A gay story: Next! I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t stay there. I didn’t know what came next. I hadn’t looked at the script. I just knew I couldn’t be there.
I tripped down the stairs of brownstone and out onto the sidewalk of Richmond’s Fan District. It was dark already. I instinctively turned left, toward the downtown area, and shuffled along with my hands in the pockets of my jacket. At least I had my jeans jacket. The weather had turned nippy. It had been much warmer just a few minutes earlier, when I’d gotten back. I just had on a T and my jeans, though, having pulled them on quickly at his command. It wasn’t cold when he’d sent me out. But I was cold now. I was shivering. I don’t know if that was from the cold, though.
Nick had sent me out for cigarettes. I didn’t even notice until I got back that he had almost a full carton right there on the nightstand.
He’d sent me away so I wouldn’t see.
Where was I heading. I didn’t know. But, yes I did. I was so keyed up, there was only one place for me to go when I was in this state. Nick had denied himself to me for so long. It was driving me crazy. I’d never gone this long without it before. He was so controlling. And to come home, after a fool’s errand, and to find him . . . .
I had to let off steam before whatever came next. There was only one place. Davey’s Locker. I hadn’t been in there for ages, and I’d heard it had gotten a lot rougher. And it was Saturday night. High party night. But for how I felt, the release I needed, it was the only place I could walk to. And my body already knew that, because that’s where it was leading me. Right out of the Fan District and into the seedy tenderloin underbelly of Richmond’s downtown.
Davey’s Locker was right there where I’d last seen it. Even more run down than before, but it was a Saturday night, and it had a good crowd and a noisy band giving off a frenetic, insistent, intoxicating beat. There were guys stripping down already and dancing on the bar—although it was a little hard to see them through the smoke clouding the room. The floor was littered with used condoms. It was going to be one of those nights.
I found a place at the bar in the wake of a Hispanic delivery guy being guided toward the back by a big black dude.
I plopped down on the barstool, ordered a bottle of beer, and swiveled around to face the room. A blond college guy was dancing just to the left of me on top of the bar. He still had his briefs on, but a clutch of construction workers were zeroed in close to him, stuffing bills in his waistband and making offers, so I doubted he’d be up there very much longer. He seemed spaced out. Well, he shouldn’t have come in here if he wasn’t able to take care of himself.
I was beginning to feel better already. Fuck Nick, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. To go and do that to me. Well, I’d show him. All these months. I had time to make up for. When I wasn’t so keyed up . . . when I’d taken care of that . . . then I’d figure out what came next.
I watched a couple of well-muscled shirtless black guys dancing real close together right at the edge of the dance floor. Practically making sex with each other right there in the middle of the crowd. But not like they were the only ones. And they were making me forget already. My eyes were slitted, watching them, and I was running my hand down my sides and felt myself hardening up inside my tight jeans. I took a couple of quick swigs of the beer to cool down. But that didn’t make me feel cooler.
The black dancers were pelvis to pelvis and were undulating suggestively against each other to the rhythm of the music. The taller, thinner one, was moving a big hand, with long, sensuous fingers around the waist of the other one and I saw it disappear below the waistband of the other dancer’s low slung jeans right where I could see his butt cheeks parted in the middle, and I saw the hand dig lower and lower. I could tell when the guy’s fingers had found the other dude’s rim, because the other dude went up on his toes and took the taller guy’s face in his hands and went into a deep kiss.
Then something, a big bulky something, with heavily muscled arms and blue, red, and green tattooing spilling out of the arm and neck holes of his white T, was standing between me and the two black guys.
“Hey,” he said. Another construction worker. One that I’m sure the others didn’t mess with, though. Solidly built. Some sort of mixed breed. Maybe Caucasian and Vietnamese. Or Hawaiian. But something built like a Mack truck. Black hair in a pony tail; it probably came down to his shoulders when he let it down. Square jaw, a serious body builder; barrel chest, tiny waist, a six-pack to moan for. Low-slung faded jeans with construction dust on them. Construction dust on the boots too. But he’d pulled on a clean white T before coming in here. I gave him extra points for that. Slit arm holes; silky black pit hair. My cock told me I was interested. Was he next?
“Hey,” I said back. I took another swig of the beer. I was probably drinking it to fast. But with what I’d just seen at Nick’s, I’d be doing a lot more drinking tonight.
“Mind? You’re clogging the scenery,” I then said. He didn’t move. He just stood there, swaying with the music a bit, giving me a sloppy grin. That’s when I realized I had my hand on my piece. He seemed to enjoy the sight. If he wasn’t next, I will have done something really stupid. But I wasn’t in a hurry.
“I know you, don’t I?” he asked, not moving—or at least not moving out of the way. He had actually moved in closer to me, jostled there by the slow swirling bodies of man meat on the make within the cloud of smoke.
I barely heard him. The band seemed to have gotten louder and to have put more of a thumping beat into the bass notes.
“What was that?” I nearly shouted.
“I said I think I know you,” he repeated in a louder voice than before. “You used to come in here a lot. But then I heard you’d become Nick Jordan’s punch. Nick Jordan, the movie star.”
“Yeah, was. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore what?” He shot back.
“Not Nick Jordan’s punch anymore. Looking for what’s next, I guess.” I gave him a “are you next?” smile.
He said something, but I didn’t catch it, because I’d been thrown off balance. The blond college guy had lost his briefs and was being pulled off the bar by the construction workers. They brushed against me as he came off in their arms, and I almost lost the beer bottle. I chugged what was left and turned and plunked the bottle down on the bar top. The replacement was already there, and I took a long pull from that before I turned back to the room. The tank was still there, even closer to me, and still with that sloppy grin on his face.
“Next up!” yelled the barkeep. “Who’s next up?”
“You were wondering what’s next,” the big guy said to me through his big grin. “That could be you. I’d like to see that.”
This wasn’t like me. But I’d come here to be plastered and plowed into oblivion, so why the hell not?
Another swig on the beer. Then I peeled my T off and finished the beer in one long pull. I handled the bottle to the grinning tank and hopped up on top of the bar. I was greeted with whistles and catcalls all across the room. They wanted me.
The barkeep handed another bottle of beer to me as I kicked off my shoes—I wasn’t wearing socks—and balanced on the top of the cold bar on the balls of my feet. I took a drag on the bottle and then began melding to the beat of the music, letting my body go with the flow of the rhythm. The whistles and catcalls increased in volume, and I heard several voices trying to cut through the din in the room, trying to tell me something, to give me instructions. But I couldn’t pick out what they were saying, and I’d never needed instructions on how to dance for the men. It wasn’t just the noise in the room; the booze was beginning to get to me. That was exactly what I wanted to happen. It had been too long. I had to punish Nick somehow. I took another pull on the beer and began to sway my torso to the flow of the music. I was running my free hand over my chest and belly . . . and lower. The hunky construction worker who had encouraged me to dance was still there right in front of me, closer to me, leaning into the stool. He had his crotch perched on the barstool and I could see that he had quite a package on him. And it was hard.
His was the first bill in my waistband. A twenty. Soon there were others; nothing less than a ten spot.
The barkeep was keeping a close watch, and when I’d topped $100 in bills, he yelled. Jeans! Jeans next! Lose the jeans.
I was a little reluctant to do that so soon, so I just moved the dance up a notch. I pushed the jeans down on my hips, but I got more expressive in my dance.
What I could see from my vantage point was helping me perform, was loosening me up and giving me incentive. The pair of black dancers were still there, but their positioning had changed. The taller one was now behind the other guy, very close behind. He was leaning against one of the tables and his partner had his butt wedged into his lap and was doing something of a lap dance for him. The taller guy had one hand cupping one of his partner’s pecs and the other fanned out on his belly. If they hadn’t both still had their jeans on, they’d be fucking—still to the rhythm of the band music.
The construction workers who had taken the blond college guy off the bar top weren’t nearly as subtle. They had the college guy’s belly laid on top of one of the tables and his legs spread, and they were standing in line, rolling on condoms, handling their meat, ready to take turns in fucking him. The first of the construction workers was already plowing away and well on his journey to paradise. The blond was laying there with a silly grin on his face, his mouth bubbling, obviously either very drunk or drugged out.
More money was being jammed into the waistband of my jeans, and the barkeep was yelling for me to get on to the next step.
A roar went up from the crowd, “Next! Next! Next!”
My own personal encourager leaned in to me and unbuttoned my fly and started peeling the jeans down off my legs. A roar of approval went up in the room. I’d been holding off because there were no briefs to display for the next phase.
The tank encased my cock in his hand and I continued dancing to the beat. He held his hand loose, so that I was fucking into it as I swayed with the music.
The first construction worker was finished with the blond college guy and drifted over to join the crowd gathering in front of me while the second worker in line thrust himself inside the blond. The blond gripped the edges of the table top, and I could tell he was moaning and groaning, but I couldn’t hear him over the crowd and band noise.
The tank’s hand was replace with his mouth, and he was giving me head while I danced to the band. Money was piling up on top of my crumpled jeans. I downed the beer, and the barkeep sent up another bottle. I was feeling a little hazy, which was exactly what I wanted to be feeling, and it was getting a little blurry at the edges of my eyes.
I heard a cheer in the room as the third construction worker finished with a shout inside the blond college guy, and this caused me to shoot my load, which led to an even louder cheer—and more bills.
I wasn’t sure exactly when the tank lost his clothes and moved up behind me on the bar, but about the time my beer was renewed, I felt his big, hard cock throbbing against the small of my back, and he was swaying with me to the rhythm of the band, which had added an even louder thumping of the low bass.
I turned my eyes on the black dancing couple. They had lost their jeans and the tall guy, without a doubt, had his cock deep inside his partner’s channel, as they performed a writhing lap dance.
I had my eyes plastered on them and the rhythm of their fuck, timed perfectly to the beat of the music, as the tank split me from the rear. He took me down on my knees, and the crowd surged toward us so as not to miss a single stroke. He had his arms wrapped around me and I dully looked down at the undulating tattoos on his bulging forearms as he moved my body to him and away from him, holding his cock steady inside me and letting his manipulation of my body create the friction of the fuck. He was filling me and stretching me. Nick hadn’t done this much, hadn’t possessed me so fully and deeply. I was trembling and moaning, and gulping in smoke-laced air in heavy gasps. I was completely fucked.
The construction workers were finished with the college student now, turning their bulging eyes to me and the tank, and he was gingerly pulling himself off the table top and hobbling over to collapse in a nearby chair. He had his arms akimbo and his head lolled back and he didn’t even seem to notice when another guy came over and fed a fat cock into his gaping mouth.
The black dancers were watching me watch them, and the rest of the room disappeared for me and for them for several moments as we became one rhythmic fucking movement. The four of us as one, perfectly syncopated group fuck. A ballet of plowing. The tall black guy and my own personal tank ejaculated at almost the same moment with a long, harmonious sigh that seemed to echo all over the room, experienced by a whole crowd of men lost in the incredible sexual experience.
There seemed to be a long interval of near silence, as the ringing in my ears pushed the sound of the crowd and the band into the background. If everything had been a blur before it was twice as murky now.
I felt the hollow, cacophonous noise of the crowd and band music reasserting itself and the strong hands of the construction workers pulling me off the bar top and carrying me over to the table, where they had gangfucked the blond.
The barkeep was yelling, “Next! Next up!” and the crowd was beginning to take up the chant of “Next! Next! Next!” I took no notice of who replaced me on the bar top.
I was pushed flat on my belly on the tabletop, and the first in line of the construction workers was spreading my legs wide and pushing his cock at my hole. The rest of the gang was standing around me, licking their chops, tearing open condoms packets, and pulling on their meat. I looked wildly around for the black dancer pair I had briefly united with, but they were nowhere to be seen. I groaned and moaned as the construction worker split me and began to stroke inside me, holding me down roughly to the surface of the table with a fist in the small of my back. I wasn’t going to complain. This is what I’d come for.
When I awoke, at least enough to take stock, I was on a double bed in a room not much larger than the surface of the bed itself. I was on my side, naked, looking up at a window almost touching my nose. The panes hadn’t been washed in a decade, a hole—maybe a bullet hole?—had been covered with a criss-cross of masking tape. Not much of a view. The side of a dingy red-brick building that went up higher than the window would let me see. Gauzy mismatched curtains hung limping off a white plastic rod at the sides of the window. Not long enough to reach the sill or wide enough to cover the window if closed. Paint was peeling off the walls, and there were cracks in the plaster.
Nothing like Nick Jordan’s bedroom, with its mottled-paint burgundy walls and the king-sized four-poster bed in the center of the room, with silk drapes and satin sheets. French doors on one side of the room overlooking a terrace and lap pool and two silk-draped windows on the opposite wall overlooking the tops of Japanese maples planted out on the curb of the avenue running down the center spine of the Fan District.
Gentle snoring brought me back to the present. A beefy tattooed arm was slung over my side, and a thumb and forefinger were stroking one of my nipples gently. My back was wedged into the firm muscles of the tank’s chest and flat belly, and my butt was firmly skewered into his crotch by a tumescent, but still deeply digging cock up my channel. I could feel the strong heartbeat against my shoulder blades and he had his lips implanted in the hollow of my neck. His sighing, even in half sleep, told me that whatever we’d done here was certainly good for him and that he planned to do it again and again before I would be let off the bed.
Was this my next?
Or should what I do next be to gingerly retreat from him without awakening him and return to the brownstone in the Fan District and call 911 and have them come attend to the AIDS-ravished body of Nick Jordan, the movie star. The man who had not let me touch him in months, even though we’d been oh so careful. The lover who had left me when he said he would never do that—who had sent me out for cigarettes when he didn’t need them because he didn’t want me to see him die. The life’s companion who had sent me stumbling into the street to try to cover my grief and pain in an orgy of forgetting.
Next. What was next?