“The pen? Mostly just boring as hell. Not like the movies with riots and breakouts and psycho guards, that shit. Just a long fuckin’ waste of time, eating at you day after day. The punishment is seeing your life leaking out, like bleeding to death real slow.” He took another deep pull at his beer, savoring the flavor. His eyes constantly moved, flicking at every sudden movement, following every person that walked near our booth. He had a nervous way of jutting his chin at anybody who glanced at him. Given my particular interest in sex, I noted how his eyes followed women, but also saw him duck his face when they looked back at him. He shifted in the corner of the booth, uncomfortable. Never quite relaxed. “You got a smoke? I’m all out.” I pushed my pack towards him; he toyed with it before taking one out and lighting up with a book of matches from the ashtray. “Thanks.” I tried to keep my attention off him, as he obviously felt self-conscious and ill at ease. He was an intriguing man, suffused with that style of exaggerated masculinity that always got my belly tense and shortened my breath. From the moment he stepped up to the bar, counting out loose change to cover his beer, I could not keep my eyes off him. He looked exactly like so many gay men tried to look. He was an original, though, no carefully designed copy. His face was tight and tense, craggy features, jutting brows, and chin. His hair was deep bright gold, oiled and slicked back on the sides, with long swaths of sideburns. His shirt grabbed attention from everybody; a shiny rayon in turquoise and black stripes, short black collar and pocket flap, pearl snaps for buttons and opened three snaps down from his heavy corded neck. At first glance it had the look of an avant Italian designer, but I was sure it was a fifty-cent selection from some thrift shop. I knew my friend, Freddie, would have given his eyeteeth for it! That copper wire-braid bracelet wasn’t from International Male, either. I asked him about it. “A friend made it for me. I got several of ‘em. You wanna buy it?” His face showed sudden interest. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I didn’t want the bracelet, either; I just admired it. I told him it wasn’t my style, but still nice. “You could give it as a gift,” his sales pitch went on, “don’t you have a boyfriend or something?” I was shocked at his directness. I glanced around to see who was within hearing. This wasn’t a gay bar! I asked him why he thought I was gay. He rolled his eyes, curled his lip. “Oh, you playing games? You don’t want none of my dick, is that it? Why’d you buy me a beer? Why move to this booth? How come your leg keeps bumping mine? Shit! Don’t pull no crap, faggot. I hate games!” I was stunned! He was entirely too real! What the hell was I thinking? I flushed, embarrassed, and more than a little angry. I told him I certainly did not want sex with him, no matter what he might think. I excused myself, told him I would send over another beer. I left my cigarettes under his tattooed hand rather than ask for them back. He looked away as I got up, let me leave without a scene, for which I was thankful. Whoosh! I felt the chill of a light sweat as I walked away, relieved to get some distance between us. I tagged a waitress, handed her a couple of bucks to send over a beer as a peace offering to salve my conscience. I saw a group of people I knew around a table, joined in with their hearty-party mood, a mood I had to fake. More game playing? His words haunted me. I glanced his way a couple of times, saw another man talking to him. They moved to the pool tables in back. I let it go, glad to have got out of it so easily. I swore to myself I would never try and pick up another man with prison tattoos! Never! I wouldn’t have tried him, but God, he was so sexy! Something about those nervous, sad eyes ... that hurt look; bruised. He gave the illusion he would be grateful for any attention, any kindness. What a load of crap! That was my fantasy talking! More likely he would bust up my face, pull a switchblade and take my wallet. All the horror stories I’d heard about gay men being murdered in dark alleys came rushing back and I felt the cold sweat break out again. Barry, on my left, was telling a long story. Everybody was laughing and enjoying themselves. I tuned in to hear the punch line, something about a boss who had no idea what was going on at work. Another guy across the table took the group’s attention and Barry leaned towards me, his hand found my knee under the table. “You okay?” He spoke low, concerned. “Just a bitch of a day, sorry. Was I getting spacey?” “Outer limits, man. Chill. It’s Friday, get loose!” “Thanks. Sound advice.” I determined to shed the shadow of my close encounter. Barry’s hand on my knee was a nice touch. I had friends, civilized friends, and I wanted to laugh and have a good time. This was a safe place, not a dark alley. I looked about for a waitress, signaled for another round. The ex-con was shooting pool with a group who looked almost rough as him. I relaxed and began to wonder about Barry’s touch on my knee. I let my thigh brush against his. He didn’t flinch away. Barry was always friendly at work. I’d kept him at a little distance because of his open, Opie Taylor face. He was so wholesome it hurt. Touching him felt reassuring and safe. He was big; I’m kind of small; figure it out. When the waitress came over and set out the fresh drinks, I paid her and Barry leaned back and put his arm along the top of my chair, pressing on my shoulder to get my attention. I glanced over. “Thanks!” I read his lips. Nodded a small smile. Blue eyes, innocent blue eyes with no depth of shadowed secrets. That’s why I avoided him. He looked like a big, overgrown choir boy. Looked like he’d be shocked if he read my degenerate mind. Barry made me feel like a creep with my secret desires. I moved my leg away from his, felt cool air where our touch had been pressed. His hand moved onto my shoulder, he leaned over, “Feeling better, huh? I’m glad.” His thigh came with him, gently touching mine. Like a brother. The table got noisy and a crowd formed around us. I felt penned in. I gave up my chair while Barry was talking to the girl on the other side of him. Studying selections on the jukebox gave me a reason to stand off, alone. Maybe an Elton John? Something soothing? “Look!” A tattooed hand and bare wrist came out beside me. “I sold the bracelet for ten bucks, who’d believe it?” A clutch of mixed emotions knotted my stomach. He talked on as I kept my face to the music listings. The hand turned palm up, offered to me in entreaty, “Sorry I went off on you, dude. I’m working on my social skills. It takes time, you know? No hard feelings?” Well, that was nice. I shook his hand, tried for a quick release and a smile. I told him to forget it, I had (another lie!). His grip held on, his other hand came up behind me to rest, palm warm, on the small of my back. The mixed emotions in my belly coalesced into fear. I leaned forward, away from his hand. He dropped it at once. He squeezed my hand and let go. “Sorry, again. I just come on too strong, don’t I?” he growled. I let a sigh of relief and looked up at him. Damn, he was tall! His grin was crooked, a chipped tooth gave him an animal’s wildness. “Guess there’s no chance you’ll invite me home, huh?” a brown eyebrow cocked, charming and devious. I’ve a weakness. I hesitated. Not sure what I would have said but Barry came over just then, somehow inserted himself between us and spread around his wide, Minnesota smile. “Who’s your friend, buddy? Great shirt, man! I’ve been admiring it. All the women checking it out!” He stuck out his hand for introductions. I stuttered. “My name’s Chet. He never asked!” with a matching smile and a nod to indicate he meant me. They shook. I caught an undertone of challenge just beneath their words. “I’m Barry. I thought you must be an old friend.” “Nope, just my salesmanship. I was trying to sell your buddy a bracelet, earlier, just wanted to brag ‘cause somebody else bought it. No harm intended.” Chet winked at me, “Sorry, again. Didn’t realize ... See you around?” He left me that crooked grin and faded into the dense crowd. “You looked uncomfortable, did I interrupt anything?” Barry asked. I assured him I appreciated his intervention. Told him Chet was a determined salesman and I was glad to be rid of him. “That all he’s selling? Just jewelry?” The surprise on my face must have stopped him. Barry immediately steered me toward the booths, “Look who I found, hiding in the smoke.” He pointed ahead to a couple of girls from our office, Sondra and Karen. I liked them both, usually, but right now I really wanted to break away, get home and out of this noise. I just wanted to relax and get this knot dissolved before it cramped my gut. We slid in across from the girls. Bright chatter; I went on automatic. One more drink, my evening limit for public consumption. Barry was having fun: exaggerations of office gossip; great places to eat out; his dog (always a favorite topic for him). I excused myself for a “pit stop.” The music and noise were muffled inside the restroom. The walls were painted black and the bare light bulbs, red! The touch of a gay decorator, no doubt. I stood at a urinal and let my backlogged bladder spill with intense relief. I heard the swell of noise as the door behind me opened and shut. Chet stepped up beside me with a teasing smile. He opened his jeans and pulled out ... I did not intend to look down. He caught my eye in the mirror above the urinals, winked. I smiled, shook my head in disbelief at his persistence. He, very obviously, looked down at my dick, pulled a face of amused surprise. Grinned at me, again. His eyes went to his own dick, back to mine. I couldn’t help myself. I glanced down. He had a rigid hard-on! He was lightly stroking it between finger and thumb, swaying his hips in a little thrusting movement. I trickled to a stop, meant to put it away and walk out. Meant to. But I stared, with my dick in my hand. It was a hypnotic sight and he knew it. I caught his arousal and swelled quickly to an engorged length. “Whoa!” He admired it with a soft voiced awe. “Nice cock, dude.” Then he was struggling to get his own back inside his pants, to close his zipper over the fat bulge. He moved his hand towards my dick slowly, afraid I might bolt? I couldn’t move! One finger gently touched the tip of my cock, where a drop of golden urine hung. The bead spread over his fingerprint. He lifted it to his face, smiled into my eyes as he wiped it firmly along his lower lip. His pink tongue flicked out. I shuddered. “Are you ready to go?” his voice rumbled from a deep well. I nodded, in total trancelike state. “Hey guys, wait up!” We were at the exit, Chet’s hand pressed into my back but I balked, turned round to Barry as he approached. “You leaving so soon?” His face had a stony, determined smile. “Sondra invited us back to her place, I sure hoped you’d come?” His eyes questioned me. I looked up at Chet. His brow did that little arc, amused. “What about it? Wanna go with them?” I shook my head, told Barry to make my excuses. He put a hand on my arm. His voice dropped low, slightly tense, “Take me along? Let’s do a three-way, a party.” Chet shook his head, “Not a chance, man! Not tonight. Some other time?” He checked with me. I agreed, amazed, some other time. Barry was anxious, his glance went from me to Chet. “It’s cool, friend,” Chet told him, “He’s safe with me. Here.” He pulled out a hand worked leather wallet, “My driver’s license. I just got it today, it’s my prized possession. You hold it till you hear from us tomorrow. Okay? Go boff the chicks, have fun.” “Call me early. We’ll do lunch, right?” Barry took the license with a nod to Chet. “Right. Lunch. See ya.” He swept me out the door. His arm came up around my shoulders. I glanced around, self-conscious but enjoying his embrace. “You got good friends. He’s looking out for you. Nice guy.” I admitted how surprised I was, that I hadn’t known Barry was interested in messing around. “You kidding? That dude’s got a real thing for you, man. He lights up like a neon sign! I thought I might have to fight him, you know?” I tried to laugh it off; told him Barry liked girls. “Hey, so do I...sometimes.” I’d put that on file, think about it later. Right then, I was thinking about Chet’s lips, wondering if they would taste like my piss. Barry was a fuzzy issue, Chet was hard under my hand. Away from the bar, Chet was more relaxed. The tense nerves seemed to melt. His voice got mellow and softer. He hugged me just inside the apartment door, didn’t try to kiss me or grope me. A friendly hug. “I sure didn’t want to go back to my hotel room, tonight. Thanks. I hate being alone. It’s like solitaire or something. I don’t know nobody, no family here or nothing. He walked on into the living room, looking around, admired the place. While he studied a large Miro print, he pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unsnapped it all the way down. About to take it off, he patted the pocket, “Almost forgot, you left your cigarettes on the table,” he held the pack towards me. I told him to keep them; I had more. I went to the kitchen for beer and returned to find him stripped down to his white boxer shorts. The TV was on and the lights off, he lay back in a corner of the sofa. “Made myself at home, okay? You got any popcorn? You ain’t gonna keep your clothes on, are you? I mean, I feel funny here ... is this all right?” I assured him he was totally cool. I peeled down to my Jockey briefs, he watched me. Glanced away when I looked up, but I knew he watched. I told him the popcorn was on its way, set the microwave and went back to sit by him. He put an arm around me and pulled me down so I was lying against him. He flipped the remote, stopped on a PBS nature film; tropical fish on a reef somewhere. He put the remote down and wrapped both arms around me, hugged me again. This time it was more than friendly, more affectionate. He nuzzled his face in my neck. My arms encircled him, his lanky frame, his round, hard shoulders. I resisted the impulse to caress his cock through the shorts. This affection was pleasant and nice. Sex would come whenever we were ready. Well, he wasn’t waiting. His cock pushed up from his lap, his shorts made a tent, then the fly parted and his round head peeped out. It lengthened quickly, pressing up against his belly. His hands smoothed over my skin, warming my flat chest and exciting my tender nipples. My briefs sprung out in knit restriction and, in a few seconds, I was leaking wet pre-cum against the elastic waistband. He didn’t touch my dick, so I stayed away from his. We found lots more to explore and touch. He was a very passionate man, audibly wheezing his quickened breath, making low moans when I bit, openmouthed, at his shoulder and tendoned neck. The microwave beeped but he squeezed me tighter; forget it. Beers warmed on the coffee table; fish swam through unnoticed beauty. He found my cock with a warm palm, stroked across the ridge. I grasped his thick shaft, a naked prong sticking from his shorts. His moan growled from deep in his chest. He pushed me up off him, stood and looked down at himself, shoved his shorts down, kicked them off, pulled me up to hold me close to his bare skin, found my mouth with his. I’d had many lovers before him, many great looking men, several skilled at sex and a few that I loved. His kiss was something else: a heated demand, and a begging, fierce need. I’m sure he bruised my lips with that desperate attack, and his own. My knees turned to water beneath me, left me to cling to his chest and shoulders as he plundered me with a thick tongue, gnawed at my mouth with starving hunger. His hands slid down my back to grip my ass, slipped under the elastic to grasp naked skin, shoved my briefs down and pinned me to him. My belly was wet from my leaked pre-cum and he pressed his hard cock into that wet spot and pistoned against me. He groaned, spewed seed in a blast of eruption, whimpered and his kiss went slowly tender. He pushed a hand between us and clutched at my cock, smeared with my juice and his cum. He gripped me, jerked me fast. I trembled with his communicated passion, gave in to his furious, pounding fist. My balls contracted, I stood up on tiptoes, flexed the tendons running down my flanks, caught my breath and suddenly filled his fist with thick warm spurts. He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, he slowed to a caress and spread the sticky liquid bath over our loins, down my thighs, across his belly. Then his wet hand went back to my ass, pulling me against him to rub our sensitive cocks together in the mess, the mixed seed and the smooth semen. I felt cool droplets on the floor beneath my bare feet, dribbles ran down my inside leg. My breathing tickled inside my chest, blood pressure slowly drifted back down to less than fever pitch. I dared a peep at the clock above the mantle: Fifteen minutes and we’d blown the load. The pleasure was all spent and the hunger still in me. I thought he would want to sleep. I didn’t know him, then. We missed lunch with Barry. He phoned at twelve thirty, concerned. I said we’d meet him at two, and yawned. We were late. What can I tell you? That night was beyond doubt the best sex I’d ever had in my life. For three or four years I’d been convinced my greatest sexual moments were behind me. I gave credit to youth and discovery as the fuel for a passion I remembered but seldom experienced in adulthood. You know how tense and exciting those first few, trembling encounters actually are. I thought that was the best sex could be. But I didn’t know then, that a man could unleash something inside, some brute beast of carnality able to strip away all ideas of sophistry, of ennui. No moment with Chet was a replay of another night, another man. At no single second did I anticipate his next move or mood. He was absolutely spontaneous and sensational, never once stopped an impulse because it was rude or disgusting or taboo. He attacked sex like a tom cat mauls his prey, never satisfied with the quick kill, but obsessed with the killing. He toyed, played, dared and of a sudden, pounced! He freely mixed the intensity of pinpoint pain with melting gentleness and compassion. He laughed when delighted; tears spilled when he was moved. He opened me as sunshine opens a tight bud, a roseate of leaves. His sweat nourished me as rain makes green the dusty fields. I lost count of his orgasms, he spent them like loose change. My second cum depleted me. I soon grew hard again, but it was a stubborn bone that promised no relief in shuddered contractions. His latest spasm had been loosed deep in my ass, as we finally got to that stage I’d wanted for so long. After cumming on my belly in the living room, he’d dragged me to the bed and choreographed a ballet of body kisses that became massage; that explored the erotic potential of toes and armpits and ears. He engineered a contorted sixty nine that unfolded into him standing, reaching for the ceiling as I knelt and worshipped with my mouth; then he collapsed into a total capitulation, flat on his back, goading me to fuck his lips. But through all that, his consuming play, I wanted him inside me, wanted filling and disposing, wanted pounding under his resounding weight. When it came, and I knew he wasn’t teasing, I shivered with anticipation. He forced me on my face and, arms behind me, lifted up my ass to suit his knee high pose. I quivered at his probing insinuation; he moaned in heat and swelling shaft desire. All else was toying pleasure, this impalement was my crowning satisfaction, my soul-deep craving itch. He seared inside with rough-grained pain that shoved me to the mattress, pushed out my breath in silent screaming rush and thrust again, in steaming ricochet. Rode me like a broncobuster, beat my ass with plowing pelvic whips. His cock a battering ram, demanding entry to some secret inner sanctum, cramming all his senses inside my body heat and dark cavern hideaway. My prostate was repelled by further stimulation; it ached and cringed at his rough rutting; gave in and summoned yet another load of seed from shriveled nuts. And when I bucked against him in renewed lust, he clawed at my hips and dug under me to feel the spasm of my cock root, catch my splashing in his fingers and spur him to crest the tide and fall, letting my burning ass have its salve, its wet relief, its welcome ointment. We fell a heap of limbs, exhausted. My every nerve allowed a spite of numb inebriation. My spine a limp string, lax as my worn dick. And, yet, he hungered ... tossed and rolled my deadened body up for his inspection, slicked his entire palm in juice and wet my chest, my breast. He bit my tiny nipples, tongue lapping up the flavor of moss and sour milk. His lips tasted of the locker room. I’d never felt jism rubbed into my hair. My skin pulled and cracked at dried paste, the hair of my legs stuck to the sheet. He smelled like my ass hole, too much a part of me to repel, yet not pleasant in the stench. He was so drenched in the smells and flavors of me that when he thrust his tongue into my mouth it was like a dream, I was sucking my own cock, complete. I don’t know if he ever went soft, but I felt his cock at my hip, hot and lurid thick. “I’m not a man anymore”, his voice was husky, a coarse whisper near my ear. “I’m a storm, a flood, engulfing you. We are a golden snake, swallowing our own tail, living off our own flesh and blood.” His voice took on a cadence, a shaman’s chant. “We are of the earth but not the earth. We are of the sky but not the sky, and of the water but not the water, nor the fire that burns inside us. Sleep will change us, kill us, destroy us. Stay with me; don’t leave me in this dark alone. Hold me, touch me, hurt me, tell me you’re here, that I’m not alone.” I touched his cock, drying and sticky. He gasped like a boy at the first touch of a hand. His need scared me, I could not fill it. I didn’t have the blood in me to put out his fires. I kissed him to quiet him, gentle; but he sucked at my tongue, pulled me inside his lips and humped into my hands. His balls were soft and small inside the loose sac. I crushed him in my grip and he only sucked harder at my mouth, demanding an equal passion to meet his. I drowned in him. It wasn’t my passion but his that stirred my heat, again. “Lay on me, cover me!” He tugged at my shoulders. I rolled atop him, our skin was wet and dry in patches. He buried his face in my throat, brought his legs up around my back and clenched me. “Fuck me,” he growled. I wasn’t sure of his words but they stirred me, just the thought. “Stick it in,” he whimpered. “Pack it.” His legs climbed higher up my back. I caught one under the knee and placed my sore tip at his wrinkled opening, pressed. “What you doing, faggot? Think I’m a punk? You really think you gonna fuck me?” his gravel voice snarled out. I recoiled, anger flashed and my heat lit up. I growled, “Be still, asshole. I’m giving you what you need! This is all you ever wanted, take it like a man!” I plunged inside. My cock head penetrated but his ass was gripping my shaft. He squirmed beneath me, as if he would throw me off. “Be still, punk!” I found a puddle of cum in my navel, more on the sheet nearby, rubbed it on his ass and around my shaft. He squeezed. I poked a finger up in his tight hole, forced him open. “Take it, Chet! You want it, don’t play games. I hate fucking games!” “It hurts, wait...” But I couldn’t wait, I couldn’t be gentle. I shoved in another inch and he gasped. The friction burned my sensitive skin, I knew what he was feeling. I backed out a tiny bit and he groaned, “Take it out, I can’t stand it!” “You can take it, bitch. Not like it’s the first time, is it? Everybody fucked you, didn’t they? Tell me, slut. They figured out you liked it, didn’t they? You a catcher, boy, a born catcher!” Three, four little jabs and I sank in suddenly, slid in to the max. Every stroke spread him wider, looser, till I was fucking a bucket of warm lard. No resistance at all, just a bottomless well of heat and slick walls gliding in easy caress of my hot poker. “That’s it, yeah. You done it, fuck me, fuck me,” his voice became a growling noise, a wordless groan of choked-off demands. He gave up control, let me ride free, beyond his mastery, beyond his power to prevail. "Oh, oh, please!" He begged for the release, and tears flowed like wine to my heady delight. "Yeah, hard ... make me feel it, oh! Oh!" I doubt he knew how much he loved it, can't imagine he would want to know, but he loved it and needed it and could never live without it. All his tough shell melted away, left him a hungering empty heart, needing filling, just like me, just like me. The golden snake eats its tail, we are one. My off-center world shifted and clicked, locked into place, at last. ................Jackertoo@AOL.com
