A Gay Play in Three Acts
It was a couple of weeks ago when I gave in to my buddies’ nagging about going to Hunters, our very popular dance club, on Friday night where the crowd was bearish, the music was loud and the drinks were cheap (two bucks from 4 to 9). But I had a problem. Yea, I could go to Slammers, our sex club, after the cheap drinks stopped (it had been a dry week on the web and I was horned up). But then there was the Man Dance later at Ramrod where wearing leather got you 2-for 1’s.
Solution: Stow my costume changes in my car, just like in my New York Village days where different bars called for different attire.
I started at Hunters around 8 in my tight tank and jeans and found the place instantly claustrophobic. It seemed like the entire bear crowd that used to frequent Bills across the street had taken the place over. It was nice to be among bearded, over forty guys like myself, but I admit I’m an agoraphobic. So to soothe my frazzled nerves, besides having my two buck rum and coke, the boom shot camera followed me as I stripped off my tight tank and strolled around the dance floor that was just getting started, chuckling to myself at the sudden attention this aging, shrinking, very hairy gay man was getting from the still very covered masses.
At about 9:30, I left for Slammers. It was one of those bitch goddess nights, where as I entered stage left onto the glory hole platform, I worked my way around and had a half dozen guys suck my cock but none willing to take the prize. After a while edging up is no fun but luckily I found a cute mustached fellow (as far as I could tell from what I saw peering out from the glory hole) who devoured me for ten minutes, then milked me dry. Good boy. And the timing was perfect – exactly 11 pm. Ramrod Man Dance time.
I had my bulldog harness neatly laid out in the trunk of my car and I carefully lifted it up and crawled into it while I was still parked at Slammers. I love the way the bulldog makes your tits pop out, but it can be a bitch to put on if you don’t have it positioned just right before you slip it on like some training bra. Lucky me, I got it on the first try and trotted into the Ramrod around 11:30.
Fridays have been slow – hence the 2-for-1 drink specials – but even the Man Dance didn’t bring ‘em out early. Then, suddenly it seemed like the tour buses from Hunters and LeatherWerks, the leather shop down the street, had pulled up and the place went from “quiet’ to Brisk Business with the dance floor like a shot from Pacino’s “Cruising.” I even think some of the guys in the movie were there in person – thirty years of hard drinking and doping later.
As I was standing in the back patio bar, sipping my second drink, a humpy young guy, smooth, head shaven, who I’ve seen around a lot, usually in the company of older bears, passed by, and just as he did some homely old man smirked at him and grabbed his nipple.
“Fuck, don’t do that!” Cute Guy yelped. “If you wanna say hello, do it with your mouth!”
I couldn’t blame him one bit. I got big nips, thanks to years of abuse, and guys will do the same to me, sometimes yanking or pinching them so hard I winch. I like it rough but in the bedroom please. So when the moment presented itself, I used the little incident as an entrée to start a conversation with Cute Guy. For a refreshing change, he sounded intelligent and level-headed and he told me how he had just had one of his nips pierced when a guy gave him such a flirty yank in the bar one night that he pulled the ring out and tore his skin.
When I asked him what he did for a living, he was very open about it. While he was a personal trainer and an aerobics instructor ogled by his female students, and making good money at it, his hubbie of three years who was only a few years older than him, had convinced him to be the stay-at-home Dad to their poodle which Cute Guy had no problems with (would you?). But being in a Daddy mood, I cautioned him to remember it’s the guy footing the bills who’s in control, not “the Boy,” to which he smiled slyly and said, “Don’t worry, I’m covering myself. If he falls for some twink six months from now, I ain’t walking out with just my toothbrush.”
Smart man, I thought, as I finished my drink and walked out the door out onto the street to my car just like that final scene in “The Nun’s Story” as Audrey Hepburn walked out of the convent and into reality.
Only Audrey didn’t have to ignore a homeless guy begging for change on my way to the lot.