Date: Fri, 15 Jan 2010 15:08:39 -0800 (PST)
From: Ron <warp8tobeach@yahoo.com>
Subject: Joey Menello

"JOEY MENELLO"
By Jack Russell
warp8tobeach@yahoo.com


Joey Menello has been my best friend since he was randomly picked by Sister
Margaret to be my reading mate in the 5th grade at Santa Maria grammar
school. He was the scrappy first child born from two wonderful 2nd
generation parents with Sicilian roots.

 We were practically inseparable and over time our families grew close as
well. Joey's dad worked as a postal clerk and his mom could conjour up a
spaghetti dinner no matter what time we spilled into the kitchen.

My mom was a single parent, and in Polish defiance, somehow managed to
juggle her two jobs at a furniture store and Diner but still drench me with
unconditional love and attention. I never knew my dad since he split when I
was only two. Mom didn't even have a picture of him. However, as an adult,
I've come to realize that part of my personality is deeply rooted in his
genes and I've always wondered if per chance, I passed him on the chaotic
avenues of Manhattan or sat next to him on the subway.

 All of my friends had both parents present and accounted for but Joey's
dad stepped up to the plate and became my surrogate uncle of sorts.
Whenever Joeys family exchanged the raw streets of NY for Jones Beach,
there was a place for me in the car and room for my self made boogie board.
I cut it from wood abandoned from a construction site on Zerega Avenue. It
was a little rough around the edges like a sharks fin and Joeys dad re cut
it for me so I wouldn't accidentally slice another child in half during my
perilous dance in the murky surf.

Even though I pined for a dad to teach me baseball or just listen to those
puny childhood problems that seem to lurk ominously like a bogy man in your
darkened closet, I never felt any jealousy towards those whose family's
were complete. I suppose I was just used to having a single parent and
didn't know any better. Besides, whenever I did complain about the
inequities of life from the perspective of a child, my mom would always say
in her stubborn Bronx lilt, "whenever someone gives you lemons, Brian, make
lemonade". It was years before I understood the difference between lemons
and an idiom. And little could I have known at the time that the lemons
would come my way in bushels.

I found my nitch in athletics, especially wrestling where I was
All-American in high school while Joey couldn't bounce a ball and walk down
the street simultaneously. His skills were more academic. He was a wiz in
math and tirelessly tutored me in geometry and then the heart break of
algebra. I in turn, prepped him on the basics of football and basketball.

On Thanksgiving holiday, with Joey and a gaggle of motley friends, we were
scrimmaging on the muddy football field at Bronx Catholic. I captured a
wobbly pass of the pigskin and made a 50 yard dash for a touchdown leaving
everyone else slipping on leaves. Well, almost everyone. Joey was on the
opposing team and we were on a catastrophic collision course. At first I
thought I could maneuver past my more portly adversary but Joey had other
plans. We slammed into each other like two SUV's fighting for dominance on
the interstate. My elbow made smashing contact with Joey's nose and recast
it distinctly bad boy bent. At any rate, it was a fortuitous event
transforming Joey's almost dainty features to a more masculine profile that
got him more dates in a semester than I managed in a year.

I was, if I may say, a good looking guy at a thick 170 pounds and sprouting
towards 6'. Girls swooned at my pale hazel eyes and dimples that framed a
politicians smile. Girls would monopolize me in silly chatter and pepper me
with physical contact; usually on my bicep or a playful sweep past my
chest. I enjoyed the attention and the envious glances of other guys but
knew that something was just "wrong" with me and I unknowingly yearned for
a different kind of contact. Sometimes I would imagine that I could jump
outside my body and step back with the other guys and look back at the
strapping jock with the "V" physique cordoned off by a rabid harem of
trophy girlfriends.

What I felt uncomfortable about was my desire to covet the other guys as
they idly looked at me. I did know that I enjoyed to engage in prolonged
stares at other jocks like a certain Rob P Glassner, a hard charging
sophomore that wrestled in my weight category. We were casual friends and
always bumped into each other at the Coach House Diner, a local munching
corner for teenagers out with their buds on Saturday night. Rob had a great
body and was a skillful wrestler. He exhibited the seeds of great technique
that would eventually germinate.

The years passed and although I graduated with good grades, my mom couldn't
afford to send me to a well known school so we decided I would attend
Queens college for two years hoping for the eventual salvation of a
scholarship to a real university. Most of my friends were doing just
that. Joey was an easy fit into the venerable City College in trendy
Harlem. He graduated near the top of his class.

For most of us, going to college was a deliciously liberating experience.
Professors replaced teachers, study times were self dictated, and the bars
would serve a cold beer to fresh faced young men with college ID.

I blossomed in school making friends easily and picking up some spending
money tutoring and ghostwriting research papers. I met openly gay students
and admired their "just get over it" attitude. They were comfortable in
their own skin, knew who they were, and found casual acceptance in campus
life. But still I hid in my own shadow afraid to step into the sunshine and
let it bathe my face.

***

Joey called me today to get people together for a pick up basketball game
downtown. He wasn't playing himself but served as the logistic coach for
assembling 9 self important undergraduates and all their collective
scheduling conflicts. He deserves a PhD for just that!

 We were playing in the Village with a group of guys that must have learned
how to play ball from the time they were an egg. They were beating us silly
and racked up points virtually unopposed. Joey winced from the sidelines as
our motley crew was being drug around West 4th Street Court by a
synchronized brotherhood of basketball musicians. Rob P Glassner was our
ad-hoc captain and was definitely not happy with our progress. He had this
way of wiping his hand across his mouth when riled much like a bull scrapes
the dirt and snorts before charging. I've seen this when he wrestled and
the results for his opponent were never pretty.

Naturally the water fountain wasn't working due to a band of diligent
sleazeballs that were keeping one step ahead of New York City's finest
parks maintenance staff. It was August and the afternoon fusion reactor we
call the sun unmercifully fried us. I tossed a container of bottled water
down my parched throat. I was parched. It reminded me of wrestling season
when you engage in rounds of self flagellation by refusing to eat or even
sip fluids to make weight. It's not surprising when wrestlers and
bodybuilders pass out or even expire due to dehydration.

I've must of trekked from one side of that court to the other without rest
50 times chasing this dredlocked stallion who seemed incapable of missing
the hoop and was the primary cause of our anemic score. He ran effortlessly
while dancing with the basketball before rising on his tippy toes and
racking up another point for the home team.

I galloped in his wake, seemingly always just a fingernails length out of
reach. The slam of my cheap sneakers slapping piteously on the scalding
court was juxtaposed between desperate wheezes of my moiled breath.

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye loomed a now shirtless and hulking
Robert P Glassner with a determined linebacker look and a resolve to put
our annoying opponent out of commission. It was something I'll never forget
and ignited the precursors to every gay mans coming out moment. An untimely
but hot voyeuristic chapter that one should embrace whenever you can get it
and feel legitimized to exploit its eroticism.

Robs strategy was to let the spidery thin black runner get within swatting
range and then pulverize him. Messy but effective. Forgetting how tired and
uncomfortable I was for an instant, I jollified at the sight of my muscly
friend and the compelling panorama of his pulchritude.

Rob was about my height with classical facial features topped off with a
manicured mane of razor cut ebony hair that never appeared disheveled
despite the abuse of sports or the ocean. He could wrestle everyone at a
competition, exchange his singlet for a tuxedo, and glowingly pose for
picture perfect photos at a Hamilton beach house wedding. That was the Rob;
relentless perfection.

Cut like a diamond, beach tanned, and luscious pecs die cast from workouts,
it was no wonder that girls swooned over him and the competition gave him
breathy respect. Imbued in his spicy sweat with his shorts riding just an
"R rating" above his manful bush, he flexed and ballooned every muscle in
his body to outrageous proportions.

The black guy was screwed; being unable to stop or sashay around this toll
booth of a guy. He collided with Rob losing his command of the ball which
rebounded within a promiscuous reach of my right hand. Rob managed a self
pleasing grin like one gets from the satisfaction of squatting a mosquito
before he gets the chance to bite you.

It was a beautiful sight indeed and I almost declined to scoop up the ball
as I was too occupied in my clandestine gay moment. The black guy performed
an asymmetric pirouette before tumbling to the court like a sack of
potatoes.

I wanted to laugh in the excitement of being in position to score the first
point for my team but yet fearful for having all eyes on me and my
parochial dribbling. As I made a frantic dash for the hoop, it was as if my
mind suddenly procreated and I now had two brains working simultaneously
but tasked to different capers. Similar to testosterone fueled super
computers that work concurrently to break a cypher, I now delegated brain 1
to the basketball game while brain 2 was allowed to leisurely wallow in a
campaign of lust.

It was evolution born out of necessity like frozen pizza and the
microwave. I was detached from the pain of my cramped leg muscles pressed
into a full rout yet I numbly breezed down the court.  Salty sweat tore at
my eyes and obnubilated my vision yet I could see the swelled musculature
of Rob Glassner distinctly.

The black guy was wincing in pain and crimson blood oozed from his
knees. He wiggled uselessly like a bug caught underfoot. Rob held a
victorious command over him; his chest puffed out and nipples admonishing
his prey.

I got a enduring glance of Rob's crotch where a frolicking plumbers wrench
of a cock dangled in the crevice of his soccer legs. I wondered if he was
as aroused at how he belittled his rival as I was being a lucky witness to
the event. When wrestling, I've found myself enjoying an erogenous moment
just before I vanquished my opponent in an inescapable lock-up. What I
never quite established, was whether my teammates experienced similar
phenomenon. It wasn't like you could entertain the subject with your mates
as you showered.

I let loose a school yard lob for the basket while my virginal slap of meat
came alive in a final shear of gay pride. The ball philandered with the rim
and then dropped for our first score but I never saw it being too engrossed
on thieving a larcenous heist at Rob's ass cheeks. They were Gemini mouth
pleasing bulbous orbs in perpetual motion corralled in risque shorts and
blew me to smithereens. I found my gaze oddly feminine but was addicted to
its compelling sight.

We pancaked back into enemy territory in a chaotic riot of thumping sneaks
and moiled breaths. Rob held his turf like an alpha dog marking his
territory. He simply waited for the ball and its spunky tattooed owner come
within striking distance before extending his arms in a brawny gauntlet.

 I spied Rob in a full spread video shoot. His powerful arms strained as if
holding back Hoover Dam; his baseball sized biceps peaked; and shoots of
coal black pit hairs exposed to daylight and my corruptible tendencies. If
you were standing too close to him as he flexed, you just might get knocked
out! I was intoxicated in a gangway of lurid thoughts and my swollen cock
just cried out to be offended with bruising strokes towards climax.

I saw the whole event unfold in slow motion but still wasn't sure whether
Rob fouled our inked adversary with a stealthy punch or whether it was a
legal block that deteriorated into messy litigation. Regardless, the
results were the same as before. The tattooed man lost his balance and
collapsed in a blistering stew while our teammate closed on the the ball to
chalk up our second point with a carefully executed lob. Love it!

 The opposing team bullied past our defenses but the tossed ball flirted
with the hoop before the rim rejected it with a belligerent smack. Nathan,
our bespeckled callous fingered guitar freak, recovered it. He momentary
hugged it like a wailing infant before taking off downrange with the ball
on extended dribbles just out of his reach and forcing him to play a game
of catch up with the problematic orange globe.

I had lots going on simultaneously. Do you have any idea how hard it is to
run at flank speed on a basketball court when "Little Willie" is fully
engorged in a sexually inflamed shriek? Trying to catch up to run
interference for our house scholar who by now was in a temporal panic, I
buzzed past Rob who was nonchalantly dusting off Mr. Tattoo. Our eyes
dwelled on each other in a affectionate pokey embrace.

As if overdosed on Xanax, I was submerged in the corporal cesspool of
swinging arms, primitive rants, and athletic challenges that commuted well
in advance of my ability to process it. I was still developing my "gaydar"
but now was a bad time to run the trial version. I still wasn't sure
whether Rob was checking me out as well or simply returning my broadened
glint in an innocuous haze.

Nathan got lost in an uncoordinated oscillation. Although he managed to
break free of his offense and was in the clear for the basket, he imploded
under pressure but I was there to make a fancy recovery for the
unchaperoned ball and score.

I did a little trotting victory jig by raising my arms skyward and kicking
my hips around in coltish gyrations. Surrounded by a phalanx of revved up
teammates that could taste the flesh of our prey, we reveled in denude high
fives and shrewd grins. We were a voracious pride of lions and the opposing
team was demoted to scared gazelles. Rob's leadership was stunning.

We ran the court impregnable and unopposed. They were crushed and their
best players were rickety from Robs pounding. Racking up point after point,
Rob was ecstatic with my performance and wrapped me up in his hefty arms
for a tender but painfully abbreviated chest to chest embrace.

I lined up for a final point that would end the game splendidly engrossed
in our cheer-leading moment. To my left and slightly behind was
Nathan. Ricky James, an over fueled testosterone sophomore with a greasy
attack of facial acne, was in the lead brusquely shooing away any
antagonist that dared to threaten the new world order.

Robs sweat commingled with mine in the cleavage of my chest creating a
freshly novel scent. I could still feel his eraser sized nipples ground
into mine as an afterthought from brassy paparazzi flashbulbs ignited in
your face.

Todd Abbas, a swarthy skinned Mediterranean, was my right elbow shadow. His
performance in b-ball was unfocused but has shown himself to be one ornery
pit bull on the hockey court. I think he loved to fistfight. Watch out for
his jab! I managed a spry glance at him and winked my intentions.

How did Robert P. Glassner manage to achieve those oak like legs swathed in
rich ebony hair when he couldn't farm any facial hair other than a pubertal
fine cookie dust? He's won many wrestling matches just by an abrupt and
unpredictable engagement of his quads that rendered his stunned opponent
staggering. When Rob gets mad, the muscle comes out. The dilemma made my
head swim,my mouth salivate, and my dick roar in disarray.

I quickly calculated my run for the basket barely missing the spinning legs
of the determined tattooed interloper that forced himself into a commingle
between me and Todd. Panicked, I hit the brakes and he overshot me with
Todd in hot pursuit; his arms up and cocked in a plumage of offensive
defiance.

Rob caught up with me and pressed his charge to my right. He reached out
his left arm and brushed my waist; his fingers thieving a tawdry rummage
below the elastic band in my shorts. I was atingled and canvassed his
tempting profile, his panoptic shoulders slightly singed and by the summer
sun, an undergarment of sweat that accentuated his vascularity, and the
tantalizing animation of his plump gluttonous muscles flush with power.

The ball arched skyward. Todd watched it launch with the enchantment of a
twelve year old catching his parents in raw lovemaking. Nathan, terminally
winded, watched his dredlocked opponent. I was transfixed on deflowering
Rob's ass, and a perplexed Joey Menello was watching the whole scene from
the shaded bleachers infused in detective like rumination over what the
hell was going on out there between his best bud and Robert P Glassner.

Seems I was a bit distracted by Rob's heedful play as the ball splashed in
the basket for the winning point. My teammates exploded in celebration. You
would have almost expected a magnum of champagne unleashed in a soaking
carbonated eruption.

I had other plans as did Rob P Glassner. He scooped me up and pitched me
skywards. I enjoyed a moment of weightlessness before returning to his
surefooted embrace. He ushered me into his chest and flexed his pecs in
titillating pulsations.

I reflexively pushed away but he thankfully intercepted. Ensconced in his
vice like grip, I tentatively ran my hands up his obliques towards his
armpits. It was an aphrodisiac for the senses and I savored the bewitching
fantasy. Our cheeks merged and the abridged stubble of my face fancied a
pitifully short touch of his smooth features.

He shouted excitedly in my ear. At first I thought he said, "You're
undressed." but then realized his comment was less rowdy and more
congratulatory; "You're the best!"

***

Joey and I lumbered along in unusual silence as the dilapidated subway
carried us home. I always knew when Joey was intensely lost in pressing
thoughts or trying to unravel a problem. He would become very still, like a
monk in contemplation with shuttered eyes and fingers laced in reflexion. I
also knew that his remoteness had something to do with me and felt
unprepared to reconcile with my private abbreviations 20 feet below the
gritty streets of NYC.

He opened his eyes and studied me for a instant. I could almost hear the
synapses firing, attempting to edit his thoughts into words, trying to make
sense of what went on at the basketball courts, and how to breach the
taboo. He was facing the paradox of giving me the opportunity to come to
him with any issues and that was hard since I was holding something back
from myself as well.

We hit a gash in the tracks, as if there were any on some sections, and the
train staggered. It must of loosened Joeys vocal cords too.

"Brian, are you gay?" He wasted no time getting to the point and the funny
thing is, I almost anticipated this moment and wouldn't have expected
anything less direct from Joey Menello. His tone was supportive and
helpful. I could have reacted angerly or deflected the question as a
farcical joke but found myself peacefully mute. He was my rock. Joey had
that way with me.

He put his arm around my shoulder and I felt a sense of resolve in his
clutch. "I will always be there for you. Never ever doubt me, Brian."

We rocked through another epidemic of track rash and the rude florescent
lights lost power off under the strain. I felt some tears well up in my
eyes but didn't care. I was secure in the childhood embrace of my best
friend that nurtured me over the threshold of long division and drowning
riptides that lurked off of Jones beach. Fuck, coming out to your best bud
must be the least of the problems we'll face together as our long and
prosperous lives weaved its itinerary in unpredictable zigzags, tragedies,
and eventual renewals.

Over the next few weeks, Joey and I grew closer as if that was even
possible. We regularity held court at the Starbucks on Chambers
Street. Joey was dating this bimbo blond from Queens that wanted to have a
baby more than Paris Hilton coveted publicity. I suggested that Joey stick
to blow jobs only or find himself dragging this busomed baby maker to the
abortion clinic. I've met the girl several times and thought she was a
couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. Joey was more cerebral and I
couldn't imagine what the two of them had in common other than cock meets
hole.

"So, stud, how's your love life, then?" Joey ventured as he adjusted his
sunglasses lost in the frolics of his brown hair.

I shrugged my shoulders innocently. "I'm considering my options." That
meant I'm as horny as hell and soon will settle for anything remotely warm.

We simultaneously leaned forward in our chairs; our heads close enough for
a spark to transverse the atmosphere. "Well, consider this option stud
muffin. Nathans playing in that stupid grunge band of his on Friday night
at the Boiler Room. Wanna go? After all, I'll need someone to keep my
steamy bitch off me. Up for the job?" He tapped his coffee cup on the table
to accentuate his invitation.

I wiggled and felt my cock yawn. If I didn't get fucked soon, my asshole
would slam shut and my dick would oxidize. I didn't have any other plans
that night except with Rosy Palm so how could I resist the advances of my
adjuvant champion auditioning as my presumptive fag hag. Little did I know,
but Joey was much more competent and complicit in his invitation than I
could ever imagine. Like a mathematician counting cards in Vegas, his
winning subterfuge was skillfully palmed and its present would be
bequeathed to me at the right moment.

*** It rained Friday in fits of depressing drizzle. The outrageously queer
baristra at Starbucks who hailed from Seattle said it felt like he was back
home slinging caffeine at Pikes Place Market. He passed me my tall
espresso. Our fingers touched. Hmm.

Even an anonymously energized city like New York transforms itself like a
chameleon to mirror the season. In the renewal days of Spring, wounded city
dwellers replace the drudgery of prison like shrouds of coats by
anticipated wonder and spry smiles. In the winter, Rockefeller Center is
the oasis of ice skating and Central Park is replete with kids of all ages
christening their sleds to the powdery gift delivered by a nocturnal
surprise of snow.

Today brought reflection. Not only of cars and faces in the puddles, but in
the minds of people as they ran life's obstacle course while trying not to
get splashed by either a passing car or the vehicle itself. Fully
galvanized, I headed for the gym and sprinted through a gaggle of circuit
training stations. Bench presses were followed by back rows; squats
subordinated by knee wrenching lunges and shoulder presses followed by a
chaser of upright rows. I was in and out under 30 minutes.

I wasn't exactly looking forward to spending the night in an ash strewn bar
while Nathan strummed out his violent attack of corrosive lyrics. My mind
was elsewhere, befuddled in its own gray mattered dungeon. Yes, that's what
the rain does to a pondering sentient being by the name of Brian L Schave.

I escaped reality in the snug cafe at Borders. The personable Phillipino
baristra by the name of Fritzie was holding cheerful court with her
patrons. She was full of good thoughts and always made a point of stopping
by my table with a free refill as I devoured a disheveled copy of the New
York Times. I studied the satiny street scape below from the picture
window. A taxicab deferred to a pedestrian and pigeons defeated the bird
spikes on my window ledge as they busily huddled under the ledge. It's so
New York!

Shopping at Macy's is so tiring. Two shirts, waist pinching jeans, and
black socks wringed $92.59 out of my debit account. It wore me out and I
headed home battling mobs of oscitance.

It continued to rain throughout the day and into the night. The temperature
dropped too and I rummaged through my closet for a sweatshirt that would be
appropriate for the night. Long sleeved and snugly, I felt ready to take on
the ravages of Friday night no matter how boring it might be for me.

I got off the subway and darted the remaining blocks to the bar. Damn, it
was getting chilly! The Boiler Room was piled to the rafters with an
assortment of college students, East Village regulars, and knots of
carefree women enjoying a recess of lesbianism. Sure enough, Nathan was
dressed in his full regalia of ripped jeans and sweat soaked T-shirt. His
four man band punched out its delusional vomit of abrasive squeals and
miscues to a buzzed audience. The sound ricocheted off the gritty brick
walls and riposted in frightening aftershock. Dark music for tortured
souls, indeed. It must of have been an acoustical wet dream for Nathan.

Peeking through the clamor of Nathans band, interpenetrate waffles of
cigarette smoke, and the animated banter of a hundred patrons, I heard my
name being called out and saw the spastic wave of Joeys hand.

"Brian!", Joey screamed as if he had last seen me 30 years ago trapped
behind the wall in East Berlin. He gave me a masculine hug. Todd Abbas
introduced me to his glamorous girlfriend, Maria. She looked like a model
you'd see in the Sunday Paper pullout section. Full lipped and leggy, she
smiled broadly at everything being said although I doubted if she could
hear anything over the racket. Ricky James was pounding down one bucket of
Bud after another. His acne appeared in remission and he cast a hot outline
in cuffed pants and baby blue button down shirt.

"Oh, Glassner, you made it! Cool!", Joey disported.

I think had I been hooked up to an EKG machine, the graph would have drawn
the silhouette of two guys fucking; one submissively bent; the other
delivering the goods.

Robert Glassner coolly acknowledged everyone. He put his hand around my
mid-section, drew me in tantalizing close, and whispered in my ear. "Last
time I saw you, Brian, you were playing your ass off at 4th Street Court!"

Well, let's just say I was slightly lightheaded. As Popeye the Sailor-man
would say, "Well, blow me away!"

Our group huddled around the back bar like Emperor Penguins warding off an
arctic blast. The bartender was shirtless and his chest was emblazoned with
a garish tattoo. Maria stole a few stares at his tightly coiled body. I
don't think Todd minded. It was simply making his girlfriend horny for sex
later on. Hopefully, Todd would rise to the occasion.

Rob happily engaged me in conversation. He just purchased a new cell phone
and was proud to show me its features and pictures of his dog and
family. Someone called out his name and jogged over to say hello. He looked
like one of the typical NYU undergrads that populate this gay badlands of
the city. Comfortably liquored up and manicured, he balanced a dainty
martini in his hand while imbedding a tender kiss on Robs cheek. Did I see
that? Somebody pinch me.

Well hello world! Dummy me never even knew that Mr jock stud all American
scaldingly arousing macho man was fishing off the same pier as myself. My
mouth dribbled agape. I'm surprised I didn't drool. I fucking had no clue!
I wouldn't have known this guy was queer had he been wearing high heels.

I glanced at Joey Menello and our eyes were plasma soldered tight.  No
words were needed here. They simply would obfuscate the telepathic
symbiosis that two close friends massage over their lives. He benignly
winked at me and his calming smile said volumes; "I will always be there
for you."

 Rob took the helm of our conversation and our conversation melded
seamlessly. We were drenched in the collective breaths of a hundred patrons
pressurized by Nathans coarse instrumentals; yet we were alone. The ruction
of everyone talking and laughing; the repetitive hollow clinking of beer
bottles begging for replenishment, and the tidal pull of the herd went
unnoticed. Two special people were sharing a reciprocal discovery and a
love some embrace. Calmly marooned in our own deserted island, we got
uniquely acquainted. The wall of self preserving barriers that men erect
like a mid evil castles to shield themselves from the vulnerabilities of
intimacy crumbled.

I told Robert how I spent my day and modeled my shirt still starch sharp
from Macy's. He pouted his lips and adjusted my collar and then backed off
as if admiring his work. Robert spent his day studying for a midterm,
pursuing the shelves of Best Buy for a new gadget, and finishing everything
off with a refreshing disco nap before coming out. We probably just missed
each other by minutes and hurried shuffles on the achromatic bluster of
Broadway.

Joey and Maria practiced some sweltering Latin influenced tango; their hips
whirling in a slashing orbit; her generous bosoms ironing Joey's shirt.
Robert took my hand and guided me as if blind into his arms. We
instinctively choreographed a wanton dance, a precursor of sorts starting
with our shoes only toenails apart, our upper bodies synchronizing the pace
of our heart beats, and our minds considering how we could finalize the
night alone together and gratefully naked.

There was a tug on my arm as if waking me from my happy dance with Rob.
Joey pressed a key into my hand.

"126 W 135th street, apartment 6B. You got it?" he commanded as his eyes
urged me towards the exit.

"How'd you...?" I weakly asked.

"Don't worry about it. Have a great night!"

Rob was in a dream state too. He looked at me in anticipation understanding
full well that he fit into this key exchange somehow.

We emerged from the bar like two excited children stumbling out of their
bedrooms on Christmas morning. It seemed to be raining harder and the
troubled street was fully engaged in shoe soaking puddles.

"Where we going? Where we going", Rob pestered.

I flipped my hand skyward like a native New Yorker and a cab materialized
out of nowhere. I brusquely shoved Robbie in as if being kidnapped.

The cabbie waited patiently for the address. I delivered it flawlessly and
will come to remember that address for the rest of my life.

"126 W 135th street", I ordered.


Even though we were practically transversing the whole length of the
Island, this cabbie navigated his bouncy Crown Victoria uptown with quiet
precision. Blissfully, every traffic light turned green as we approached
the intersections on this unusually traffic free night. Rob and I watched
the cityscape pass by in speechless wonder; our hands folded together like
newlyweds expecting their first child. The windshield wipers kept cadence
with consoling one second clunks. We watched droplets form only to be swept
away and replaced by natures reinforcements.

The cab slowed in Harlem, once a white free bastion but now infected with a
hip vibe and young homesteaders. We were "here" and the cabbie nailed the
address perfectly and stopped. Rob and I remained seated and looked about
quizzically. I had no idea what I was looking for until I saw a slime
encrusted flagstone building anchored by a greasy chicken eatery on street
level. Hand sized black lettering was all that emblazoned an anonymous door
next to the shop. 126.

"Well, it's not The Plaza", I whispered to an awe struck Rob.

"$12.50, please", the cabbie politely requested. Welcome to New York!

I thankfully gave him a crisp $20.00 and he obligingly started making
change. I declined.

"It's all yours. Thank you".

Our pregnant breathes held court in front of our faces. All was still sans
the low rumble of the Ford's V8 and its wallowing exhaust. Rob and I must
have looked like astronauts mistakenly beamed down to a strange planet. The
cabbie; someone who must have seen it all riding the bowels of the city,
seemed softly amused. He was waiting for us to go inside as Robert P
Glassner and I were deliriously sharing our reckless thoughts.

The vestibule door was unlocked. We entered and waived our gracious
sentinel good bye. Now I know where the television networks film their
darker police dramas. The hallway was carpeted in a boring tan loom but the
walls were recently painted and otherwise in good repair. We crouched down
like truant 8th graders sneaking off school grounds as we gobbled up the
stairwell to the 6th floor. Our footsteps echoed against concrete and my
heart was thumping out of my shirt when we reached the landing.

 Rob was sweating slightly, breathing deeply, and was wearing the most
mischievous shit faced grin a man could ever exhibit. I grabbed him not too
gently and forced our lips together. He offered no resistance but a
contented moan. My tongue surveyed his teeth. Our noses brushed and I could
feel the arousing stubble of his beard on my cheek. However, there was
something else more sinister awaking in me too. I was as hard as an
aluminum baseball bat and hoped that my beau was equally up to the task.

"Open the door, dammit", he pained. We were ignited in a pandemic of desire
and I fumbled with the key.

The apartment was a narrow studio eclectically furnished but accomplished
well suggesting its owner was either a design major or David Bromstead. A
large bookcase served as a television stand and room divider. There was no
formal bed but a newer mattress and comforter placed on the floor near a
jailhouse sized solitary window. Of course, Rob and I didn't care. It could
have been a derelict cardboard box. We were alone and just too satisfied
and willing to fuck.

Our unconditional instincts took over and we clung to each other like
magnets. Robs face was flush and his jet black hair tousled in curious
suggestive swirls. We drifted together in our corporal sin of homosexuality
as we foundered on the mattress. Rob presented his torso to me and I'll
never forget how fucking hot it was to pull down his tight jeans and see
his iron stiff cock spring out like an ornery beaver.

He bit my lips and his exploratory kisses served as a precursor to our pent
up amorous tendencies. I pulled the comforter over our heads shielding us
from the lone table lamp that spied on us with 100 watt efficiency.  Rob
rolled over on top of me and donned the dominant position. I thankfully
acquiesced to his role. Our engorged cocks rubbed each other to a charging
revival.

Being predisposed to impatience, I burrowed south and tried to shove his
cock in my mouth like a child getting his first Popsicle. What Rob's dick
lacked in length compared to mine, he more than made up with
circumference. He was endowed with a plump slap of meat and his moist
mushroom head was already smeared with emollients of precum. His untamed
phalanx of pubic hair tickled my cheeks. There was a subtle aroma of Calvin
Kline cologne. How nice!

I was the luckiest guy in the world! This was my inaugural run at gay
intimacy but innately knew exactly what to do as if the skills were
imprinted in me at birth. I worked on Robs shaft like a champ and my mouth
and left hand massaged his meat. I pulled diabolically at his walnut sized
nuts knowing that they were pressurized with buckets of his sweet love
juice.

Robbie bucked up and unabashedly presented his ass to me. It was as subtle
an invitation that one could receive. Two muscly mounds of perfection
escorted its cycloptic eye surrounded by an undisciplined thicket of
untamed bush...and no, this didn't smell like Calvin Kline but I was driven
nevertheless to deliver punishing thrusts of my tongue as far as nature
would allow.

He thrashed wildly but soon loosened and his puckered hole dilated and
compromised two of my fingers. You might say his garage door was up and all
I had to do was drive the truck in.

I wanted to swallow all of him and just hoped that the Heimlich maneuver
worked as advertised. Bewitched by the fantasy of having this studs
undefended ass at my convenience, I mouthed it esuriently while wishing the
capacity to separate my jaws as snakes do and reposit prey whole.

He cooed like a satiated infant. I knew that now was the time to get to
work before lightning struck the building or some crazed jihadist decided
to level our building.

Rob seized the missionary position and I pinned him chest to heaving
chest. I delivered diversionary tender kisses as my excited wad of meat
went for the kill. There was no diplomacy here. I slammed with my hips and
delivered the goods like a punch to the nose.

Rob screamed with a gamey squeal that seemed impossible for a male vocal
cord to generate. I paused.  He caught his breath thankfully. I almost
feared he swallowed his tongue; and what a shame that would be with all the
work we had to do.

"Go, go! , he encouraged. I continued my thrusts. Each one followed by a
deeper tug at his prostate. He was efflorescent, a slime of sweat soaked
his brow, and his eyelids fluttered as if in REM sleep. I reveled at the
thought of seeing the normally unflappable Robert P Glassner nakedly
disheveled and vulnerable to my uninhibited provocations. I wondered what
he would look like now photographed at a swank Hampton Beach wedding.

I enjoyed a voyeuristic moment looking down at my cock as it burrowed into
his hole. It looked like a big ugly pig caught in the mouth of a python.

He arched back pushing his chest out as if in the final thrust of
childbirth; his agitated nipples reddened and tormentingly inflamed. Rob
uttered something seductively in French..."Oh, mon Dieu!" It sent me wild
and it was my cue to let him have it. I built up speed pulling almost all
the way out and then pushing back in until his ass ground against my crazed
nuts. I molested the sides of his ass and collided into repeatedly rabid
with unrepentant sexual road rage.

He gave me my cue to let him have it. I relentlessly continued to prosecute
his man-cave as my twin balls ferociously paddled his ass. It sounded like
a folded newspaper being struck against brick. Rob crisscrossed his ceder
trunk legs around my back; his toes digging into the underside of my pecs
like a jokey urging his stallion to the finish line.

I felt a flash of flame on my abs and realized he let loose with a thick
porridge of spunk. His load seeped into the creases of my abs and found a
convenient receptacle in my belly button. Rob's chest collapsed as he
released a pound of air out from his lungs. We were both exhausted but
neither wanted to acquiesce. With renewed strength, I submerged deep and
stuffed him like a holiday turkey.

I was now at the point of no return and delivered multiple shots of my
salty elixir up his elongated vestry. We kissed so passionately our lips
were locked in a vacuum and I practically sucked his tongue down my
esophagus. Rob had a look of dirty satisfaction, his eyebrows arched in
malfeasance and eyes full of malice.

Suddenly he started shaking like a truculent Ford and then blew out thick
creamy chunks of spunk over both our bodies. I didn't think it was humanly
possible to expel so much sperm. It was enough to bottle and sell on E bay!

Reaching down, I scooped some up in my hand. It slithered around my fingers
like honey, was as hot as coco, and Chardonnay sweet.

"Give me some!", Rob demanded, and I dispensed his ointment over his lips
and coated them in a rich gloss. He greedily swallowed and we assumed a
messy compromise of situating ourselves in a 69 position to simultaneously
cleanse each others rod. My upper body off the bed and his quads in a
pincer move over my ears. I gagged on his rod, took a deep breath, and then
fondly slipped his whole swollen mess down my throat. His lumbering balls
swung like a pendulum under my chin.

Eager to please, Rob encapsulated my cock without complaint, and with an
arousing taunt of his tongue, he teased my hulking head to spurt out a
tardy load.

We cuddled and Rob rested his head in the crevice of my arms. I ran my
fingers through his hair and caressed the lobs of his ear. Allowing my nose
a free spirited loiter, I found my head in his armpit and basked in the
musky sent of this wonderful specimen. I've never felt anything more erotic
than the sensitive embrace of another man.

He looked at me as if it were the first time we ever met.

"Next week I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll explode", he warned with a
dastardly lilt.

"Promise?", I crooned.

The End (Yep, that's all Folks!)