Disclaimer: This is homoerotic fiction. If you are offended by it, underage, or such literature is restricted in your area, please obey whatever legalities apply--otherwise enjoy.
AFTER HOURS Copyright 2005 Siktici
He didn't bend his wrist in leisure or face his palms down in gestures. Raymond Steward wasn't a man's man, but he was a "straight acting" man if that somehow mattered. He was a six-three, one hundred eighty-five pound frame of hulking hairy flesh, who wouldn't be found on the "circuit" in such places as The Keys, Fire Island, Palm Springs, or Sydney; nonetheless, he was a gay man, like hundreds of thousands who were jobholders by day and insatiable hunters of mansex by night. Yet, he wasn't closeted, a decision he had made after many years and many losses to the scourge of AIDS. He hid for no one, for no reason; on the other hand, he promised himself he wouldn't wear his "gayness" like bra over a silk blouse. Like most guys, coming out had been a long series of subtle and jarring events--more numerous for him than most--yet he endured. So, the quality of his life was more important than keeping up the appearance of "straight" living. Unfortunately, when he chose Houston as his home, he chose disappointment.
Raymond noticed with great disappointment Houston's small and dispassionate gay community. Compared to Chicago, the gay bars in Houston had as much activity as a liquor store on a Sunday morning, and because he wanted a change, the job in Houston outweighed any regret he felt at leaving his hometown. The bigger reasons were that he needed rebirth and he wanted a man: more in a sexual sense than in a metaphysical one. He had decided to search for the latter.
He began his search at Handy's, a rustic, lean-to, where cowboy's, would-be's--interspersed with a few heavily tattooed biker patrons--and admirers of all came to belly up and wind down. Actually, Handy's sat as a depressing reminder of the seventies and early eighties when men came to the epicenter of gay Houston; where Westheimer and Montrose streets marked the heart of gay freedom; where Mary's, Houston's oldest bar, stood like a welcoming beacon; and, where Numbers, Ramrod, and the Loading Dock filled to capacity every night of the week. But the scourge of AIDS took away those days and took away a large group of men still mourned and forever missed. After one drink and a discouraging conversation with a very drunk, but amusing "poppi," Raymond quickly left Handy's and headed for a bar a friend back in Chicago had told him about: Hipwaders. He entered Hipwaders, Houston's finest, albeit, only leather bar with hope, but that hope faded on entering the smoky, dimly lit building. Leather daddies and boys, both of dubious age, postured and re-postured along a glossy black bar where a beefy bartender with a sadistic bent, and a beautiful ass squeezed in chaps, teased a few displaced, unwary circuit boys vying for his attention. A long-time predator, the bartender ignored their promises and searched for more experienced prey in the endless stream of patrons.
They were all represented, dressed in tight Wranglers, Levis, latex, rubber, and rawhide. They danced the music-less ritual: all window shopping, strolling by in mild interest, stopping briefly at one wall or another, leaning against an antiquated pinball machine, checking the civility of the front room, or rechecking the debauchery of the back one. These men, as did many on a weekend, searched for Mr. Right, but after a few drinks, Mr. Right became Mr. Right Now; and Raymond knew, as did most men, that desperation developed more easily in an intoxicated man with a ball sac full of cum, especially when time was the enemy. Raymond sighed at the thought, bought a drink, and joined the procession. Standing just beyond the stark light of a Miller lampshade that hung over a scruffy and stained pool table, he watched a mustachioed uniform with too many keys over think his next shot. At the same time, Uniform's opponent, a jerky little otter in a tank top and leather shorts checked a leather daddy for a hernia--or so it seemed. Raymond watched Uniform point intentions with the cue, miss his shot, and stand silently. Uniform's mirrored glasses danced in the bright Miller lights as he nodded to Raymond. Returning the nod, Raymond watched Uniform move to just in front of him and bend to take his next shot. Lingering there, the man flexed his hard ass muscles, unnecessarily stretched over the pool table in submission, and spread his legs before looking back at Raymond. A smile of intent slowly made Uniform's face more handsome than it already was. His chocolate, dimpled flesh widened to reveal a glistening tongue that slowly traced over thick mocha lips. Raymond's cock jumped, and he took a long swig of beer to return the moisture that had suddenly fled. Then looking closely at the stringy hole in Uniform's faded Wranglers, he saw the man's exposed balls, tightly bound by a three-snap ball stretcher. Uniform, still bent over the pool table, pulled his hairy bound balls, a russet light bulb, through the hole in his pants and moaned with pleasure at the effort.
Again, he looked at Raymond and nodded, but Raymond wasn't into cock-n-ball torture; his cock softened at the thought. Nor was he into S&M; in fact, Raymond wasn't sure what he was into, but he would know it when he found it. So, he exhaled slight disappointment and rejoined the river of men flowing into a narrow passage.
Regulars of Hipwaders knew very well what lie beyond the narrow passage, and Raymond had heard his Chicago friend talk about it with much enthusiasm and sparkling eyes. Raymond's friend learned of "the patio" from a trick in the Lion's Den. The trick said to go after hours. "No booze after two a.m., but the action really heats up," the guy said. What action? Hell, just a bunch of guys walking around and sitting along the walls, Raymond thought. I guess it wouldn't hurt to check out the ba--
"Hey. Wazzup tonight?" A caramel hand placed warmth on Raymond's arm and a toothy smile greeted him. "Calvin," the man said.
"Raymond." Even before his hand met Calvin's, Raymond had a hard-on.
"I ain't seen you here before." The stranger named Calvin tilted his head in the same way that dog did in the old RCA ad. A sudden feeling caused the stranger to look deeply into Raymond's eyes, and without understanding why, Calvin tried honesty: "I'm very attracted to you and I thought I saw something in your eyes, so if you think we can do this, how about we talk?"
"Okay."
"You're a one-word man, huh?"
"No." Raymond said and felt warmth slowly rise in him when he shook Calvin's hand; he felt that slow warming of lust, of desire. "You come here a lot?" He mentally cringed at the line, but it was out there.
Calvin didn't critique it, "Not really, just when I can't sleep." He explained and moved closer.
"Yeah, I haven't been sleeping much either," Raymond admitted. Calvin moved even closer. "I'm not from here, actually; I'm from Dothan, Dothan, Alabama . . . you heard of it?"
"Yeah, I've heard of it," Raymond said, but he thought Calvin wasn't much of thinker. He didn't need the caramel colored man for that. Calvin moved closer, still, and rested his leg against Raymond's. "Well, that's rare, most guys here haven't." He rested his hand on Raymond's thigh, and as the two talked, electricity sparked between them. Ripples passed from Raymond's head and feet to converge at the tip of his cock. Calvin was simply handsome, a type of handsome that made some men jealous, some intimated, and some . . .well down right desperate. But Raymond felt none of that. He found contentment in looking at Calvin's almond eyes; his smooth, hairless face; and a thinly cut mustache over voluptuous, brown lips that parted slightly in pink invitation: an invitation for a man to slide his hard cock between them. Wavelets of hair shaped his head in the form of a flat top with high sides that faded to the skin (a cut that Raymond loved to see on a Black men), which made Calvin's face resemble an inverted pentagon. An athletic build hinted to a Nubian runner like his ancestors, and even through his Levi's, Calvin's muscles flexed and released as he adjusted his position or crossed his legs. But with such a hot body, he seemed unrefined, and lacked of polish.
"Say," Raymond asked evenly, "is it always this . . . this dead?"
"Well, not always." Calvin stretched and yawned as he spoke. "You just have to wait until after hours.
Since after hours hadn't arrived, Raymond and Calvin, as others did, made shallow conversation about their travels, their occupations, and even their first time. Over the din of cross-talk and under the constant drone of forgetful techno, they eased to the comfort of bonding that further eased to tender contact.
When a bald bear warned of last call, Raymond and Calvin broke their bubble of sensuality, got drinks, and re-entered with skin-tingling touches, lustful glances, and throbbing cocks. Calvin mirrored the disarming charm of Raymond, and each man flowed to gentle mannerisms and turns of phrase. They remained opened to possibilities and shrouded their intentions in unnecessary innuendo.
"Now, I have a question for you." Calvin ended the innuendo, the pleasure dance, and the side stepping of urges. "Do I turn you on?"
Raymond motioned toward his straining cock. "I'm sure this answers your question." "I was hoping `cause you have got me really hard too; you're so damn attractive," purred Calvin, "and, frankly, I thought you would turn me down. I guess this is my lucky night." Calvin genuinely, but briefly, smiled his luck, and then turned neutral to ask, "So, are you a pitcher or a catcher?"
Surprised at the use of the vintage terms--Raymond covered with his most erotic come-on, "Definitely a pitcher."
"And do you think I make a good catcher?" Calvin stood, performed a slow turn, and sat on Raymond's lap.
"Definitely," Raymond said and rubbed the length of Calvin's thigh.
"Oh, well I guess I do," Calvin said, feeling Raymond's cock throb at his ass. He brought his arms over Raymond's broad shoulders that narrowed to a solid, and Calvin suspected, hairy butt. He loved hairy White men, big men with big backs and thick legs: their pink skin, the color of their eyes, even their large hands and feet. He never really understood why he liked them, except to know that they were different from him. Some had sexy walks, a sedate swagger, as if the world wasn't unkind and wasn't filled with injustice. To him, White men moved through life with a natural expectancy that made them irresistibly attractive. He had once thought that perhaps it was the freedom with which they approached and experimented with sex, exhibiting no fear of taboos held by most men in his culture. His first encounter, however, was with a Black man who showed him the joys of anal sex, but it was a White man who showed him that sex was multifaceted. When Calvin was nineteen, he met a man in the bathroom of a Sears and Roebuck, who took him home and spent the day showing him the joys of assplay, of toy play, of restraint, of rimming, of enemas, and of delayed orgasm. Calvin learned even more about his attraction to White men in subsequent encounters: seeing a hard, purplish cock moving in and out of his caramel ass truly excited him; feeling a large, hairy body against his small, smooth one, as the hairy man pounded into his chocolate asshole, sent shiver over him; and running his fingers through a White man's silky hair or bald head while sliding up and down his rigid shaft kept Calvin seeking as many encounters as he could find. Yet, beyond these acts Calvin learned that sex was a man's only chance to share his vulnerability, that sweet feeling of freedom and acceptance when a man could reveal his true essence without rejection or reproach. If there was a deeper reason why Calvin liked White men, it really didn't matter anymore. He knew what he liked and that was enough. Raymond wasn't obese, but he did have a bit of a paunch as a testament to his love of beer, and he was just a few thousand follicles from being excessively hairy, which qualified him for big and beefy--a description Calvin sometimes compared to a Burger King whooper--and he had beautiful hazel eyes, with a goatee that accentuated his smile, a devilish smile, one that belied his wilder, kinkier side. When the two men got drinks, Raymond reviewed his luck. He loved Black guys with bubble butts; loved how a Black man's butt pushed out and dramatically tapered to thin but firm legs; and loved their dark skin, the subtle shades of it, smooth to the touch as if caressing satin. He loved seeing his thick white cock in their juicy, black asses while holding on to their narrow waists as they flanged to the shape of a pear. His earliest fantasies were of slender Black men with smooth, round butts that glistened when oiled. The texture of smooth dark skin at his touch made him burn with desire, and soon, he hoped, this Black man would help him realize it.
"So let the games begin," Calvin joked.
"What?"
"Time to take you to the patio. Come on." Calvin led Raymond up three stairs to a hall that glowed in red light. At the end of it, the two men entered a smaller bar lit in the same redness where ultra leather men, big men--courtesy of steroids and supplemented testosterone--bulged biceps, tanked massive chests in small wife-beaters, and pushed from the bar chiseled asses in tight jeans. Some men sweated in latex or rubber, and squeezed in chaps. Some men stood drinking, smoking, and searching; some found shadowy corners and traded cock jerks; and others, a few blue collars, with name tags and grease stains on their uniform; a few construction types with utility belts and keys jangling from their waists--and all wore heavy boots or a variation. Most of the men had hankies stuff in their pockets of various colors, and Raymond remembered from the "good ole days", whether the hanky was in the left or right pocket, a position that signaled the man's preferences and reception. These men differed from the others in that their conversations were almost inaudible or they didn't talk at all. Men looked around, took inventory, and telegraphed intentions with glances, nipple pinches or crotch grabs. And most did so with a seductive sternness that increased their masculinity, and in Hipwaders, masculinity was a valued commodity. Calvin and Raymond passed through this small bar as hands reached out to both of them followed by one-word invitations: Piss? Fuck? Fist? Moving through another door, the two men reached the patio. Occasionally, plumes of smoke drifted skyward from an area lit by lawn lights under a ragged hedgerow that lined the patio's dimensions, along with a vine-covered fence that provided privacy and separated the patio from a vacant lot. Above, a cold black sky canvassed the growing group of men watching, rubbing, and groping, while murmurs, moans, and muffled cries mildly disturbed the still air. Music was an intrusion here; patron's preferred the sounds and the mystique of group participation.
Calvin pointed to the small lights under the hedgerow, "Over there is where the action is." Before Raymond could decide, Calvin pulled him into a semi-circle of men gathered at one corner of the patio. Silhouettes with pants around their ankles, the outline of hairy butts protruding from chaps, and glossy stretched balls with weights hanging from them caused Raymond to move his hands to rub throbbing cock through his jeans. Calvin watched Raymond, licked his lips, but stood in silence. Over the hedgerow lights, cocks pounded hairy butts; hungry mouths suck cocks of all sizes, drank piss, cum, and licked assholes. Fingers probed assholes, tweaked and twisted nipples, while balls were tugged, dicks were milked, and poppers dazed many in their range. Lust in motion: familiar rhythm of desire, the collective crowd participating by being. Whether with his mind or with his cock, but for Raymond it was both, he fucked right along with them--group mystique, how fuckin' hot. And his cock throbbed and issued more precum from his piss slit. Fuck, yeah, group mystique. The trail of men that Raymond noticed earlier ended in rows of men who stood one behind the other and stroked their dicks, quietly, wordlessly, as if motivated by telepathic desire. Others dropped to their knees and sucked the first cock they saw. These open mouths had their choices among cocks hooking to the east, the west, bending north or south, or just pointing straight ahead. The darkened area filled with overwhelming sounds of man-pleasure: the occasional slurp, gag, or rhythmic slapping: the dance of desire, the nocturnal, sweaty dance--sweaty flesh to sweaty flesh, cock to asshole, grunt to grunt--the march toward ultimate gratification. Ass fuck, a nice gaping hole to slide up tight around my cock is what Raymond thought at that moment. Raymond said these words, using the consciousness of the head between his legs. He felt hands search the inside of his fly, unzipped by a pair of hands, as the activity moved toward frenzy. The hands moved with knowledge and gentleness in finding his cock and balls. Thumbs and forefingers gently tugged and stroked him, while a second pair of hands approached from behind to tweak his nipples and squeeze his pecs. Raymond sucked eagerly the two fingers finding his mouth. From behind a third pair of hands undid his belt and the single button holding up of his jeans. They jerked trousers and briefs to his ankles, encircled his stomach, trailed down to just above his cock, slid back around to his hairy ass and legs, then suddenly, they parted his cheeks and a tongue, thickly warm and wet licked his asshole. The second pair of hands that had been working Raymond's nipples joined the third in providing a tongue for his hunger ass, his taint, and his hairy balls. Both tongues licked and slurped with exquisite expertise that sent Raymond into quivers, trembles, and moans of pleasure. The first pair of hands changed to a mouth that slurped up and down his tremendously hard meat. It starting from behind his balls followed to his cock tip, stopping occasionally to lick the precum from his piss slit.
"Raymond," Calvin whispered in his ear, "I'd like you to meet Fred. He played with your nipples and stuck his fingers in your mouth, but now he's slurping your ass." Raymond could only moan delight and nod recognition. "And Kelton is also slurping your crack." Again, Raymond moaned. "And you know what I'm doing: hmmmm--yummy, sucking this big white cock."
A Nubian triad of gratification had Raymond in its grasp. The three men caressed, licked, and sucked all over him. His fleshed rippled outward from his cock and returned like an underground explosion. Trembled and shivered rumblings of a nearing orgasm persisted, but he held on to it. Fred sucked his balls, Kelton tongued his pulsating ass, and Calvin intermittently flicked his cockhead before taking the entire length down his throat.
"Oh, God, I'm gonna cum," escaped Raymond's lips. Besides the three men working him over, others heard Raymond's warning and turned to watch another orgasm. Because Raymond was so far out into his universe of ecstasy, he did not see the semi-circle of men turn toward him. He breathed deeply to hold back the push of release, that feeling, sublime but fleeting; that rising fire in his lower abdomen pushing toward his cock, expanding and gorging it with blood. As much as he wanted to remain the centerpiece of the triad, his efforts weakened. He had his twitching cock pushed far down Calvin's throat that he felt the man's lips pressed against his pelvis. Activity in the circle of men was cresting as well, hands were working cocks with blurring speed; cocks pushed forcefully into assholes as if pile drivers; hands pulled and tortured balls with sadistic abandon; nipple rings were pinched and twisted with delicious savagery; PAs were linked; cocks docked and overlapped foreskin for pleasurable friction; and men throughout the patio listened for the looming cries of ecstasy. Raymond's warnings came more rapidly, more in earnest, and the crescendo of his erotic symphony had reached the climatic crashing of cymbals. Then he came . . . and came . . . and came. Growls accompany the first steamy stream of cum that flew over Calvin's head and into semi darkness. The crowd yelled encouragement and yelled its own orgasmic arrivals. They acknowledged the sweet vulnerability that seemed so intense and so short-lived. Groans of pleasure-pain drew a second stream from Raymond that flew just as far as the first. The third, fourth, and fifth streams landed on the three men who had been helping Raymond to nirvana and who now knelt before him to receive a warm and validating cum bath. As the last spurt of cum oozed from his piss slit, Raymond bucked and wretched through the residuals and slowed to sated exhaustion as the crowd continued their encouragement: Members gave respective hoots and attaboys to another who had bolstered the elusive group mystique, that group participation in achieving an orgasm, that one moment when men realized their humanity at the exact moment they mourned their mortality. So, when the last cum drop fell from his cock, Raymond slumped to his knees, out of breath, and in the arms of Calvin. And in a way, uniquely Raymond, replied breathless, "I'd like to meet more of your friends, Calvin."