— originally published in Inches Magazine - April, 2004 issue —

Is that your buddy with his hand on your bone? 

_____

It didn't take much finagling to get him to take off his shirt. Josh spent a lot of time at the gym, and he was used to being looked at because he spent a lot of time looking at himself. So when he was asked to remove his shirt, please, he didn't think twice about the request. He undid the buttons of the tight short-sleeved navy blue rayon shirt and got it off his shoulders, off his arms, folding it neatly and placing it on the lap of his jeans. His chest and stomach were shaved, and he had a chain of skulls tattooed around his left forearm, contrasting with his "baby-boy" looks, heavy-lashed blue eyes, dark, downy hair. His nipples and their areolas were succulent in their circumference, thick and pink, as inviting, say, as cherry pie can be when it wants to be. He crossed his arms and his chest peaked over them. His navel was closed, a firm straight line, and he'd created a treasure trail with the help of a razor; otherwise his belly would be covered over with dusty hairs.

In four and a half hours, the bars would be closed. There were a lot of bars here. Josh had been to most of them, but there were a few out of the way places that he'd yet to frequent. He had his favorites: The Bull Pen, where he shoots pool; OOMA's, which, he'd only learned recently, stood for Out On My Ass, a pleasant tavern nonetheless; and Graham's--snooty and expensive but a cool place to hook up every once in a while. He kept meaning to go to Bottom's Up, but it was across Broadway, on the West Side. Maybe someday.

He was wearing carpenter jeans he'd bought when he was in high school. They were worse for the wear, his grandmother had told him; they gaped at the knees, great yawning holes that bared him in patches--his patella, covered in skin, covered in short curling hairs, and then, there was a hole in the rear that revealed his underwear, proclaiming him a boxer-brief kind of guy. They were black and tight, a Christmas gift from someone. It was funny what you thought of when someone asked you politely to please remove your shirt.

Maybe he would meet up with Marcus, who was always out. He'd been working nights at Bond's, waiting tables, and trying to sell stocks during the day, but he didn't care enough to make shit happen, and the money was good at the restaurant. Marcus was six-two with strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and there was something about him, the way he looked at you, right at you, like he wanted to know everything about you, which was why he did so well at Bond's; it had that aching, wanting kind of clientele. Look at me, love me, bring me a steak.

I shouldn't be doing this, Josh told himself as his sport sandals were removed and his toes were played with: not here, not now. But the men who have asked him, men with nice suits and no ties, have asked nicely, claiming to be men who are connected, men who know Julia and Toby and Reese, men like that, men you hear shouting on cellular phones, "I don't give a fuck whose dick you gotta suck; just get it!" A pair--as opposed to a couple, Josh was thinking, because they just seemed so separate, each so selfish. Together, though, they managed to get Josh into their limo, his holey carpenter jeans around his ankles, his hard-on poking up between his thick thighs, leaving Josh wondering if the driver was privy to what was going down back here, because he was definitely being gone down on.

Per a request, he turned around in his seat, getting onto his knees and leaning on his elbows, looking out the heavily tinted back window. There was nothing to see but streetlights pulling away from him, shadowed, running away from him. Behind him, they played. One of them nosed around his asshole, the other licked his instep. They switched, and his toes were sucked, each and every one, and someone put his finger up inside Josh's asshole, poking around until he found what he was looking for. Josh grunted against the back of the seat; he spread his legs, knees sticking to the leather, cock sticking to leather, slicked up with a copious leak that would normally embarrass him; normally, he'd be wiping it away, wondering where to wipe it off his hand. (His first time: "You leak as much as I shoot," the man said, his voice tinged with disgust, or maybe jealousy, but Josh had no ear for that, not then.)

Who would fuck him? He was hoping it would be the shorter, thicker Italian-looking one, because the other was blond and pale, not exactly Josh's type and he'd seen his dick out of the corner of his eye and it was big, unmanageable, impossible. He'd never seen a dick so thick and long, not in real life, not outside of dreams that bordered on nightmare. He thought again of Marcus, who was also ample in proportion, but not nightmarishly so, Marcus with his big pink dick. He was definitely interested lately, dropping by late at night when one should be hooking up and getting laid, lamely offering some quickly-made-up excuse, the formulation of it floating like cigarette smoke over his head. He was thinking of Marcus's big pink dick when one of them, he had his money on the blond, came up behind him and batted his humongous wand against his pinched-up hole.

He grunted as it went into him, and the blond was careful, gentle and careful, and Josh took the whole great slide of it well as it invaded his guts. He turned to kiss the other one, the Italian-looking one, whose tongue was a tornado spinning out of control all over Josh's face, making him want to laugh. He turned away and grimaced over his shoulder at the man plowing his ass. He pumped himself into Josh with his eyes closed, his mouth open. His hair was cut short and stuck up with gel and probably wasn't really blond, Josh was thinking as his insides were assaulted. The man's cock was as thick as an arm, hard and long; he could pull back maybe ten inches from Josh's butt and still be planted in the widened pucker of his cunt.

The seat beneath him was wet with what he leaked, and the dark one tunneled underneath him and started sucking on his soaking cock. He pulled hard on Josh's tits, managing to swallow him whole. He freed a hand and reached between both men's thighs and plugged a finger into his friend's ass, making him moan, and Josh rubbed his balls hard against the guy's forearm, enjoying its furry firmness. He felt his cock slam the back of the guy's throat, felt the man's throat constrict, the man gagging. It was almost funny, except what if the guy puked, Josh wondered. Meanwhile, his ass was pummeled but it wasn't so bad so long as he didn't force the issue, the guy back there, the blond, pulling on Josh's hips with his thin fingers.

How long would it take, he calculated, checking his watch. His cock was buzzed and humpy, wanting more than this cocksucker's mouth. He looked out the back window of the limousine and figured that Blondie was just about there, judging from his rasping breath and little moans. And the little one underneath him was pretty much done. He was shaking and gurgling, doing something with his hands on himself, getting all agitated, screaming on the end of Josh's prick like it was a karaoke microphone, which must have set off Blondie because he started going off, cursing Josh like a common whore, which would actually be kind of hot if it had come out of just about anybody else's mouth. Josh let his shoulders be pulled back as the man behind him shuddered and came, and he felt all the shooting the little one beneath him was doing. Jesus Christ, he was thinking, did the limo have a shower?

He was let off on a dark corner, given some money and a bottle of Christal. He wasn't a whore, but he took everything they gave him. He wasn't sure where he was at first, but there was music everywhere, all the different bands and jukeboxes and crooning drunks. He followed the voices.

He found Marcus at the Bull Pen. "Dude!" Marcus yelled, tipping his head back and holding up his beer bottle in salute. "I been looking for you everywhere!"

Josh stepped up, pushing up his sleeves again. He felt the stick and pull of drying cum all over him under his clothes. Marcus beamed drunkenly.

"Fucking sausage-fest, dude!" he yelled over the music.

"Who the fuck is playing No Doubt?" Josh said, looking up into the air and making a face.

"Some fucking fag," Marcus said.

Josh laughed. "You mean you?"

Marcus tipped his head back again. "Fuck you; it was."

"I fucking know you, man," Josh said, all fired up on the token Christal, grabbing Marcus's wrist and holding it.

"I know, I know you do," Marcus laughed back. He turned and got the bartender's attention, pointing to Josh then himself.

"Aw, man," Josh said, thinking back on the night's events. His bum was a little sore. He rubbed his chest through his shirt, making his nipples pop. He glanced down to Marcus's crotch, encased in denim that revealed next to nothing.

"What you been up to?" Marcus asked.

Josh laughed, tipping back his beer. He shook his head.

"Don't fucking ask."

"This place is fucking lame," Marcus said. "I've been everywhere tonight and it's all been the same. Where's the pussy, man?"

"Fuck if I know!"

Marcus's eyes seemed to wander down Josh's torso--Josh must have imagined it, that Marcus would ever in a million years cruise him like that! That fucking champagne. He ordered another beer. "You ready for one?" he asked.

Marcus shook his head.

This shit goes downhill fast, Josh was thinking, referring to his buzz. He wanted to tell Marcus about his limo ride and the two wannabes, talking shit into their cell phones. He wanted to tell him about the one's huge prick and the other's hungry mouth, wondering how Marcus would react, if the story would excite him. He smiled to himself, shaking his head, thinking about exciting Marcus. He wouldn't do it that way, he was thinking, not with some trash story. He'd do it with his hands, with his mouth, with his body.

"Finish that," Marcus said. "Let's get something to eat."

They picked up a couple of slices at Esperanto's and walked down to the park. The grass they walked through was wet; bits of it clung to Josh's toes. They sat on a bench and ate fast without talking. The sky was streaked with chalky clouds. Every now and then Josh felt Marcus's arm against his own, triceps to triceps. What would happen, he wondered, but he let the thought of his kissing Marcus fly up into the dark sky. Fuck that, he thought: I'm fucking wasted. He stood up, reeling.

"What's up, dude?" Marcus asked.

"Gotta go," Josh said, and he started walking unsteadily. He wasn't sure where he was going, only that he needed to move and keep moving. Marcus caught up and threw an arm over Josh's shoulder. They walked in lurches and stumbles back to Marcus's place because, Marcus reasoned, it was closest. Up the stairs, laughing loudly at their own ineptness and the simple achievement of making it to the second floor, Marcus threw open the door of his apartment.

"You've never been here before, have you?" Marcus said, turning on a light. Josh shook his head. He saw a chair he wanted to get to fast. He was alone suddenly, but he could hear Marcus pissing somewhere in the apartment. He walked over to the chair and let himself fall into it heavily. And it seemed like a dream when Marcus stood before him, pulling on Josh's limp arms. "You're not sleeping here, man; this chair will kill you. Get up. C'mon, get up." Josh rose up sleepily and let himself be led through Marcus's apartment, back to the bedroom. "It's a big fuckin' bed, man," he said, pushing Josh easily onto the wide mattress. "Sleep in your fucking clothes, man; I don't care!" he added, and Josh laughed a little over the idea of undoing buttons and wrestling with anything other than sheets at the moment. His head fell onto cool soft pillows, the covers were tossed over him, and he was out, out like a light.

In the morning--or, rather, the afternoon--Josh turned over in an unfamiliar bed and saw Marcus's broad back uncovered and the evening's events came back to him, shaded in part. There was the familiar large ink-sketched tattoo of a cross centered between Marcus's shoulder blades. His red hair went curly at the nape of his neck, hiding a frayed cord upon which hung a washer and St. Christopher's medal. Josh peeked under the sheet, lifting it carefully, peering inside to see what they'd stripped down to: Josh wore his own tight black briefs that could not contain his erection; Marcus's butt was half-covered by slack-waisted boxers. His ass crack was showing, and his lack of a tan line. Marcus rolled over fast, looking as startled as Josh felt.

"I was dreaming I hooked up with that big black chick who washes dishes at Duffy's--thank God it's you," he said . He squinted his eyes. "And what were you dreaming, Josh?" he asked, insinuation edging his words coyly. He leaned back on his pillow, flat on his back like Josh, and the sheets settled over them, hugging their early morning contours. Marcus's eyes went from one groin-ward lump to the other. He made his own hop under the sheet, his eyebrow lifting, eyes glinting. "That's good exercise, you know," he said. "Tightens up something so you shoot like a gun. I do fifty every morning and I could put your eye out, man. I shit you not."

Josh closed his eyes, covered them with his arm. Up until now, he could only hope, but here was his best buddy, complete with a tent-making erection. All Josh had to do was move. Move. He kept his eyes covered, his head fuzzy and thick, his limbs paralyzed, his dick electric.

The sheets stirred, and Josh felt Marcus's hand on the packed front of his briefs. "Hey, man," he heard Marcus say softly. He hardly moved his hand at all, but it seemed to travel miles as far as Josh's dick was concerned. "Is this fucked up?" he heard his friend ask and Josh shook his heavy head.

"Nah, it's cool," he managed after a second, and he found Marcus's package and gripped the thick shaft. He was something like nine inches with a sweet pink tapered head that Josh had gotten to see every once in a while, usually whenever Marcus got drunk--he'd pull out his buddy and swing it around to get a nervous laugh out of Josh, bragging about the porn he was in once upon a time. He felt like a porn-star, Josh was thinking, jacking the huge piece through his boxers. Marcus worked his way into Josh's briefs, and the touch of his bare hand made Josh shudder. Marcus rolled closer to use both of his hands to de-brief Josh, his cheek against Josh's shoulder, and Josh could feel his breath rushing over his nipple. He played with Josh's balls and lightly cuffed his pecker, still under cover of the sheets. They both watched the jumping movements of Marcus's hands, as Josh firmed his grasp on Marcus's fatty, tugging lightly.

"Wait, man," Marcus said, letting go of Josh's dick and getting up. "I gotta piss," he explained and hopped away to the bathroom, his huge hose swaying stiffly. His ass cheeks twitched and he stretched his arms up over his head, slapping the doorjamb as he passed through it, creasing his tattooed cross down its center. His piss poured loudly and for quite a while, and Josh played with himself, trying not to think too much.

When he came back, his dick was no less hard, and he brought it to Josh's side of the bed, pulling away his covers and giving him the once-over. "You are fucking stacked, man," he said appreciatively. He fingered the trail of hair that led to Josh's neatly trimmed fiery bush, walking his fingers across his burgeoning cock and over his balls. And then he leaned over, hefting the pipe with those fingers and fitting the plump head into his mouth.

"Fuck," Josh breathed, and he got up on his elbows to get closer to Marcus's buddy. He grabbed his friend's big swinging balls and rolled them around on his palm as he licked the pissy end of Marcus's dick.

"Dude," he heard Marcus say, "I been wanting to do this since I seen you make out with that Navy guy."

"You saw that?" Josh said.

"Fuck, yeah."

He stopped talking, though, and went back to sucking Josh's joint. He played with his ass, poking around Josh's hole. Josh bent his legs and spread them and tried to watch his friend going down on him like that, all slobbering mouth and hand, moaning on the pole, his spit running down the shaft to pool in his pubes or to slip cooling over his balls. Marcus was seriously blowing him, using his hand and the pulling suck of his mouth and playing all of Josh's sweet spots--his tits, his butthole, his pale inner thighs. He kept moaning on the pole, maybe in appreciation for the half-assed suck-job Josh was giving him, awkward in this position, but Marcus seemed intent on one thing: Josh's bone. Josh had his hands all over Marcus's big-cheeked ass and thighs, rubbing them hard, their stony sinew, fingering into the sweating split and finding his soft spot, touching into it with his forefingers, first one, then the other, and then both together, goaded on by Marcus's steamy reaction. His cock dribbled thickly in Josh's mouth, and he lifted his head up off Josh's dick long enough to tell him he was about to blow, so Josh kept poking and sucking, and Marcus went wild, his shouting dick-muffled, as he emptied his nut down Josh's throat.

"Holy fuck," Marcus said, shuddering still, and he threw himself over Josh and rolled him over onto him. "Put it on my face," he whispered hoarsely. "Your load, man; cream me." And Josh went to his knees, pulling on his spit-soaked pecker, bringing himself to Marcus's face. He could feel the slow boil building and he slowed his fist and looked up at the ceiling and saw through it to the clear blue sky. Stars winked, shining bright and impossibly, and he closed his eyes and saw them still and he whispered Marcus's name as he covered his face with his hot spray of cum that seemed to be unending, painting his friend's face, his lips and eyelashes, his cheeks and hair, and he wobbled on his knees. Marcus laughed, but it didn't sound right, and he used the sheets to wipe his face. He looked up at Josh.

"Hey, you won't say anything, will you?" he asked.

Josh blinked away the stars that crowded his vision; he shook his head and they were gone.

"Not a word," he said.

THE     END