Date: Sat, 7 Jan 2006 21:25:01 -0800 (PST)
From: "( )" <siktici@sbcglobal.net>
Subject: After Hours

Disclaimer:  This is homoerotic fiction.  If you are offended by it,
underage, or such literature is restricted in your area, please obey
whatever legalities apply--otherwise enjoy.

AFTER HOURS
Copyright 2005 Siktici

          He didn't bend his wrist in leisure or face his palms down in
gestures.  Raymond Steward wasn't a man's man, but he was a "straight
acting" man if that somehow mattered.  He was a six-three, one hundred
eighty-five pound frame of hulking hairy flesh, who wouldn't be found on
the "circuit" in such places as The Keys, Fire Island, Palm Springs, or
Sydney; nonetheless, he was a gay man, like hundreds of thousands who
were jobholders by day and insatiable hunters of mansex by night.
Yet, he wasn't closeted, a decision he had made after many years and
many losses to the scourge of AIDS.  He hid for no one, for no reason; on
the other hand, he promised himself he wouldn't wear his "gayness"
like bra over a silk blouse.  Like most guys, coming out had been a long
series of subtle and jarring events--more numerous for him than most--yet
he endured.  So, the quality of his life was more important than keeping
up the appearance of "straight" living.  Unfortunately, when he chose
Houston as his home, he chose disappointment.
          Raymond noticed with great disappointment Houston's small and
dispassionate gay community.  Compared to Chicago, the gay bars in
Houston had as much activity as a liquor store on a Sunday morning, and
because he wanted a change, the job in Houston outweighed any regret he
felt at leaving his hometown.  The bigger reasons were that he needed
rebirth and he wanted a man:  more in a sexual sense than in a
metaphysical one.  He had decided to search for the latter.
          He began his search at Handy's, a rustic, lean-to, where
cowboy's, would-be's--interspersed with a few heavily tattooed biker
patrons--and admirers of all came to belly up and wind down.  Actually,
Handy's sat as a depressing reminder of the seventies and early eighties
when men came to the epicenter of gay Houston; where Westheimer and
Montrose streets marked the heart of gay freedom; where Mary's,
Houston's oldest bar, stood like a welcoming beacon; and, where Numbers,
Ramrod, and the Loading Dock filled to capacity every night of the week.
But the scourge of AIDS took away those days and took away a large group
of men still mourned and forever missed.
After one drink and a discouraging conversation with a very drunk, but
amusing "poppi," Raymond quickly left Handy's and headed for a bar a
friend back in Chicago had told him about:  Hipwaders.
He entered Hipwaders, Houston's finest, albeit, only leather bar with
hope, but that hope faded on entering the smoky, dimly lit building.
Leather daddies and boys, both of dubious age, postured and re-postured
along a glossy black bar where a beefy bartender with a sadistic bent,
and a beautiful ass squeezed in chaps, teased a few displaced, unwary
circuit boys vying for his attention.  A long-time predator, the
bartender ignored their promises and searched for more experienced prey
in the endless stream of patrons.
 They were all represented, dressed in tight Wranglers, Levis, latex,
rubber, and rawhide.  They danced the music-less ritual: all window
shopping, strolling by in mild interest, stopping briefly at one wall or
another, leaning against an antiquated pinball machine, checking the
civility of the front room, or rechecking the debauchery of the back
one.  These men, as did many on a weekend, searched for Mr. Right, but
after a few drinks, Mr. Right became Mr. Right Now; and Raymond knew, as
did most men, that desperation developed more easily in an intoxicated
man with a ball sac full of cum, especially when time was the enemy.
Raymond sighed at the thought, bought a drink, and joined the
procession.  Standing just beyond the stark light of a Miller lampshade
that hung over a scruffy and stained pool table, he watched a mustachioed
uniform with too many keys over think his next shot.  At the same time,
Uniform's opponent, a jerky little otter in a tank top and leather
shorts checked a leather daddy for a hernia--or so it seemed.
Raymond watched Uniform point intentions with the cue, miss his shot, and
stand silently.  Uniform's mirrored glasses danced in the bright Miller
lights as he nodded to Raymond.  Returning the nod, Raymond watched
Uniform move to just in front of him and bend to take his next shot.
Lingering there, the man flexed his hard ass muscles, unnecessarily
stretched over the pool table in submission, and spread his legs before
looking back at Raymond.
A smile of intent slowly made Uniform's face more handsome than it
already was.  His chocolate, dimpled flesh widened to reveal a glistening
tongue that slowly traced over thick mocha lips.  Raymond's cock jumped,
and he took a long swig of beer to return the moisture that had suddenly
fled. Then looking closely at the stringy hole in Uniform's faded
Wranglers, he saw the man's exposed balls, tightly bound by a three-snap
ball stretcher.    Uniform, still bent over the pool table, pulled his
hairy bound balls, a russet light bulb, through the hole in his pants and
moaned with pleasure at the effort.
 Again, he looked at Raymond and nodded, but Raymond wasn't into
cock-n-ball torture; his cock softened at the thought.  Nor was he into
S&M; in fact, Raymond wasn't sure what he was into, but he would know it
when he found it. So, he exhaled slight disappointment and rejoined the
river of men flowing into a narrow passage.
          Regulars of Hipwaders knew very well what lie beyond the narrow
passage, and Raymond had heard his Chicago friend talk about it with much
enthusiasm and sparkling eyes.  Raymond's friend learned of "the
patio" from a trick in the Lion's Den.  The trick said to go after
hours.  "No booze after two a.m., but the action really heats up," the
guy said.  What action?  Hell, just a bunch of guys walking around and
sitting along the walls, Raymond thought.   I guess it wouldn't hurt to
check out the ba--
          "Hey.  Wazzup tonight?"  A caramel hand placed warmth on
Raymond's arm and a toothy smile greeted him.  "Calvin," the man said.
          "Raymond."
Even before his hand met Calvin's, Raymond had a hard-on.
          "I ain't seen you here before."  The stranger named Calvin
tilted his head in the same way that dog did in the old RCA ad.  A sudden
feeling caused the stranger to look deeply into Raymond's eyes, and
without understanding why, Calvin tried honesty:  "I'm very attracted
to you and I thought I saw something in your eyes, so if you think we can
do this, how about we talk?"
          "Okay."
          "You're a one-word man, huh?"
          "No."  Raymond said and felt warmth slowly rise in him when
he shook Calvin's hand; he felt that slow warming of lust, of desire.
"You come here a lot?"  He mentally cringed at the line, but it was out
there.
          Calvin didn't critique it, "Not really, just when I can't
sleep."  He explained and moved closer.
          "Yeah, I haven't been sleeping much either," Raymond
admitted.
Calvin moved even closer. "I'm not from here, actually; I'm from
Dothan, Dothan, Alabama . . . you heard of it?"
          "Yeah, I've heard of it," Raymond said, but he thought
Calvin wasn't much of thinker.  He didn't need the caramel colored man
for that.
Calvin moved closer, still, and rested his leg against Raymond's.
"Well, that's rare, most guys here haven't."  He rested his hand on
Raymond's thigh, and as the two talked, electricity sparked between
them.  Ripples passed from Raymond's head and feet to converge at the
tip of his cock.  Calvin was simply handsome, a type of handsome that
made some men jealous, some intimated, and some . . .well down right
desperate.
But Raymond felt none of that.  He found contentment in looking at
Calvin's almond eyes; his smooth, hairless face; and a thinly cut
mustache over voluptuous, brown lips that parted slightly in pink
invitation:  an invitation for a man to slide his hard cock between
them.
Wavelets of hair shaped his head in the form of a flat top with high
sides that faded to the skin (a cut that Raymond loved to see on a Black
men), which made Calvin's face resemble an inverted pentagon.  An
athletic build hinted to a Nubian runner like his ancestors, and even
through his Levi's, Calvin's muscles flexed and released as he adjusted
his position or crossed his legs.  But with such a hot body, he seemed
unrefined, and lacked of polish.
          "Say," Raymond asked evenly, "is it always this . . . this
dead?"
          "Well, not always."  Calvin stretched and yawned as he
spoke.  "You just have to wait until after hours.
          Since after hours hadn't arrived, Raymond and Calvin, as
others did, made shallow conversation about their travels, their
occupations, and even their first time.  Over the din of cross-talk and
under the constant drone of forgetful techno, they eased to the comfort
of bonding that further eased to tender contact.
          When a bald bear warned of last call, Raymond and Calvin broke
their bubble of sensuality, got drinks, and re-entered with skin-tingling
touches, lustful glances, and throbbing cocks.  Calvin mirrored the
disarming charm of Raymond, and each man flowed to gentle mannerisms and
turns of phrase.  They remained opened to possibilities and shrouded
their intentions in unnecessary innuendo.
          "Now, I have a question for you."  Calvin ended the innuendo,
the pleasure dance, and the side stepping of urges.  "Do I turn you
on?"
          Raymond motioned toward his straining cock.  "I'm sure this
answers your question."
"I was hoping `cause you have got me really hard too; you're so damn
attractive," purred Calvin, "and, frankly, I thought you would turn me
down. I guess this is my lucky night."  Calvin genuinely, but briefly,
smiled his luck, and then turned neutral to ask, "So, are you a pitcher
or a catcher?"
          Surprised at the use of the vintage terms--Raymond covered with
his most erotic come-on, "Definitely a pitcher."
          "And do you think I make a good catcher?"  Calvin stood,
performed a slow turn, and sat on Raymond's lap.
          "Definitely," Raymond said and rubbed the length of Calvin's
thigh.
 "Oh, well I guess I do," Calvin said, feeling Raymond's cock throb at
his ass.  He brought his arms over Raymond's broad shoulders that
narrowed to a solid, and Calvin suspected, hairy butt. He loved hairy
White men, big men with big backs and thick legs:  their pink skin, the
color of their eyes, even their large hands and feet.
He never really understood why he liked them, except to know that they
were different from him.  Some had sexy walks, a sedate swagger, as if
the world wasn't unkind and wasn't filled with injustice.  To him,
White men moved through life with a natural expectancy that made them
irresistibly attractive. He had once thought that perhaps it was the
freedom with which they approached and experimented with sex, exhibiting
no fear of taboos held by most men in his culture.
His first encounter, however, was with a Black man who showed him the
joys of anal sex, but it was a White man who showed him that sex was
multifaceted.  When Calvin was nineteen, he met a man in the bathroom of
a Sears and Roebuck, who took him home and spent the day showing him the
joys of assplay, of toy play, of restraint, of rimming, of enemas, and of
delayed orgasm.
Calvin learned even more about his attraction to White men in subsequent
encounters:  seeing a hard, purplish cock moving in and out of his
caramel ass truly excited him; feeling a large, hairy body against his
small, smooth one, as the hairy man pounded into his chocolate asshole,
sent shiver over him; and running his fingers through a White man's
silky hair or bald head while sliding up and down his rigid shaft kept
Calvin seeking as many encounters as he could find.
Yet, beyond these acts Calvin learned that sex was a man's only chance
to share his vulnerability, that sweet feeling of freedom and acceptance
when a man could reveal his true essence without rejection or reproach.
If there was a deeper reason why Calvin liked White men, it really
didn't matter anymore.  He knew what he liked and that was enough.
Raymond wasn't obese, but he did have a bit of a paunch as a testament
to his love of beer, and he was just a few thousand follicles from being
excessively hairy, which qualified him for big and beefy--a description
Calvin sometimes compared to a Burger King whooper--and he had beautiful
hazel eyes, with a goatee that accentuated his smile, a devilish smile,
one that belied his wilder, kinkier side.
When the two men got drinks, Raymond reviewed his luck. He loved Black
guys with bubble butts; loved how a Black man's butt pushed out and
dramatically tapered to thin but firm legs; and loved their dark skin,
the subtle shades of it, smooth to the touch as if caressing satin.  He
loved seeing his thick white cock in their juicy, black asses while
holding on to their narrow waists as they flanged to the shape of a
pear.
His earliest fantasies were of slender Black men with smooth, round butts
that glistened when oiled.  The texture of smooth dark skin at his touch
made him burn with desire, and soon, he hoped, this Black man would help
him realize it.
          "So let the games begin," Calvin joked.
          "What?"
          "Time to take you to the patio.  Come on."  Calvin led
Raymond up three stairs to a hall that glowed in red light.  At the end
of it, the two men entered a smaller bar lit in the same redness where
ultra leather men, big men--courtesy of steroids and supplemented
testosterone--bulged biceps, tanked massive chests in small wife-beaters,
and pushed from the bar chiseled asses in tight jeans.  Some men sweated
in latex or rubber, and squeezed in chaps.  Some men stood drinking,
smoking, and searching; some found shadowy corners and traded cock jerks;
and others, a few blue collars, with name tags and grease stains on their
uniform; a few construction types with utility belts and keys jangling
from their waists--and all wore heavy boots or a variation.
Most of the men had hankies stuff in their pockets of various colors, and
Raymond remembered from the "good ole days", whether the hanky was in
the left or right pocket, a position that signaled the man's preferences
and reception.  These men differed from the others in that their
conversations were almost inaudible or they didn't talk at all.  Men
looked around, took inventory, and telegraphed intentions with glances,
nipple pinches or crotch grabs.  And most did so with a seductive
sternness that increased their masculinity, and in Hipwaders, masculinity
was a valued commodity.  Calvin and Raymond passed through this small bar
as hands reached out to both of them followed by one-word invitations:
Piss? Fuck? Fist?
Moving through another door, the two men reached the patio.
Occasionally, plumes of smoke drifted skyward from an area lit by lawn
lights under a ragged hedgerow that lined the patio's dimensions, along
with a vine-covered fence that provided privacy and separated the patio
from a vacant lot.  Above, a cold black sky canvassed the growing group
of men watching, rubbing, and groping, while murmurs, moans, and muffled
cries mildly disturbed the still air.  Music was an intrusion here;
patron's preferred the sounds and the mystique of group participation.
          Calvin pointed to the small lights under the hedgerow, "Over
there is where the action is."  Before Raymond could decide, Calvin
pulled him into a semi-circle of men gathered at one corner of the
patio.  Silhouettes with pants around their ankles, the outline of hairy
butts protruding from chaps, and glossy stretched balls with weights
hanging from them caused Raymond to move his hands to rub throbbing cock
through his jeans.
Calvin watched Raymond, licked his lips, but stood in silence.  Over the
hedgerow lights, cocks pounded hairy butts; hungry mouths suck cocks of
all sizes, drank piss, cum, and licked assholes.  Fingers probed
assholes, tweaked and twisted nipples, while balls were tugged, dicks
were milked, and poppers dazed many in their range.
Lust in motion:  familiar rhythm of desire, the collective crowd
participating by being.  Whether with his mind or with his cock, but for
Raymond it was both, he fucked right along with them--group mystique, how
fuckin' hot.  And his cock throbbed and issued more precum from his piss
slit.
Fuck, yeah, group mystique.  The trail of men that Raymond noticed
earlier ended in rows of men who stood one behind the other and stroked
their dicks, quietly, wordlessly, as if motivated by telepathic desire.
Others dropped to their knees and sucked the first cock they saw.  These
open mouths had their choices among cocks hooking to the east, the west,
bending north or south, or just pointing straight ahead.
The darkened area filled with overwhelming sounds of man-pleasure: the
occasional slurp, gag, or rhythmic slapping: the dance of desire, the
nocturnal, sweaty dance--sweaty flesh to sweaty flesh, cock to asshole,
grunt to grunt--the march toward ultimate gratification.   Ass fuck, a
nice gaping hole to slide up tight around my cock is what Raymond thought
at that moment.  Raymond said these words, using the consciousness of the
head between his legs.
He felt hands search the inside of his fly, unzipped by a pair of hands,
as the activity moved toward frenzy.  The hands moved with knowledge and
gentleness in finding his cock and balls.  Thumbs and forefingers gently
tugged and stroked him, while a second pair of hands approached from
behind to tweak his nipples and squeeze his pecs.  Raymond sucked eagerly
the two fingers finding his mouth.
From behind a third pair of hands undid his belt and the single button
holding up of his jeans.  They jerked trousers and briefs to his ankles,
encircled his stomach, trailed down to just above his cock, slid back
around to his hairy ass and legs, then suddenly, they parted his cheeks
and a tongue, thickly warm and wet licked his asshole.
The second pair of hands that had been working Raymond's nipples joined
the third in providing a tongue for his hunger ass, his taint, and his
hairy balls.  Both tongues licked and slurped with exquisite expertise
that sent Raymond into quivers, trembles, and moans of pleasure.
The first pair of hands changed to a mouth that slurped up and down his
tremendously hard meat.  It starting from behind his balls followed to
his cock tip, stopping occasionally to lick the precum from his piss
slit.
          "Raymond," Calvin whispered in his ear, "I'd like you to
meet Fred.  He played with your nipples and stuck his fingers in your
mouth, but now he's slurping your ass."  Raymond could only moan
delight and nod recognition. "And Kelton is also slurping your crack."
Again, Raymond moaned.  "And you know what I'm doing:  hmmmm--yummy,
sucking this big white cock."
          A Nubian triad of gratification had Raymond in its grasp.  The
three men caressed, licked, and sucked all over him.  His fleshed rippled
outward from his cock and returned like an underground explosion.
Trembled and shivered rumblings of a nearing orgasm persisted, but he
held on to it.  Fred sucked his balls, Kelton tongued his pulsating ass,
and Calvin intermittently flicked his cockhead before taking the entire
length down his throat.
          "Oh, God, I'm gonna cum," escaped Raymond's lips.  Besides
the three men working him over, others heard Raymond's warning and
turned to watch another orgasm.  Because Raymond was so far out into his
universe of ecstasy, he did not see the semi-circle of men turn toward
him.
He breathed deeply to hold back the push of release, that feeling,
sublime but fleeting; that rising fire in his lower abdomen pushing
toward his cock, expanding and gorging it with blood.  As much as he
wanted to remain the centerpiece of the triad, his efforts weakened.  He
had his twitching cock pushed far down Calvin's throat that he felt the
man's lips pressed against his pelvis.
Activity in the circle of men was cresting as well, hands were working
cocks with blurring speed; cocks pushed forcefully into assholes as if
pile drivers; hands pulled and tortured balls with sadistic abandon;
nipple rings were pinched and twisted with delicious savagery; PAs were
linked; cocks docked and overlapped foreskin for pleasurable friction;
and men throughout the patio listened for the looming cries of ecstasy.
Raymond's warnings came more rapidly, more in earnest, and the crescendo
of his erotic symphony had reached the climatic crashing of cymbals.
Then he came . . . and came . . . and came.  Growls accompany the first
steamy stream of cum that flew over Calvin's head and into semi
darkness. The crowd yelled encouragement and yelled its own orgasmic
arrivals.
They acknowledged the sweet vulnerability that seemed so intense and so
short-lived.  Groans of pleasure-pain drew a second stream from Raymond
that flew just as far as the first.  The third, fourth, and fifth streams
landed on the three men who had been helping Raymond to nirvana and who
now knelt before him to receive a warm and validating cum bath.
As the last spurt of cum oozed from his piss slit, Raymond bucked and
wretched through the residuals and slowed to sated exhaustion as the
crowd continued their encouragement:  Members gave respective hoots and
attaboys to another who had bolstered the elusive group mystique, that
group participation in achieving an orgasm, that one moment when men
realized their humanity at the exact moment they mourned their
mortality.
So, when the last cum drop fell from his cock, Raymond slumped to his
knees, out of breath, and in the arms of Calvin.  And in a way, uniquely
Raymond, replied breathless, "I'd like to meet more of your friends,
Calvin."