Double A Imperfect by Hot August Karl
Why is it that small guys are always the ones packing the biggest dicks? With their five-foot five-inch lanky frames, they are the dudes whose bodyweight is twenty-five percent cock and seventy-five percent everything else. Long, hanging cocks and underneath their meaty members are usually ginormous balls swinging free in a long, dangly bag. I want to cup those nuts in the palm of my hand and roll them around like they're a lucky pair of dice. Truly, when I have a pair of those babies in my hand, life just doesn't get any better than that.
One pair of lucky dice came to me crammed through a gloryhole at B & B Adult Books one Thursday afternoon.
I made a habit of ducking into the bookstore a couple times a week, hoping to score some straight dick. Married or otherwise curious guys would come into the arcade by the closetful, sneaking into close-quartered booths smelling faintly of poppers, cum and disinfectant. Management had thoughtfully eliminated the need to exchange dollars for tokens, so after feeding several of the greenbacks into the black video boxes, these guys could sit back and stroke their cocks under the glow from the video monitors. After they were sufficiently horned up, it was pretty easy to talk them into sticking their rods through the holes in the partitions for a quick blowjob. The really brazen ones would unlock the door to their booth and allow the cock worshiper, in this case, me, to come in for some serious face fucking.
I didn't always accept the invitation from a guy to join him in his booth, but I often did. More often than not, what was waiting for me on the other side of the gloryhole was worth chasing, but sometimes I encountered a guy that was just a little too straight in his tastes. More than once I'd get into a guy's booth only to find him standing there with a lubed condom on his dick, expecting that I would be content to suck on a chunk of rubber rather than on his chunk. In instances such as that, it came in handy that I had already had my pants up so that I could turn around and exit the booth quickly, before he had a chance to say otherwise. No muss, no fuss.
That Thursday it had been raining since early morning. I was sitting bare-assed on the cement floor of my favorite booth, number seventeen. My butt was slightly stuck to the cement floor and I had a bottle of Jungle Juice in one fist and my dick in the other. When I heard the creek of the door spring on the booth next to mine, I cautiously peeked through the gloryhole. A very slender Hispanic had already fed his dollars into the video box and was in the process of peeling off his clothing. It seem to take forever for him to kick off his shoes, pull off his socks, take off his belt, drop his jeans and pull his shirt over his head. What took him even longer, though, was getting his boxer briefs pulled down far enough to finally exposing a long boner that whacked his belly as if it were spring-loaded.
After a couple of minutes of sucking each other's cocks thru the gloryhole, he invited me into his booth. I hitched up my pants and somewhat reluctantly left my own cubicle, with five dollars worth of video time still running on the meter. Don't get me wrong, the dude was hot. But I have abandoned many dollars worth of spankables for guys that turned out to be more duds than dudes. There is nothing as frustrating as being horned up and trying like mad to harden a dick that has been permanently made limp from too much whiskey and whatever pharmaceuticals some trick has injested long before coming to the arcade. Been there, done that and not impressed.
What was impressing me at the moment was this Hispanic guy. Trimmed goatee, solid body and about my age, maybe a couple years more, but not more than forty. As the door to the darkened room swung open, he shoved a bottle of poppers into my hand and eased the door shut again. I made a mental note that he fastened the hasp and relaxed, leaning against the wall while he unfastened my belt and dropped to his knees. He began licking the underside of my prick, from tip all the way down, spreading my legs just a bit to get under my ballsac. As the blood rushed up to my head I grabbed the back of the dude's head both for support and to drive him a little bit further down my pole. As he slurped I reached up and tweaked my nipple, working the steel rod that was embedded in it back and forth. It didn't take too long before I could feel the cum roil up inside. I pushed his mouth off the end of my dick with a wet pop. I shook my head slightly and slowly let out the deep breath I was holding.
He looked up at me and a wicked grin spread across his lips. "Wanna go to my place?"
I nodded and pulled my jeans up. The booth darkened as the roll of credits on the video screen ended. I am not even sure which video we were watching.
An hour and a half later we had both cum and were buck naked, laying on top of the white down comforter on his futon. I sadly thought of how hard those lube and cum stains were going to be to get out of it come laundry time, but didn't say so. What I really wanted to do was walk around this guy's house and look at all the photos hanging on the wall and check out all the books and music in the cases flanking the four walls of the bedroom. It's this unwritten rule I have when I go into a trick's house that I like to know if he is potential dating material or just a one-nighter.
"My name is Christopher," I said, using my middle name instead of my first and sticking out my hand. He took it in a grip that didn't send off any alarms either way.
"Orlando."
I smirked, thinking it was a put on. "As in `Tie a Yellow Ribbon'?"
He just stared.
"You know. Tony Orlando and Dawn?" I sang a couple bars of the song.
He just shook his head. "No, I haven't heard of him. Orlando is one of our family names."
After the name exchange we were both silent. I could feel the semen pooling between my legs and my butt cheeks gluing themselves together.
Showering with another man has always been a little awkward for me. How do you decide who gets to stand in front of the nozzle? Is it ok to apply the bar of soap directly to your skin if there isn't a wash cloth? Never mind trying to decide if the water is too hot for him, too cold for you or how long it's acceptable to run the hot water before finally shutting off the tap.
And forget thinking you might use the toilet beforehand, which is what I had wanted to do. Getting fucked always creates pockets of air that I would just as soon not be surprised by later, if you know what I mean. Trying to expel them in the shower was probably not a great idea, either. Although I wanted to push any remaining semen out of my bowels, I didn't want to fart loudly on the guy that was soaping my back, either. I had decided I liked him and wouldn't mind seeing him again.
After toweling off, I followed his lead into the living room. He sat on the couch and clicked the remote. I glanced at the few CDs stacked on the television. Evidently Orlando was a Phish and ABBA fan. There were a few books from Alcoholics Anonymous on the shelf behind the tv, too. Next to the books was a sepia photo of a Hispanic woman with a round face and a set of familiar looking eyes and a full set of lips. I picked up the photo and studied the woman for a moment before turning to Orlando.
"You in AA?"
"Uh, it's supposed to be anonymous, but yeah, I am. The woman in the photograph is my mother. Was my mother," he corrected. "She died of alcoholism when I was fourteen. My father took up with the neighbor's daughter a year after that and ran off. I went to live with my grandparents for a couple years, dropped out of school and ran away. I lived on the streets in Chicago for a couple years, then cleaned up my act through AA, got my G.E.D. and here I am. Not too pretty, but it's my story."
"Jesus." I said. Glancing around the room I took in the LCD television and the stack of Onkyo components in their glass stand. "Looks like you made out ok, though."
"I've got a great job at the University," he said. I turned from the autographed David Sedaris I was thumbing through.
"Teacher?" I couldn't really imagine the naked man that sat on the couch in front of me as a stuffy professor.
He laughed. "No, I work in the kitchen. I'm a nutritionist."
"I'm in the program, too," I said, more casually than I felt.
"The AA program?"
"Yeah. I'm surprised I haven't seen you around, although I don't go to as many meetings as my sponsor would like."
I detected a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere at that confession and caught the slight flattening of Orlando's facial features.
Being one who is not given to candy-coating anything I asked, "Is that a deal-breaker?"
"Deal?"
"You know. That's where you say to me, `Christopher, it's time to get dressed and get the hell out,' and then I never see you again." I waited while he took that in.
"I'll let you know."
That was the last time I saw Orlando.
A couple days after our "date" I called him and asked if we could hook up and without any apologies he explained his sponsor forbade him from dating men in the program. I briefly wondered if his sponsor even knew Orlando was gay, but decided it wasn't one of those things you can ask after one failed date. I tried to blow off the fact that I was being blown off, but it was still a self-esteem killer. Slam, bam, thank you man!
I'd been dumped by guys before I didn't have the right look, I wasn't the right age, I wasn't rich enough, I was too much of a homebody. One guy even decided not to date me because I ate meat, of all things. What did he think swung between his legs? But I had never been ditched because I was a recovering alcoholic and certainly not by another alcoholic.
Now when I am dating a guy, I withhold the information. After all, Orlando said that it was supposed to be an anonymous program, right? I figure I should let a guy become attached to me before laying my cards on the table. So far I haven't formed any attachments, but I go to the bookstore off and on hoping to find another beautiful man, whose bodyweight is twenty-five percent cock. He doesn't have to necessarily be Hispanic, but he does have to have that pair of heavy balls in a smooth, free-swinging bag.
Then I will feel like my luck has returned.
Copyright 2007 by Karl August visit me at karlaugust.com or email hotaugustkarl@gmail.com