by Bob Vickery
(6/27/01)

Part 1

The naked man stands with his back to the camera, his legs planted far apart in parade rest, his back arched. His back is powerful and muscular, the delts sharply defined, plunging down into a V whose apex is an ass so perfect my eyes water from the beauty of it.

I try to imagine what it would feel like, running my hands over those twin half-moons of flesh, squeezing them, molding them with my fingers, prying the crack apart and exposing the sweet, pink pucker of the asshole. The guy in the magazine is standing at a slight angle, his face in quarter profile, just revealing the tip of his nose, one eyelid, and the profile of a strong jaw. The shaft of his hard cock juts out beyond the line of his right hip, plunged into the mouth of the equally naked man who is kneeling before him. The kneeling man has his eyes closed, his blissed-out expression saying, This is it! It doesn't get any better than this!

I close the magazine and stuff it back in the rack, scanning the other covers in front of me. Hot guys with muscle-packed bodies smile back at me, or glare, giving me lots of attitude, clutching their dicks, their eyes challenging me.

I would dearly love to buy one these porno rags, something I could smuggle into the bathroom and jerk off to until my gonads dropped off. But the shit would hit the fan if Carol ever stumbled across it; Christ, I don't even want to think about how ugly it could get.

I glance at my watch. Six o'clock; the commuter bus is due in five minutes.

As I hurry out the door, my gaze meets that of the proprietor hunched behind the counter. He gives me the fish eye. I can't really blame the guy. He must be getting tired of seeing me paw through his magazines every day after work without ever buying anything.

There's a fine drizzle, more a heavy fog than actual rain. The bus is already at the stop, and I just barely manage to jump aboard before it pulls away. I squeeze in next to the door and hold on to the overhead railing. I let my mind wander to the pictures I just looked at in the magazines: the muscular bodies, the thick dicks plowing ass, getting sucked, the handsome dudes staring back from the pages.

My mind races ahead to the routine I've worked out for myself once I get home: I'll kiss Carol hello, we'll talk for a few minutes, and then I'll excuse myself and go to the bathroom to jerk off while the images are still fresh in my mind. I sigh. I'm twenty-eight years old. Is this all I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?

We are driving through the rough part of town, winos in doorways, boarded-up store fronts, porno shops and working girls on the street corners. I count the blocks and when we stop at the light at Jones Street, I crane my neck and look out the window. The bar squats there on the corner like something out of a combat zone: dingy, paint flaking, the flickering neon sign sputtering and hissing the words The Cock Pit. For the past seven months that I've been riding this bus, I find myself anticipating this corner; it's become the high point of the long ride home. Loud music pours onto the street and into the bus. Guys lounge outside, smoking, sometimes talking. I think of the picture of the naked man getting his cock sucked, of the blissful look on the cocksucker's face, and without even thinking about what I'm doing, I push my way out of the safety of the bus and into the ragged threat of Jones Street.

The bus roars off in a cloud of diesel exhaust, and as it turns the corner and disappears, I'm gripped by disbelief. What the fuck was I thinking of?

The guys outside the bar all turn their heads towards me, their eyes beading on me like tracer missiles, taking in the pinstripe Italian suit and Brooks Brothers raincoat. I glare back and enter the noisy bar. Just like outside, the eyes nail me to the wall; I can almost read their thoughts: fair game. I insinuate my way to the bar. The bartender is huge; his flesh spills out under his black T-shirt and over its collar in folds of fat. I order a Seagram's and 7 and take a deep drink.

I look around the bar. My initial anxiety has receded now, giving way to a powerful curiosity. The guys at the bar are shouting at each other, talking over the din of the rap music pouring out of the jukebox. Other men line the wall, beers and cigarettes in their hands, alone, alert, like they're waiting for something to happen. Several of them are training their hard eyes on me, wasting no energy on subtlety. Some of them are young, and all of them look like trouble. In spite of the rain outside, it's a warm summer night, and they're dressed in tank tops and shorts, revealing sleek torsos curved with muscle, hard and lean.

I drain my glass and order another drink. The cigarette smoke is making my eyes burn, the music is giving me a headache, but surprisingly I feel myself flying, exhilarated. Mercifully, the rap song comes to an end, and to my surprise, an old Beatles tune comes on. I take another deep gulp and close my eyes.

"Hi," a voice says.

I open my eyes. A man stands in front of me, Puerto Rican, maybe, or Mexican, with slicked-back black hair and dark, liquid eyes that quickly scan my body. I can almost hear the gears click and whir. His mouth is wide and the lips full, and the body under his fishnet T-shirt is tight and well defined. "Hello," I say.

His lips pull back into a smile, and his teeth flash. "So what are you doing here, man?" he asks. " Slumming?"

"I'm just having a drink," I say, a little testily.

The guy shrugs, still smiling, his head ducked low, his eyes looking at me sideways. He turns and looks around the room, and for a minute I think he's forgotten about me. But his head swivels around suddenly and his eyes focus full on my face. "You feel like buying me a drink?" he asks.

I give him a long look. "All right," I finally say. I catch the bartender's eye. "Another beer," I say. I glance at the bottle in the guy's hand. "A Bud."

"A Johnnie Walker," the guy corrects me. "Neat." He gives me a sly smile. "I only drink beer when I'm paying for it."

I smile in spite of myself, and his grin widens. I nod my okay to the bartender. "And bring me another Seven and Seven, okay?" The bartender brings us our drinks, and we clink them together. We're getting on like gangbusters.

"What's your name, man?" he asks.

"Neil."

He sticks out his hand. "Angelo." We shake. His grip is firm, the palm sweaty. Drops of perspiration line his forehead, and his body gives off a thick, musky odor. For the first time, I notice how hot it is here, bodies pressed together, bare skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. And here I am in my suit and raincoat. I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my armpit, and I loosen my tie.

"So what brings you down here, Neil?" Angelo asks.

I shrug. "I felt like having a drink. I saw the bar, so I got off the bus."

Angelo stares at me for a few seconds. He shakes his head and looks away. When he looks at me again, his eyes are sly and his lips are pulled back into a smirk. But he doesn't say anything.

"What?" I ask, feeling the blood rush to my face.

But Angelo just grins and keeps on staring at me. "You didn't come into this bar for no fuckin' drink," he finally says.

"Oh yeah? Then why did I come here?"

Angelo grabs his crotch and tugs on it. "For this, man."

Sweet Jesus, I think, I'm over my head here. I stare at Angelo, taking in the muscular brown body, the dark eyes and full lips, the scent of him. The image of Angelo naked flashes into my mind, his dick thick and meaty, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by a surge of horniness. I take a deep gulp from my drink. My hand is shaking, and to my annoyance, I see that Angelo notices it.

"Maybe we can work out a deal," he says calmly.

I clear my throat. "I'm listening." I'm holding my glass so tight my knuckles are white.

"Forty bucks for a blow job," he says, all business now. He nods towards the rear of the bar. "Back in the alley behind the bar."

I stare at him. "You mean out in the open? What if we get caught?"

Angelo shrugs. "It's cool. The cops don't go back there. Anybody who's there is looking for the same thing."

My biggest walk on the wild side so far has been having sex with Carol on the patio in our backyard. Getting blown by another man in an alley behind a bar seems as fantastic as flapping my arms and flying. I shake my head. "No way. Not a chance."

Angelo raises his eyebrows and looks at me. "Okay, man," he says, sliding off the stool. He starts back to the wall.

"No, wait!" I say, my voice sharp.

Men nearby glance at me. Angelo turns. He comes back and resumes his perch on the bar stool, his face calm. He looks at me expectantly.

"Maybe we could go to a motel," I say. The music from the jukebox is so loud I feel it like a force pushing against my face. My throat is raw from shouting. If it were only quiet for a few minutes I could think clearly. I shouldn't have had that last drink.

"What the fuck!" Angelo laughs. "You think there's a Holiday Inn around the corner?" He tosses down the last of his drink and looks at me with amused disdain. "There ain't no motels in this neighborhood, Neil." He leans forward and puts his hand on my thigh. Excitement races through my body even as I pull back. "It's the alley or nothin'." I don't say anything, and he leans forward, stroking my inner thigh. "Come on, Neil," he croons. "Come on, pretty baby. It'll be fun. No one sucks dick like me. I know I'll really get into it tonight, a hot looking man like you." His hand slides up and cups my crotch, pushing against my stiff dick. No man has ever done that to me before.

"All right," I say, my voice hoarse. "Let's go."

The fine mist is still coming down back in the alley, and its coolness against my face feels like a blessing after the heat from all the sweaty bodies in the bar. The Cock Pit flanks one side of the alley, facing what looks like some kind of slum residential hotel. Angelo wedges me against a dumpster and grabs my crotch again. I can't breathe, and I yank off my tie and undo the top two buttons of my shirt. Angelo reaches over and undoes the rest of the buttons. He slides his hands down my chest, flicking his thumbs against my nipples, and then squeezing them between his thumbs and forefingers. I groan. His hands continue down my torso, kneading the flesh.

"Nice," he murmurs. "Good and solid." He cups my crotch again and lightly kisses me. He pulls back and looks me in the eye. "I like to get paid in advance," he says.

I fumble my wallet out of my back pocket and pull out two twenties. I stuff them in his hand, but before I can pull my hand back he grabs hold of it, turning it over, palm up. He lightly touches my wedding ring. "Bet your ol' lady's wondering where you're at right now," he grins.

I jerk my hand back. "You better change the subject fast," I say.

"Easy man, easy," he croons. He pulls down my zipper. He unbuckles my belt and slides my pants down. I feel the thin fabric slither down my legs. My hard cock is clearly outlined against the cotton of my jockeys, a wet spot of pre-cum staining the white cloth. Angelo grins. "Looks like you're ready to party, dude."

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