Chapter 2

I watched him undress.

Like me, he had to literally peel the soaked sweatshirt and pants off.

And I saw him looking at me, as though keeping pace.

The guy was massive!

Not all that tall, his muscles seemed to be heavy and thick, the pattern of sparse hair on his chest emphasizing the bulk of his pectorals.

But his arms, his legs were also hugely muscled, requiring a bit more definition, perhaps, but wanting nothing in size.

He shook out his long, thick cock, with its rounded head a knob, eye pointing to the floor.

And, as he led the way to the shower, towel in hand, I could see the motion of the massive mounds of his rounded, protruding buttocks, as well as the broad slope of his back and the bulging twin heads of his calves.

"You musta started really young to get built the way you are, as young as you are," he commented, adjusting his shower head.

"How young do you think I am?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"Twenty, maybe twenty-one, I guess."

"That's about right," I replied, wondering how he had come so close.

Because, with my clothes off, my body is the main feature, and bodies don't show their exact age all that closely.

But perhaps, I reasoned, he's merely a good guesser.

And we soaped up and showered off in silence.

Except.

Was it my imagination, or was he lingering unduly on the attention he paid to his private parts?

Granted, beneath sweats and underpants and jockstraps, cock and balls took a sweatsoaked, oxygen-starved beating, still, it was hardly necessary to soap and fondle them until you had the start of a hard-on.

And the ass hole, if kept clean, did not require all that extensive and thorough, one might say meticulous scrubbing out, aimed in the direction of the guy across the way in the shower.

But that's the way it was going down.

And the guy was looking at me and smiling the whole time.

"Have you eaten yet?" Larry asked, as we finished up.

"No," I replied.

"No, I haven't. Why?"

"Because I haven't either.

"So what say we hit the chow line together? My treat."

"Sounds good to me," I replied.

He smiled and, it seemed to me, swaggered slightly as we went back to our lockers.

And made rather a production of putting his cock into his briefs.

But we were dressed and on our way, walking to a nearby tavern.

"They have excellent fish here," Larry said. "Broiled is best, of course, but even their fried is quite palatable."

I order halibut, he swordfish.

"Split a pitcher?" he asked.

I nodded assent.

We ate and drank in silence.

Which I thought rather odd.

Because he had just met me, he had invited me to a supper for which he was paying, and yet he did not ask me the most rudimentary of questions.

Perhaps he was expecting me to carry the ball.

You know, like he had done his share and now it was my turn.

So—

"You work around here?" I asked.

"Yes, I work in an office."

Which meant that he could be a mail boy, a corporate vice president, or something in between.

He named a large office building.

No help.

And a large firm, a mail order house headquarters.

No help.

"I have a nice bachelor pad, quite near where I work.

"Condo, actually. I own the place.

"So I can pretty well do as I please there.

"Privacy, you know?

"Person needs privacy, wouldn't you say?

"I mean, our home life, our private lives, are nobody's business but our own, right?"

"Sorry," I said.

"Didn't mean to pry."

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he chuckled, putting a hand on my wrist.

"That's not what I meant at all!

"I'm so terribly sorry, if you misunderstood me, if you thought that I meant—never mind.

"No, what I meant was that I was perfectly free to entertain whomever I wished, to invite whomever I wanted to my home.

"And that we—I—could come and go as I pleased, without restrictions of any kind."

I looked at him oddly.

"Me too," I said, actually intending to convey, "So what?"

"Marvelous, isn't it?" he asked.

"It?"

"To be free, to he free as a bird, free to do anything one wants with and in one's life."

"I, uh ... wouldn't have it any other way," I responded, tone still puzzled.

And took another swig of the beer.

Cold beer is an oddity after a workout.

It's both crisp and calming, refreshing and relaxing.

"Here's to us," he said, holding his mug aloft. "Two consenting adults."

I clinked mugs with him.

"I'll go along with that," I said.

"But, uh, just what is it we are consenting to?"

"To that which gives us pleasure and does no harm to others!"

"Words to live by," I shrugged.

And chugged the mug.

He laughed and joined me.

We finished the supper.

"Anything else, gentlemen?"

Larry gestured at me, inquiring.

"Uh, no, no thanks.

"I've had quite enough.

"Maybe even—a little too much."

"Nonsense! You look just fine to me."

To the waiter, "Just bring me the check, please."

And I finished the pitcher as the check came and Larry paid.

"Well," he said.

"What say we go over to my place and I'll show you the wonders of the well appointed hacienda for one?"

I got up, and felt the beer.

I was not drunk, but my teeth were anesthetized.

I was not unsteady, but rather too steady, too deliberate in my gait as we left the tavern.

And something was bothering me, about the bachelor pad.

And it was that he had not asked anything about me, so bow could be know that I also was not the proud owner of a smashing living arrangement?

Or was not also—or however it went when things were less hazy.

He couldn't.

Or could he?

And did it matter?

And I kept gnashing my teeth together, anxious, without really knowing why, for the feeling to return.

As we walked the pleasant night streets of the pleasant neighborhood in each others' pleasant company.

Everything was suddenly so damned pleasant, so terribly, exquisitely comfortable.

"Ah, here we are!" he said.

A uniformed doorman, seated before a console of screens that monitored the hallways, started to rise, recognized Larry, saluted, and went back to his newspaper.

Seeing me looking at the array of blue-white pictures, Larry said, "Not to worry, my dear.'

"They are strictly for the public areas.

"I hope.

"Otherwise, I fear that dear Albert could blackmail the shit out of me!"

And he laughed uproariously.

And, for reasons not clear to me, I joined right in.

We took the elevator to his floor.

The seventh.

I know that now.

At the time, I was busy retaining my equilibrium against the gravitational phenomena of a stopping elevator, an event that had never bothered me before in the least.

"Et voila!" be exclaimed, letting us in.

White walls.

Large, unframed paintings, abstracts in mostly yellow, with black, white and red splashes superimposed.

White walls and ceilings and everything else pearl grey and chromium and glass.

"Makes quite a statement, doesn't it?" he asked.

"Uh, yes."

And for some reason, I was eager for him to tell me just what the statement was.

Read it for me, will you Lare? Because I am particularly dense tonight.

But I did not dare say this aloud, lest I be thought gauche.

And why am I talking swishy here?

Perhaps it's because Larry was.

Or so it seemed, through the beery haze.

Which was not a haze, but more of a barrier, invisible, cocoon-like, which put me one step (but only one step) removed from bare reality.

So that I was not so much drunk as I was an observer, as the scene unfolded, panel by panel, as in a comic strip, before me.

I am a camera.

This is what comes of watching too many TV documentaries.

Still, I was perceiving.

Whoever the fuck "I" was supposed to be, at the moment.

And Larry had definitely gone limp in the wrists.

So that he was prancing around the apartment in a burlesque of the imitation of somebody imitating Betty Davis.

Even to the point of sounding like it.

And all I could think of was, If he says,

"Philip, Philip, Philip!" I'm walking.

Instead, he asked, "Would you like an after-dinner drink?"

"Uh, no thanks, I've had too much to drink already, apparently."

"Ah, yes.

"Beer will do that to one, if one is dehydrated and one's stomach is empty."

"My fault," I said.

"I shoulda watched myself."

Or better yet, drunk water instead.

But it was too late for such considerations now.

The damage had been done.

Except that it had not—yet.

"Why don't you loosen your clothing? Perhaps you'll feel better."

"How do ya loosen a sweatshirt?"

"Good point.

"By taking it off, I rather imagine."

I shrugged.

And took it off swiftly, dexterously, as though to prove to myself that I was still capable of decisive movement.

And sat there, bare-chested, on an over-upholstered, oversized couch covered in pale gray canvas, my forearms trapped in my sleeves.

Larry laughed.

"Here, let me help you," he said.

And he tugged on the sweatshirt as I sat back.

And he staggered backward as it came loose and I fell back onto the couch, both of us laughing uproariously.

He tossed the sweatshirt onto the matching huge armchair.

And I remember it, a spot of bright red against the pearly, pearlescent grey.

And people who are not drunk would not remember such details.

And yet, for some reason, he had to help me to a seating position on the couch.

And remain beside me, close to me, perched on the edge of the couch, both hands bracing me, one on a shoulder, the other on a knee.

"You all right?" he asked. "I mean, you promise not to fall back over, if I leave go?"

I have never properly understood the mechanics of alcohol.

That, in part, is why I have a tendency to shun it, except on rare occasions.

Because, at a certain point, a person assumes a certain bent of the mind, in which, on the one hand, you are convinced that, while not entirely in command of your faculties, you are not, in any sense of the word, drunk.

And yet, very clearly, to a part of your mind at least, you are.

And you know you are.

Except that you will be all right, as long as you don't move.

Yes, as long as you sit or lean or lie like some kind of puppet or rag doll, you will be all right.

The mind is clear.

Only the body is slightly anesthetized, slightly out of control.

And perhaps anesthetized is the wrong word.

Because certainly there is feeling.

And in fact, it is a very good, a very comfortable, a very warm, very intimate feeling.

So that the hostile becomes neutral, while the neutral turns friendly.

So that the chrome and glass and ugly abstracts become mere background which does not offend.

Whereas this soft, large couch becomes a warm, responsive, cradling environment.

Where I have been joined by positively the most likeable person in the room, other than myself, of whom I am particularly fond at the moment.

Who is expressing concern for my welfare, or at least for my physical equilibrium.

And I will not put him down.

I will not deny him his value, his function, his concern.

If he is holding me up, then obviously it is for my own good and I need, I require, I could sustain serious injury, without such holding up.

So that I lean toward him, into him,

"Whoa there, friend," I hear him say, gently (and his voice is tinged with concern), "we had better get you into bed until you're feeling better."

And he helps me to my feet.

And, since I am not drunk, I am perfectly capable of walking.

Except that I do not choose to.

Because I guess I am a little under the weather after all.

Oh, I could if I wanted to, but this is so much more—fun.

So that I am not drunk, but a person playing at being drunk.

And yet, is it not my having drunk too much, whatever one cares to call it, that is causing me to behave this way?

And he is strong.

So that, big as I am, he has no problem, one of my arms over his (big, broad, muscular) shoulders, the other around his (hard, sturdy) body.

And we are going into his bedroom (or is it that the bedroom has materialized around us?).

Where he gently sits me onto the edge of the bed.

And I, drunk that I am (except that I am not; I don't have to act this way) flop backwards onto the bed.

Where he will not doubt undress me—

But he does not.

It is himself that he undresses, stripping quickly, efficiently, his face turned toward me, to see if I move.

Which I do not.

Although I probably could, if I wanted to.

Which I do not.

And only after he is completely naked does he bend over me.

And I can see the great shoulders as they bend toward me.

And I can see biceps and forearms working, as they undo my belt.

And strip my pants off, my underpants along with them.

And I laugh as they are stuck on my shoes, which he has forgotten to remove.

And he shares my mirth as he kneels, so that I can only see the top of his balding head, gleaming dully in the indirect light of the bedroom.

And finally, I am naked.

As naked as he is.

And he swings my legs up, centering me in the bed.

And I laugh.

Because again, he has gotten the cart before the horse.

So that now, his big cock dangles in my face, closer than any cock has ever dangled before.

So that I see the thick flange of its big head, the vein at the top of it, the configuration of his bush, as he pulls the covers down around me.

And I am warm and comfortable and relaxed and he is about to tuck me in where I will sleep off this whatever it is.

Sure he is.

Sure I will.

That's why he's in bed with me, and we're both naked, right?

And yet, at the time, it all made sense.

No it didn't.

That was a lie that part of me believed.

Maybe.

Maybe none of me believed it.

Maybe all of me knew that something was happening that had never happened before.

To me.

And yet, not to me.

It was happening to the me there on the bed as the all seeing eye of camera/me watched and did not participate.

As Larry arranged my head on a pillow.

And propped himself up, back against another pillow against the upholstered headboard.

So that the cock in his lap was facing me, the ruddy eye of the plum head staring right into my face.

As Larry gently ran a hand over my shoulders and kneaded my pectorals as though they were a woman's breasts.

Assuming, of course, that Larry in fact kneaded a woman's breasts.

Or anything else of a woman's.

Which on the surface of it appeared highly unlikely at the moment.

As he twisted his body toward me.

So that his heavy equipment flopped down, touching my shoulder.

And I, who could not move, was moving.

As I turned toward the dangling organ.

But I did nothing.

I looked at it at close range, finding it odd that a male sex organ should, for the first time in my life, occupy so much area of my vision.

And now, one hand on the back of my head—not pushing, just there—with the other, Larry picked up his dong.

And rubbed the huge, rounded head against my lips.

And I could have pulled back.

I could have sat up.

But I did not.

Because it was—easier.

The path of least resistance, someone had told me, or I had heard or read somewhere.

Go with the flow, I seemed to hear a voice saying to me.

Just let it happen.

Just let it.

Just let.

Just.

Juff—

And the head of his cock was inside my lips, scrubbing itself against my closed teeth.

And just doing it.

Not insisting, not pressing, not calling for re-enforcements from the hulk to which it was attached.

So that nobody opened my mouth.

I didn't either, of course.

It just came open.

Because I was too much under the weather, too relaxed to keep my lower jaw in place.

And so, it was in me.

Not him, it.

I had not been seduced by another man, had not given in, been persuaded of anything.

But it was in my mouth.

And there was a salivation there.

And I suppose that it could have been construed as a kind of hunger.

In any case, since it was not too much trouble, I sucked it like a lollipop.

And of course, the shaft behind it could not remain limber.

So that the prick (which happened to be attached to Larry, was in that sense another man's cock, I suppose) became hard.

Long and thick and vibrant it was.

Just as was mine, no doubt, when the girls sucked me off.

But of course, under those circumstances, it was me they were sucking off.

Whereas, at the moment, I was merely sucking a cock (expertly I might add, using those techniques which felt best on me) which was, of necessity, attached to a male body, to wit, Larry's.

And I felt my own spring to life, standing hard and erect.

Proving once more that, while I had been drinking, I was certainly not numb, not in any way incapacitated.

And now, Larry pulled it back.

And reversed himself in the bed.

So that, in order to reach his cock, or rather, the cock I was sucking and which happened, just happened, to be his, I had to actually move down in the bed.

But, drawn by the cock, inspired by it, seeing it there, hard and stiff and pulsing and shiny with my saliva, I seemed to float down, down, down.

And now, a delightful, a magical thing happened.

Because, as I covered the head and a good part of the shaft of the cock with my mouth, I felt my own similarly engulfed.

So that now, it was as though, by sucking the cock which was attached to Larry, I was causing the same action to be performed on my own.

And now, as the sensations of sexual arousal coursed through me, knowing exactly what it was I wanted done, how I wanted it to fee!, I was controlling the action entirely with my mouth.

I was sucking Larry's cock, taking more and more of it into my mouth and throat, my head bobbing faster and faster, my suction smoother, harder, more eager, more hungry.

As I felt myself getting hotter and hotter.

And now, I was not so much sucking as I was summoning.

And it was not Larry's jism but my own that I was extracting, eliciting, soliciting with every long, hard, tongue-winding suck.

Until, with an explosion of pleasure beyond pleasure, I was coming, coming as though in my own mouth.