"JOEY MENELLO" By Jack Russell warp8tobeach@yahoo.com
Joey Menello has been my best friend since he was randomly picked by Sister Margaret to be my reading mate in the 5th grade at Santa Maria grammar school. He was the scrappy first child born from two wonderful 2nd generation parents with Sicilian roots.
We were practically inseparable and over time our families grew close as well. Joey's dad worked as a postal clerk and his mom could conjour up a spaghetti dinner no matter what time we spilled into the kitchen.
My mom was a single parent, and in Polish defiance, somehow managed to juggle her two jobs at a furniture store and Diner but still drench me with unconditional love and attention. I never knew my dad since he split when I was only two. Mom didn't even have a picture of him. However, as an adult, I've come to realize that part of my personality is deeply rooted in his genes and I've always wondered if per chance, I passed him on the chaotic avenues of Manhattan or sat next to him on the subway.
All of my friends had both parents present and accounted for but Joey's dad stepped up to the plate and became my surrogate uncle of sorts. Whenever Joeys family exchanged the raw streets of NY for Jones Beach, there was a place for me in the car and room for my self made boogie board. I cut it from wood abandoned from a construction site on Zerega Avenue. It was a little rough around the edges like a sharks fin and Joeys dad re cut it for me so I wouldn't accidentally slice another child in half during my perilous dance in the murky surf.
Even though I pined for a dad to teach me baseball or just listen to those puny childhood problems that seem to lurk ominously like a bogy man in your darkened closet, I never felt any jealousy towards those whose family's were complete. I suppose I was just used to having a single parent and didn't know any better. Besides, whenever I did complain about the inequities of life from the perspective of a child, my mom would always say in her stubborn Bronx lilt, "whenever someone gives you lemons, Brian, make lemonade". It was years before I understood the difference between lemons and an idiom. And little could I have known at the time that the lemons would come my way in bushels.
I found my nitch in athletics, especially wrestling where I was All-American in high school while Joey couldn't bounce a ball and walk down the street simultaneously. His skills were more academic. He was a wiz in math and tirelessly tutored me in geometry and then the heart break of algebra. I in turn, prepped him on the basics of football and basketball.
On Thanksgiving holiday, with Joey and a gaggle of motley friends, we were scrimmaging on the muddy football field at Bronx Catholic. I captured a wobbly pass of the pigskin and made a 50 yard dash for a touchdown leaving everyone else slipping on leaves. Well, almost everyone. Joey was on the opposing team and we were on a catastrophic collision course. At first I thought I could maneuver past my more portly adversary but Joey had other plans. We slammed into each other like two SUV's fighting for dominance on the interstate. My elbow made smashing contact with Joey's nose and recast it distinctly bad boy bent. At any rate, it was a fortuitous event transforming Joey's almost dainty features to a more masculine profile that got him more dates in a semester than I managed in a year.
I was, if I may say, a good looking guy at a thick 170 pounds and sprouting towards 6'. Girls swooned at my pale hazel eyes and dimples that framed a politicians smile. Girls would monopolize me in silly chatter and pepper me with physical contact; usually on my bicep or a playful sweep past my chest. I enjoyed the attention and the envious glances of other guys but knew that something was just "wrong" with me and I unknowingly yearned for a different kind of contact. Sometimes I would imagine that I could jump outside my body and step back with the other guys and look back at the strapping jock with the "V" physique cordoned off by a rabid harem of trophy girlfriends.
What I felt uncomfortable about was my desire to covet the other guys as they idly looked at me. I did know that I enjoyed to engage in prolonged stares at other jocks like a certain Rob P Glassner, a hard charging sophomore that wrestled in my weight category. We were casual friends and always bumped into each other at the Coach House Diner, a local munching corner for teenagers out with their buds on Saturday night. Rob had a great body and was a skillful wrestler. He exhibited the seeds of great technique that would eventually germinate.
The years passed and although I graduated with good grades, my mom couldn't afford to send me to a well known school so we decided I would attend Queens college for two years hoping for the eventual salvation of a scholarship to a real university. Most of my friends were doing just that. Joey was an easy fit into the venerable City College in trendy Harlem. He graduated near the top of his class.
For most of us, going to college was a deliciously liberating experience. Professors replaced teachers, study times were self dictated, and the bars would serve a cold beer to fresh faced young men with college ID.
I blossomed in school making friends easily and picking up some spending money tutoring and ghostwriting research papers. I met openly gay students and admired their "just get over it" attitude. They were comfortable in their own skin, knew who they were, and found casual acceptance in campus life. But still I hid in my own shadow afraid to step into the sunshine and let it bathe my face.
Joey called me today to get people together for a pick up basketball game downtown. He wasn't playing himself but served as the logistic coach for assembling 9 self important undergraduates and all their collective scheduling conflicts. He deserves a PhD for just that!
We were playing in the Village with a group of guys that must have learned how to play ball from the time they were an egg. They were beating us silly and racked up points virtually unopposed. Joey winced from the sidelines as our motley crew was being drug around West 4th Street Court by a synchronized brotherhood of basketball musicians. Rob P Glassner was our ad-hoc captain and was definitely not happy with our progress. He had this way of wiping his hand across his mouth when riled much like a bull scrapes the dirt and snorts before charging. I've seen this when he wrestled and the results for his opponent were never pretty.
Naturally the water fountain wasn't working due to a band of diligent sleazeballs that were keeping one step ahead of New York City's finest parks maintenance staff. It was August and the afternoon fusion reactor we call the sun unmercifully fried us. I tossed a container of bottled water down my parched throat. I was parched. It reminded me of wrestling season when you engage in rounds of self flagellation by refusing to eat or even sip fluids to make weight. It's not surprising when wrestlers and bodybuilders pass out or even expire due to dehydration.
I've must of trekked from one side of that court to the other without rest 50 times chasing this dredlocked stallion who seemed incapable of missing the hoop and was the primary cause of our anemic score. He ran effortlessly while dancing with the basketball before rising on his tippy toes and racking up another point for the home team.
I galloped in his wake, seemingly always just a fingernails length out of reach. The slam of my cheap sneakers slapping piteously on the scalding court was juxtaposed between desperate wheezes of my moiled breath.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye loomed a now shirtless and hulking Robert P Glassner with a determined linebacker look and a resolve to put our annoying opponent out of commission. It was something I'll never forget and ignited the precursors to every gay mans coming out moment. An untimely but hot voyeuristic chapter that one should embrace whenever you can get it and feel legitimized to exploit its eroticism.
Robs strategy was to let the spidery thin black runner get within swatting range and then pulverize him. Messy but effective. Forgetting how tired and uncomfortable I was for an instant, I jollified at the sight of my muscly friend and the compelling panorama of his pulchritude.
Rob was about my height with classical facial features topped off with a manicured mane of razor cut ebony hair that never appeared disheveled despite the abuse of sports or the ocean. He could wrestle everyone at a competition, exchange his singlet for a tuxedo, and glowingly pose for picture perfect photos at a Hamilton beach house wedding. That was the Rob; relentless perfection.
Cut like a diamond, beach tanned, and luscious pecs die cast from workouts, it was no wonder that girls swooned over him and the competition gave him breathy respect. Imbued in his spicy sweat with his shorts riding just an "R rating" above his manful bush, he flexed and ballooned every muscle in his body to outrageous proportions.
The black guy was screwed; being unable to stop or sashay around this toll booth of a guy. He collided with Rob losing his command of the ball which rebounded within a promiscuous reach of my right hand. Rob managed a self pleasing grin like one gets from the satisfaction of squatting a mosquito before he gets the chance to bite you.
It was a beautiful sight indeed and I almost declined to scoop up the ball as I was too occupied in my clandestine gay moment. The black guy performed an asymmetric pirouette before tumbling to the court like a sack of potatoes.
I wanted to laugh in the excitement of being in position to score the first point for my team but yet fearful for having all eyes on me and my parochial dribbling. As I made a frantic dash for the hoop, it was as if my mind suddenly procreated and I now had two brains working simultaneously but tasked to different capers. Similar to testosterone fueled super computers that work concurrently to break a cypher, I now delegated brain 1 to the basketball game while brain 2 was allowed to leisurely wallow in a campaign of lust.
It was evolution born out of necessity like frozen pizza and the microwave. I was detached from the pain of my cramped leg muscles pressed into a full rout yet I numbly breezed down the court. Salty sweat tore at my eyes and obnubilated my vision yet I could see the swelled musculature of Rob Glassner distinctly.
The black guy was wincing in pain and crimson blood oozed from his knees. He wiggled uselessly like a bug caught underfoot. Rob held a victorious command over him; his chest puffed out and nipples admonishing his prey.
I got a enduring glance of Rob's crotch where a frolicking plumbers wrench of a cock dangled in the crevice of his soccer legs. I wondered if he was as aroused at how he belittled his rival as I was being a lucky witness to the event. When wrestling, I've found myself enjoying an erogenous moment just before I vanquished my opponent in an inescapable lock-up. What I never quite established, was whether my teammates experienced similar phenomenon. It wasn't like you could entertain the subject with your mates as you showered.
I let loose a school yard lob for the basket while my virginal slap of meat came alive in a final shear of gay pride. The ball philandered with the rim and then dropped for our first score but I never saw it being too engrossed on thieving a larcenous heist at Rob's ass cheeks. They were Gemini mouth pleasing bulbous orbs in perpetual motion corralled in risque shorts and blew me to smithereens. I found my gaze oddly feminine but was addicted to its compelling sight.
We pancaked back into enemy territory in a chaotic riot of thumping sneaks and moiled breaths. Rob held his turf like an alpha dog marking his territory. He simply waited for the ball and its spunky tattooed owner come within striking distance before extending his arms in a brawny gauntlet.
I spied Rob in a full spread video shoot. His powerful arms strained as if holding back Hoover Dam; his baseball sized biceps peaked; and shoots of coal black pit hairs exposed to daylight and my corruptible tendencies. If you were standing too close to him as he flexed, you just might get knocked out! I was intoxicated in a gangway of lurid thoughts and my swollen cock just cried out to be offended with bruising strokes towards climax.
I saw the whole event unfold in slow motion but still wasn't sure whether Rob fouled our inked adversary with a stealthy punch or whether it was a legal block that deteriorated into messy litigation. Regardless, the results were the same as before. The tattooed man lost his balance and collapsed in a blistering stew while our teammate closed on the the ball to chalk up our second point with a carefully executed lob. Love it!
The opposing team bullied past our defenses but the tossed ball flirted with the hoop before the rim rejected it with a belligerent smack. Nathan, our bespeckled callous fingered guitar freak, recovered it. He momentary hugged it like a wailing infant before taking off downrange with the ball on extended dribbles just out of his reach and forcing him to play a game of catch up with the problematic orange globe.
I had lots going on simultaneously. Do you have any idea how hard it is to run at flank speed on a basketball court when "Little Willie" is fully engorged in a sexually inflamed shriek? Trying to catch up to run interference for our house scholar who by now was in a temporal panic, I buzzed past Rob who was nonchalantly dusting off Mr. Tattoo. Our eyes dwelled on each other in a affectionate pokey embrace.
As if overdosed on Xanax, I was submerged in the corporal cesspool of swinging arms, primitive rants, and athletic challenges that commuted well in advance of my ability to process it. I was still developing my "gaydar" but now was a bad time to run the trial version. I still wasn't sure whether Rob was checking me out as well or simply returning my broadened glint in an innocuous haze.
Nathan got lost in an uncoordinated oscillation. Although he managed to break free of his offense and was in the clear for the basket, he imploded under pressure but I was there to make a fancy recovery for the unchaperoned ball and score.
I did a little trotting victory jig by raising my arms skyward and kicking my hips around in coltish gyrations. Surrounded by a phalanx of revved up teammates that could taste the flesh of our prey, we reveled in denude high fives and shrewd grins. We were a voracious pride of lions and the opposing team was demoted to scared gazelles. Rob's leadership was stunning.
We ran the court impregnable and unopposed. They were crushed and their best players were rickety from Robs pounding. Racking up point after point, Rob was ecstatic with my performance and wrapped me up in his hefty arms for a tender but painfully abbreviated chest to chest embrace.
I lined up for a final point that would end the game splendidly engrossed in our cheer-leading moment. To my left and slightly behind was Nathan. Ricky James, an over fueled testosterone sophomore with a greasy attack of facial acne, was in the lead brusquely shooing away any antagonist that dared to threaten the new world order.
Robs sweat commingled with mine in the cleavage of my chest creating a freshly novel scent. I could still feel his eraser sized nipples ground into mine as an afterthought from brassy paparazzi flashbulbs ignited in your face.
Todd Abbas, a swarthy skinned Mediterranean, was my right elbow shadow. His performance in b-ball was unfocused but has shown himself to be one ornery pit bull on the hockey court. I think he loved to fistfight. Watch out for his jab! I managed a spry glance at him and winked my intentions.
How did Robert P. Glassner manage to achieve those oak like legs swathed in rich ebony hair when he couldn't farm any facial hair other than a pubertal fine cookie dust? He's won many wrestling matches just by an abrupt and unpredictable engagement of his quads that rendered his stunned opponent staggering. When Rob gets mad, the muscle comes out. The dilemma made my head swim,my mouth salivate, and my dick roar in disarray.
I quickly calculated my run for the basket barely missing the spinning legs of the determined tattooed interloper that forced himself into a commingle between me and Todd. Panicked, I hit the brakes and he overshot me with Todd in hot pursuit; his arms up and cocked in a plumage of offensive defiance.
Rob caught up with me and pressed his charge to my right. He reached out his left arm and brushed my waist; his fingers thieving a tawdry rummage below the elastic band in my shorts. I was atingled and canvassed his tempting profile, his panoptic shoulders slightly singed and by the summer sun, an undergarment of sweat that accentuated his vascularity, and the tantalizing animation of his plump gluttonous muscles flush with power.
The ball arched skyward. Todd watched it launch with the enchantment of a twelve year old catching his parents in raw lovemaking. Nathan, terminally winded, watched his dredlocked opponent. I was transfixed on deflowering Rob's ass, and a perplexed Joey Menello was watching the whole scene from the shaded bleachers infused in detective like rumination over what the hell was going on out there between his best bud and Robert P Glassner.
Seems I was a bit distracted by Rob's heedful play as the ball splashed in the basket for the winning point. My teammates exploded in celebration. You would have almost expected a magnum of champagne unleashed in a soaking carbonated eruption.
I had other plans as did Rob P Glassner. He scooped me up and pitched me skywards. I enjoyed a moment of weightlessness before returning to his surefooted embrace. He ushered me into his chest and flexed his pecs in titillating pulsations.
I reflexively pushed away but he thankfully intercepted. Ensconced in his vice like grip, I tentatively ran my hands up his obliques towards his armpits. It was an aphrodisiac for the senses and I savored the bewitching fantasy. Our cheeks merged and the abridged stubble of my face fancied a pitifully short touch of his smooth features.
He shouted excitedly in my ear. At first I thought he said, "You're undressed." but then realized his comment was less rowdy and more congratulatory; "You're the best!"
Joey and I lumbered along in unusual silence as the dilapidated subway carried us home. I always knew when Joey was intensely lost in pressing thoughts or trying to unravel a problem. He would become very still, like a monk in contemplation with shuttered eyes and fingers laced in reflexion. I also knew that his remoteness had something to do with me and felt unprepared to reconcile with my private abbreviations 20 feet below the gritty streets of NYC.
He opened his eyes and studied me for a instant. I could almost hear the synapses firing, attempting to edit his thoughts into words, trying to make sense of what went on at the basketball courts, and how to breach the taboo. He was facing the paradox of giving me the opportunity to come to him with any issues and that was hard since I was holding something back from myself as well.
We hit a gash in the tracks, as if there were any on some sections, and the train staggered. It must of loosened Joeys vocal cords too.
"Brian, are you gay?" He wasted no time getting to the point and the funny thing is, I almost anticipated this moment and wouldn't have expected anything less direct from Joey Menello. His tone was supportive and helpful. I could have reacted angerly or deflected the question as a farcical joke but found myself peacefully mute. He was my rock. Joey had that way with me.
He put his arm around my shoulder and I felt a sense of resolve in his clutch. "I will always be there for you. Never ever doubt me, Brian."
We rocked through another epidemic of track rash and the rude florescent lights lost power off under the strain. I felt some tears well up in my eyes but didn't care. I was secure in the childhood embrace of my best friend that nurtured me over the threshold of long division and drowning riptides that lurked off of Jones beach. Fuck, coming out to your best bud must be the least of the problems we'll face together as our long and prosperous lives weaved its itinerary in unpredictable zigzags, tragedies, and eventual renewals.
Over the next few weeks, Joey and I grew closer as if that was even possible. We regularity held court at the Starbucks on Chambers Street. Joey was dating this bimbo blond from Queens that wanted to have a baby more than Paris Hilton coveted publicity. I suggested that Joey stick to blow jobs only or find himself dragging this busomed baby maker to the abortion clinic. I've met the girl several times and thought she was a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. Joey was more cerebral and I couldn't imagine what the two of them had in common other than cock meets hole.
"So, stud, how's your love life, then?" Joey ventured as he adjusted his sunglasses lost in the frolics of his brown hair.
I shrugged my shoulders innocently. "I'm considering my options." That meant I'm as horny as hell and soon will settle for anything remotely warm.
We simultaneously leaned forward in our chairs; our heads close enough for a spark to transverse the atmosphere. "Well, consider this option stud muffin. Nathans playing in that stupid grunge band of his on Friday night at the Boiler Room. Wanna go? After all, I'll need someone to keep my steamy bitch off me. Up for the job?" He tapped his coffee cup on the table to accentuate his invitation.
I wiggled and felt my cock yawn. If I didn't get fucked soon, my asshole would slam shut and my dick would oxidize. I didn't have any other plans that night except with Rosy Palm so how could I resist the advances of my adjuvant champion auditioning as my presumptive fag hag. Little did I know, but Joey was much more competent and complicit in his invitation than I could ever imagine. Like a mathematician counting cards in Vegas, his winning subterfuge was skillfully palmed and its present would be bequeathed to me at the right moment.
*** It rained Friday in fits of depressing drizzle. The outrageously queer baristra at Starbucks who hailed from Seattle said it felt like he was back home slinging caffeine at Pikes Place Market. He passed me my tall espresso. Our fingers touched. Hmm.
Even an anonymously energized city like New York transforms itself like a chameleon to mirror the season. In the renewal days of Spring, wounded city dwellers replace the drudgery of prison like shrouds of coats by anticipated wonder and spry smiles. In the winter, Rockefeller Center is the oasis of ice skating and Central Park is replete with kids of all ages christening their sleds to the powdery gift delivered by a nocturnal surprise of snow.
Today brought reflection. Not only of cars and faces in the puddles, but in the minds of people as they ran life's obstacle course while trying not to get splashed by either a passing car or the vehicle itself. Fully galvanized, I headed for the gym and sprinted through a gaggle of circuit training stations. Bench presses were followed by back rows; squats subordinated by knee wrenching lunges and shoulder presses followed by a chaser of upright rows. I was in and out under 30 minutes.
I wasn't exactly looking forward to spending the night in an ash strewn bar while Nathan strummed out his violent attack of corrosive lyrics. My mind was elsewhere, befuddled in its own gray mattered dungeon. Yes, that's what the rain does to a pondering sentient being by the name of Brian L Schave.
I escaped reality in the snug cafe at Borders. The personable Phillipino baristra by the name of Fritzie was holding cheerful court with her patrons. She was full of good thoughts and always made a point of stopping by my table with a free refill as I devoured a disheveled copy of the New York Times. I studied the satiny street scape below from the picture window. A taxicab deferred to a pedestrian and pigeons defeated the bird spikes on my window ledge as they busily huddled under the ledge. It's so New York!
Shopping at Macy's is so tiring. Two shirts, waist pinching jeans, and black socks wringed $92.59 out of my debit account. It wore me out and I headed home battling mobs of oscitance.
It continued to rain throughout the day and into the night. The temperature dropped too and I rummaged through my closet for a sweatshirt that would be appropriate for the night. Long sleeved and snugly, I felt ready to take on the ravages of Friday night no matter how boring it might be for me.
I got off the subway and darted the remaining blocks to the bar. Damn, it was getting chilly! The Boiler Room was piled to the rafters with an assortment of college students, East Village regulars, and knots of carefree women enjoying a recess of lesbianism. Sure enough, Nathan was dressed in his full regalia of ripped jeans and sweat soaked T-shirt. His four man band punched out its delusional vomit of abrasive squeals and miscues to a buzzed audience. The sound ricocheted off the gritty brick walls and riposted in frightening aftershock. Dark music for tortured souls, indeed. It must of have been an acoustical wet dream for Nathan.
Peeking through the clamor of Nathans band, interpenetrate waffles of cigarette smoke, and the animated banter of a hundred patrons, I heard my name being called out and saw the spastic wave of Joeys hand.
"Brian!", Joey screamed as if he had last seen me 30 years ago trapped behind the wall in East Berlin. He gave me a masculine hug. Todd Abbas introduced me to his glamorous girlfriend, Maria. She looked like a model you'd see in the Sunday Paper pullout section. Full lipped and leggy, she smiled broadly at everything being said although I doubted if she could hear anything over the racket. Ricky James was pounding down one bucket of Bud after another. His acne appeared in remission and he cast a hot outline in cuffed pants and baby blue button down shirt.
"Oh, Glassner, you made it! Cool!", Joey disported.
I think had I been hooked up to an EKG machine, the graph would have drawn the silhouette of two guys fucking; one submissively bent; the other delivering the goods.
Robert Glassner coolly acknowledged everyone. He put his hand around my mid-section, drew me in tantalizing close, and whispered in my ear. "Last time I saw you, Brian, you were playing your ass off at 4th Street Court!"
Well, let's just say I was slightly lightheaded. As Popeye the Sailor-man would say, "Well, blow me away!"
Our group huddled around the back bar like Emperor Penguins warding off an arctic blast. The bartender was shirtless and his chest was emblazoned with a garish tattoo. Maria stole a few stares at his tightly coiled body. I don't think Todd minded. It was simply making his girlfriend horny for sex later on. Hopefully, Todd would rise to the occasion.
Rob happily engaged me in conversation. He just purchased a new cell phone and was proud to show me its features and pictures of his dog and family. Someone called out his name and jogged over to say hello. He looked like one of the typical NYU undergrads that populate this gay badlands of the city. Comfortably liquored up and manicured, he balanced a dainty martini in his hand while imbedding a tender kiss on Robs cheek. Did I see that? Somebody pinch me.
Well hello world! Dummy me never even knew that Mr jock stud all American scaldingly arousing macho man was fishing off the same pier as myself. My mouth dribbled agape. I'm surprised I didn't drool. I fucking had no clue! I wouldn't have known this guy was queer had he been wearing high heels.
I glanced at Joey Menello and our eyes were plasma soldered tight. No words were needed here. They simply would obfuscate the telepathic symbiosis that two close friends massage over their lives. He benignly winked at me and his calming smile said volumes; "I will always be there for you."
Rob took the helm of our conversation and our conversation melded seamlessly. We were drenched in the collective breaths of a hundred patrons pressurized by Nathans coarse instrumentals; yet we were alone. The ruction of everyone talking and laughing; the repetitive hollow clinking of beer bottles begging for replenishment, and the tidal pull of the herd went unnoticed. Two special people were sharing a reciprocal discovery and a love some embrace. Calmly marooned in our own deserted island, we got uniquely acquainted. The wall of self preserving barriers that men erect like a mid evil castles to shield themselves from the vulnerabilities of intimacy crumbled.
I told Robert how I spent my day and modeled my shirt still starch sharp from Macy's. He pouted his lips and adjusted my collar and then backed off as if admiring his work. Robert spent his day studying for a midterm, pursuing the shelves of Best Buy for a new gadget, and finishing everything off with a refreshing disco nap before coming out. We probably just missed each other by minutes and hurried shuffles on the achromatic bluster of Broadway.
Joey and Maria practiced some sweltering Latin influenced tango; their hips whirling in a slashing orbit; her generous bosoms ironing Joey's shirt. Robert took my hand and guided me as if blind into his arms. We instinctively choreographed a wanton dance, a precursor of sorts starting with our shoes only toenails apart, our upper bodies synchronizing the pace of our heart beats, and our minds considering how we could finalize the night alone together and gratefully naked.
There was a tug on my arm as if waking me from my happy dance with Rob. Joey pressed a key into my hand.
"126 W 135th street, apartment 6B. You got it?" he commanded as his eyes urged me towards the exit.
"How'd you...?" I weakly asked.
"Don't worry about it. Have a great night!"
Rob was in a dream state too. He looked at me in anticipation understanding full well that he fit into this key exchange somehow.
We emerged from the bar like two excited children stumbling out of their bedrooms on Christmas morning. It seemed to be raining harder and the troubled street was fully engaged in shoe soaking puddles.
"Where we going? Where we going", Rob pestered.
I flipped my hand skyward like a native New Yorker and a cab materialized out of nowhere. I brusquely shoved Robbie in as if being kidnapped.
The cabbie waited patiently for the address. I delivered it flawlessly and will come to remember that address for the rest of my life.
"126 W 135th street", I ordered.
Even though we were practically transversing the whole length of the Island, this cabbie navigated his bouncy Crown Victoria uptown with quiet precision. Blissfully, every traffic light turned green as we approached the intersections on this unusually traffic free night. Rob and I watched the cityscape pass by in speechless wonder; our hands folded together like newlyweds expecting their first child. The windshield wipers kept cadence with consoling one second clunks. We watched droplets form only to be swept away and replaced by natures reinforcements.
The cab slowed in Harlem, once a white free bastion but now infected with a hip vibe and young homesteaders. We were "here" and the cabbie nailed the address perfectly and stopped. Rob and I remained seated and looked about quizzically. I had no idea what I was looking for until I saw a slime encrusted flagstone building anchored by a greasy chicken eatery on street level. Hand sized black lettering was all that emblazoned an anonymous door next to the shop. 126.
"Well, it's not The Plaza", I whispered to an awe struck Rob.
"$12.50, please", the cabbie politely requested. Welcome to New York!
I thankfully gave him a crisp $20.00 and he obligingly started making change. I declined.
"It's all yours. Thank you".
Our pregnant breathes held court in front of our faces. All was still sans the low rumble of the Ford's V8 and its wallowing exhaust. Rob and I must have looked like astronauts mistakenly beamed down to a strange planet. The cabbie; someone who must have seen it all riding the bowels of the city, seemed softly amused. He was waiting for us to go inside as Robert P Glassner and I were deliriously sharing our reckless thoughts.
The vestibule door was unlocked. We entered and waived our gracious sentinel good bye. Now I know where the television networks film their darker police dramas. The hallway was carpeted in a boring tan loom but the walls were recently painted and otherwise in good repair. We crouched down like truant 8th graders sneaking off school grounds as we gobbled up the stairwell to the 6th floor. Our footsteps echoed against concrete and my heart was thumping out of my shirt when we reached the landing.
Rob was sweating slightly, breathing deeply, and was wearing the most mischievous shit faced grin a man could ever exhibit. I grabbed him not too gently and forced our lips together. He offered no resistance but a contented moan. My tongue surveyed his teeth. Our noses brushed and I could feel the arousing stubble of his beard on my cheek. However, there was something else more sinister awaking in me too. I was as hard as an aluminum baseball bat and hoped that my beau was equally up to the task.
"Open the door, dammit", he pained. We were ignited in a pandemic of desire and I fumbled with the key.
The apartment was a narrow studio eclectically furnished but accomplished well suggesting its owner was either a design major or David Bromstead. A large bookcase served as a television stand and room divider. There was no formal bed but a newer mattress and comforter placed on the floor near a jailhouse sized solitary window. Of course, Rob and I didn't care. It could have been a derelict cardboard box. We were alone and just too satisfied and willing to fuck.
Our unconditional instincts took over and we clung to each other like magnets. Robs face was flush and his jet black hair tousled in curious suggestive swirls. We drifted together in our corporal sin of homosexuality as we foundered on the mattress. Rob presented his torso to me and I'll never forget how fucking hot it was to pull down his tight jeans and see his iron stiff cock spring out like an ornery beaver.
He bit my lips and his exploratory kisses served as a precursor to our pent up amorous tendencies. I pulled the comforter over our heads shielding us from the lone table lamp that spied on us with 100 watt efficiency. Rob rolled over on top of me and donned the dominant position. I thankfully acquiesced to his role. Our engorged cocks rubbed each other to a charging revival.
Being predisposed to impatience, I burrowed south and tried to shove his cock in my mouth like a child getting his first Popsicle. What Rob's dick lacked in length compared to mine, he more than made up with circumference. He was endowed with a plump slap of meat and his moist mushroom head was already smeared with emollients of precum. His untamed phalanx of pubic hair tickled my cheeks. There was a subtle aroma of Calvin Kline cologne. How nice!
I was the luckiest guy in the world! This was my inaugural run at gay intimacy but innately knew exactly what to do as if the skills were imprinted in me at birth. I worked on Robs shaft like a champ and my mouth and left hand massaged his meat. I pulled diabolically at his walnut sized nuts knowing that they were pressurized with buckets of his sweet love juice.
Robbie bucked up and unabashedly presented his ass to me. It was as subtle an invitation that one could receive. Two muscly mounds of perfection escorted its cycloptic eye surrounded by an undisciplined thicket of untamed bush...and no, this didn't smell like Calvin Kline but I was driven nevertheless to deliver punishing thrusts of my tongue as far as nature would allow.
He thrashed wildly but soon loosened and his puckered hole dilated and compromised two of my fingers. You might say his garage door was up and all I had to do was drive the truck in.
I wanted to swallow all of him and just hoped that the Heimlich maneuver worked as advertised. Bewitched by the fantasy of having this studs undefended ass at my convenience, I mouthed it esuriently while wishing the capacity to separate my jaws as snakes do and reposit prey whole.
He cooed like a satiated infant. I knew that now was the time to get to work before lightning struck the building or some crazed jihadist decided to level our building.
Rob seized the missionary position and I pinned him chest to heaving chest. I delivered diversionary tender kisses as my excited wad of meat went for the kill. There was no diplomacy here. I slammed with my hips and delivered the goods like a punch to the nose.
Rob screamed with a gamey squeal that seemed impossible for a male vocal cord to generate. I paused. He caught his breath thankfully. I almost feared he swallowed his tongue; and what a shame that would be with all the work we had to do.
"Go, go! , he encouraged. I continued my thrusts. Each one followed by a deeper tug at his prostate. He was efflorescent, a slime of sweat soaked his brow, and his eyelids fluttered as if in REM sleep. I reveled at the thought of seeing the normally unflappable Robert P Glassner nakedly disheveled and vulnerable to my uninhibited provocations. I wondered what he would look like now photographed at a swank Hampton Beach wedding.
I enjoyed a voyeuristic moment looking down at my cock as it burrowed into his hole. It looked like a big ugly pig caught in the mouth of a python.
He arched back pushing his chest out as if in the final thrust of childbirth; his agitated nipples reddened and tormentingly inflamed. Rob uttered something seductively in French..."Oh, mon Dieu!" It sent me wild and it was my cue to let him have it. I built up speed pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in until his ass ground against my crazed nuts. I molested the sides of his ass and collided into repeatedly rabid with unrepentant sexual road rage.
He gave me my cue to let him have it. I relentlessly continued to prosecute his man-cave as my twin balls ferociously paddled his ass. It sounded like a folded newspaper being struck against brick. Rob crisscrossed his ceder trunk legs around my back; his toes digging into the underside of my pecs like a jokey urging his stallion to the finish line.
I felt a flash of flame on my abs and realized he let loose with a thick porridge of spunk. His load seeped into the creases of my abs and found a convenient receptacle in my belly button. Rob's chest collapsed as he released a pound of air out from his lungs. We were both exhausted but neither wanted to acquiesce. With renewed strength, I submerged deep and stuffed him like a holiday turkey.
I was now at the point of no return and delivered multiple shots of my salty elixir up his elongated vestry. We kissed so passionately our lips were locked in a vacuum and I practically sucked his tongue down my esophagus. Rob had a look of dirty satisfaction, his eyebrows arched in malfeasance and eyes full of malice.
Suddenly he started shaking like a truculent Ford and then blew out thick creamy chunks of spunk over both our bodies. I didn't think it was humanly possible to expel so much sperm. It was enough to bottle and sell on E bay!
Reaching down, I scooped some up in my hand. It slithered around my fingers like honey, was as hot as coco, and Chardonnay sweet.
"Give me some!", Rob demanded, and I dispensed his ointment over his lips and coated them in a rich gloss. He greedily swallowed and we assumed a messy compromise of situating ourselves in a 69 position to simultaneously cleanse each others rod. My upper body off the bed and his quads in a pincer move over my ears. I gagged on his rod, took a deep breath, and then fondly slipped his whole swollen mess down my throat. His lumbering balls swung like a pendulum under my chin.
Eager to please, Rob encapsulated my cock without complaint, and with an arousing taunt of his tongue, he teased my hulking head to spurt out a tardy load.
We cuddled and Rob rested his head in the crevice of my arms. I ran my fingers through his hair and caressed the lobs of his ear. Allowing my nose a free spirited loiter, I found my head in his armpit and basked in the musky sent of this wonderful specimen. I've never felt anything more erotic than the sensitive embrace of another man.
He looked at me as if it were the first time we ever met.
"Next week I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll explode", he warned with a dastardly lilt.
"Promise?", I crooned.
The End (Yep, that's all Folks!)