+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ BIKER MATES PART SEVENTEEN
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BIKER MATES PART SEVENTEEN - Bankers and Barmen
CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER
You're probably not much interested in what happened to me once Martin fucked off, are you? I suppose, you're just wondering how long this pathetic self-pity can drone on for, aren't you? I know, you're wondering how I get to fuck Martin again, I bet. You'd like me to just skip past the next ten years, wouldn't you? Ok. So I am just going to skip the next ten years, and start again, ten years later.
===
Ten years later.
===
It's ten years later, and I can confidently state that I have definitely improved. Definitely. I guess you could say I'm in my prime. I mean, look at me physically, for instance: I'm a much much stronger guy, not that I was ever easily beat. I have bulked in the form of muscle mass, and my posture has changed to accommodate; I was once much more of a lean-muscled guy. I didn't used to think I was all that lean, but compared to now I was. Well, I've got access to a world-class gym thanks to Karol's job. As his partner I can go in whenever I like, train athletically and meet professionals. I'm very lucky, aren't I? and you can bet I make use of that gym a lot, though I'm trying not to look too much like a guy who spends all his time at the gym working out. It's tough though, when all you have to do is going to the gym and working out!
Yeah, my life is tough. I don't even have a job any more, as such. Not a proper job. Well, I am writing this, what you are reading, but that's not for money, and I go to the gym, but that's not for money either, not exactly. And that's about it... Oh, and I keep house, our flat in London. I'm like a domestic. I cook if we don't eat out. Karol helps when he gets in.
I do odd jobs now and then; cash in hand so it's no problem. Karol has his contacts at the club, all the players and their wives-and-girlfriends (wags) with all the money and all the 'change this, change that; do this, do that', where they live. They are constantly spending on one thing or another. That's developed, because I'm well strong, like a horse (as well as well-hung!) and it has become this thing where I get to do jobs like building jobs: lifting, shifting, and installing things like new super-massive TVs, manual labour. Basically, it's what I'm good at, I suppose. I do some waitering and serving drinks at some of these fancy deals they throw, as well, because with my masculinity and physique I look great in formal attire. Keeps me out of mischief... mostly. Not all the time though; the wags know I'm gay but that only seems to make them bold some of them, and I have to make sure it's understood I'm there on a strictly 'eye-candy-only' basis. No touching! Well, not much... Sometimes they have these 'girl night' parties and I give them a strip. I do! Squeezed into a thong, and, presto! They love that. You would think they get enough with their super-fit partners. You'd think.
Good money though, and a laugh. I don't mind; why should I? I'm proud of my body. I like showing it off. I like giving it some. I like getting my dick out. Though it's not how I expected my life to end up, I don't know what I expected; not this though. Certainly not this.
Has your life turned out as you expected it?
You want to know if any of the players are gay and which ones, I bet. All I'm gonna say is, the wags aren't the only ones pay me to strip: I get asked along to these parties, called 'Jockstrap parties', and Karol doesn't get invited. And I make a lot of my money that way as well...
Oh, Karol...
Karol is the type of guy who (picture this), when you are making coffee first thing and you are there in the nud trying to operate the espresso machine (yeh, we got an espresso machine, natch. I bought one for my Dad but he prefers instant so now it just stands there in his kitchen like an abandoned chemicals-factory) and your a.m. prick hasn't gone down cs you need a slash, he comes up behind you quietly and slips his arms around you and feels you everywhere and presses his body against the bits of you that stick out, I mean my buttocks and the curved top half of my back, and my calves (his skin finds all the points of contact with my skin), puts one arm across your chest and spreads his hand over the balloon of your pec and squeezes it like a softball and puts his other hand around the bulge of your cock, tickling and cupping your balls with his fingers, and squeezes it like a handshake, and lays his cheek on the sloping back of your shoulder and lifts it again to give you a little kiss and then lays it down again and says, 'I love you,' and you are still trying to make a fucking coffee.
"Do you love me?"
"Fuck off."
I have to put up with it. Well, what would you do? Fuck it? Well, don't worry, I do that. I fuck it from here to next week and then some. We like that.
===
Fucking barman still ignoring me.
===
Well, this story starts when Karol had to attend some UEFA beano - in Frankfurt-am-Maine, of-all-places, Germany. I tagged along; not for the first time HIS wag, his plus-one; and when he was brain-dead in the conference centre, stiffing-out football-related functions, wearing his suit, I was free to cruise the city, the glass-and-concrete Centre of European Finance (Centre des Finances européen), wearing no underpants.
Actually he wasn't wearing any underpants either. We like that.
So, day in question, I left the safety of our fancy-priced boutique apartment, and, in the dry warmth of summer, strolled through the modern bit of town where we were staying, towards the Altstadt - that's the old bit.
And I was thinking, 'These German towns are not the sort I'd live in: They are too clean. The streets are clean; the houses are clean; the bars are clean; the people are clean; the dogs are clean. Hell, even the dirty is clean; and everything is new.'
In any case, I wasn't looking at any of that; I was looking for a freedom rainbow flag, and eventually I spied one. It was flapping grandly above a glass fronted building which looked like a greenhouse for the propagation of homosexuals, full-on queer in the heat of the beating sun. The flag signalled one of those all-hours joints you get on the continent, serving coffee, beer, dancing, and sleaze, 24 hour. Through the conservatory wall I could see a smart steel bar with all the stuff of the continental breakfast arrayed along it under stylishly sharp-edged vitrines. Apparently someone still wanted their breakfast. Behind it, bottles of crazy colourful liquors were arrayed in stylishly carefree order against of a wall of glass mirrors.
It was about mid-morning.
I am being approximate.
The bar wasn't empty. It was populated by a mixture of sociable and friendly-looking types of various ages hanging out with each other. Ah, the Germans! Nibbling at toast, smoking and smirking, sipping large coffees, dewy lagers or micro shots, good-humoured, easy-going, mild-natured, ignoring the noise of the techno-house that burbled like a well-spring from the cave-dark club within and bathed in the light of the midday sun, cruising, chatting, idle and enviably effortless.
Ahh, the Germans!
A couple of them clocked me as I approached: A young thin tanned skinhead in distressingly 80s ripped jeans held his bottle to his lips and watched me, not like he was interested; like he had nothing better to do, like he would follow any moving object. An older guy dropped his wrist across his thigh, shifting on his seat as if to indicate that his junk might have suddenly become uncomfortable and needed to be repositioned. He was grey-bearded and jowly. I felt caught in the eyes of surveillance. I was eager for the shelter of darkness, and I needed a slash, so I steered quickly round them and entered into a much darker interior where the bar bent sharply round like a goose neck and continued, running the length of a wall that lead into a D.I.S.C.O. area, jumping with sounds, beaten by strobes, whipped by lasers and completely deserted.
Across the empty floor a sleazy looking gap in the wall opposite looked to be the toilet. I was trying not to rush. Wall mirrors reflected my progress back at me from every angle. I marched across, underneath a glitter ball which hung precariously from the low ceiling, rotating wearily on its tiny little chain, bathing the area in eyeballs of coloured light. The toilet door was a pitch gaping blank through which I entered and couldn't see a thing. I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust, thinking that my silhouette must be outlined against the lights and striking to anyone already inside.
So how big was this place? Gradually, I could see there were cubicles for shit, and beyond that an area of what appeared to be, nothing: It was too dark. Then I saw a row of basins, and a large mirror. They love with the mirrors!
Now, in the partial and flickering light, I saw the steel sheet of a urinal dribbling with the aftermath of a flush. I took a few steps forwards, towards the gully, and stepped onto a foot or so of metal grill, wide enough for a fag to crouch and beg for piss. I gripped my dick and hooked it out. My bladder was full pressure; it started first time. My satisfyingly powerful urine like a glass rod hit the shining metal, broke, and spread into a large gull wing of surf and that was great. That's such a great feeling. I love my dick. I love urinating. Don't you?
Jet Boys. We are The Jets.
Now I could see. Letting my piss rattle onto the grill at my feet, I looked about: The place was completely fucking empty. No one to admire me. Have you ever been the only person in a dark room with nothing doing but the sorry piss on your own boots? Sad.
But then I noticed a couple of figures embracing in the darkest far corner. They were office blokes. Their smart, robust suits reflected pale illumination in stiff metallic folds which altered electrically as they groped beneath each other's jackets, hungrily. Reflected light bled up their legs from the floor.
What is it about men in suits? It's the carapace, I mean, excuse me, long word, I mean, the shell they all go around in, hiding their soft parts, like lusty, sex-crazy beetles. Always on the prowl and thinking about their dicks; interior and watching; and when the opportunity arises, bang-bong, out they pop! Everything hidden becomes unhidden. It's that moment of discovery; it's like wildlife; it's the patient camera waiting to discover them whilst they stall and pose, and I had discovered them. I'm like David Attenborough! They were mimicking the natural behaviour of the homosexual in the night-streets of yore: Surreptitious and wild. They were kissing like it was illegal.
Staring at their absorbed intensity, groping, snogging, tightly fastened, I suddenly had this idea of what it would be like to go up to them and hold it out and piss all over that pristine material of theirs, darkening it with a massive stain, soaking their passion, and send them back to their cool glass-walled offices in sodden, disgraceful array. Ha ha.
Just then my piss ran out.
Another bladder wasted. I turned to face the guys, pulling my foreskin as I did so to shake out the last drops of my precious urine. They were ignoring me. One of them, leaning his side against the wall, hugged the other who stood in front of him. This second guy now leaning his back against the wall, slid down, opened his partner's zip and started to blow him. I couldn't see any action because the one standing up was protectively obscuring everything. He wouldn't want me muscling in, would he? his sub had all his attention now. He put one hand against the wall in front to support himself and leaned his buttocks forward, rocking his pelvis into the other guy's face. The light from the D.I.S.C.O. slid up and down the back of his jacket as he pumped it in and I could see the elbow of the man crouching; he was holding onto his partner's cock and serving it juicily (I bet); his other hand slid round, gripped his dom's buttock, pulling and then letting go and then pulling on him so he was getting it well in. The top's hand was curled round his sub's neck, stroking, holding, pulling into his head, and then releasing him, stroking him, and then forcing him back onto it once more, squeezing his buttocks to drive his penis forward as deeply as it would go. Mainly he looked down, but then he raised his face and stared at the ceiling - like, yeh, yeh - and then round and saw me at the urinal, staring. He looked at me with the contented, vacant eyes of a man about to orgasm.
Man, I was tempted to join them. My cock was out and hardening and I wanted it sucked as well. After the dom had cum I could move in. That crouching suit was obviously a great cocksucker. That was just what I needed to freshen me up: A fuckface. Then I'd be on my way: A tourist round all the sights. Did you know Goethe's house is in Frankfurt? It's certainly worth visiting.
The top suit groaned and lurched forward as he ejaculated deep into the sub's throat. Struggling a bit at the last, the sub choked, and had to touch the ground; he almost lost his balance. The top wasn't going to let that happen though; he grabbed the sub's head with both hands and held it still til his spurting had subsided, and he continued to hold the sub's head with his cock buried inside it whilst the sub hastily reached down, opened his own zip, plucked it out and jerked himself off quickly.
Some of it must have gone on the top's nice shoes because when they had finished he lifted one up and the sub bent forward without hesitation, licked them clean, and finished with a kiss to toes.
So that's what those euro-bankers get up to, I thought.
Once the sub had cum, I lost interest, tucked myself in, left them to it, and headed back through the D.I.S.C.O..
Everything's much brighter now, to my accustomed eyes. Now, I can see everything. Ah yes, I can see everything.
I stroll past a few figures to get to the nearest spot on the bar to buy a drink.
I pull myself onto a stool.
The barman is cute.
He's playing with his phone! I'm leaning on the bar; I'm waving my fingertips: He does not see me. I'm invisible. How come he is paid to do a job, a job of work, perfectly simple, and he just ignores me? Does he think he's too good? I guess cute barmen are paid to think they are too good. Perhaps they are too good; too good to be true, perhaps.
Look at him: His bronze hair is clipped an even two millimetres right across his head with the edges cut laser-sharp into organic curves that respond to the contours of his skull, and baroque turns that follow a line around his ears, down and round and undulating, across the tendons at the back of his neck: Beautiful. Beautiful lips, pouting as he concentrates on his phone. About my age.
Ok, younger than me, but I could have him. Why not anyway?
Finally! He sees me like I've only just come in and strolls over. He's built as well as cute. The usual stuff, the gay identikit box set: Pecs lurching beneath a tight tee; nipples prominent as per; sleeves rolled carefully across shop-bought biceps; raised veins.
The D.I.S.C.O. is too loud so I have to shout, "Ein bier bitte!" And now I have exhausted my entire German vocabulary.
He has friendly eyes. He's paid to be nice. He nods. Barmen are the object of so much casual lust, but they always act as if sex is just a rumour they don't much take to. There's a PhD dissertation waiting to be written about the intractable allure of barmen... Well, you know that already, don't you, dear reader!
He cracks off the cap and hands me the bottle. I pay. End of transaction. He walks away. Instantaneously fishing out his mobile, he starts tapping. Arse on the beer fridge, he crosses his ankles. His jeans fold into an enticingly filled triangular cushion. His forearms support his phone in the excessively powerful way a man would hold his own baby; he looks into it's pretty screen and smiles: He has a boyfriend; or he turns tricks; or he has his own friends and a life... Either way, he ignores me. I'm just a customer.
Well, fuck you...
I nod to my face in the mirror: That's maturity, honey! Yeh, I'm in my prime and everybody wants me...
++++++++++++++++++++++++++ END OF PART SEVENTEEN