Date: Thu, 17 Jan 2013 11:17:50 -0800 (PST) From: Anthony Palazzo <apalazzo198@yahoo.com> Subject: vintage thrills: 46. The Sex Club The Sex Club As I get older I continue to enjoy the voyeuristic fun that I have always liked, and I sometimes treat myself to an evening out for a little more direct satisfaction. There are safe sex clubs in New York City, as I guess there are in many large cities, where it is easy enough to find a playmate or three. On one Fall evening I went to a club that I had heard about in Chelsea. After I paid the nominal entrance fee I was told to hang my clothes on a hanger. All of them. This particular club has a total nudity policy on certain nights. At other times it's possible to visit and cruise without undressing. But I happened to hit a full nudity night. My eyes began to adjust to the low lighting as I pulled off my pants. I looked around. There were about four or five new arrivals in various stages of undress and I was enjoying the strip show. One guy was balls-naked, and casually pulled at his dick as he surveyed the crowd. I finished undressing, checked my things and then walked into the first large room of the bar. The set-up was of several rooms of varying sizes, with side alcoves and surprising little alleys and caves appearing here and there. In the main room there was a large alcohol-free bar, and it was a pleasant shock to enter and see perhaps 20 or 25 naked men lounging and walking and looking and cruising. I headed into one of the side rooms. There I saw two small groups of three and four guys facing each other, touching and jerking off. One guy was licking or biting the nipples of another. A fully dressed thin young man with a tee shirt that said MONITOR approached the groups and checked that everyone was playing by the rules. I noticed a young man, perhaps in his mid thirties, looking at me. This guy, strangely, was nude except for a long sleeved starched white shirt which was open and had the sleeves rolled up. Hiding something?, a scar?, a birth deformity?, I wondered. We circled each other, staring and touching ourselves. After a time we drifted apart, and I checked out some of the other rooms, my blood pounding now with the voyeuristic excitement I loved. In the center of another small room was a well built thin man 45-50 years old with pumped pecs posing. He had placed himself so that the track light above shone down on him, as he flexed. He was wearing crossed leather straps on his torso, but his genitals were unencumbered. I stared with admiration and went around the back to check out his buns. That gave me a nice jolt and now I was completely hard. I looked more closely at the object of my admiration. The poseur had a small amount of dark hair trimmed close to his head, strong dark features and a hairy body covered with curly black hair. Better not stay here too long, I thought; don't want to cum too soon. I touched the man's chest. The man stood still and unsmiling. I pulled on the man's chest hair and then rubbed the full pecs. I murmured a complement and the guy's reserve was finally broken. He smiled and touched my arm. I pulled on my own cock to show him how much I had enjoyed this brief encounter. I headed back into the large room and there on the right side I spotted Mr. White Shirt. WhiteShirt noticed me also and we gravitated toward each other once more. We stood four feet apart, watching each other surreptitiously while whacking off. Finally, WS, sure of my interest, approached and reached for my dick. I allowed this, and soon faced him and reached for his cock. Small, hard, cut – I pulled on it. WS was pumping me at a good clip. I reached under and felt the small furry ballsack. I enjoyed rubbing it and squeezing it. WhiteShirt increased the tempo of his pumping. After a few moments, we embraced rubbing bodies, hands everywhere, cocks pressing against bellies. We rubbed cheeks, exchanged small kisses on the neck and went back to beating each other off. In a moment or two, WS started to make grunting sounds that announced he was close. I slowed down but WhiteShirt said "no, no, keep going, it's so good." In less than a minute WS began to shoot. At least 2 feet maybe 3, all over my chest, arm and belly. He spurted in three big loads, and a few more minor dribbles. "Wow," I said. "Just like in the movies." "Oh, sure," said WhiteShirt self-deprecatingly, but with a satisfied smile. "Why the shirt?" I wondered. "I was cold when I got here," he explained. "Oh." I tried to continue the conversation and began to ask a few questions. WS got spooked and started to show body language that said goodbye. Either a closet case worse than me, maybe married, or maybe out for the evening without his lover, or maybe just sated and ready to call it a night, I concluded. I walked slowly back into the large main room of the club. I walked to a side area where a group of S&M types were playing. A mature man with slack pale skin and a little circle of gray hair was busily shaving a much younger man. A massage table with all necessary equipment was set up. All very professional. I was startled that the younger man looked familiar, and then realized that it was from just a few hours earlier. The guy getting the body shave had been sauntering down Fourteenth street in cowboy hat and boots as he approached the club. Well I guess you can't get a good shave in a western bar. A short distance away, on a worn vinyl couch, was another older, in-command type guy administering light discipline to a chubby younger man. They advanced from underwear spanking, to bare-butt spanking. Eventually the master led his slave to an area that permitted him to tie his hands and paddle his ass to a shade of dark pink. The only part of this that turned me on at all was the occasional pulling of the slave's cock, which had grown impressively. Unlike me, the slave seemed to like a nipple twisting trick better than any genital attention. I sauntered off after a while to a side room and there saw a tall, thin man of about 40 years who seemed quite interested in me. Scared of this degree of attention, I took off. But not five minutes later, I again encountered the thin intense man whose name, it developed, was Johann or something that sounded like that. This man was following me! I looked more closely and noticed that Johann was also uncut. Was this the attraction? Johann approached and before long, I found myself in a new embrace. I marveled at the generosity of these men. But no one wanted to talk very much. Detecting a slight German accent, I guessed that Johann was from Germany or Austria. No, actually it was Switzerland. The only city that I could think of in Switzerland at the moment was Geneva and so I asked Johann if he was from Geneva. "Yes," he agreed readily and probably untruthfully. Later as I thought about it, I decided it was unlikely since Geneva is composed largely of French speaking people, who could be expected to speak English with a French accent, and not German accented English. The young thin man was more intent on massaging my dick than answering questions. Okay. It felt very agreeable indeed. I returned the favor in kind, and advanced the action to cheeks-squeezing, nipple-tweaking and nuts- kneading. Johann tolerated all of this but did not seem truly grateful. After a while this encounter with Johann sort of just burned itself out. With a hug and kiss on the cheek we parted. I headed toward the bar. I loved seeing nude men casually sitting around chatting naturally. It was almost more exciting than the backroom action. I looked at the crack in the asscheeks on the barstool in front of me, feeling myself hardening to the max once more. I smiled at the guy attached to the killer buns. The unfriendly gentleman looked at me and turned away with a look of annoyance (disgust?). Well, fuck you too honey. Keep waiting, Brad Pitt will be arriving any minute. My attention was soon grabbed by a very masculine older type with a gray pony tail and tattoos. This time the attraction was mutual and we soon drifted away from the bar to explore. This tattooed, pony tailed guy reminded me of an old sailor. Very soon I felt myself getting very close to coming. I tried to hold it back. Out of somewhere appeared a short and thin young man who slithered between me and the tattooed guy. In an instant he was playing with my chest as he rubbed his asscheeks against Tattoo's cock. Tattoo reached around him, getting a death grip on the kid's near-bursting prick. He seemed to love this lithe young man's attentions and encouraged the dry-humping action by bending his knees and kissing the young man on the neck. This was all too much for me. Unable to hold back any longer, I came in torrents, foolishly trying to conceal it by wiggling out of the menage a trois and turning toward the wall. I caught three spurts in a handy paper towel and allowed the rest to dribble down my leg. I staggered back toward the bar cleaning myself up as much as the circumstances would permit. After peeing and washing my cock at the sink in the men's room, I was ready to head back to the suburbs. I warmly remembered this evening, fist firmly around stiff dick, for days afterward.