Saturday, March 26, 2011

TAKE A LEFT ON DEAD HORSE ROAD

                       By Sutter
                               Powel 
Jack repositioned the air conditioning vent for the one hundredth time and was rewarded with a feeble blast of tepid air. In the oven-like cabin of the Corsica, every puff of cool air was an event worthy of celebration. Jack squinted through his sunglasses. Ahead, the road stretched seemingly forever in waves of shimmering heat rising from the floor of Death Valley.
“Talk about the middle of fuckin’ nowhere,” he grumbled as he repositioned his ass on the damp car seat. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, even with the air conditioning set on high. The crotch of his chinos was sopping, and his wringing wet Jockeys had crawled up his crack, giving him the wedgie of all time.
His white dress shirt was plastered to his muscular torso, translucent with sweat. “When I get back to the office, I am going to beat the living shit out of Ross,” he promised himself. Ross, his worthless coworker, had talked Jack into going on this wild goose chase. Jack was the top sales rep for Southland Paper Products, and Death Valley was definitely not in his territory. Ross had talked Jack into covering Ross’s crummy circuit in exchange for handling Jack’s accounts the following month when Jack was off to Tahoe for vacation. Ross had sworn up and down that the jerk who ran the Gas-n-Go in Needles was just panting to sign on as a new account. When Jack arrived in Needles, though, the cretin had practically chased him out of his gas station
screeching that no “slimy crook from L.A.” was going to trick him into buying inferior quality toilet paper. Pig.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

CALMING DOWN robert vickery

By Robert
Vickery
 
  Tonight I almost tear out somebody's windpipe on my way to my nightly meditation meeting — and over a parking space, no less. I just found a space and am backing into it when some jerk in an MG zips in from behind and grabs it. I honk my horn, he flips me off. I call him an asshole, he calls me a motherfucker, and I'm out of my car and heading toward him with both fists clenched before I get a grip. Is this worth going back to jail for? I ask myself. I take two deep breaths and return to my car. When the guy sees I'm not going to fight, he starts jeering at me, calling me a pussy, a faggot. Since he doesn't know me, I guess the latter is just a generic insult. Even in the car, with my hands gripped so tight around the wheel that my knuckles are white, I seriously consider that maybe it is worth three more months in the slammer to back into that little yuppie shitmobile of his at full acceleration. I don't. I drive off and find a space two blocks away. My stomach is in knots, and my throat is so constricted that I can hardly breathe. There's murder in my heart. I go to meditation.
The guy with the beard and beads, whose name I can never remember, is already in the guided part of the meditation. Still steaming, I shuck off my shoes next to the door and park my butt on the nearest empty pillow. Everyone else's eyes are closed. I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes as well. My thoughts are chaos. After a while I give it up and look around the room. I check out the blond guy with all the muscles, the one I've had a hard on for since I joined this group three weeks ago. Tonight he's sitting right across from me. I let my mind drift into images of what he must look like naked.

BOBBY BABY

 By Leo
Cardini  

  Contrary to popular rumor, the first time I met Bobby Champion was not at the Mineshaft but here at the Julius. That was back in 1979 when the village was a much different place.
He was standing at the bar, more or less where you're standing right now, staring straight ahead into his thoughts, one foot on the bar stoop and one hand loosely wrapped around the drink in front of him. He was dressed in tight, new Levi's 501s that strained against his beautiful butt, inching up into his ass crack, and a plain white T-shirt that hugged every glorious plane and contour of his his thickly muscled shoulders, well-defined chest and trim waist.
I took a fortifying sip of my vodka and tonic and turned to him with a familiar "Hi," knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t know me from Adam.
He turned and looked at me, a tentative smile slowly making its way to the surface. Close up, his face was even more stunning than on the stage. His beautiful mane of thick blond hair, parted in the middle, fell across his forehead like a half-drawn stage curtain just above those distinctive arched eyebrows, which gave him such a mischievous look. Animated hazel eyes, a square jaw, full lips, and perfect teeth completed the drop-dead-handsome effect.

THE FRIDAY FILE

  By Sutter
Powel 
 
  Only ten minutes had passed since I'd last checked the time, and I had promised myself I wouldn't look for at least another hour. Friday afternoons at Aliandro, Dunhill and Wade moved like molasses in January. Al­though the firm took up the entire 19th floor, there were usually fewer than ten people at their desks come Friday at 4 p.m. On Friday afternoons the partners and other big wheels migrated like ducks to the golf courses and country clubs of the Bay Area, leaving only the secretaries, paralegals, and bright young interns such as myself to answer their phones and pray for the week to grind to a close.
Even if I hadn't been watching the clock, I would have known it was nearing 4 p.m., because no sooner had my eyes returned to the brief I was not writing than I heard the sound of brisk, efficient footsteps squishing toward me on the plush gray carpet. As befits a lowly intern, I was given a desk located in the law-office equivalent of Siberia — next to the typing pool at the entrance to the file room. My nameplate (MR. GOUCH — INTERN) identifies me as an insignificant serf, lest anyone mistake me for a real attorney. I lifted my eyes just in time to see Mr. Harrow pass my desk on his way to the file room. The older man's chiseled features were set into his trademark inscrutable expression, and he had what I had nicknamed his “Friday file" tucked under his arm. As the impeccably tailored attorney marched by in an exquisite Armani suit, he left just a whiff if Drakkar Noir in his wake. My dormant dick awakened its boredom induced coma and stirred restlessly. Every Friday for the past two months, I had watched handsome Mr. Harrow enter the file room with that damn folder under his arm. He would emerge about 15 minutes later with a slight smirk on his face. This bizarre behavior aroused my naturally suspicious mind much the way the gorgeous older attorney aroused my naturally horny dick. Glen Harrow was the firm's star tax attorney and was rumored to be on the partnership track, so why would he be doing his own filing? On Friday afternoons? What was that all about?

SELF PORTRAIT

By David Mitchell

 I arrived at midnight.
The John — fifty five, claiming forty two — was an okay guy, pleasant enough. As we talked, smoked, I pretended not to recognize a work of Georgia O'Keefe which sprawled over the wall directly in front of me.
In a bedroom of glass, the Man of Wealth admired my cock. "Perfect," he said. "Beautiful. I'm a connoisseur, you know. Only the uncircumcised. " Slipping on a robe — his body older than his face — he added, "Lie back. Please." The scene unfolded. Starting with my feet, slowly he began to bathe my body with his tongue.
He was good. Damn good.
As my head unwound, it did a number of its own; sort of boogied, you know, easy-like.
Suddenly, I was on a different plane. It was as if an unknown attic room had been opened in my mind. I began to understand things I'd paid no attention to before, saw connections between so called separate entities. Man, everything was connected — the past, the future, you, me, everything.
I understood for the first time, the link between sex and the spirit; how truly spiritual people arrive at that through excesses of the body. It made so much sense, explained so much. Why, for instance, "good" people were such shitheads; why the "bad" were more often kind.
Glancing at paintings over the bed, I had another shock. I saw that design and personality were the same thing. I recognized in several abstracts, the personalities of recent sexual contacts.
The whole thing was blowing my mind.
While the John was blowing my body.

SAUNA ADONIS

  By Carl
 Spelling
 
He wore a plaid shirt opened half way down his chest, sunglasses, blue jeans and construction boots. Of course my eyes went straight to the impressive bulge at his crotch, and I wished I could tell where his own gaze was going from behind those dark glasses as I gave him a strong cruise before going into the baths.
The new bath house on the Lower West Side is situated in an area with light industry. That means there are plenty of rigs with the humpy truckers that drive them, and this guy, although his truck was a small pickup, was no exception. He looked like some sort of repairman with a hammer and a set of tools hanging down from his belt.
In the baths, after quickly paying for my locker, I stripped and headed for the weight room. As I went through my pat routine of exercises with the barbells, my thoughts remained riveted to the trucker or repairman or just plain stud, whatever the hell he was, I had seen minutes earlier. He was the sort of thing homoerotic dreams were made of, and I longed to have such a fanciful lust/love affair become a torrid reality.

MASTER AND SLAVE

By Al
Scott   

   I like to get fucked. I also like to get tied up and have the shit beaten out of me. For this reason I like big men. But sometimes in Manhattan, all you find are cute-ass boys who would make better cub scouts than masters. That's why I'm a writer.
I write porno stories. It's a good way to get through a hot summer night when there's no burly number around to whip my ass raw. I strip down to nothing but my jockstrap and while I write about young studs being abused by experienced masters, I jerk my fat piece of dick until I cum all over the paper.
It's midnight and I'm too fuckin' drunk to go to the bars. I have one hand inside my jock, feeling my balls sweat and squirm. I squeeze my meat until it hurts as I begin to write:
 
Carl scrutinized the half-naked men as they stalked one another in the underbrush. Shadows among the trees pressed one another in the under­brush. Shadows among the trees pressed against each other hungrily; distant moans of pain bruised the otherwise soundless night. Carl shoved his hand in his pants and felt his cock pounding. He shut his eyes and sunk into half-fantasy.
Carl saw in his mind a big man: his chest was heavily-muscled and covered with coarse, dark hair. Carl could hear the husky voice talking in his head.
"How would you like to have that hot white ass of yours beat until it burns?"
Carl felt his prick ache. "No," he begged.
Suddenly, a hand slapped Carl's face, hard, and his eyes popped open. His skin burned with the sting. This wasn't a fantasy. In front of him he saw a face: a heavy beard, a moustache, deep set eyes. Carl was scared.
The man didn't raise his voice. "Say it," he ordered.
"I wanna — I wanna — "
Carl's head was swirling around dizzily. He didn't know what he wanted. But his dick did: it was hammering inside his Levis, swollen with arousal. He felt his butt twitch; involuntarily he flexed his tight cheeks as if in preparation.
"What do you want?"
"I wanna — I wanna get beat . . . sir. Beat my ass . . . sir."
The man nodded. "Follow me."

MEAT MASTER


By John
Please

My experience with the world of leather had never extended beyond playtime in the back room bars. I had only tasted the chaps of anonymous men who could barely see my tongue lashing out on the tightly stretched skin of their legs. Only whispered words spoken to my kneeling figure while I sucked mightily on stiff cocks had fed my fantasies.

I was one of the regulars, actually. I was one of the men in those backrooms that anyone and everyone knew would be available for whatever service they wanted — a mouth for a blow job, a hot ass for fucking, or a stiff prick if they really wanted to do me. My passivity in all of this was complete. I would stand against the dark walls and wait for some stranger to approach me; I would perform whatever acts he desired.

BROCKER

By Jock


I felt comfortable going on the road with the team. It was minor league but I was playing baseball and that was all that was important. I didn’t have any great hopes of ever making it to the big leagues, but I was proud to wear the Colts uniform. All I had to do was keep my little secret and be on my guard around the guys. I’d done okay so far, but now we were going on the road and I would be sharing a room with another guy in closer, more intimate quarters than the casualness of the dugout. I was greatly relieved when I learned that I was odd man out on the room assignments. I was rooming alone. So I was okay till we got the news that John Brocker was coming down to the Colts minor league.
Brocker was a major leaguer who had been in the papers and all over the news for speaking out so bluntly against gays and coloreds. They were sending him back to the minors to get his head on straight and his shit together; a form of sensitivity training, they said. He was a true homophobe. And I wasn’t colored.

We got a lecture before practice about Brocker’s arrival. “Okay, listen up. You’ve all heard the rumor that John Brocker is joining our team. The rumor is true. When he gets here, you don’t give him a hero’s welcome or make a big fuss. That’s straight from the front office. He is one of you. Treat him that way. Brady, he’ll be rooming with you.”

I felt a chill go down my spine and sweat break out on my forehead. John Brocker was not only the biggest homophobe on the planet, he was a stud, and I was going to have in my room. How the hell was I going to manage to be around the big muscle-hunk who was so damned good looking he made girls piss their pants if he even looked at them. I couldn’t protest or even question the decision, though. It was a simple matter of me having a room to myself. If I’d been black, I could have protested. But like I said, I’m not black. I am gay and I couldn’t admit it.