Wednesday, March 23, 2011


 By Leo

  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.
"Hello," he replied cautiously, clearly trying to recall who the hell I was.
"Don't you remember me?" I asked.
"Uh . . . well, frankly, no."
"I guess I didn't make much of an impression on you then. Or do you always forget the men you kiss?"
"Hmmm. The Mineshaft, maybe?"
Just imagine — Bobby Champion at the Mineshaft, prowling around through all those dimly lit, shadowy rooms full of hot and horny men!
"No, not the Mineshaft," I said. "Actually, the Summerlawn Theatre."
His face broke into a more relaxed smile. He was so fucking handsome, it was almost unbearable.
"Oh! Orchestra left, row K, seat 126 — right?"
Let me explain, in case you never saw it. At that time Bobby was playing Tomcat Tugger in Pets, a new musical. Early in the first act, during his solo, he'd leap off the stage into the left aisle and kiss whoever happened to be seated in row K, seat 126.
How I thrilled to his touch as he quickly grabbed me by the jaw, turned my face upward, and planted an exaggerated kiss right on my lips, his raw animal magnetism hitting me like a whiff of fresh poppers. Not that his snugly fitting feline costume didn't help, considering the way it emphasized a sizable ‘tomcat on the prowl’ bulge in his crotch that looked like it was in desperate need of attention.
"Well, then," he said "you must know I kiss a lot of guys."
"Eight times a week, in the theater alone. And that's not in­cluding places like — since you were the one who mentioned it — the Mineshaft."
"You're pretty fresh, aren't you?"
"And pretty horny."
His interest in me was as obvious as mine in him. By now we were leaning against the bar facing each other. His knee brushed against my shin, and I caught him eyeballing my crotch. I too was wearing 501s — though worn and faded, with two of the metal but­tons refusing to stay put in their buttonholes.
And then it hit me. But of course!
"But there’s also something else I want from you besides . . ."
I let a quick glance down at his crotch finish my sentence.
"Thai is, if you don't mind mixing busi­ness with pleasure."
He stared at me with a puzzled look.
"I’ve written a musical. Well, music and lyrics, anyhow. I’d like to play it for you because I think you'd be perfect for the lead."
"And I suppose you just happen to live around the corner, where you could play the score for me?"
"Matter of fact, yes — over on Waverly. By the way, my name's Steve, Steve Hammerheim, composer, lyricist, and — alas — piano tuner."
As we shook hands, he asked, "Did anyone ever tell you you look like — "
"Like Tom Aria, the dancer-choreographe r?" I interrupted.
"All the time. Except that at 6 foot 4 I’m about an inch short­er than he is."
Another glance at my crotch, this time with the intention of my noticing it.
"I can't speak to being an inch shorter there too, but if that's the case, then frankly, he’s one lucky guy."
"Hmm," was all he replied, the drawn out syllable resonant of his unmistakable interest in the size of my cock.
He polished off his drink and motioned to Billy, the bartender, to pour us another round.
"So tell me a little about your show."
"It's called Bobby Baby. It's about this gay man — same first name as yours — living in the Village today. His closest friends are these five pair of lovers, and the show concerns his observations of their relationships as he examines his own inability to establish any lasting relationships himself."
"Pretty heavy stuff for a musical."
"I know, but I really believe in this show, and I think the time's right for it."
Well, we talked about the show, and we talked about our ca­reers, our sexual interest in each other coming through loud and clear, and half an hour later we were walking through the front door of my apartment.
I invited him to sit next to me at the piano, pulled out the score, and went through my standard 45 minute backers audition, starting with the opening number — "So Glad to See You" — and moving from song to song with a brief description of each scene.
And he absolutely loved it! He sighed after the melancholy "Grateful to Be Sorry," laughed at the tongue-twisting "I'd Love to Move In With You, But," declared himself drained after the devastating, "The Boys at Brunch," and jumped up from the piano bench to applaud me when I’d completed the final song — "Roomfuls of Ricky."
"So?" I asked "You interested?"
"Interested’s not the word!"
"I mean, I'm really serious about this."
"I know you are. So am I."
We talked shop for a few minutes, and then I gave him a copy of the script and arranged for him to meet Hal, my collaborator. Business done, I quickly tried to figure out a way to segue into pleasure. "You know," I said, "there's one other thing we should consider about your playing this part."
"The San Francisco scene;" which is actually the name of a song. The scene itself is Bobby's bedroom. It’s 5 in the morning, and the airline steward he brought home the night before gets up to leave for a flight as­signment to San Francisco.
"What about it?" Bobby said. "If you remember, the two of them are in bed naked, which means when Bobby gets out of bed to take down the steward's phone number . . . well, there are a number of references in the show to Bobby's being generously endowed." (I was actually making this up on the spot.)
His face brightened into that familiar devilish smile of his.
"So, you want to see if I'm hung."
"For purely professional reasons, of course."
"Of course. Well, since it's for the sake of my career . . ."
He was clearly relishing the scene we were about to impro­vise an much as I was.
Taking much longer than necessary, he slowly removed his T-shirt, luxuriating in the feel of his animal physicality as he stretched and flexed his body. He showed off a tight "innie" of a navel set in remarkably flat, well-defined abs, clearly the re­sult of a rigorous exercise routine. A narrow line of blond hair bisected his torso as it ascended his chest until it finally fanned out between his gracefully contoured, gym-sculpted pecs. Far­ther up, as his head momentarily disappeared inside his shirt, I spied the damp hair nestled in his armpits, so tempting I could’ve lapped the sweat out of them right then and there with very little coaxing.
Shirt off, he looked at me as if to say, Well, what do you think? He was posturing madly, chest pushed out, his hard-nubbed nipples daring me to take them between my thumb and fore-fingers and massage them.
Tossing his shirt onto my sofa and looking me straight in the eyes, he slowly unbuckled the wide black leather belt he was wearing, pulling it through his belt loops with one efficient biceps-bulging yank. Then he slowly undid his Levi’s button by button, the ever-widening opening revealing more and more firm, tantalizing flesh below his navel, at least until his low-cut white bikini briefs came into view. Lowering his jeans to mid thigh, he shook his legs, and his pants dropped to his ankles.
He paused, standing there to let me fully savor the way his briefs strained to contain their clearly substantial contents.
But before I could really gorge myself on the sight, he fell backward, gracefully landing on the edge of the sofa, pulling off his sneakers, socks, and Levi’s.
Then he stood up again, clad in nothing but those ever-so-brief bulging shorts. Oh, he was a cockteaser all right, as adept as any experienced stripper at holding an audience's interest.
He flashed me another smile that seemed to say, And now for what you've been waiting for, then slipped his thumbs under the waistband at the hips and slowly lowered his shorts. The lush forest of his blond pubic bush gradually came into view, spilling out of his briefs, driving me crazy with the promise of what was to come.
And then the pale brown base of his cock presented itself to my appreciative gaze. Was it really as thick as this partial view suggested?
He continued lowering his briefs. Inch after inch of fat spongy dick came into view, far exceeding my expectations.
With one final effort he leaned forward and quickly pulled his briefs down to his knees. Then he stood up again, beaming with obvious pride.
My God! He was so well hung, I actually gasped. And not only was his cock huge, but it was also perfectly formed, a monumental thing of beauty. His soft cut cock hung down heavily between his legs, networked with blue veins that emphasized its thickness, capped with a large purple-pink head. Be­hind, his two oversize balls hung low in their loose ball sac, lightly sprinkled with bristly blond hair.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
"You'll do . . . I guess."
Truth to tell, it was all I could do to re­strain myself from sucking him off right then and there.
"What do you mean, ‘you guess’?"
"I can't say for sure, 'cause the fact of the matter is, I figure when Bobby gets out of bed, he'd have a hard on, wouldn't he?"
"So you want to see me with an erection? Is that it?"
He was clearly eager to show me.
"Professionally speaking, yes."
"Shit. The things I do for my career."
He gripped his cock, knuckles topside, fingers encircling it below, and gave it a slow downward yank, pulling it over to one side.
All that soft, pliable meat he was manipulating — it was too much to bear. I slid off the piano bench onto my knees and planted myself in front of him.
He leisurely tugged on his swelling dick, clearly appreciating the rapt, open-mouthed audience he had found in me. Soon he had it hard enough so that it stood up on its own, enabling me to examine the tender looking, mouth watering underside of his stiffening shaft.
"Would you like some help?" I asked, surprised at the urgent tone in my voice.
"That's OK, I can manage."
The fucker! He knew he had me in the palm of his hand — so to speak — and he was milking it for all it was worth — so to speak yet again.
"The important thing is for you to judge if it looks right for the part," he said, pretending to be serious.
"Oh, it does!"
And as he continued stroking himself, a bead of pre-come appeared in his piss slit, increasing in size until I knew that at any moment it would begin to trickle down his dick.
"I wouldn't want you to get your fingers sticky with all that dick juice," I offered.
"Why, that's damn considerate of you, Steve. You can lick it off, if you like."
I stuck out my tongue and scooped up the bead of clear, pre­cious liquid. His cock head twitched in grateful response.
"Thanks," he said as he continued stroking his tool. "Ah, look at that. There's more already." This time I didn't wait for permission to tend to his oozing piss slit but instead quickly trapped his cock head between my lips before he had the chance to refuse me. It felt as firm and fleshy us a ripe plum. Wasting no time, I slithered my tongue along his knob slit, cleaning it off, and then began licking the sen­sitive underside of his glans.
"Oh!" he shuddered from above as his free hand fell lightly on my shoulder.
I reached for his balls, encircling the sac with my thumb and forefinger and pulling down until his balls were snugly en­closed. My remaining fingers were wrapped around his huge nuts as I tried to go down on his dick. I was unsuccessful though, except for the first few inches, because he con­tinued to hold it on display with his fist.
I pried his hand away. He offered only token resistance and then rested it on my other shoulder.
By now his rugged, up-curving cock was rock hard — so stiff and unyielding that it could have been carved out of granite. Inch by inch I went down on him, feeling his ever-widening shaft slide past my lips and into my mouth.
His cock head reached my throat, and it took me several attempts to maneuver it in­side. But even at that, once I got it down my throat, I had to stop short of the final few inches. There was simply too much of him for me. And though I don't mean to brag, I've had a lot of experience sucking on big dicks.
I closed my eyes and worked my way up and down his cock, giving it my full concentration, greedily noting its every detail; its length, its texture, its circumference, the way it filled my mouth, and the relentless way it taxed my throat.
Like an audience reaction from the upper balcony, variously modulated groans indicated his appreciation of my cocksucking efforts.
Finally, with one loud staccato "Ah!" he pushed me off his dick. I fell back onto my heels. His huge, spit-shiny dick — a good nine inches — rose up magnificently in front of me, throbbing with excitement.
"So what do you think, Steve?"
I took my time surveying it from several angles as he stood there, resting his hands on his hips, putting on a lively cock twitching show for me.
When I’d had my fill of inspecting it, I said, "Yeah. Like I said before, you'll do."
He let out with a surprised laugh, and then said "Is that all you can say?"
And then, clutching his dick again and shaking it at me like a scolding finger, he added "I've been around long enough to know you don't see one like this every day of the week."
Rising to my feet and placing my hand over my own trapped and aching hard on, I replied, "Well, as a matter of fact, I do."
"Oh?" he said looking down at my crotch, clearly interested.
"Yeah. See for yourself."
I took his right hand and placed it on my crotch. As he fondled me through my tight Levi's, I pulled off my T-shirt, tossing it onto the sofa next to his.
I looked at him again. Still investigating the dimensions of my denim-bound dick, he stared at my crotch, mesmerized by its contents. The proud, playful manner he had assumed up to that point was upstaged by lust — passionate, deadly serious lust. In places like the Mineshaft, I'd seen many a man enter that realm of desire in which nothing else matters but raw, unmitigated man to man sex, and I realized Bobby was one of those men who would stop at nothing once the craving came over him.
"Aw, shit!" he exclaimed in an awed half-whisper as he dropped to his knees.
I begin to unbutton my Levi's, but he shoved my hands away and impatiently undertook the job himself as if he were a man possessed. In no time he had my 501s down around my ankles. My underwear bulged with the huge boner it could hardly contain.
He pulled my briefs down, and my cock flopped out in front of him. Fat, smooth, and cut, it hangs down even when it's hard — all ten inches of it.
"Jeez!" he said. "I figured you had to be hung just because of your height — and your hands — but this!"
With one hand he fondled my large low-hanging balls, jostling them around in my loose ball sac As big as they are, they're real­ly sensitive, so the feel of his fingers manipulating them practically made me go weak in the knees. With his free hand he gripped my dick and held it up, examining it as thor­oughly as I had just examined his.
"Oh, man!" was all he could say as he fell into a rapt cock contemplation.
Then he suddenly encircled my cock head with his warm, wet lips and quickly sucked it down into his throat until he gagged.
But he refused to retreat. The gagging di­minished, and soon he was sucking up and down with a steady rhythm, fondling my balls with one hand while stroking his own dick with the other.
Finally dismounting me, he looked up at me glassy-eyed and said, "I'd sure like to have you up my ass."
"Is that the kind of scene you get into at the Mineshaft?"
His mention of the Mineshaft earlier had piqued my curiosity because, as you might already have guessed, I often went there myself to indulge in the marathon sexual workouts for which it's known.
"I get into a lot of scenes at the Mineshaft," he said.
"So do I."
"I can give it, and I can take it."
"Me too. You want to discuss this scene in advance?"
"Let's improvise."
Ah — a man after my own heart. "You're on," I said.
As soon as I could pull off my boots and Levi’s, I led the way into my bedroom. Once there, Bobby suddenly grabbed me from behind, wrapping his powerful arms around me and pulling me tight against his chest. I had to struggle to free myself so I could turn and face him. Once I did so, he pulled me hard against him again and plunged his tongue into my mouth, brutally taking possession of me, his hard cock trapped between our stomachs and his balls brushing against the base of my pendulous dick as he overwhelmed me with his testosterone fueled passion.
It was clear he liked to play rough and I played back just as ferociously. Flesh against flesh, muscle against muscle, we strug­gled with each other as if attempting to force our way into each other’s skin.
Somehow we managed to fall onto my bed, thrashing around, repeatedly forcing the headboard to bang against the wall. At one moment he was on top of me. At the next I was on top of him. I thought maybe we'd break the bed but I really didn't care.
Now, I might be wrong, but I was no match for him. Soon he had me on my back, pinning my arms above my head. He strad­dled me, knees pressing into my sweaty armpits and shoved his cock down my throat. There was so much of it, and he plunged it into me so insistently and repeatedly, I wouldn't have been able to plead for mercy if I’d wanted to.
Savoring the pummeling action of his muscular glutes as he force-fed me his dick, I kept pushing up with my legs, rebelling against his restrictive straddle, with no more effect than to raise my butt off the bed.
My cock was so hard and I was so fucking horny, I finally sought to free myself from him in earnest. With one passionate surge of energy, I struggled toward liberation, quickly wrestling Bobby into a reversal of positions and shoving the first four or five inches of my cock into his mouth. Then I paused to capture the image of him at that moment — sweaty and wide-eyed, his mouth full of dick.
I slowly eased the rest of my rod down his throat. I’d learned a long time ago that there are very few men who can manage to swallow my entire dick. Bobby was one of them, squirming below me with obvious satisfaction as he took it in. Soon I could barely make out the base of my shaft be­yond the obstruction of my pubic hairs as they spilled over his upper lip and bristled against his nose.
I pulled out of him several inches and then eased back in again. The sensations were overwhelming. Repeating this four or five times I realized I’d soon reach orgasm if I didn't watch out.
I quickly pulled all the way out of him and shoved my balls into his face.
"Lick ‘em!" I demanded, which he did enthusiastically, sucking one large ball into his mouth and then the other, tugging at my ball sac while giving my nuts a thor­ough tonguing.
I freed his hands and slowly rubbed my cock back and forth across his face. Lubricated with his own spit, it slid easily across his handsome features.
After a while however, I became aware that he was trying to say something. I raised myself up and pulled my balls out of his mouth.
"Fuck me! Please!" he pleaded, breathing heavily. I slapped him across each cheek with my cock and then, dis­mounting to sit on the side of the bed, ordered him to get up.
He rose compliantly and stood in front of me his stiff, throbbing cock inches from my face. Acting the slave, he lowered his head respectfully and clasped his hands behind his back.
Spreading my legs and slowly stroking my dick, I asked, "So you want this cock up your ass?"
He nodded yes.
"Do you think you can take all of it?"
He nodded again, this time a little more eagerly.
"There's some Vaseline and a towel under the bed. Get them for me now."
Which he did.
"Now, turn around and bend over."
Which he also did, rewarding me with the sight of his firm, muscular butt, pale with tan line and adorned with a triangular patch of blond hair just above his ass crack.
"Spread your checks."
He pulled his buns apart, exposing his puckered, sparsely haired butt hole, clenching it repeatedly as further inducement for me to examine it.
I brushed my fingers lightly across his rear entrance, then opened the jar of Vaseline, applied it to his asshole, and eased one finger in.
"Oh!" he exclaimed.
I managed two fingers in.
"Oh! O-o-oh!"
Finally three fingers, which I proceeded to slide in and out of his asshole, getting him all loose and lubed. I realized that I could've fisted him — imagine him in a sling at the Mineshaft, putting on the performance of his life! — but this was not the time for it.
"Turn around," I ordered, pulling my fingers out and wiping my hand on the towel, "and grease my dick."
"Yes, sir. Anything you say."
He got down on his knees between my legs. He lifted my cock, studying it for a few seconds, then kissed it on the tip and proceeded to apply the Vaseline. I could tell he was really get­ting into it, the way he lavished it with such loving attention and detail. Soon it shone with lubricant, con­stantly twitching in response to his conscien­tious manipulation.
"Now, wipe your hands off and get back in bed — on your back," I said.
He obediently followed my directions and got into position, legs spread apart and cock throbbing. As I positioned myself be­tween his thighs, he lifted his legs raising his ass off the bed and exposing his shiny, re­ceptive butt hole.
I pushed his legs back until his knees met his shoulders and pressed my cock against his asshole, holding it there. As our eyes met I thrilled at the sight of him. Just imagine — Bobby Champion, Broadway heartthrob, here in my own bed, staring up at me in des­perate anticipation of my oversize dick mak­ing its way up his ass.
"Oh! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!"
I slid my cock in — one, two, three inches — as he moaned, toss­ing his head from side to side.
Four inches, five inches, six inches —
"Oh, shit!" he cried out.
"You OK?"
"Yeah. Keep going."
Once I had all ten inches inside him, I began working my way in and out, quickly finding the right rhythm for us. He grabbed his cock and stroked it, imitating my thrusts, which caused his balls to rise and fall at the same fevered pace.
The headboard began tapping against the wall in time with my lunges up Bobby's ass. As I increased the speed and force of my jabs, the taps became bangs, and soon the pictures on the wall had joined in accompaniment.
We fell into a blissful state — sweating and straining with the industry of our exertion, hut nonetheless blissful. It might have lasted a minute. It might have lasted an hour. It didn't matter.
Soon I felt myself galloping toward an enormous eruption. As my breathing grew labored, Bobby began stroking his flushed, swollen dick with renewed enthusiasm.
I accelerated my thrusting, the heady feeling of pending or­gasm surging up from deep within my balls.
Bobby suddenly stopped stroking his cock, his hand gripping it mid-shaft. He was himself clearly on the verge of coming.
"Shoot it, you fucker!" he yelled at me. "Shoot that load up my ass!"
I plunged into him one more time, letting fly with a powerful gusher of come. The intense, overwhelming ecstasy of release quickly spread throughout my entire body. I plunged my cock deep into his asshole again and again, each time shooting what fell like quarts of jism.
Once I was spent and had savored the sweet sensation of or­gasm still lingering in my balls, I quickly pulled out of Bobby and relinquished my hold on his legs, letting them fall to either side of me. I wrapped one hand around his balls, pushed his hand from his cock and pulled on his ball sac until I had his hard, throbbing dick pointing straight up.
Wasting no time, I went down on him as if my life depended on it, taking the entire length of his rigid shaft in one fell swoop. He was indeed on the verge of coming. After only a few strokes of my mouth, I felt his unbelievably hot load shooting down my throat. His head thrashed violently from side to side, and his entire body shuddered as he shouted "Oh, shit!" so loudly, I knew Bill and Leo next door would be pressing me for details the next morning.
When he'd shot his wad and returned to a more relaxed state, I simply closed my eyes, savoring the feel of his cock in my mouth. I didn't want to give it up. Instead I just let it soften inside me, experiencing every detail of its metamorphosis into a gentle monster at rest. When he was finally soft, I opened my eyes again and looked up at him.
He'd raised himself up on his elbows and was staring down at me with that wonderfully wicked smile of his.
"So," he asked, "do I get the part?" Letting his soft dick slip out of my mouth, I moved up alongside him and replied.
"Only if you promise to stay the night."
"Well, since it's for the sake of career — "
I pressed my lips against his, preventing him from finishing his sentence.
And the rest — as they say — is history. Bobby and I became lovers, and Bobby Baby ran off-Broadway for four years, establishing my reputation and boost­ing Bobby to star status. Then came Can That Boy Fox-Trot! which you probably know is about a re­union of aging gay men who were once chorus boys together in the same 50s Broadway musical and which, of course, also starred Bobby.
But what got me on the subject of how Bobby and I met? Oh, yeah, that persistent rumor you mentioned about Bobby and me meeting at the Mineshaft — not that we didn't stir up many a scene there after we became lovers.
You're too young ever to have gone there, but it's clear to me you'd have fit right in.
Oh, yes. Definitely.
Anyhow, since Fox-Trot’s closing soon, we're casting for my new show, A Weekend on The Island. It's about three mismatched gay couples who spend a weekend on Fire Island. Which is why I wanted to meet you, since I . . . well, we . . . think you'd be perfect for the role of the super-stud nephew home from college who secretly lusts after both his uncle and his uncle's boyfriend.
Bobby? Oh, he's playing the uncle.
So if you like, I’d love to play the score for you. And our apartment's just around the corner.
Yes. Bobby’ll be there.
Sure, you can try out a scene or two with him.
With both of us?
Actually, that's what we had in mind.

No comments:

Post a Comment