It’s 8 o’clock on a Friday night. I just woke up from my hour long coma nap. I make myself a dark roast super butch cup of coffee and, while watching some old ‘50’s flick I taped yesterday off TCM on the 40 inch living room plasma, I get into my intense 30 minute work-out on my Bowflex; the living room is the only place in the house that I can fit it. Even though I was to L.A. Fitness earlier that day, I want to revive that fresh-from-the-gym look for tonight. Tonight is my night to be on the prowl.
By nineish, I’m taking my shower, but just before I do, I pop my 50 mg. of Viagra so I’ll be ready to pass the crotch grope test (that’s how we say hello in Lauderdale) as soon as I arrive at Slammers, my local sex club just ten devilish minutes away from my abode. I know it sounds nuts, but there you have to be hard for the guy the moment he grabs you if you want to have a shot at making him, not the guy make you hard. Otherwise, it’s usually “no sale.”
By the time I’m done with my shower, I can feel the tingling in my cock and balls and rush to my head and I know the shit is beginning to work. It’s great if you’re not in the mood or Mother Nature isn’t cooperating or the guy’s not the man of your dreams to get your libido back with a pill.
Dried off, I slip my semi-soft dick and my balls through my metal cock ring, throw on my jeans, (no underwear – they get in the way) put on my boots and slink into an old tight T-shirt from the 80’s I still look good in. It doesn’t really matter, though, since I’ll be taking it off as soon as I walk in. Its only purpose is as a portable washrag to wipe my dick off between cow licks.
In a plastic travel bottle I pour some cola and a strong dose of vodka and ten minutes later when I arrive in the Slammers lot, which is already half full, I slug down most of it to take the edge off my caffeine high. You can’t walk in uptight, otherwise you’ll look standoffish or never make a move. No, you wanna go with the flow for whatever and whoever comes into your life for at least the next 91 uncivilized minutes.
There’s a line at the door and it’s only 10:30. I survey the prospects and my potential paramours for the night. I can tell from the number of guys filling out membership forms that the tourist season is in high gear. There are a few old fuckers, including one who questions the entrance fee since he thought once he paid for the membership which I guess he had the week before, it would entitle him to unlimited entries. What planet did he drop from, I ask myself. There’s also a couple of plain looking Latin boys probably in from Miami (so many of them come up to Lauderdale to have fun) and they smell like they bathed in the Macy’s cologne aisle. That shit makes me nauseous – it’s the last thing I want to smell on a man. I hope the line gets moving before my Viagra runs out.
There’s one guy in line, though, 5’9”, shaved head, no facial hair, forties, with a hot humpy body apparently under that green T and sexy, loose canvas pants. I don’t think he’s seen me as I wait, my twenty dollar bill, license and bright yellow 321 card in hand, for my turn at the window. 321 is the address of the place on Sunrise, its bright yellow sign like a beacon to the horny – and lonely.
Dark-haired cutie Troy is on tonight at the window and asks me the same script he asks everyone who enters, what I call the Slammers disclaimer: “Would you like to stow away your keys and wallet (a buck extra)? Do you have a cell phone? (They don’t want the boys snapping pics of hard naked cock or better, shooting them off to family and friends).
I answer no to both in an understated but loud enough guttural butch voice hopefully to impress somebody on the line behind me. My cell is tucked safely out of view in my Honda Element and I have my keys, change from my twenty, license, and membership card deeply tucked in my front jean pockets which I periodically tap throughout the night to make sure everything’s still there. Back pockets are a no-no for two reasons. Some guy may be caressing your bare ass from behind while you’re getting blown at the glory holes and, who knows, may be really trying to rip you off; and your shit might fall out when you drop your draws to get worked on or to play with your dick while you’re on your knees working on some body else’s.
Ten seconds later, like Dorothy opening the door of her Kansas house and walking into Munchkin Land by Technicolor, I enter this male amusement park, strip off my T, slip it through one of my levi belt loops, and survey the state of gay affairs at Sunrise and Andrews. The whole place is bathed in low, orange light, and sleazy music, a cross between tribal and heavy metal, is blaring in every corner, all to create the right raunchy atmosphere. My favorite lyrics come up: “Your fucking me makes me bilingual.”
Yes, I can feel it in my dick – tonight’s going to be not just a good night, but one where I may actually have a “Kodak moment” or two with a guy. For in the end, I may kid myself into thinking I’m just here to get off. But I know, deep down, I’m still looking for that affinity with another human being who happens to be the object of my desires, another man, even if it’s for only seven minutes in a darkened booth.
Like most guys, I start by window shopping, strolling head up around the place, through the orgy room where it’s still quiet, pass the corridors of private, first come, first served booths, some of which are already latched (lucky bastards!), past some mirrored walls to give me a moment to validate my own sexiness. After all, being sexy is feeling sexy.
Finally, it’s upstairs to the Suckarium where guys on the upper platform can stick their cocks through one of the row of glory holes for guys hidden in the shadows below behind curtains like the Wizard of Oz. There’s also the open pit where you stick your dick through the bars and watch the guy savor your cock with his mouth while you get doubly turned on watching some guy next to you or a few yards down getting blown too.
It’s funny how some guys waiting for a cock are fussy who they lick while others will grab the nearest troll as long as he sports a big hard tool. The same stupid shit goes on with the guys upstairs who peek below to see who’s waiting. Does it matter? Isn’t sex mostly fantasy anyway?
My dick is all tingly but I need a mouth to get me up and at it and, after being passed over by a few shitheads who retreat to the shadows as you loiter around their glory hole, (they figure – rightly so – they’ll get that 22 year old Brad Pitt look-alike who just wants to get blown eventually that night), a grizzly looking guy in a cap at the end of the walkway beckons me over through the glory hole. I open my fly and stick my grateful equipment through; he embraces the shaft of my dick with his hand and tugs at my balls.
Some guys are shitty cocksuckers. They’re either trying to break an Olympic record, are too slow (you’ve got to build up the momentum and rhythm, you know what I mean?), are too much with the teeth, or act like yours is the first cock they’re ever tasted and are in some cocksucking training class.
But not Cappy. He’s good, very good, too good. In fact, he’s got that whole mouth, tongue and hand motion down to a science. If I let him, I could shoot my load but it’s too early in the night to do that. I gently pull out at the right moment when his teeth aren’t in a position where he might bite off my tool by accident, thank him for his efforts and move on. After all, he’s served his purpose. Mr. Peter is rock hard and proud. I watch as a trio of guys I pass get blown with expressionless looks on their faces like they were at a urinal taking a piss. But for now there aren’t any other takers at the Suckarium for my dick and I decide to hit the orgy room, my jeans unbuttoned, zipper half up, and crotch definitely pronounced.
I wait in the shadows, Mr. Peter whipped out again and standing proud like some traffic cop pointing out directions, waiting for its next mouth. But even though the room is getting more populated, most of the attention has been drawn to the other side where some lanky, hairless leather boy donned in only a harness and boots is getting fucked doggie style. My conclusion about these places is that half the guys, whether they’re winners or losers, come to watch, not partake And the ten or so guys surrounding this live porn demo as they pull on their dicks in various stages of erection are just added evidence for my theory.
I get ballsy and stroke the crotch of the guy who I can’t even make out sitting next to me. He touches my cock but even though it doesn’t feel like he’s got much between his legs, he apparently isn’t satisfied with me and moves away.
But as I’m walking out, Peter, feeling a bit rejected back in my jeans, I see Mr. Green T shirt/canvas pants from the entrance line standing legs spread apart all butchy, looking at me. I glance back. He turns around and strolls out and right into the very first booth off the corridor. I follow him in and he latches the door behind us.
Unlike most of the booths that are in almost complete darkness, this one is decently lit. Visual sex is a big turn on for me and apparently is for him too as he admires my hairy chest and abs, his eyes following his fingers as they comb through my hair and pull on my nips. I feel under his T – he’s smooth but hard – and gesture for him to take it off to which he instantly complies, throwing it to the floor. Waiting in line, I had stripped him naked in my mind, but now I had this very beefy guy right here all to myself. Apparently, like me, his nips are hardwired to his cock too, because when we drop our jeans almost in unison, our erect dicks spring out like jacks-in the box. I grab his buttocks from behind as I slip down to suck him. He’s not as big as me, but his cock is thick and cut and engulfs my mouth. “Fucken A,” he whispers, watching me.
For the next ten minutes we take turns working one another’s cocks with our mouths and hands, until I decide to carry him to that sensual plateau all of us are here for and take his load down my throat.
“You know,” my visitor from D.C. quips as he slips his T back on and I attempt to stuff my very hard cock back in my jeans. “I could have cum just looking at you.” I smile. Whatever else happens tonight, I’ve had my Kodak moment.
Ah, but Peter, still oozing pre-cum down my leg, has a mind of his own.
For the next twenty minutes or so, I wander about, stumbling on would-be paramours but no cigar. One skivvy guy in from New York wants to eat my ass but is disappointed when I tell him I’m clean. Another smooth little Latin with the body of a boy and probably old enough to be my younger son, coaxes me into one of the booths, blows me with intensity for all of a minute, and satisfied I’m hard enough to fuck him, turns around and spreads his cheeks to reveal his prelubed hole. I politely decline and leave. Now, on the other hand, if he were over 40 with a muscular, hairy body and a furry butt, my dick would have been up there in a New York minute.
I take a brisk walk down the main corridor and chuckle as I watch some guy who obviously has just had a mouthful vigorously gargling the mouthwash they offer in a dispenser in the corner as if that would safeguard him from some dread disease. Fat chance, Harry.
Back at the Suckarium, I barely manage to make it up the stairs. There are so many guys, a good number of them tall hotties, jostling for position or already on their knees right there that the place resembles a New York City subway platform at rush hour. I see a few regulars like me who some nights give a quick “hey bro,” but most times we’re one another’s competition. I whip my dick out, stroking to get it back up and wondering if I should pop some more Viagra (I always carry half a tab for emergencies). A few guys grab it as I make my way through the throng searching for a customer-less glory hole and an old reliable mouth from past nights to blow me. But all the spots are taken.
Just then, I feel a tug on my jeans from behind me. I turn and standing in the pit are two bearded, hairy chested musclebears, one gray and balding, the other younger with thick black wavy hair. Obviously a pair, both stare at me like radar. As I inch up to the bars, the gray haired one grabs my cock and begins sucking it ever so slowly, while his partner watches, pulling on his own tool. I drop my jeans and can feel some guy from behind licking my butt, another pulling on my nips, while my muscle guys take turns sucking me. Finally, the Gay God smiles down on me and I release a heavy load down the young one’s throat. He continues sucking me until he’s gotten every last drop of juice, then taps my abs, and smiles as his partner nods. They both move to the other side and proceed to attack another poor defenseless man’s dick.
It’s just after midnight. In the space of ninety–two minutes, I’ve had encounters with half a dozen guys, scored two Kodak moments, and have had a satisfying climax. Ten minutes later I’m at the Ramrod, our local leather bar, serenely having my night cap Bud Lite, already having had my fun for the night most of the guys there are still waiting for.
But while I might feel content and even a bit smug for the moment, I also realize that when I walk into Slammers next time, I will be starting at Line One.
All over again.
Tomorrow: A Guide to Those Magic Love Pills