Date: Sun, 22 May 2005 20:01:28 -0700
From: Herald Buchanan <debu33@earthlink.net>
Subject: Beware the Signs

It was more in keeping with what seems an innate personality that serves to
make me even less cautious of necessary sings as on a highway than any
notice warning to beware the signs. Should this effort in a
self-description fail either to gain a reader's attention or as a start to
something to be more exciting, it was my failure to beware the signs that
landed my naked ass in a place that had a sign outside its main entrance as
Marty's Massage Parlor.


It was not so much that it had been so long since I got a good blowjob as
much as the way it came about, suggesting deception. This issue neither
confronted differences in languages and/or dialects nor a true play on
words for the careful observer. Massage, as a title for a business, may
read as no more or less perhaps than a warning for stroke, rub, kneading or
tapping with the hand or an instrument for remedial or hygienic purposes.
Somewhat in keeping with cut requested and amount to remove as in
hairstyling, Marty's backstreet establishment bases its service fees on a
client's sexual endowment. While a good pussyfoot truly identified as a man
with twelve inches usually leaves the place without charge. Anything under
is charged by inch of his penis' shaft in its state of erection, (better
known as a hard-on to frequent flyers.) Seems as if as soon as the client
begins to sense how deep the masseur takes the shaft of his penis down his
throat, there is a good indication as to the charges for the service.  And
if a man coming for service is lucky enough to see the custodian in person,
he soon learns at least one the advantages of not living alone.

Much as the way any interested man learns about Marty's Massage Parlor, it
takes little time for knowing how and why Marty chose James Able, a synonym
for endowed. Somewhat like father, like son or one naked man checking out
another naked man in the gym locker room, "some fortune suckers owe it all
to Daddy!" It was no town guarded secret that the hired man at Pete's
Billiards was there for more than maintaining the place and collecting
fees. And to prove the truth as to why he always dressed in tight-fitting
pants and evidently no underwear, every time an interested customer sensed
that Marty was on his way to take a leak, the commode booth immediately
adjacent to the wall of three urinals was occupied before the show
arrived. And here lay, impossible to move from the indescribable ecstasy of
that split-second closeness to ejaculation, one of those former men who
used to rush for the best seat in the house (men's room) to watch Pussy
Foot Marty take a leak. Hell! I was so out of tune with the real world that
I failed either to see or to sense what was ready to transpire at the
immediate second of my fast approaching ejaculation.

Still having difficulty with separating fantasy from fiction and dreams
from reality, the spit second that I realized that I was beyond any point
of return as a trip in a barrel over Niagara Falls and felt the semen
moving to the opening at the opening in the helmet of my penis, my mouth
sprang wide open as if preparation of a giant shout, falling short for
representing any true accounting of this height of all heights in my entire
life since discovering puberty in the teen years. And as I, the narrator
required a long and run-on sentence in hopes of stating the impact of
indescribable emotions, seeing was believing! With my eyes covered with the
flesh and pleasant scent of a man's pubic area and a hint of heavy sweat in
the pubic hair and testicles drawn up but managing to rest on my forehead,
more than dreams assured that this invited intrusion had to be none other
than former Pete's Billiards housekeeper and pleasantly surprising to learn
the custodian of Marty's Massage Parlor.

Why I had in mind that age-old and well worn metaphor, "all good things
seem to come at the same time," proved as interesting as the closeness to a
living proof. No sooner than had Marty managed to get the head of his
monstrous phallus passed the base of my tongue and its large load of heavy
semen chugging down my esophagus like a fire hose emptying into the opening
the size for adding gasoline to an ordinary passenger car, I could feel my
own fully erect and pulsating cock emptying down the willingly receptive
throat of Marty, the town's star masseuse. Before any sense of true reality
became a part of my rationale for the last several minutes that seemed like
an hour, any remaining curiosity as for how Marty, himself has reacted to
all of this, that is, sexually, dissipated like cold air in a tight men's
gym workout room when activity changes to that exercise men dream about and
eventually find right under the noses!

It would be less than the truth man swears to tell in a court of law if I
stated that I have never performed oral sex on another man. And before some
smart ass reader starts thinking the idea that I have sucked my own as
versus a mirror image to add to missing reality, the answer if affirmative.
A chief reason for dropping lessons in the martial arts, calisthenics,
along with oriental exercises involving head-over-hills, heels and worse,
over-head, not to exclude the a body closeness comparable with
no-hold-barred one-on-one wrestling or the nonsense supporting an instant
brawl that breaks out in a men's room with both instigators knowing but
never admitting why. When the sun rises, man knows a new day had arrived.
When it sets and there is no moon, man's common sense dictates that it is
night. Then there are those times when it becomes interesting to blend
pretended violence and that temperament that finds two men on the floor in
a tight embrace, preferably in a more comfortable position known worldwide
as sixty-nine.

"Remember to close the door and push it tight to make sure the lock
engages!" came a call from the same massage room where I just left. "I have
decided to close early," the now well recognized voice of former billiards
manager Pete added. "If you wish to drop by later for a little activity
with both Marty and me, feel free to use the door at the other end that is
an extension of the men's room at J. O.'s Bar and Thrill."

Much as that over-used slang for suggesting agreeable, I called back "O.K.;
and added in a whispering voice, "only King-size for me any more!" With
visible heavy deposits of semen on my pants, managing to pass through my
boxer underwear, I attempted to cover it over until I could get home. All I
had with me was the newspaper I was sifting through for an idea for
tonight's entertainment when I happened upon Marty's Massage Parlor. The
idea that I associated that with an all female staff catering to all men
got lost the instant I found myself inside. And as memory served to retrace
passed efforts for getting intimate with another man while keeping the
affair very discreet, an approaching man who seemed a stranger to me,
slowed as he near when I walked slowly in order to maintain my composure
with concealing the show of spent semen on the legs and crotch of my thin
nylon pants. At first, his choice for greeting had a tendency to turn me
off prior to learning his purpose. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" And
before I had time to weigh any and all visible evidence to support a
suitable answer, he added, "voracious," young coach James used to call you,
but Coach J. J. preferred "gifted."

Somewhere in the immediate distance and probably coming from a music and
records store across the street came a tune from Walt Disney World, "It's a
small, small world." But as if added insult to injury but in a more
interesting antithesis, Pete grabbed his crotch with his left hand at the
same time his right hand reached for mine. Then like a sudden and
unexpected summer shower when a man is not carrying any sissy umbrella,
"what's with all this fresh man milk on those neat dressy pants?" Before I
had time to weigh the idea as to whether I wished to share the truth about
my pants, Peter Underwood had more. "Guess you just have to remember
twelfth grade dropout, Andy Holmes, the guys back then used to tease and
call him John?" And as memory served me well for a change but before I had
had time to answer, Pete added more. "Did you ever learn why he never
dressed out for PE or removed his school clothes for a shower?" Again
before I could think of a proper answer, yes, history does indeed repeat
itself. "Here is my calling card with phone number and address." As I
reached for that card while attempting not to show and signs of
reservations and as confused as that day I came face to face with Andy
Holmes in the boys' room in high school.

"Hold the fort," came another of Pete's somewhat originality not so
cleverly blended expanded interjections. "You will be coming as I do every
day!"

"What the hell is all of this supposed to mean?" I was asking myself while
trying to decide how to respond. Then came a both inviting as possessing
reservations based on my personal ignorance from parts of an unknown past.

"Let you conscience be your guide" Pete added as he handed me the small
card with a photo of himself made at least ten years earlier in his life.
"That miracle of a real man has been sharing a home in the older area of
the suburbs for more than ten years now!" Let it be noted that the
information-giver showed similar signs of exaltation as did the receiver of
now pleasant news about the past. Desperately and determined to maintain my
identifying composure, I attempted not to show any visible outward
indication of excitement, instant and noticeable penis erection or signs of
inferiority simultaneously. For a first time since growing years, I found
myself mentally asking myself, "does envy have a way for never going away?"

Just as I was trying to say if and when I might take him up on the offer to
visit the place that he and old high school dropout, Andy Holmes share,
here came Pete's surrogate man-to-man handshake. In that I was
unintentionally sporting another erection from the exciting news I was
trying hard not to show, when Andy's hand met the crotch of my tight pants
as versus the more typical handshake, the uncontrolled emission of semen
was to him enough man milk for Pete to extend the visit to his and Andy's
place to an entire weekend adventure. "Man," Pete addressed me but not in
the same tone depictive of past arguments at public school or a ball game
and the like, depending on time and circumstances, "perhaps if things had
worked out different for both of us, it just might now be you and I sharing
the same living quarters!" And as he paused in a very obvious injection
tone of voice, "that if, if you still enjoy a great blow job the way you
did back at Sleepy Hills Consolidated?"

By: DeBu
MA Engl. Ed.


Part II -- Tricks of the Trade