The Stripper

The Stripper

The Stripper

by A. Richard Hunter

arichardhunter@hotmail.com

Chapter One

The 80's was a great time to live in the Los Angeles area. Not because of the city itself, and certainly not because of the traffic and crowds, but because of the entertainment that was available for the gay man looking to have a good time.

It actually started in the mid-70's at a gay nightclub in West Hollywood named Studio One. The owners of the club had developed a winning formula for the time. There was a large dance floor surrounded by bleacher-type seating, a bar staffed by gorgeous young bartenders who wore skin tight denims or slacks and were shirtless, and waiters who roamed around to the bleachers taking orders and delivering drinks. They were best of all because the only thing they were wearing were tiny white gym shorts. The demand for eye candy was thus established.

As always happens, another club opened soon just outside of West Hollywood on Beverly Boulevard. It was named the Odyssey, in part because touring through the club was like an odyssey through a variety of experiences. The Odyssey had been designed to cater to the teenage underage group and those who liked them. The minimum age for entry was eighteen so no alcohol was served on the premises. Instead, soft drinks, fruit juices and non-alcoholic cocktails were the order of the day. Meeting the eye candy requirement, the club employed ‘bartenders’ and waiters of eighteen and nineteen years of age, although they did not dress their waiters in tiny white shorts as did Studio One, presumably as a safety precaution against police persecution which was still rampant against gay men by the Los Angeles Police in those days.

The Odyssey was popular for yet another reason. It drew from among some of Hollywood’s young celebrities and also a mixed crowd. It was not uncommon on a Friday night to see a cute straight boy bring his girlfriend to the Odyssey as it was the only underage club in town. And, for that reason, gay celebrities felt a little more comfortable coming to the club since they couldn’t be immediately tagged as gay by someone seeing them enter the club. And, in those days, most people who were gay or gay friendly knew how to keep their mouths shut. They weren’t interested in forcibly outing celebrities.

From time to time, you would hear stories of one of the ‘straight’ boys going AWOL from his girlfriend for half an hour as he gave in to the seduction of a gay man, who took him into one of the many areas where some degree of privacy could be had. There, the boy would watch, while burning from sexual tension, as the gay man opened the boy’s trousers and dragged them and his underwear to the boys knees and administered the kind of sexual release that the straight boy had only heard about up to this point, and never experienced, and which was something most girls at school still referred to as ‘filthy’. I learned of these intimate details from my friend Bob, one evening, after he returned from a rather prolonged visit to the ‘bathroom’ with an enormous smile on his face. When he described the boy he had just spent the past thirty minutes with, and then pointed him out, I felt the feelings of longing turning over in my stomach, wishing I were as outgoing, aggressive, and confident as Bob.

Always the shy person and not really a club-going type, I did not frequent these clubs on any regular basis, but on occasions when it was suggested or I was able to find a friend willing to go with me - and that I knew wouldn’t run off and desert me as soon as the fun got started - I would go to one or the other of the clubs. I enjoyed the music - love disco music to this day because of its high energy and the memories it inspires of the golden age of gay nightclubs - and I loved watching what were some of the most beautiful boys in existence running around half-naked serving drinks.

It was at the Odyssey one Friday night that my jaw dropped. I was there with my friend Marco, and he had persuaded me to actually get out on the floor and dance. I am not a good dancer. I’m stiff and have little rhythm so I usually look like a giraffe trying to do the Watussi. But dancing just a few feet from Marco and I was one half of a popular singing sensation and one of the cutest boys gracing the teen heart-throb magazines at the time. He and his twin brother, nephews of a popular chart-topping male singer and television star of the ‘60's, were all the rage, and seeing him (the cuter one in my opinion) on the floor dancing very sexily with who I assumed was his boyfriend, set my senses afire. I kept watching him as I danced, noted his smooth torso through his open, unbuttoned shirt and the way his chest glistened with perspiration, and the way his dance partner regularly ran his palm over the moist skin. I looked keenly at how snugly the light gray slacks fit his small ass and how the pronounced bulge in his crotch shifted with his dance movements. He was a true beauty and I took delight in having seen him outside of his plain vanilla appearances as part of the singing duo or appearances as a guest star on TV shows such as The Partridge Family. When Marco asked what I was looking at, I merely replied that I thought I had seen someone I knew and then made the effort not to be so obvious in staring at the young singer any longer.

Yes, I have to admit it, I’m a voyeur. Always have been. With an extremely sheltered childhood and religious upbringing, the only introduction I really had to the naked male form came in my mid-teens when I happened to come across a Sunshine Funshine nudist magazine with photos of nude boys. That set the stage. Being too shy to have the kind of experiences or opportunities to experience the real thing that many gay teen boys have, my days and nights were occupied with dreams and visions of boys from school that I thought were cute and musings in which I imagined what they would look like naked, and fantasized about making it happen. When I needed to satisfy the need to really see a naked boy, I would pull out the nudist magazine from under the carpet in my bedroom closet.

Years later, this voyeuristic need was still evidenced by my occasional visits to the gay clubs which catered to such instincts. I would sit and watch, reveling in the beauty that was available, and wishing I had the nerve to make an approach.

On one of my visits to the Odyssey, a cute blonde boy approached me and asked if I would like to order a drink. Obviously, he had to be eighteen, as that was the minimum age for the club, but he could have easily passed for as young as fifteen. I ordered a Coke and he was off to retrieve the order. He came back in about ten minutes with my drink and I paid him and then tipped him heavily. The friend that was with me noted the extravagance of the tip and nudged me with his shoulder and gave me a big smile.

“So, apparently you like our little waiter?”

I blushed, probably a full crimson, and looked away without answering. My friend didn’t let up.

“So talk to him. I saw the way he was looking at you. I think he would like it if you made a pass at him.”

“Geez, Marco. He’s only barely 18. I’m 25! Why would he be interested in me?” Such has always been my way of thinking. Why would someone younger and cuter ever have any interest in me. Or any older man, for that matter. I have always been astounded by the number of genuine March-September romances that exist among gay men because it was so completely contrary to the way I looked at the world. Even as, or after, I had just such a relationship myself, I continued to find it incomprehensible.

“That’s only seven years difference. You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

The problem was, that in the past, the few times I had tried, I’d been shot down. Sometimes quite cruelly. Consequently, I was desperately afraid of rejection and had great difficulty in getting up the nerve to try.

My nerves were sorely tested a short while later when the waiter returned to the area, put his serving tray down on a table a few feet from me, stripped off his T-shirt, and began dancing and writhing to the music right in front of my table, while casting frequent glances directly at me. When he began running his hands over his body, and down over the front of his slacks in a way that Michael Jackson would make popular for dancers a few years later, I could feel my temperature rising and certain flesh growing firm.

Marco was peppering me with encouraging words. “Go to him.” “ Call him over.” “ He wants you.” “ He’s dancing just for you.” “ He’s practically begging you to show an interest in him.” “God! He’s got a hard-on. How much more does he have to do to get you to react to his invitation?”

I was dying to make a move but just as I finally had decided I had to give it a try, the boy picked up his tray and went back to work. I never saw him at the club again. I expect that management wouldn’t take too kindly to the waiters dropping their trays to dance and may have fired him. But it is far more likely that this little beauty danced for someone with a lot more self confidence and courage and found himself living with someone who took care of him in a manner befitting his beauty.

About a year later, Odyssey burned down - an act of arson it was said - and there was no longer a club dedicated to the underage party goers. Some said the owners had burned the club down for the insurance because they were going bankrupt, unable to make a profit from non-alcoholic beverages. Others said it was people who lived in the area, tired of all the young boys who were being corrupted by older men and ‘converted’ to a gay lifestyle. In any event, my sole source of entertainment was now Studio One.

The Studio had made some changes. Taking a page from the book of straight clubs and the popularity of male revues on ‘Ladies Only Night’, Studio One had implemented dancing boys who gradually stripped down to their briefs. Later, they put the boys in cages mounted on platforms where they could be better seen without being so readily touched. Finally, they moved the platforms next to a riser where patrons could get close and could reach in to shove money into the dancing boys’ briefs, yet keep the bars between dancer and patron in the event the patron became too aggressive and the dancer needed to back away. Again, Studio one had set the standard and raised the bar. Other clubs tried to copy Studio One but they could only copy, never match the Studio for its ingenuity and implementation.

I visited occasionally, disappointed that the greater percentage of the dancers were older guys in their mid- to late-twenties, many with hairy chests. But occasionally the Studio would find and present a beautiful twenty-one year old, smooth bodied, cute, slim and small of frame that would be appealing. On those occasions, I would contribute heartily to the dancer’s financial well-being.

A short time later, I met and fell in love with a seventeen year old boy and we spent five years together in a wonderful relationship. When it ended, I moved home to the city I had grown up in, wanting to get away from Los Angeles and the memories it held for me. I stayed there for a few years but events soon brought me back to Los Angeles.

It was after my return that I discovered, through a friend, that the old Studio One, now extinct, had spawned an entire genre of entertainment. Small clubs and even bars were now offering male revues on certain nights as an attraction and draw for the establishment. Some of the bars had a cover charge while for others the only charge was the price of the drinks.

My long time friend, Bob, called me at home one Sunday afternoon to announce that he was taking me to a bar in Los Angeles that evening, to see one of the revues. I resisted but finally consented as he worked his salesmanship on me. We drove up to Hollywood to a bar that had a Spanish name, located on Highland Avenue, and walked in just as they were opening the doors at 6 pm. We took a table right at the very foot of a small stage and ordered drinks. I had a Bailey’s on the rocks while Bob had a Scotch and Soda. The show wasn’t due to start until 7pm so we had a bit of a wait. I tried to sip slowly at my drink to make it last as I was not accustomed to drinking alcohol with any regularity and knew I would easily become inebriated if I drank too much in too short a time.

The bar started filling up about six thirty with all kinds of men coming to see the show. I was glad we had arrived early so that we have front row seats. The tables were arranged across the foot of the stage but with an open center aisle, the two rows down each side against the walls, and then several rows at the rear. The center of the floor was kept open for the dancers (both the dance performers as well as the male couples that would dance to the DJ music that came after the show).

At 7pm promptly, introductory music played, fallowed by a voice announcer introducing the hostess of the evening. From the curtains emerged a rather beautiful latina, who was actually a transgendered individual, who told a few jokes, interacted with some of the regular customers and then proceeded to introduce the dancers.

The first dancer was a black man in his late twenties, and I was not at all impressed. Seeing him actually served to reinforce my expectations and the argument I had given Bob for not wanting to go a few hours earlier. He was older than I would prefer and, while a nice looking man, he was muscular and bulky as opposed to the slim, small-waisted and youthful look I preferred.

The second dancer was a white man, also late twenties, and much the same as the previous dancer. The third dancer was significantly better. He was a small latino boy named Roberto, but called Robbie, who had pitch black hair, cut short, coal black smouldering eyes, and a very lean, tight body with an attractive café au lait coloring.

Robbie came out center stage and looked over the audience. When the music started pounding, he began to move, jumping, twirling, twisting his body in a way that aroused my senses. He stripped off his shirt revealing a slim chest with dark chocolate nipples and the slightest amount of black hair under his arms. He kept dancing, gradually unbuckling his belt, pulling the belt free of the pants, and tossing it off stage. He sat in a chair, dancing with his upper body, as he lifted each leg to remove his boots and socks.

The chair was flung off stage and Robbie undid the button at the top of his fly. He lowered the zipper and pulled it back up, and repeated this action several times before allowing the zipper to remain down. Spreading the fly, Robbie revealed his snowy white briefs to the men in the audience who were gazing so intently and longingly at this small latino beauty. Finally,. He quickly pushed his slacks down his legs, pulled each leg free, and cast the slacks aside. He now stood on stage wearing only a very small pair of white bikini briefs, bulging respectably and well fitted to his small, delicately rounded ass.

I watched in somewhat of a daze as he came down the steps and danced in the center of the floor, moving off to a patron each time a man raised his hand with money in it, then returning to the center of the floor to look for his next contribution. I finally got up the nerve and waved a few dollar bills in the air and Robbie came bounding over to me, his face alight with a beautiful smile full of straight white teeth. He stood in front of me and swiveled one hip toward me, and I shoved two bills into the white briefs at his hip. A short time later, he came by again, and I shoved another bill into the back of the briefs, giving his tight little butt a playful pat. He turned, smiling and winking, kissed the tip of his finger and pressed his finger against my cheek. I never saw Robbie again after that night. I heard that his boyfriend was jealous and made him quit after seeing one of his performances and the way the men pawed at his body. It was a sad loss for the Sunday night entertainment.

Two more dancers followed Robbie but I couldn’t tell you a thing about them because I was still in a daze from little Robbie. However, one more dancer was left. He was introduced as Greg and I had little expectation that he would be any different than the rest, with the notable exception of Robbie, until he came walking out. He leaned against a column on stage, smoking a cigarette, just looking very sexy and disinterested. He was wearing tight blue button fly denims, like was popular with jocks, a high school letterman’s jacket and a white T-shirt. When the music started, he cast aside the cigarette and moved sensuously and in perfect rhythm to the beat of the music, to center stage. His movements were practiced and graceful, clearly having been choreographed in advance and practiced to perfection.

His dance movements were made to simulate the movements of a football quarterback on the field, and as he ‘played his game’ he was gradually removing piece after piece of clothing in a way so smoothly and effortlessly as to practically escape attention. Finally, he was center stage, clad only in a G-string piece of barely existent cloth, and I finally came out of my fog. I looked him over carefully as he descended the steps to the center dance floor.

Greg was about five foot eleven, slim but not skinny, his hair was a dark blonde with lighter highlights, his eyes blue and clear. He was toned and athletic-looking all over without being muscular and bulky. His legs were dusted with fine blonde hairs but the rest of his body was as smooth and soft looking as a baby’s butt. He had a strikingly handsome - beautiful even - face with perfect lips that withdrew when he smiled to show perfect teeth. When he turned around, I was astounded to see a perfect bubble butt that was tight and firm and did not contort or shift with his dance movements. I immediately dug for my wallet.

Fortunately, I had made a stop at the store before Bob picked me up, trying to be prepared just in case, so I had traded in two twenties for forty one-dollar bills. I was glad now that I had demonstrated such foresight. My hand was in the air and Greg made his way toward me, having to make several stops along the way. He was clearly the most popular of the night and, I suspected, had been appearing here for awhile and thus had a regular following.

When Greg approached me, he looked into my eyes and smiled warmly, then thrust his hips forward presenting his bulging crotch to me. I quickly shoved three bills into the front pouch, purposely trying to push them down as far as I could, but encountered nothing that would seem to have been a soft, warm cock. Greg leaned over and planted a quick kiss on my lips, which caused me to see stars, but which did not mislead me. I had seen him doing pretty much the same thing with every man who had put a tip in his G-string.

All of the dancers came out for a shorter second round, again making the rounds, and when Greg approached me, I placed my hands on his hips and turned him around, and worked three bills into the string that ran into the crevice between his perfect ass cheeks. Then I lightly caressed my hand over those perfect cheeks before sitting back. Greg turned and looked at me with a combination questioning and amused expression, then bent over to plant the customary quick kiss on my lips before dancing off to the next man.

Over the next several weeks, I made a point of being at the bar each and every Sunday. Sometimes with Bob, other times with another friend, whomever I could find to go with me. I even went completely on my own one week rather than miss the show because of a lack of anyone to go with.

On about the fifth visit to the show, after I had called Greg over with the wave of a fistfull of bills, Greg had crouched down beside me, facing away from the dance floor, and leaned back on his hands. I stuffed a five dollar bill in the pouch of his the athletic supporter which he was wearing this week, and then tried to see if I could feel his cock.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I wear a kind of male ‘bra’ under whatever I’m wearing to protect me from someone trying to cop a feel and so that I won’t embarrass myself by getting hard. Sorry.”

I smiled at him and mumbled something about it being okay, then gave a light squeeze to his crotch. He leaned over again and gave me the customary kiss, although it lasted about four times longer than any previous quick peck, and then stood up and danced away. At the second round, I asked him - quite boldly for me - if after the show he would like to join Bob and I for a drink before he left. Obviously, the five Bailey’s were having an effect. He agreed and said he would stop by in about an hour after showering and changing. True to his word, Greg showed up about fifty minutes later, dressed quite alluringly in tight black slacks and a gray knit mock-turtleneck long-sleeved sweater. Even Bob grabbed my arm as he saw Greg approach from across the room and uttered, “My God! Look at that!” He was, indeed, a sight to behold.

Greg and Bob and I chatted for about forty minutes over drinks. I was surprised and pleased that Greg talked with me as long as he did. I was certain there must be many other of his admirers that would have loved to have had some personal time with him - perhaps had even asked him to join them and had their invitation politely declined - but I focused on what was at this moment and not what might or might not have happed with others in the past.

“I don’t usually have drinks with customers.” It was as if Greg had been reading my mind. “ I have to keep a certain distance. But you always seem so nice. I’ve had some guys actually try to pull my bikini or whatever I’m wearing down my legs so they can see what I’ve got.” Greg stopped and took a big pull on the bottle of Heineken I had ordered for him. “Some guys treat me as if I’m a whore. They actually ask me how much I charge to go home with them. Just because I dance in very little clothing and accept tips doesn’t mean that I’m a whore or a hustler.”

Greg seemed to make this statement in a fairly bland way, as though he were trying to provide some information in a preventative vein without being insulting or accusing. Truth was, I would never have offered him money but if asked, I would have forked it over in a heartbeat. Nonetheless, I smiled back at him. “Anyone who treats you like a whore doesn’t deserve your attention or even the time of day. Just tell them to screw off!” Greg looked at me with an expression that was entirely unreadable.

Some of what I learned from the conversation with Greg was that he was a student, on his own because his father had thrown him out upon learning he was gay. He was studying something to do with the arts, and I assumed it likely had something to do with acting, directing or the like judging from his ability to create a complete portrayal with his dance sequences and work in dramatic elements that had you caught up in a storyline that meshed with his chosen costume of the evening. Of probably a hundred such male revue numbers that I have seen before, during and since, I have seen nothing as profoundly staged and entertaining as were Greg’s numbers. Other things I learned were that Greg was twenty one, he had been in only one relationship which had ended when he was nineteen, he lived in a room he rented from an elderly widow and supported himself solely on what he took in from his dance performances. From that, and making an inquiry, I learned that in addition to Sunday nights at this Hollywood bar, Greg also danced on Tuesday nights at a bar in Garden Grove and on Friday nights at a bar in Costa Mesa. I immediately got the names and addresses of the other bars and made plans to start attending Greg’s dance shows at those bars as well. I would not have to wait a whole week between each show with Greg any longer.

Going to three shows a week meant having to include more friends in my bar-hopping activities as none of my friends were as committed as I to attending all of Greg’s shows. I eventually invited one of my subordinate managers, a brassy woman with a great sense of fun and a cousin who was gay, to accompany me to the Sunday night show. She invited a female friend of hers as well as her cousin, and we made the trip to Hollywood. We took our customary front row table at the edge of the stage and ordered drinks. As the dancers started, the ladies were having a lot of fun while I merely endured what was a delay in the real reason I was there. Because Greg was so enormously popular, he was always the last dancer in order to keep people around longer and keep them drinking.

When Greg came out, he looked right at me and flashed me a smile and pointed at me. When the music started, it was a love song and he was mouthing the words as he danced, while looking very pointedly right at me. It had me glowing right down to my toes. But it also was a little embarrassing because it felt like everyone was looking at me. I’m sure I was blushing.

When Greg finally danced over to me, he didn’t wait for me to push any bills down the front of his thong but placed his hands on each side of my face and kissed me on the lips - a real kiss and not one of those quick kisses that he reserved for the customers. I was seeing stars after that and he danced away before I even gave him any money.

Greg danced up to my co-workers friend who was waiving a dollar bill and had clearly had one too many already. Greg moved up in front of her and she pulled the front of his thong out away from his body and leaned forward and looked inside. Then she shoved the bill inside and let the thong waistband snap back to Greg’s abdomen. When Greg danced over to me once more, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

“Shove the money down front as far as you can. There’s a surprise for you.”

I did as he suggested and found my fingers caressing his soft cock. It was soft but it was growing. It was laying up over his pubic hair, nothing in the way, and when he moved in closer and I looked inside the pouch, I could see the circumcised head and the sandy brown pubic hair. As much as I wanted to touch his cock more or even try to reach in far enough to feel his balls, I knew that would potentially subject him to problems with the bar management and may also cause him to become erect - and he was still a few minutes from the end of his dance routine.

The rest of the night was a haze but Greg, on his own initiative, joined me after the dancing was over and I introduced him to my co-worker and her friends. He was pleasant to them all, then discreetly slipped me a piece of paper with his telephone number on it, whispered to me to call him Monday night, and then said goodbye to everyone.

Chapter Two

“Honey, he’s absolutely adorable and he sure seems to like you!”

I was on cloud nine but still not ready to get my hopes up and start thinking it was more than it was. Just because he wanted me to call him didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in me. He may only be needing a friend, or someone to talk with openly as he had before. Or, just maybe, he needed something and considered me at the top of his potential sugar daddy list. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. “He just needs a friend. I’ve treated him nice so he feels he can trust me enough to talk to me.”

“Sweetheart....” Loretta drew it out with her plainful moan and her southern accent, “that boy has it all going for you. A mother can tell when a boy is in love.”

I laughed quietly and mumbled under my breath, “Yep Loretta, you’re a mother alright.”

We were all sitting in the Denny’s on Hollywood Boulevard grabbing a quick bite to eat before hitting the freeway for home. Loretta wasn’t the only one offering her opinions on Greg’s intentions but she was the only one attempting to throw love and marriage into the mix. Loretta’s cousin Edward was of the opinion that Greg wanted something and that was the reason that he had been so suddenly affectionate. MaryBeth, Loretta’s friend, didn’t have an opinion about what he wanted, only that I should definitely call him and find out. I fully agreed with MaryBeth and told her so and refused to believe the other opinions until there was some evidence to support it.

I was on pins and needles the entire following day and Loretta was smart enough not to try and give me any more opinions on what she knew was on my mind. I debated all day whether to call him right away or wait until that night, finally deciding that he would probably be in school and it was best to call him after I got home.

As soon as the clock hands hit six o’clock, I picked up the receiver and dialed the number Greg had given me. His soft, melodious voice answered on the second ring and I hesitated a moment, trying to get up my nerve. Even though he had asked me to call, I was still unsure of myself. I was the type of guy that, as a fifteen year old calling a girl for a date, practiced for hours before the call and then would call ten or fifteen times and hang up each time before finally working up the nerve to say anything. It was like I was a fifteen year old all over again.

“Hi, Greg. It’s me, Richard.”

Greg was all upbeat and friendly, asking how I was doing and how my day had gone. It was like we were really friends and we had a pleasant exchange for a few minutes before Greg got down to the reason he had asked me to call.

“I tried something out last night, what with being especially affectionate toward you. I’ve noticed that I seem to get more attention and bigger tips from the crowds on the nights that I show more affection to someone in the audience and so far that someone has always been you because you’re the one I’m comfortable with. Some of those guys would wait for me and rape me if I gave them any encouragement.”

Greg paused for a moment and I was quiet waiting for him to continue. I was a little disappointed because I had started hoping that he was going to suggest we go out sometime and I saw that as an opening for establishing something more - a real friendship or a relationship.

“Anyway, I thought that since you come to everyone of my shows, I could work something in. Last night the manager was a little upset at the interaction between us saying it could get him in trouble with his liquor license, so I told him it was all part of the act, staged to generate more excitement. He said it was okay as long as it was staged and that you weren’t just part of the audience. That got me thinking that I could maybe do that at all three of the bars with you, we could plan it in advance, and see how it goes. The only reason I’m asking is because the tips have been running a little slow the past couple of months, even with your generosity, and I need to find something that can improve it or I’m going to be in over my head and may have to drop some classes at school.”

I didn’t hesitate this time. He wasn’t asking me to do anything that I wouldn’t gladly do, whatever the reason for it. If someone you really like asks you to kiss them, do you ask why, or ask them to explain their motivation? Hell, no! You just kiss them.

“I’ll do anything I can to help. It would be a pleasure to help you in any way possible.”

I could hear the sigh of relief from the other end of the telephone and then Greg’s voice, a little calmer now. “Thanks. I was afraid you’d think I was taking advantage of you.”

“How is that taking advantage of me? A guy I’m totally into asks me to be affectionate with him and that’s taking advantage of me.” Wait. Had I really said that ... out loud? My face suddenly burned with embarrassment at realizing how I had exposed myself to Greg in that moment and holding my breath waiting to see what his reaction would be. Maybe he would be nervous now about doing this affection thing with me as part of his act.

“Great. Can we meet sometime before the show tomorrow to figure out what we’ll do?”

“Sure. You name it.”

“Could we get together tonight? The show is at nine tomorrow and I have late classes until seven so that won’t leave too much time to plan, prepare and practice.”

“Sure. Do you want to meet somewhere?”

“How about your place?”

That idea completely appealed to me and so I gave Greg my address and directions on how to get to my place. He was completely surprised that I was living in Huntington Beach, having figured I lived closer to Los Angeles or Hollywood. But the idea of a beach front condo psyched him and he told me he was leaving immediately.

With traffic, it took almost an hour before Greg arrived. I had opened the balcony doors to let the sea air in and lowered the sun screen so that it was possible to see the setting sun over the water without the extreme glare. I had placed some sliced summer sausage and crackers and cheese on the table and put out some Bartyles & James Berry Berry Wine Coolers, remembering that Greg had ordered it once when we were sitting talking. And it was my favorite. I didn’t really like anything alcoholic but when necessary, I would have a wine cooler or a Bailey’s Irish Cream. On special occasions I would have a Pina Colada, with or without the rum. Those were the only drinks I could stand because the alcohol taste was somewhat concealed.

When Greg arrived, he dumped his bag inside the door and gave me a quick hug. It was unexpected and extremely pleasing. When he looked past my shoulder and saw the sun just starting to dip past the horizon, he was awe struck and walked very slowly toward the balcony and its expansive view of the beach, the water and the orange and yellow sunset.

“This is so incredible. I had no idea the sunset looked like this. I’ve never been to the beach at sunset and only a few times during the day since I moved out here.”

“You’re not from California?”

“No. I guess I didn’t tell you that. I’m from Colorado.”

“I guess I just assumed you were a Southern California kid because you dance like a professional and you look like a leading man in the movies.”

“You’re funny. I just got here six months ago in time to get started at college for the summer session.”

“Well, you fit in with California nicely. Listen, didn’t know if you’ve eaten yet or anything so I laid out a little something in case you’re hungry while we work out the plan for tomorrow.”

Greg looked over the spread. “Wow! Cheese, crackers, sausages and wine coolers. You’re a real classy guy. You must be rich.”

“Ha! Just a working stiff like everyone else.”

“But all this...” Greg gestured about the condo, “...must cost a fortune.”

“It’s not cheap but it’s not a fortune. I’m comfortable enough.”

“I don’t even know what you do.”

“I work with contracts. I write them, I review them, I approve them. I enforce them. Rather a dull job, actually.”

“Contracts, huh? So you’re an attorney.”

“I have the degree, just haven’t taken the bar exam. Seems to be no point to it since I wouldn’t get paid anymore if I take it and to actually practice law I would have to set up a law office of my own. And that is expensive.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll just think of you as an attorney in case I ever need one.” Greg flashed a big smile and sat down at the table on the balcony, totally mesmerized by the ocean view, and began helping himself to a cracker and some cheese. I sat down beside him and poured each of us some wine and Greg became animated as he started explaining what he was thinking of for the following night. He was so excited that he had downed two wine coolers in the first twenty minutes as he kept explaining his plan. It was actually a very good plan and I could see how it might build a fire under some customers who were reluctant to part with a few bucks for entertainment. As we continued reviewing, planning, and laying it out step by step, Greg continued drinking, sometimes just nursing the drink, other times gulping quickly.

By nine thirty, everything was planned and arranged and Greg stood up and almost toppled over. I caught him as he lurched to one side and held onto him until he felt steadier on his feet.

“You’d better sit down and let me fix you some coffee so you can sober up before you try driving home. How far do you have to go?”

“Norwalk.” His word was somewhat slurred which didn’t ease my mind any.

“That’s a long way to go when you’ve been drinking. How long does it usually take you to sober up?”

“Coupla hours.”

“That’s no good. It will be eleven thirty by then, an hour for you to get home. I’m sorry. I should never have put out the wine this late at night and with you having to drive. Maybe I could drive you home - no that wouldn’t work because you wouldn’t have your car tomorrow for school. Well, I can fix up the sofa for you and you can stay here tonight and get an early start in the morning.”

“No, I can’t sleep on the sofa because they mess up my back and then I wouldn’t be able to dance tomorrow night. I’ll just wait awhile and drive home.”

“I just don’t think that’s a good idea. I’d let you sleep with me but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to come on to you or that I got you drunk on purpose.”

Greg walked up to me, face to face, and raised up on his toes and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “I got drunk on purpose so I would have to stay here. I’ve been trying to find the courage to tell you I like you but this is all new to me. You’re shy and hold back and I’m so used to having guys come on to me that I felt off balance as far as coming on to you. And the signals I thought I was throwing weren’t working at all.”

My eyes were as big as saucers. There was no way I could believe this and my mind was instantly in analysis mode trying to measure an angle. But I couldn’t find one so I wrapped my arms around Greg and bent my head down and returned the kiss. “I guess if you’re going to stay here tonight, you should get to bed and sleep off the alcohol so that you’ll be ready and able to go to school tomorrow morning.”

I showed Greg the way to the bedroom and pointed out the attached bathroom. He told me he had come prepared, just in case the opportunity presented itself, and had a change of clothes in his bag, along with a bottle of white wine. I retrieved the bag from the entry hall and returned to the bedroom to find that he was already down to his briefs and just about to push them down as well. I cleared my throat so that he would know I was there, and he turned to face me as he pushed his briefs down over his hips and let them drop to his ankles.

Greg stood there, facing me in his full glory, and I was transfixed - rooted to the spot and unable to take my eyes off of him. This was what I had been dreaming about for months now without any real expectation that it would or could ever happen and suddenly, right here in my own bedroom, Greg was standing naked in front of me and making no attempt to hide himself or move away from me.

I approached Greg and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Let’s get you into bed. You are totally wiped out.”

Greg’s face scrunched up into a look of confusion. “Don’t you want to make love to me? I want you to make love to me.”

I looked at him directly and spoke slowly and distinctly. “I want to make love to you more than anything in the world. But I want to make love to you, not to the alcohol. I want to know that you really want it and not risk that, in the morning when you’re sober, that you’ll have regrets and then not be comfortable around me anymore.

Greg tried to argue for a few moments but was getting considerably more unsteady on his feet and finally just grabbed me about the waist to stay on his feet. It was the most difficult situation I could imagine, holding on to a beautiful naked boy that I was crazy about, having him beg me to make love to him, and trying to explain why I couldn’t. It was made even more difficult by the concern that, in the morning, he would have a change of heart and I would have passed up the only opportunity I would ever have of making love to this beautiful boy.

“Please fuck me, Richard. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”

I explained my reasons again and when he tried once more to convince me, I sat him on the edge of the bed, sat beside him, kissed him gently, and made him a promise. “I’ll tell you what. When we wake up in the morning, you’ll be sober. If you still want me to make love to you then, I will. In fact I’ll make love to you as many times and for as long as you want me to. I’ll even call your school and tell them you’re sick and then I’ll make love to you all day long.”

“You promise?”

I nodded my head and kissed him again. I pushed him back, laying him down, and worked the sheet and comforter over the top of him. I leaned over him and kissed him on the lips and he put one hand behind my head and pulled my face harder to his, opening his mouth and trying to gain access to mine, finally succeeding and exploring my mouth with his warm tongue. I returned the favor and experienced the sensation of his tongue against mine, feeling my tongue glide over his perfectly even teeth, and nibbling at his lips.

I was as hard as a rock just from kissing Greg, and he didn’t miss it. While we kissed, he secretively moved his hand from beneath the comforter and reached toward my crotch, gently taking old of the straining outline in my slacks caused by my erection. I jumped, startled when he took hold of my hard cock, and backed away from him. He just grinned at me like a mischievous kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and asked if I was going to come to bed. I told him I should wait until he fell asleep, for obvious reasons, but he insisted he would be good if I came to bed because he wanted us to be able to talk. I gave in to his pleadings because it seemed that it was very important to him to be able to talk.

We talked for hours. He was completely sober by the time we had talked ourselves out and I had learned a great deal about this very unique boy.

Chapter Three

Greg was, indeed, from Colorado. He was born and raised in a small community suburban to Denver, and an area where Christian values were supreme. He believed in everything he was taught except that God didn’t love gay people. He knew that was untrue because he knew God loved him and had watched over him during difficult times.

His mother died when he was six, creating a vacuum in the home in terms of love and tenderness. His father, while a good man, was retired from the military and was a deacon in their church. These two elements combined to make him a little distant and sometimes overly dedicated to discipline. Greg accepted his father for the man that he was and was never critical of his style of parenting, but longed for the love and affection that his mother had shown him.

At thirteen, Greg had discovered he had a gift for dancing and acting. He appeared in several middle school productions at which he garnered continuing praise. It was at this age that Greg also discovered that he liked boys more than girls. This latter discovery was made nightmarish by the fact that Greg was such an uncommonly beautiful boy that all the girls were constantly flirting with him and asking for dates. Every day he had to come up with a new reason why he couldn’t go out with them and each time he felt certain that he was going to get caught in his lie.

These combined elements in his life made him turn inward, afraid of opening himself up to people, afraid of being himself and expressing his feelings. The only time he felt free, that he felt he could be himself, was when he was acting or dancing, so he spent more and more time in pursuing those interests in order to maintain his sense of balance. But. what had happened as a result of this course of action was that he had become terribly insecure and withdrawing as Greg, the person, while becoming very confident and outgoing as Greg the performer.

When he was 18, he went to college in Denver and was staying in the dorm. His roommate was a jock and they had become friends based upon the fact that Greg had actually played football for a short time in his junior year of high school. They had hung out and gone everywhere together until Greg discovered he was developing feelings for his friend. It had so freaked him out that he dropped out of school and returned home to face a very angry father. He had no explanation for his actions - at least that he could give his father - so he simply stated that he didn’t think college was right for him at the time and that he felt he should work for a year or two until he was fully prepared to give it his all. The explanation had appeased his father who believed that his son was showing signs of maturity and responsibility in not wasting time and money at school that was giving him nothing.

It was just weeks later that Greg had met Dane, a boy who was new to town, a year younger than he, and so very cute it had made his eyes hurt. Dane was a transplant from New York City and seemed to be worldly and wise whereas Greg felt he was so much the opposite. Dane had off-handedly dropped a comment about how people in New York were so casual about sex, and it was common to see two men kissing in public or strolling down the street holding hands. He hinted that he had even been seduced by an older man who had given him his first orgasm. Greg was shocked but unquenchably excited over these revelations and tried to discreetly pester Dane to tell him more. It was all Dane had needed to confirm his suspicions that Greg was gay and completely inexperienced with sex.

Dane taught Greg all about sex between two men and they had shared everything. While Greg fell hopelessly in love with Dane, Dane did not tell Greg that he considered him to be just a stop along the road for him, and that he fully intended to return to New York City and the older man as soon as he was 18 and free to do as he chose. Thus, when Greg was just nineteen, his world came crashing down when the one and only person he had experienced love and affection from in the thirteen years since his mother had died, abandoned him, cast him aside as if he didn’t matter, and left him behind.

Greg could find no comfort after that and jumped from one job to another for the next year and a half. He had saved every cent possible, hoping to save enough to be able to go to New York and find Dane. Everything ended one day in late April when Greg’s father came home unexpectedly to find his son, on his bed, masturbating to a gay pornographic magazine. He was incensed that his son was gay, incredulous that the magazine was of older men rather than others his son’s own age, and infuriated that his son came right out and said he was gay and admitted to having had a relationship that had lasted, under his very nose, for several months. He informed his son that he was no longer welcome in the home and was to be gone by the end of the week.

Having no one to turn to, Greg had decided to head to Los Angeles in the hope that he could get some work and support himself and go to school. He felt that God had watched over him because when he arrived, he had quickly been able to find a room to rent with the elderly widow where he now stayed, at a very reasonable rate in return for helping her now and then with chores and with trips to her doctor. She, in turn, fixed him hot meals, never intruded on his privacy and in many ways mothered him and gave him a sense of belonging. When she had discovered Greg was gay from his having dropped a flyer in the living room about his dancing performances, complete with a picture of him in his G-string, she had been complimentary and cared only that he was happy and that no one hurt him.

Then, one day, an older man had come into the bar who had seemed to pay special interest to him. This man had kept coming back, week after week, becoming increasingly generous with the tips he handed out, and showing some real affection. The man was not aggressive or demanding but was actually quite shy and withdrawn, and almost seemed apologetic when he would touch Greg in some moment of weakness and then regret having been so discourteous. Greg had taken a liking to the man and had looked for him anxiously each week. Then the man had invited him for a drink, had asked some questions and seemed genuinely interested in him. The man had started coming to all his shows. And little by little Greg felt himself falling for the man but having no idea of how to pursue a relationship. He simply didn’t have the courage to tell the man he liked him and was deathly afraid that if he ever did the man would simply reject him.

So Greg had devised a ruse to get closer to the man and have an opportunity to try and find out if there was any degree of interest on the man’s part before he opened up and confessed his own feelings. When he was able to arrange to go to the man’s home, he brought along a bottle of wine, fully intending to get a little drunk, enough so that he could see if the man would invite him to stay the night, and if they would make love. But, when invited to stay the night but the man turning him down on making love, Greg had almost lost it, once again believing he had found someone only to be rejected. Were it not for being drunk, Greg would never have had the courage to plead with the man to make love to him and would likely have run out of the house in desperation and embarrassment.

Listening to Greg’s story was heartbreaking. Everything seemed suddenly so clear to me and I felt so sad that he had suffered so greatly when all he wanted was someone to love him and care about him. As he finished his story, I looked into his eyes and could see the sadness that hid behind the happiness that was usually present when he was performing. I reached over and placed my hand against his cheek and just stroked his face for a few moments. The good part about having a big heart is that you’re able, so many times, to touch the lives of others in a positive way. The bad part is that the pain and sorrow of others can have such a devastating effect upon you that you can sometimes become overwhelmed by the sadness that surrounds you.

At this moment, I was feeling saddened beyond measure by Greg’s pain. Ignoring my own best judgments, stated earlier, I moved closer to Greg and took him into my arms. I was half expecting resistance now that he was sobering up, in spite of his story and the confession of his feelings for me - such being the level of my own insecurities - but there was none. He slid quickly toward me and wrapped his arms around me as I wrapped mine about him. He clearly expected that we were about to make love as he moved his hips forward, his instantly hard cock connecting with my flaccid member, and he continued his humping motions until I had become aroused and as hard as he was. Then I felt his hand wrap around my cock, feeling, testing. It was clearly a matter of exploration for him, and he reveled in the act of exploring the body of another man so openly, a man that he cared for.

When Greg began to stroke my cock, I placed my hand on top of his to stop the motion. “Are you sure that you’re sober enough to make this choice?”

“I’m more sober at this moment than I have been in my life. I’ve found the person who cares enough about me to help me, to watch out for me, to turn down sex because he doesn’t feel I’m in a condition to willingly and knowingly consent, and who has demonstrated friendship in spite of barely knowing me. It also helps that this same man is the person that I am truly falling in love with.”

I let go of his hand and he began stroking my hard flesh once more. I reached out and grasped his own hard cock and gently stroked it a few times, then used it as a handle to pull him closer. I rolled over on my back, pulling his with me, our cocks now mashed against one another between our bodies. Greg began moving his hips, humping his cock against my body as I enjoyed the wonderful sensations that came from stroking and caressing his firm ass over and over, running my hands up his back and pulling him tightly against me. I pulled his face to me and began peppering his face with kisses. I kissed his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead, and then started all over again at his lips. Soon we were both laughing hysterically and rolling around the bed just enjoying the pleasure of being together, of being so comfortable with each other and of being naked and hard and anticipating making love. It had been some time since either of us had given ourselves to another person sexually, so the moment was charged with desire and sexual tension, our personal insecurities and our desires to bring pleasure to the other.

I rolled Greg over on his back and lay on my side, head propped up on my hand, and just looked longingly at his naked body. This was a new experience. I had seen him almost naked dozens of times, but here he was, naked, in my bed, bone hard, and waiting for me to make love to him. I ran my hand over his chest and stomach, enjoying the silkiness of his smooth skin, I teased the nipples at the corners of his chest, raked my fingers through his softly curled pubic hair, and caressed his hard cock with my fingertips. I visually measured his size and guess that he was probably almost seven inches - maybe just a quarter inch or so short of that number. That was a good sized cock on a boy of less than six feet. It was better than me: I could claim eight inches but it was on a body that stood six feet four inches in height. It explained why Greg always had looked like there was so much stuffed into his small bikini and G-string pouches.

Becoming impatient with mere exploration, I moved over Greg and began kissing him. It was my goal to kiss and thereby taste every square inch of his beautiful body, and I was doing an admirable job until I got all the way down to his pubic bush and kept feeling the spongy head atop his hard cock poking me beneath the chin. Acting impulsively, I grasped his cock and stood it straight up in the air, then lowered my face and wrapped my lips firmly around it.

Greg gasped with pleasure as my tongue began to perform its dance over the sensitive head of his cock, dragging across the tip in excruciating pleasure. His hips were writhing in that combination of pleasure and agony that comes from a greatly desired sexual experience after a long period of abstinence. I fully intended to try and make it last as long as possible, both for Greg as well as myself. In the back of my mind I wanted this to last, so that I could savor this experience, just in case Greg changed his mind about us in the morning.

As Greg’s balls pulled up tight at the base of his cock, I backed off and began a slow, sensuous stroke of his erection, my other hand tickling at his balls. Greg’s breathing was fast and shallow, his face twisted in a mask of intense pleasure. When I heard his sudden, sharp intake of breath and felt his body jerk and stiffen, I knew he had reached his limit. I sped up my strokes, waiting for the inevitable, which came a split second later.

Greg’s release was torrential, to say the least. He virtually painted his neck, chest and stomach with his viscous eruption and when it had slowed and then stopped, he lay back, sated and exhausted, his breath still coming in short gasps and his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. I grabbed a towel and wiped away the evidence of his release and tossed the towel aside. Leaning in, I kissed Greg full on the mouth, hugging him tightly against me.

Greg’s voice was almost a whisper. “Will you fuck me now?”

Epilogue

Greg moved in with me within the week. Within three weeks, he had discontinued his career as a stripper and had devoted himself full time to college, eventually earning his Bachelor of Arts degree in film. At each of his final shows at the three bars, our planned performance had involved his dancing up to me as a regular patron at which time I grabbed his hips and began kissing his stomach. Greg then announced to the customers in the bar that I was his boyfriend and that this was his final performance at the bar, and thanked everyone who had been coming to see him over the past several months. He got a thunderous applause at the end of each of those three performances and I got cornered by a lot of guys who wanted to tell me what a lucky guy I was.

Our lives were, in my opinion, idyllic for a few years. Greg had no desire to go to the nightclubs, because of those who might remember him from his days as a dancer, and preferred to spend time alone with me or in small groups of our friends. He had become quite the host and our friends looked forward in earnest to those weekends in which he put together a planned event at our condo.

As luck would have it, Greg had little success starting his career, even after producing a wonderful independent student production with a student director who went on to become quite well known for his gay-themed films. This failure hung over him - over us - and in spite of his never needing to worry about supporting himself, he was driven by the desire to prove himself and to succeed. What he wanted more than anything was to prove himself to me, to show that he was successful in his career and to feel he was a full partner in our relationship.

It is my greatest disappointment to admit that I am the primary cause of the failure of my relationships - unions with such love and devotion. I am cursed to be a person who is too loving, too caring, too devoted. I must admit that I have a tendency to want to take care of those I love, to care for them, provide for them, and give them all that they want or need that is within my capabilities. In the end, they feel smothered and begin to chaff at the feeling that they are being bought. Regardless of my intentions and motivations, each person can only see through their own eyes and where they see a negative factor in their relationship, they can no more see beyond that view than I can see their perception of my motivations.

Such it was with Greg. After four years of bliss and a few months in which our happiness was in decline, Greg received an offer to teach at a small college outside of Denver. As he had been trying to repair his relationship with his father, after learning his father was suffering from cancer, he accepted the position as a means of being closer to his father and beginning to establish himself as an individual.

Greg and I remained close friends for a few years until he met someone he loved. They officially became a couple in 1996 and Greg’s father actually attended their commitment ceremony two months before his death. Contact between Greg and I diminished after that as we each realized we had to go our own way in this life and put the past behind us.

Having had previous relationships, one would expect that this would be counted as just another failure. In truth, it was one of my greatest successes because our love for each other was so true. It was one of my life’s greatest sorrows when it ended, so much so that I have found it virtually impossible to discuss even with my closest friends. This is the first time I have told this story in hopes of putting these memories to rest.

Author’s Note:

This story is based on actual events from my life. Certain names and locations were changed in order to protect those friends who would not care to be identified.