the knee somewhat. I looked up to see that he'd draped one upturned forearm lazily across his face, an affectation I also employed, often, back in the days when feigning sleep in a strange bed seemed the least disagreeable way to get another man's face on my dick. I even remember the demented reasoning behind it: If you keep your eyes covered, the guy swinging on your tool can become a girl, or a St. Bernard or anything else you want them to be.
I extended the range of my light dry-rubbing north along his long, firm thighs, concentrating gentle friction on the the supple, less furry insides of them. I also checked Glen's jock for signs of life. There seemed to be no change in the basic shape of things, but I could see a bit further into that gap where the pouch didn't quite meet his crotch, indicating that he was plumping the pouch outwards somewhat, even if his dick wasn't getting visibly longer. I knew also that I must have been making some inroads on Glen's libido before he'd made that noisy beeline for the bathroom-- a small damp patch was evident in the elasticized fabric near the very tip of his cock, where precum had soaked it.
Gingerly, I insinuated one finger, then two, inside Glen's jock from the side. His nuts retracted at my touch and then slowly descended again, covering the backs of my fingertips with an abundance of warm, downy skin, The ribbed pouch began to stir as blood pumped its merry way into his organ. His dickhead throbbed and began to lift the fabric upwards slightly. That was the signal I'd been waiting for. I stuck my whole hand inside, quickly gripping Glen's widening shaft at the root, luxuriating in the final, insistent pulses of its expansion.
We were now at the point where I know *I* would have awakened, had our roles been reversed and had I actually been sleeping, but Glen betrayed no sign of wakefulness other than the ambiguous, slightly stepped-up, pace of his breathing. I lifted the elastic edge of the pouch with one hand and withdrew his boner with the other. An avalanche of testicles tumbled out behind it.
I could plainly discern, even before I'd brought his cock out, that Glen wasn't blessed with much more than an honest, cut six inches. He'd even plumped up a bit thinner than most dicks I'd seen that were of similar length. Still, Glen's pert, yet modest mouthful would fit the bill just fine for a Thursday night.
Everbody knows it's patent bullshit that "size doesn't count". But today, after nearly three decades as an avid student of genital variation, it's eventually come to me that different sizes simply count for different things. For instance, I can happily lap away all night at some cat's thick eleven incher, but I'd be scared shitless to let the same guy point a dong that size anywhere near my bum. Men with eight inches or less, on the other hand, make perfectly wonderful human dildos, providing they're not as thick as a pop can. I guess the secret to being a successful size queen is to develop a predilection for the size of dick that happens to be available at the moment.
If Glen fell on the short side of the cock-size bell-curve, his balls were, by contrast, a true work of art. His bag spilled out of the side of his jock onto the inside of his thigh, its weighty contents suspended some inches away from the base of his cock. I reached out with my spare hand and cupped Glen's nuts in my palm, lifting them a few times to gauge their heft. They were so heavy and pendulous I began to wonder if he wore jocks for fun, the way I liked to, or whether he actually *needed* to wear one, just to keep those stones of his from being a hazard to shipping.
Still gripping his cock by the shaft, I lowered my face to his crotch and treated myself to a long whiff of his personal vapors. He'd showered that morning, for which I was grateful (and he was obviously an Ivory man), yet even so, he carried with him that tantalizing concentration of aromas of someone who's worked hard all day. I just had to put a lip-lock on that funk.
I leaned forward another few inches and allowed one of Glen's balls lay on my lolling tongue for a brief instant before impulsively sucking it into my mouth like a sushi bar oyster. His legs went slightly rigid at that and his cock pulsed in my mitt as my warm, moist oral tissue enfolded the hairy nut. His crotch rose slightly, as if urging me to draw the other one in as well, but I focused my attention on the novel mouthfeel of the one I had, along with all that loose scrotal skin. It draped over my teeth and tongue as I sucked his cum factory way back into the back of my mouth, slathering it with spit. Only when I felt sure I'd washed off whatever private flavors clung to it did I move on to his other ball.
I moved my other hand to the spot where the legbands of Glen's jock met, at the rear of the pouch. I was suddenly very curious how much assplay he would be willing hold still for, if any. There are lots of straight guys who'll let you do pretty much whatever you like with them (as long as they don't have to actually do anything to you), but the second you make like you're interested in exploring the old bronze eye, they suddenly remember that library book they were going to return.
I tentatively dragged the edge of my palm through the dense, fine hair that carpeted Glen's crack. I was pleasantly surprised when he upturned his crotch somewhat and spread his legs a little wider to give me better access. Lowering my face, I yanked one elastic strap out of the way before plunging face-first into his cleft, using my nose like a wedge. I homed in on his asshole and went right to work, lapping and slurping. I didn't think it was making him too nervous (he'd practically smothered me with his ass when he felt the first touch of my tongue. Still, I thought it wise to give him something else to focus on and began to apply moderate, regular strokes to Glen's cock, which soon began drooling lube all over my knuckles. We continued like that for quite some time. I let up on his cock from time to time when I felt his upward thrusts were becoming a little too urgent.
Now, if Glen actually was in slumberland, I knew he had to be having the rimjob dream of his life. But I wasn't exactly getting an academy award performance of someone sleeping. His determined pelvic thrusts and his unguarded, needy moans betrayed that. But I also knew better than to hope that he'd suddenly "wake up" and begin some act of grateful reciprocation. So I reached down and started pulling on my own pud about the same time I abandoned his ass to suck his cock.
Without so much as a preliminary lick at it, I impaled my face on Glen's dick. I felt the soft, supple jock fabric, empty of its contents, caress my cheek. He jabbed upwards with everything he had, causing me to gag on the first thrust, but I soon got a rhythm going. I was aiming at timing my own approaching climax with his (and Lord knows I was close), so I threw myself into the task of getting him off, enthusiastically bobbing up and down on his stiff pricklet for several minutes, like a pigeon on amphetamines.
At last, Glen's dick began to pulse in my mouth and presently several blasts of white-hot spunk bathed my throat and the back of my tongue. When the force of his eruption diminished to a sweet, warm ooze, I decided to turn my undivided attention to my own aching tool. I let Glen's cock flop back onto his belly and reared back on my heels, grabbing my dick and starting to flog it purposefully with increased gusto. Knowing I hadn't a second to lose, I scooted closer to the apex of the triangle formed by Glen's lewdly splayed legs and began to spray both him and the bedclothes as though my pecker were some water pistol gone berserk. Random droplets of clear, thin spunk went everywhere for the first couple of shots, and were followed immediately by two long, white ribbons of cum that landed in twin rows on his belly from his crotch to his ribcage. Whimpering, I milked the last of my wad onto Glen's jock and deflating shaft.
After allowing a long shudder of gratification to pass through me, I collapsed onto my back next to him, licking sperm off my sticky fingers while I waited for my breath to return to normal and the pounding at my temples to stop. Beside me, Glen still had a forearm draped across his brow, offering no clue as to whether he'd be up for a bit of post-orgasmic conversation or, God forbid, a second round. I decided to continue to be the soul of discretion and finally got up to blow out the candle.
I returned to the futon, draped the duvet over us and rolled over onto my side facing away from Glen. I'd begun to drift off to sleep, in a kind of drained, euphoric state of grace, when I heard Glen snuffle slightly and shift himself behind me. When he spooned his warm body along the contours of my back, I felt the damp pressure of his jock and its satisfied occupants at the juncture of my ass and the back of my thigh. He draped a lazy arm over my side, his open palm dangling ambiguously near my navel.
The last memory I have of that night is of Glen's light stubble grazing my shoulder as he softly whispered, "Thanks...."
I was very relieved when I could finally split around ten-thirty, leaving my assistant and the apprentices to see to the needs of our final half-dozen or so tables. I felt as though I could murder a pint of ale; so instead of heading straight home, I walked up the street to Seepy's, a homey neighbourhood joint that caters primarily to West End Vancouver's burgeoning coterie of "confirmed bachelors".
It had been more than a year and a half since I'd moved to the coast from small-town Ontario. Just another refugee from a typically sordid domestic breakup, I'd chosen Vancouver because it seemed about as far away as I could get from my shithead ex-boyfriend without actually emigrating. Despite the relatively long time I'd been there, I still considered myself to be on a rebound of sorts. That is to say, rather than actively looking for a new "permanent" boyfriend from among respectable company, I would meet men in bars and take them home. Seepy's was as good a room as any to meet likely candidates, and a damn sight less noisy than most.
The first thing that caught my attention, as soon as I accustomed my eyes to the opium-den ambience Seepy prefers, was the strong, lean back and shoulders of a youngman in a burgundy flannel shirt. Backlit by the lights of the service bar, he cut a fetching figure as he perched on one of the mismatched stools near the cash register. He wore loose-fitting bargain brand jeans with an incongruous silver and turquoise belt that would have set me back half a week's salary. He had his lean, bleached-denim legs jackknifed under him and he caught the edge of the stool's rear foot rail with the heels of his scuffed black cowboy boots.
I admired what I could see of his firm, plump peaches through the rungs of his chair back as I made my way to my usual seat on the other side of the bar. While I waited for Seepy to draw my pint of Smithwick's, I craned my neck, none too subtly, to get a look at the guy's face.
He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with a fresh, healthy complexion and perfect teeth. He wore his hair in a longish black buzz cut, a sort of grown-in flat top. His dense, expressive eyebrows bobbed up and down as he made smalltalk with Seepy in a rich, convivial baritone. But the hottest thing about him, on my scale, was the generous tuft of fine black hair that showed near his open collar. I assumed, at first, that he must be meeting someone (men who look that attractive are always meeting someone). I gleaned, from what I could overhear of his conversation with Seepy, that he was from out of town.
It was one of those nights when the place just fills up in a matter of a few minutes and, as luck would have it, the object of my affliction and I found oursleves sitting next to one another after being forced to play musical bar stools with a large party that wanted to sit together on my side of the bar. I extended my hand in introduction and caught Seepy's cryptic look of amused disapproval from the corner of my eye. I wondered what was up-- he'd seen me do this dance scores of times.
It turned out my new neighbor's name was Glen and he told me he was an assistant audio engineer who'd just finished doing the sound for a well-known singer/songwriter who'd been booked for an early show at the theater around the corner. He and his boss had been recording the event for a future radio broadcast. We chatted amiably about the current state of the recording industry and a host of other neutral topics.
Now that I could get a better look at him, everything about him screamed 'married'-- right down to the gold band on his left hand. Nevertheless, I decided to up the ante a bit. I had this vision of myself ruffling my fingers through that spikey black hair of his while he gnawed appreciatively on my bone.
I "accidently" let my thigh press his and he pressed mine back, just as accidently. Form that point on, the conversation got just a little quieter, though no less general, and our eyes never left each others'. While we talked-- Glen casually downing shot after shot of single-malt scotch along with his ale-- the unspoken sexual tension between us deepened. Through the contact of our thighs, we continued to telegraph that time-worn tattoo of mutual need. I felt his heat through the two layers of denim and knew I had to have him.
When he stood up to go for a leak, Glen clasped my left knee and gripped it firmly in one warm palm until he'd finished his thought, all the while locking my gaze with those intense emerald eyes.
Seepy leaned into my face and sounded on me when Glen finally split for the loo, "Put it back in your pants, Tiger. That one's straighter'n Billy Graham."
"Sez you, Seep'," I hissed back at him. "you're not sittin' where I am."
"No... " Seepy drawled, "No, I'm not. But you weren't yappin' with him a little while ago, before it got busy. Now, I ask ya': what kind of cat comes into a faggot bar in a strange town and proceeds to talk the bartender's ear off about where he went on his honeymoon-- last month? I tell ya' man, you're pissin' in the wind. He may be in here soakin' up a little local color, but he definitely ain't on the take-out menu."
"We'll see." was all I could muster by way of a rejoinder.
"Look," whispered Seepy, leaning in close, pointing to a single figure at a table for four. "There's Robert over there, sittin' by himself, just waiting for somebody-- anybody-- to pay him the slightest bit of attention. On the other side of the room, ya' got lonesome Tony. I'll admit he's got a few rough miles on 'im, but I KNOW he'd be game for a few bars o' heavy breathing."
"Been there, done them," I told him, taking a long pull of my pint.
"Okay then," said Seepy, shrugging as he left to dump some ashtrays, "I ain't your mother. But don't crawl in here tomorrow night with your dick in a sling and tell me I didn't warn ya'."
"Sly dog," I thought to myself, smirking. "That old acid casualty just wants Glen for himself."
On his trip back from the pisser, Glen was visibly swaying and narrowly avoided knocking the tray out of a waiter's hand. Before he could sit back down, I suggested we go somewhere and get a decent cup of coffee-- somewhere like my place, a scant three blocks away.
I was alone with Seepy at the cash register when I paid him. He shook his head ruefully as he rang in my tab. "I dunno... I still say you're asking for trouble, man. I mean, he's pissed as a bishop AND he's been married less than a MONTH, for crissakes. Where's your sense of propriety?"
Could it possibly be that C. P. Babbington, as he's known to police departments in three provinces, was actually trying to take the moral high ground with me? 'Propriety'? I couldn't believe his nerve. I knew his ex-wife. And his last couple of husbands.
"Look, Seep'," I leaned in close behind him, pinching him on his buttcheek. "You know as well as I do that if that cupcake didn't get lucky in here tonight, he'd have wound up looking for a blowjob from one of those syphilitic dick-vampires in Stanley Park. This way," I said, smoothing down my eyebrows theatrically with a spit-dampened finger, "This way he gets the best."
"Wrong-o, chump, 'the best' has to stay here and close his goddam bar while his so-called friends have all the fun," griped Seepy, in a curious blend of self-aggrandizement and self-pity.
"That's why you get the big bucks," I explained over my shoulder.
"Yo' mama." he explained back.
It was pushing 1:00am and all four of the people I shared the house with had to get up early for their day jobs, so Glen and I would have the downstairs, where I had the only main floor bedroom, to ourselves. I spooned some coffee into the bodum and filled it with boiling water, anxious to get the show on the road.
A few minutes later we were slouching, side by side, on the sofa, drinking our coffees and still playing the old "getting to know you" game. I casually draped my arm along the back of the sofa behind him and toyed idly with Glen's shirt collar while he babbled away, a mile a minute. He began speaking even more quickly and disjointedly when I traced a line with my fingertips along the strong ropes of tightened sinew that formed the back of his sexy neck. I could have sworn I detected a faint stirring in his basket as I slipped my hand down into the front of his shirt and began to rub his lightly-furred upper chest, but the way those damn darted jeans bulged out as he sat in the deep leather sofa made it impossible to be sure.
"Fuck it." I thought to myself, "Time to boat this bass," Putting a single finger on Glen's lips, I cut him off in mid-sentence. I took the cold, half-drunk mug of coffee from him and grasped each of his wrists, pulling him up to a standing position. He regarded me with heavily-lidded eyes and a goofy, lopsided grin.
"C'mon, guy," I told him, "Let's you and me get ourselves horizontal." Obediently, he followed me to my room.
I lit a candle and we stretched ourselves out on our sides atop the duvet-covered futon in the center of the floor. I leaned over Glen slightly to trail the backs of my knuckles along the inside of his nearest thigh, deliberately pressing the back of my hand firmly against the base of his package when I came to it. He sighed his approval and he spread his legs a little more, by way of encouragement. Instead of going straight for his business, I decided to see if there was anything else I could do for him.
I moved in to nuzzle the front of his now half-open flannel shirt near his breast bone. Curling my other arm under his lower back, I drew him upwards, closer to me. I found a tit and made several wet circles with my tongue in the fine black hairs that surrounded it, before finally zeroing in on his stiffened little nipple. Glen draped a long arm over my shoulders and began to caress my biceps abstractedly.
Every so often I'd feel him convulse a little, which I, ever prone to self-flattery, took to be surges of passion brought on by my inspired, protracted titwork. Turns out I was wrong. As if shot from a cannon, Glen ejected himself from the futon and sprinted for the door, practically rolling me onto the floor in his haste.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he hissed in a loud, staccato whisper, causing the candle flame to flicker as he bolted past it. He rattled the the doorknob frantically until it finally relented. After he disappeared around the corner I heard him scramble and thump his way up to the second floor, like someone trying to escape a house on fire. The bathroom door clicked shut and I detected the faint sound of running of water. A few minutes later, just as I was considering going up to see if he was okay, I heard his plodding, uncertain steps as he left the bathroom and made his way back downstairs.
When he finally stepped back into my room, Glen's shirt was wide open, his top jeans buttons were undone, and his extravagant belt hung, undone, from his waist. His face was positively ashen, despite the fact that he'd obviously just spent no small amount of time splashing it with water. He walked a crooked line to the opposite side of my bed and I could smell the sour fumes of spent whiskey on his breath when he leaned over me. "Jeez, I'm so sorry. I feel like a jerk."
"Now, now. Don't give it another thought," I said, trying to dissipate his manifest embarrassment with some attempt at humor. "Happens all the time, Glen. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. In fact, I've been thinking about getting a chamber pot, just for these moments."
But Glen wasn't laughing. He continued to hover over me, wobbling, as if unclear whether to rejoin me on the futon. "No man, I thought for a second there that I was going to spew!" he slurred.
"And I'm rather hoping you still might..." I mumbled to myself in double entendre, knowing that he was refering to the fact that he'd almost tossed his cookies. It was perfectly obvious that this studlet had poured just a little too much of the old John Barleycorn into himself to be much more fun that night. Glen confirmed my worst fears that very second: he flopped face-down beside me and immediately began to snore into the pillows like a stevedore.
I threw my shirt back on and left my besotted guest to go upstairs and throw a whiz; but mostly I went up to find out if he'd woken anyone else up. I straightened up the bathroom a bit, grateful that I'd chosen roommates who were heavy sleepers. Bringing home a drunken, probably straight, trick is the kind of thing they'd have ribbed me about for days, with that brand of cruel, insect glee that seems to be particular to the young, urban homosexual.
By the time I made it back to my room, Glen had rolled over onto his back. He'd succeeded in pulling one arm completely out of his shirt, exposing a firm, well-sculpted shoulder and one side of his long, rippled belly. I gathered he must have abandoned the project of undressing himself in favor of alcoholic oblivion. I sat in a chair across the room and smoked an entire cigarette watching the kinetic poetry on my bed, as the exposed half of Glen's torso rose and fell, moving in sympathy to his deep, regular breathing.
Finally, I extinguished my smoke and wrestled the duvet out from under Glen's sleeping form. I considered the merits of my only sensible option: I knew I ought to just cover him up and write the night off to an error in judgement. Mentally, I composed an apology to Seepy for not having heeded his sage advice.
I could picture the scene the next morning too. I was dead certain I'd be treated to one or another variation on the old: "Boy Did *I* Ever Tie One On Last Night" theme. It's an old line, I know, but I'm equally sure every "bi-curious" person I've ever heard it from, in the cold light of dawn, thinks they're the first to have that excuse occur to them. Not that I mind that old dodge particularly, but there's usually some sex involved beforehand. My Sleeping Beauty had obviously not yet figured out just how much alcohol he needed to apply in order to give himself over to his darker side-- not without embarassing himself. Sawing logs in my bed like that, he was the very picture of overcalculation. Yet I bore him no particular malice. I knew the pattern well enough, having played the same dumbass game of liquor roulette myself for years-- that is, before I finally clued in to where I actually fit on the Kinsey scale. Anyway, good sense and experience told me to tuck him in and let him sleep it off.
But I didn't. I mean, I just *couldn't* let him sleep in his clothes all night like that. Despite the fact that I'd abandoned any expectation of sex with Glen, he looked SO hot laying there. But if-- purely as a simple courtesy, you understand-- if I removed his clothes for him, the disappointed letcher in me would at least be able to have a peek at what that the rest of that hard bod really looked like, when it wasn't being swallowed up by those baggy-ass jeans of his.
Glen had taken off his boots when we'd first arrived and his belt and the top couple buttons of his jeans were already undone, so it was a simple enough matter to just grab them by the cuffs and slide them off his hips. Even in his present stupor, Glen must have realized his pants were being tugged at, because he obligingly lifted his rump, yawned profoundly, and finally settled his head back into the depths of the pillows, smacking his lips. One good pull got the loose jeans completely off.
I could scarcely believe what I'd revealed.
"Oh, sweet Jesus! He's packin' a fuckin' pouch!" I marveled out loud.
Glen lay sprawled before me in the candlelight like he was posing for some cheesy beefcake calendar-- naked, except for athletic socks, half his shirt, and a classic ribbed, white jockstrap with its three familiar stripes on the waistband; well, familiar to me anyway. I froze, unable to believe my good fortune at the beauty of what I was seeing. As I'd suspected, his legs were long, lean and covered with a sparser version of the same ultra-fine black hair that dusted his chest. Lean, hairy, AND athletically supported, Glen was practically a dream date. Except for that 'falling down' thing. I thanked whatever deity was responsible, adding that next time, I'd prefer a live one. Dead to the world or not, Rip van Glen was really getting my juices flowing. I felt that welcome rush of need and, in less time than it takes to tell about it, my dick thickened to full mast, threatening to bust out of my jeans and y-fronts all on its own.
Now, you have to understand my pleasant surprise at the revelation that Glen was a pouch puppy. Cotton junkies like me can make a life's work out of trying to predict what kind of drawers a guy's got on-- or not. Why, on a good day, I can spot a jockey leg seam on a denim-covered butt from clean across the room and tell you what *color* the dude's laundry is.
But Glen had had me flummoxed. Because of those loose, baggy jeans and the lopey way he carried himself, I never really got a sporting look at his butt when he moved. If I'd seen a sign of Glen's legstraps back in the bar, I'd likely have gone after his dangling bits right there and then, instead of wasting all that time playing footsie with him like some schoolgirl.
I eased him all the way out of his shirt, my eyes never leaving that soft, modestly-packed jock. You could tell he'd worn worn it often, and over a long period of time-- his jock had that stressed, slightly frayed suppleness to it that you just can't wash into 'em overnight. There was a small rip where one seam was beginning to fatique and several unruly black ball-hairs escaped from it. His dick's outline told me that he was currently flaccid, which was hardly surprising, considering his inebriation. The ridge of his slightly flattened dickhead was exquisitely defined by the soft, elastic cotton. Tempting twin plums filled out the bottom of the worn pouch so well that, had the light been better, I could have seen part of them where the pouch met his crotch. I wasn't about to let an opportunity like this pass by. I wondered, chuckling to myself, if any of the laws governing sex with the dead applied.
I set a new land speed record for shucking clothes and plunked myself down between Glen's firm runner's legs, trying to determine how best to proceed. I felt like someone who's been given a gift that's wrapped so exquisitely that it seems an act of desecration to open it. But in my case, I wasn't even a hundred percent sure the present was meant for me.
When dealing with a guy who's unsure of his sexuality, all the normal conventions of homosexual courting behavior go out the window. If I'd been absolutely certain that his sudden departure for the bathroom and his subsequent coma were, in fact, ONLY the result of mere drunkeness, I'd have had no qualms about what I did next. But sometimes you bring home a "sexually adventurous", ostensibly straight, man who's not really sure whether he should be there or not. When that happens (even if he's reasonably coherent) you generally have to take most of the initiative, as I had with Glen before he passed out. Could be he was one those kinds of "straight" tricks who certainly want you to do them alright-- they just don't want to be there while you're doing it. So they pretend to flake out. Did it myself. Plenty of times.
But it can be also be dangerous. You're always hearing stories about faggots getting the shit kicked out of them by cats like that. It's just not prudent to underestimate another person's capacity for self-hatred, or how it might manifest itself.
Anyway, a smart guy in my position would have waited until morning to figure out which kind Glen was, and I probably would have too-- until I saw that damn jockstrap. I decided to see just how out-of-it Glen actually was by caressing his calves a bit, as innocently as possible. That way, if he did wake up and got testy with me, I could always claim that I was only giving him a friendly massage (yeah, right). On the other hand, if he didn't wake up (or continued to pretend not to be awake, as I used to, when I was like him), I could be fairly certain of being able to move that strap aside and have my way with him.
Glen shifted the leg I wasn't massaging after a couple of minutes, bending it at the knee somewhat. I looked up to see that he'd draped one upturned forearm lazily across his face, an affectation I also employed, often, back in the days when feigning sleep in a strange bed seemed the least disagreeable way to get another man's face on my dick. I even remember the demented reasoning behind it: If you keep your eyes covered, the guy swinging on your tool can become a girl, or a St. Bernard or anything else you want them to be.
I extended the range of my light dry-rubbing north along his long, firm thighs, concentrating gentle friction on the the supple, less furry insides of them. I also checked Glen's jock for signs of life. There seemed to be no change in the basic shape of things, but I could see a bit further into that gap where the pouch didn't quite meet his crotch, indicating that he was plumping the pouch outwards somewhat, even if his dick wasn't getting visibly longer. I knew also that I must have been making some inroads on Glen's libido before he'd made that noisy beeline for the bathroom-- a small damp patch was evident in the elasticized fabric near the very tip of his cock, where precum had soaked it.
Gingerly, I insinuated one finger, then two, inside Glen's jock from the side. His nuts retracted at my touch and then slowly descended again, covering the backs of my fingertips with an abundance of warm, downy skin, The ribbed pouch began to stir as blood pumped its merry way into his organ. His dickhead throbbed and began to lift the fabric upwards slightly. That was the signal I'd been waiting for. I stuck my whole hand inside, quickly gripping Glen's widening shaft at the root, luxuriating in the final, insistent pulses of its expansion.
We were now at the point where I know *I* would have awakened, had our roles been reversed and had I actually been sleeping, but Glen betrayed no sign of wakefulness other than the ambiguous, slightly stepped-up, pace of his breathing. I lifted the elastic edge of the pouch with one hand and withdrew his boner with the other. An avalanche of testicles tumbled out behind it.
I could plainly discern, even before I'd brought his cock out, that Glen wasn't blessed with much more than an honest, cut six inches. He'd even plumped up a bit thinner than most dicks I'd seen that were of similar length. Still, Glen's pert, yet modest mouthful would fit the bill just fine for a Thursday night.
Everbody knows it's patent bullshit that "size doesn't count". But today, after nearly three decades as an avid student of genital variation, it's eventually come to me that different sizes simply count for different things. For instance, I can happily lap away all night at some cat's thick eleven incher, but I'd be scared shitless to let the same guy point a dong that size anywhere near my bum. Men with eight inches or less, on the other hand, make perfectly wonderful human dildos, providing they're not as thick as a pop can. I guess the secret to being a successful size queen is to develop a predilection for the size of dick that happens to be available at the moment.
If Glen fell on the short side of the cock-size bell-curve, his balls were, by contrast, a true work of art. His bag spilled out of the side of his jock onto the inside of his thigh, its weighty contents suspended some inches away from the base of his cock. I reached out with my spare hand and cupped Glen's nuts in my palm, lifting them a few times to gauge their heft. They were so heavy and pendulous I began to wonder if he wore jocks for fun, the way I liked to, or whether he actually *needed* to wear one, just to keep those stones of his from being a hazard to shipping.
Still gripping his cock by the shaft, I lowered my face to his crotch and treated myself to a long whiff of his personal vapors. He'd showered that morning, for which I was grateful (and he was obviously an Ivory man), yet even so, he carried with him that tantalizing concentration of aromas of someone who's worked hard all day. I just had to put a lip-lock on that funk.
I leaned forward another few inches and allowed one of Glen's balls lay on my lolling tongue for a brief instant before impulsively sucking it into my mouth like a sushi bar oyster. His legs went slightly rigid at that and his cock pulsed in my mitt as my warm, moist oral tissue enfolded the hairy nut. His crotch rose slightly, as if urging me to draw the other one in as well, but I focused my attention on the novel mouthfeel of the one I had, along with all that loose scrotal skin. It draped over my teeth and tongue as I sucked his cum factory way back into the back of my mouth, slathering it with spit. Only when I felt sure I'd washed off whatever private flavors clung to it did I move on to his other ball.
I moved my other hand to the spot where the legbands of Glen's jock met, at the rear of the pouch. I was suddenly very curious how much assplay he would be willing hold still for, if any. There are lots of straight guys who'll let you do pretty much whatever you like with them (as long as they don't have to actually do anything to you), but the second you make like you're interested in exploring the old bronze eye, they suddenly remember that library book they were going to return.
I tentatively dragged the edge of my palm through the dense, fine hair that carpeted Glen's crack. I was pleasantly surprised when he upturned his crotch somewhat and spread his legs a little wider to give me better access. Lowering my face, I yanked one elastic strap out of the way before plunging face-first into his cleft, using my nose like a wedge. I homed in on his asshole and went right to work, lapping and slurping. I didn't think it was making him too nervous (he'd practically smothered me with his ass when he felt the first touch of my tongue. Still, I thought it wise to give him something else to focus on and began to apply moderate, regular strokes to Glen's cock, which soon began drooling lube all over my knuckles. We continued like that for quite some time. I let up on his cock from time to time when I felt his upward thrusts were becoming a little too urgent.
Now, if Glen actually was in slumberland, I knew he had to be having the rimjob dream of his life. But I wasn't exactly getting an academy award performance of someone sleeping. His determined pelvic thrusts and his unguarded, needy moans betrayed that. But I also knew better than to hope that he'd suddenly "wake up" and begin some act of grateful reciprocation. So I reached down and started pulling on my own pud about the same time I abandoned his ass to suck his cock.
Without so much as a preliminary lick at it, I impaled my face on Glen's dick. I felt the soft, supple jock fabric, empty of its contents, caress my cheek. He jabbed upwards with everything he had, causing me to gag on the first thrust, but I soon got a rhythm going. I was aiming at timing my own approaching climax with his (and Lord knows I was close), so I threw myself into the task of getting him off, enthusiastically bobbing up and down on his stiff pricklet for several minutes, like a pigeon on amphetamines.
At last, Glen's dick began to pulse in my mouth and presently several blasts of white-hot spunk bathed my throat and the back of my tongue. When the force of his eruption diminished to a sweet, warm ooze, I decided to turn my undivided attention to my own aching tool. I let Glen's cock flop back onto his belly and reared back on my heels, grabbing my dick and starting to flog it purposefully with increased gusto. Knowing I hadn't a second to lose, I scooted closer to the apex of the triangle formed by Glen's lewdly splayed legs and began to spray both him and the bedclothes as though my pecker were some water pistol gone berserk. Random droplets of clear, thin spunk went everywhere for the first couple of shots, and were followed immediately by two long, white ribbons of cum that landed in twin rows on his belly from his crotch to his ribcage. Whimpering, I milked the last of my wad onto Glen's jock and deflating shaft.
After allowing a long shudder of gratification to pass through me, I collapsed onto my back next to him, licking sperm off my sticky fingers while I waited for my breath to return to normal and the pounding at my temples to stop. Beside me, Glen still had a forearm draped across his brow, offering no clue as to whether he'd be up for a bit of post-orgasmic conversation or, God forbid, a second round. I decided to continue to be the soul of discretion and finally got up to blow out the candle.
I returned to the futon, draped the duvet over us and rolled over onto my side facing away from Glen. I'd begun to drift off to sleep, in a kind of drained, euphoric state of grace, when I heard Glen snuffle slightly and shift himself behind me. When he spooned his warm body along the contours of my back, I felt the damp pressure of his jock and its satisfied occupants at the juncture of my ass and the back of my thigh. He draped a lazy arm over my side, his open palm dangling ambiguously near my navel.
The last memory I have of that night is of Glen's light stubble grazing my shoulder as he softly whispered, "Thanks...."
