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RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX
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RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX
Had it only been a week? Business moves so slowly, until it moves, and then it moves fast! Contract negotiations had been sluggish until Tony got onboard and gave it his backing. His people were slick, but so were mine; the difference lay in Tony's clout - a mixture of experience, network contacts, trust, financial muscle ... but mainly it comes down to his style upon entering a room - something indefinable, he exudes, like he knows: He's the big guy.
If he taught me one thing, it was that I had a lot to learn. When we originally met, it was at the Oslo Club, a membership joint known for its rich clients and hospitality - which means, to get inside you either have to be very rich, or very hospitable. I was rich. Tony was richer. When we got talking one evening we realised we shared an interest in the same kinds of men - needy, cash-focused guys with an insatiable cock-lust. We compared notes. Tony's observation that some guys got turned on by having their assets valued and their limits stretched by rich, well hung and demanding dominant tops, excited me.
"They want it both ways," he said with a grin. "The trick is to use it to your advantage. Treat them like you already own them. Oslo Rules." I didn't know what that meant. He smirked, "You make use of your assets, don't you? So treat the things you want as assets, like you already own them. Get them to do the hard work, that way they stay grateful even when they are, in reality, only doing what you want them to do." Made sense. Pretty soon I was convinced he was a man who could help me get what I wanted in life. I remembered that phrase, "use it to your advantage" - it summed up Tony's whole attitude to life and I adopted it. I adopted Tony's whole approach to money, deals, wealth, and men. I learned from him how to be myself and live my life, no matter what.
Just watching him or listening to him turned me on. Like, being that close when he was on form. The times I have seen him down at the Oslo Club, muscle-boy on each arm, strolling around like he owned everyone in the joint; I would catch his eye and he would mouth the words, "Oslo Rules", ironic grin, gripping their muscle waists like over-large purchases from a department store. Oslo Rules. It started as a joke, Oslo Rules, meaning, "I always get what I want and on my own terms," but I realised it informed his whole way of life, like a personal philosophy, and when he said, "Oslo Rules" I knew immediately exactly what he meant; "So, when you enter a room you got to realise that you are now the most important person in that room. No one else matters."
"If I am happy, you are happy," he would say to his pickups - but he would insist on being happy, never-mind the cost, so he was not ungenerous to people he liked, or people he wanted. He knew things had to be paid for.
I mean, just say you are a top (I assume you are or why are you reading this?) You are probably reading this and thinking, Yeah I know that, I know what that feeling of power feels like when some sub or bottom gives it up, or you take it forcefully. Letting him experience your power and will is like, wow, it is unbelievable. After all, what is this? Some guy looks at you and like all he wants is your cock. He might be some perfectly ordinary looking bloke, with a friendly manner, nothing poofy or, if there is, nonetheless a perfectly decent bloke who just starts flirting, say, or lingering just more than is necessary when he looks at your fly; a bloke - but then he starts kissing you and lets you put your tongue in his mouth and lets you grope him like he is merely some "thing" you are sizing up; then he is on his back, legs in the air begging for your cock and begging to be fucked and no longer caring that he is no longer just a regular guy, he is a panting desperate queer and you are totally controlling his experience and using him like shop-bought pre-packed oven-ready chicken. You already know what that feels like - to be the one in control, to be the one providing. It feels good. It is what is called, being a man, being the Alpha. You know that. But what Tony was was different. He was super cool. Super sharp. Incredibly self-indulgent. But also absurdly acute in his judgements of others. He knew exactly what and how much he had to give to get exactly what he wanted to get. He never overpaid - and yet he always left them thinking they had come out of it with more than they had expected to get, and grateful to him for what he had given to them, like it was some kind of free gift - which it never was.
Watching him was like a masterclass in getting it right every time, and I learned massively from him. He was generous with me. I thought he liked me. I thought I owed him something - loyalty, gifts, money; he never wanted anything back, so I always thought I had got much more from him than I had any right to expect. So I would always be grateful to him for what he had given to me, like it was like some kind of free gift ... oops ... Oh yeah, du'uh! Penny drops! Oslo Rules. It was only now I began to realise how he had ultimately screwed me when he wanted what was, for me, the one thing I had got, the one thing I had got and the one thing he had decided he wanted, and once having decided, took: My Baby. Yeah. Because, Tony always got what he wanted. Never-mind the cost.
If that sounds horny to you, you are a sub, a bottom, and you should not be reading this. Not because it is trade secrets, but because I have not given you permission. Go away. Do the dishes. Lick the floor. Anything. Fuck off. Men talking. You like the idea of being humiliated? I do not even like even the idea, even, the idea even of being humiliated, let alone it actually happening and it being a close what-I-thought friend doing it to me.
I used to feel like Tony taught me everything I had ever needed to know about how to succeed, make a ton of money, and fuck. But perhaps he had now taught me the biggest lesson of all, and I had failed to see it coming. He had once said to me, "I want the best so I get the best." Well now he had certainly got the best of me. He had stolen Baby, and how he thought the price he had paid even halfway covered it?! I was determined I would make sure he coughed up in full for what he had taken, and, basically, not only that, but for humiliating me into the bargain; he had made me look like a complete prat, like I was his, like he owned me and everything I owned. Fellow Alpha treating me like a cuck ... like his pussy-boy. Yeah, I wanted it, of course I wanted it: Revenge. Restitution. Recompense.
Nevertheless, when the evening came - the one he had invited me to finalise and celebrate our little joint enterprise - I was not in the mood to go round to his gaff and get the Tony treatment. He had played by Oslo Rules and won, yet again, and I had lost. I needed something more than a meal and a signature to make this feel right. Despite the urgency to get the deal sealed and start the wheels turning, I cried off. I persuaded him to video conference-call the last few agreements and then bike the paperwork. So I dodged that one - though I did catch a glimpse on the screen of my laptop, of a naked body pass behind Tony's head, fleetingly. At one point in the conversation I knew it was Baby's naked body, and when a hand placed a tall glass of iced minted water down for Tony, on the tooled leather desktop in front of him, I knew it was Baby's hand. It was difficult to concentrate knowing that Baby was around, listening in; I could not help picturing him, running in his skin, bare balls, bare feet, running around ... my house, handing me my drinks.
"So let's meet up, when you're less busy," said Tony at last, reaching out to touch the screen to hang up.
"Yeah. Let's."
"Oslo Rules!" said Tony with a snigger.
"Yeah Oslo R-" but he had gone. The screen captured a last frozen moment of Tony's face, looking up at someone, a kiss forming on his lips.
I remember Jason, this super-thin scalp-cut guy Tony had got from somewhere, who invariably went out in a big soft golden-brown ankle-length fur coat, nothing under, so you get the picture (must have cost a bomb - the coat I mean). Tony used to slip his hand inside, inside the coat letting anyone who looked catch a glimpse of Jason's super-slim smooth body - a body so smooth and featureless that his nipples and navel looked like the eyes and nose marks on the face of a stupid skinny snowman. He was so skinny, like he really really liked food and the best thing he liked about food was not eating it. I had seen him naked on many occasions because that is how he went about the house, naked like Baby, assuming no one would mind - and I did not mind. Angular eye-candy; his arms and legs seemed to dangle, or float, like they were superfluous. But what he did have, he did have great buttocks, hefty round gently dimpled mounds of creamy flesh that seemed to follow you round the room when you looked at them. I did not ever hear him say much, but he did laugh a lot, a laugh like a cough, though mainly at jokes no one else could understand; it was like he had another friend perpetually at his side who incessantly said insanely amusing things. Tony liked him. Jason, in return, was feline in devotion, always brushing up against Tony, sliding his body like a snake under Tony's arm, letting Tony stroke his back, his neck, his perineum, breathing audibly with a kind of constantly restrained passion that sometimes got Tony so aroused he had to take him elsewhere to cum in him. They would return after about half an hour, Jason adjusting himself like a dishevelled bouquet, Tony In a state of sartorial perfection as before. It made me laugh to remember such evenings, once. Then Jason simply left. Tony never explained but I felt, for the first time, that his armour had been pierced. He simply said that Jason was no longer there and that he was relieved to be rid of him at last. The whole affair had lasted about a year. Afterwards Tony was slow to bounce back, but gradually, nights at the Oslo returned to the same old pattern. Guys came and guys went - only now Tony said that now the men he met were, "so absurdly affordable". He wanted something that would stretch his resources and I sensed that this was ultimately the only thing that turned him on. Is that what he saw in Baby? Is that what Baby saw in him?
Then I remembered my piss on Baby's face, splashing and filling his throat, my piss round his ankles, Baby standing in it like he had wet himself, looking happily at it and at me, his hot flesh warmed by my wet heat. What I liked was using Baby's own basic urges to please myself - basic urges being used right now, probably, by Tony. Was Tony pissing on Baby now, the way I had, drenching that hard soft body in his male scent? Had Tony been pissing on Jason? I pictured Jason lying on a urine-soaked floor in his fur coat, sodden, laughing, wanking himself, Tony standing astride him pulling the last drops from his foreskin. I wondered if Jason had eventually tired of being Tony's amusement? And if so ... I wondered if Baby would? After all, why, had, Jason disappeared? What was Tony's weakest link, his Achilles heel? How could I hurt him? I made a mental note to go back to the Oslo Club and ask about Jason. I thought of picking Jason up - why not? Paying him, if necessary (it would be necessary) and taking him along to Tony's, like my plus-one. That would be a joke. Tony's face, worth seeing.
Ok, stupid idea, but it would get me out of the house. I was lonely. I realised I had failed to make the fresh start I should have. This must be how Tony felt when Jason disappeared, though he did not say it, alone in his gigantic luxurious house.
That night, I dressed-up to pull and went down Oslo's in a cab thinking I might either see Jason himself, or someone who knew his number. Or something. I would play it by ear. Turns out, I asked around, but turns out it was like I was describing some stupid dream; no one had any idea who Jason was, reacted like I was a junkie asking for loose change, eyed me up and down judgementally, deciding I was on the pull and only asking them stupid questions as an opening. Some of them, I could have. Some of them, no way. My choice, as usual. I should have. I should have given them what they wanted, had my ego stroked, taken what I needed - except that, what I needed, no one was putting on offer. They were, as usual, looking for a fantasy or a situation, some kind of payoff, the price of a good time; some of them, I saw in their eyes, simply wanted the smell of a real man's hot breath and to be taken, whatever the cost to themselves personally, into a place where their pain could be driven from its emotional recess into the open light of vital physical reality. Hurting the pain and the loneliness away.
Some hope; I so was not in the mood to play their hot masterful daddy that night. So not in that frame.
So, after drawing a blank down at Oslo, I strolled over to a less well-heeled quarter, just out of curiosity, not for picking up. I just didn't want to go home yet to face my emptiness, despite the absence of horniness I felt. I headed for the gay street, and one particular pub where I knew the guys would be ordinary drinkers, ordinary normal guys, gentle, safe, unassuming, having a laugh or a quiet pint, no rent, no weirdness, nothing kinky, just guys out for the evening, gay guys like me, the bedrock of our community, just living their lives ... pain free. Vanilla. There, I've said it. No, honestly, I fully intended to have a safe quiet drink and then cab home, wank, sleep, sleep, wake up, wank, sleep.
I got my pint. I found a table. The joint was nearly empty - it was late. Most people had either gone home already or gone on to a club, or they were swaying to the music because they were too drunk to do anything else. I checked out the view. Three conventional-looking Indian bear-types stood by the games machine holding pints and making occasional conversation whilst also eyeing the remaining talent without much interest. There was an empty stage for drag acts where another group in tight clothes and eye-liner stepped to the music and laughed at jokes no one else could hear, over-camping it self-consciously. The stage lights caught the glitter in their hair and the sequins in their clothes. I watched, idly wondering if there was one of these queens I could be bothered to strip and bend over, spank, cock. Narrow and tight, I could have any one of them gagging over my meat, protesting pointlessly when I entered them, grateful, screaming, then quiet, then begging for my number. They are all the same.
They must have been thinking along those lines because I caught their eyes looking at me, catching glimpses, exchanging looks with each other and giggling, sucking on the necks of their lagers, looking butch-up, shoulders straight, stomachs drawn in, legs crossed, bottoms out, waists tight, chest out, heads back laughing then, suddenly, down, shy, looking at the floor, glancing, pretending not.
Yeah. I know. Utterly boring. When I looked again they had stopped, none of them glancing, as though they had not noticed me sitting, like I did not exist, like I'd imagined the whole thing, like I was deranged, delusional, sitting in my dark space like Major Tom, unable to hear anything except for my own dark deranged delusions battering against the bone walls of my head.
I shifted my attention, scanning the bodies for something of interest, scanning the faces for signs of interest. Everything looked so bland. Those Indian boys, a bit lost, cuddling their pints to their comfortable chests, taking occasional sips, exchanging the odd dregs of conversation with one another, like they had hoped to score but having failed to do so were waiting for their beers to dry-up and then go home, separately and alone, to their respective mortgages in suburbia. It was pathetic really - but also ... it was comforting, because, I felt, I was like that, I felt - I was just marking time until I could face my own empty bed.
Only one of them wore a turban, a large white wrap that contrasted his richly dark Punjabi complexion. Large proud curly-bracket moustache. Barrel chested. He folded his arms and kept them folded whilst he leaned his head forward to hear someone speak, smiling broadly, then leaned it back to laugh, revealing fine creases in his neck and a sculpted voice-box. His friends, waving pints, laughing, were marginally slimmer than him. One on his right clearly worked out and wanted the world to know it judging by the way his sleeves clung to his biceps and his shirt leapt the gap between his tits. They had a similar taste in trainers and smart-casual: tight polos and slacks. Turban-guy's shirt was faded red with white or grey detail lines around the sleeves and collar; stretched over a generous and cuddly stomach. I watched that stomach, its firm round pillow-like softness - then caught his eyes staring straight at mine like a lighthouse beacon. I looked away, embarrassed.
I imagine you work out. We all do. But do you find, like me, that however much you bulk or firm or tighten your abs or arms or glutes or pecs, or lose some flab or hit some other target, it is never quite enough? You probably have nights when you are the best looking body in the room, but then you check out some porn or whatever on the internet and you realise, you are nowhere near. It is frustrating. Isn't it? Every day is like a fresh start. And you get used to seeing other guys merely as examples of development, either more so or less so than you, better or worse legs, for example, or whatever, and you think, "Yeah that's out of my league," or, "that one's going to worship me! So easy!"
I try to be the muscle in the room, but he ... But he did not. That stomach kind of fascinated me, yeah? Well, I was also repeatedly glancing away, in every direction, but he was not like that. He clocked me watching him. He caught me staring and stared back, held it for a moment ... then looked away again with a gentle smile. I was embarrassed to find myself blushing. I lifted my pint to hide; caught him looking at me through the foamy glass - or rather he caught me. I put it down and made a decision: If I truly meant to leave alone tonight, it had to be now. I eased myself up, pushing my wooden chair across the wooden floor, feeling suddenly exposed, as if trouser-less. Strange sensation. I felt that his eyes - though I didn't look at his face to see - they were observing my move, like a mongoose tracks its prey snake, waiting for some balance of strength to tip to his advantage. Do not ask me why I thought it was, or why I needed it, but, he didn't move as I slid towards the toilets and their presumed safety.
What do you think? Are the toilets in a gay bar places of safety? Moot point, as I stood at the urinal splishing, for no one entered. I flipped it back in and did up, turning to the door where ... there he was! We collided, Turban pushing his large size into me. His hand slid round to avoid closer contact, round my waist, so that I was guided to one half of the door frame, he took the other, but that hand glided over me like a shadow grazing my side and felt like a shockingly intimate contact. I squeezed across his stomach, saw the hairs of his beard and moustache moving, and past, out into the corridor leading to the bar, along its bendy curve, leaving him behind. We had been face to face at one point, closely pressed like lovers. I had felt his breath and seen the deep dark black behind his eyes. He had been guiding me, but it was like he was holding me, fast, embracing me into him, like lovers do.
As I returned to my pint, intending to down the dregs and go, I noticed the other two Indian guys had closed ranks, on the gap where Turban had gone missing, and were standing mute, like off-duty soldiers, not looking anywhere in particular - but he had followed me, Turban, like a ghost, and was standing behind me, which I didn't know and they didn't disclose by their expressionless, drunk faces. I grabbed my glass and folded myself down once more into my seat at which point I saw him, at last, as he pushed on the desk, pinning me into my place. I was taken aback. Naturally. Forced myself back against the edge to resist entrapment, and gave him a look of surprised displeasure. Which he ignored totally, leaning in to place a hand on my shoulder, like its weight would add a further restraint. He leaned further in and did something, "You're too cute, to be straight!" he said in a London accent. Unbelievably cheesy.
That hand in my back had released a layer of sexual availability I had forgotten I had - forgotten since years before. Decades. An entire sexual lifetime. Now it shot through me like a delayed action rifle sound reports from across the athletics stadium, apparently after the runners have started to run. Inside my heart, inside my head, and most spectacularly inside my trousers, my blood raced competitively through the flaccid recesses expanding and exciting on the go, opening into the most deflated regions driving an erotic piston into my soul. I looked into his eyes and saw something I had not seen for longer than I could remember, and yet I could remember, a simple sweet attraction and affection beyond the functional erection and it's use. It was an electrical connection, a thrill that, like a shudder, weakened my will with an unnameable and unexpected swamp of desire.
Christ. Listen to me! But I'm not kidding.
He grinned. "Mind if I join you?"
He pulled up a stool and sat astride it, reaching out to grasp my hand. "What's your name?"
"Rick."
"Janki. Pleased to meet you."
"Junkie?"
"Yeah that's right. Janki, pleased to meet you, Rick. You're cute. You come here often?"
He was that cheesy.
I laughed. "No ..."
"No. I've never seen you here before. And I would have remembered. Sure of that."
"You come here often then?" I replied, matching his chat-up line.
"No!" He grinned so that I was none the wiser.
The feel of his hand on my hand, gripping and releasing, stroking the palm and the back, gently, not letting go of it, felt nice.
"You going anywhere after?"
"Home," I said.
"Home?"
"Hehe yearhh."
"Home. Where's home?" He asked with a toothy smile, placing his other hand on my hand and pressing it and stroking it between the two. There was a deep line between his eyebrows. I sipped at my empty glass. He never stopped looking at me, like I was a book he was learning.
"Need a drink?" he said.
I shook my head. I was leaving.
"Let me get you one," he said.
I wondered what his hair looked like. Was it long? Did it hang down, a Rapunzel ponytail of winding black and grey, that would flow down the ravine of his spine and into his black hairy arsecrack, like a river disappears into the soft earth as it crashes over the ...
Christ. Listen to me. I've completely lost it. Lost it. Completely.
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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX