Date: Tue, 15 Feb 2011 15:52:19 -0800
From: marianasdeep3@hushmail.com
Subject: Fast Cash Stripper [Part 11:  Curtain Call (an epilogue) ]

Encouraging comments kept this story going, so as they say in the
SW, muchas gracias.  I was glad to hear it was draining certain
glands (prostate, testicles, pituitary, etc.).  I hope this
installment will do the same, but it's different and will likely
drain some other glands, like tear ducts.  So if you don't like
that, don't read it.  Same if you don't want the ending in your
mind destroyed by the ending in mine.  In keeping with the theatre
themes, I prefer Greek Tragedy over Hollywood Ending.  Yes, there
will be some tears, but also joy, fear, love, and humor -- in other
words the rest of the limbic system comprising our reptilian brain
-- as well as some contemplation.

Curtain Call (an epilogue).

To say that I enjoyed the next 24 hours with Steve would be an
extreme understatement, and I know I can truthfully say that he
enjoyed himself as much too.  To this day, it remains the only day
in my life where I spent 24 hours essentially nude with someone the
same.  Yes, the sex was fantastic.  I learned that Steve loved
fucking me on all fours, knees together, ankles spread, my chest
and head lower than my butt, my ass lifted off the bed with each
thrust.  I think that was his favorite position.  My favorite was
to be on my back, legs wrapped around his waist, sucking his tits
and licking his chest while he drove into me, and kissing.  Kissing
was new to both Steve and I, and I was amazed at how much it raised
the intensity.  We were both resistant to it at first, I think
because it forced further admissions from both of us.  We were not
merely toys for each other, but passionate human beings.

But there's only so much cum that can be produced in 24 hours, even
among 14 year olds.  The rest of the time was spent nude:
massaging, cuddling, sleeping, and admiring.  I loved watching his
balls rise and lower in his scrotum as they produced Steve's next
load of cum, knowing full well that the sperm was eventually going
to go either down my throat or up my butt.  When you start out
nude, defense in Pink Belly is nearly impossible, especially when
you're ambushed, so I have to add "playing" to the list of nude
activities.  As the Saturday became Saturday night, I became sad,
knowing it would end the following morning.  Steve would
occasionally catch me in tears.  We had to stick to our plan to end
it the next day.  We were getting low on food, not that we didn't
have the cash to get more, but we didn't dare venture out.  We were
eating our "dinner" late, around 9 pm, when we had the only
conversation that jarred me from the dream.

"Have you decided when you're going back to the club?" Steve asked.

"Back to the club!?  I'm not going back to the club!  Hell no, of
course not!" I answered, surprised there was any question.

"Mark, come on, you HAVE to go back!" Steve answered pissed.

"Why the fuck are we hiding here if I'm going back to the club!" I
yelled back, "I don't HAVE to go back.  I don't HAVE to go
anywhere!"

Steve got in my face, but lowered the tone from anger to concerned
seriousness, "Mark, you have to go back and fuck Carlito, Gambino,
and Merrata.  Let me rephrase that:  get fucked BY them."

"No fucking wa..."

"Yes way." Steve interrupted.

"Why?  Why are we hiding here then?"

"Because we're NOT at the club!" Steve said.  When he saw that his
remark resulted in the desired effect, confused silence from me,
furrowed brow, he continued, "At the club, you're part of their
operation, their syndicate.  They own the club.  Maybe not on
paper, but they own Libby.  They own you.  You're Carlito's payment
for Gambino and Merrata, probably for some fucking mob hit
somewhere, I don't know or care.  But you've got to submit to
Carlito."

I was scared, Steve knew it and wanted to amplify it:  "But out
here, you're a threat to them.  Yeah, they got the police and even
the FBI bought off, but like I said, not all of them are corrupt.
Now you've made the news.  If you go public, their whole racket
could be exposed."

"I'll just keep my mouth shut." I said calmly.

"That's a minimum, but that won't be enough, and you know it."
When Steve saw my upset, he asked in frustration, "Why did you deck
Carlito?  If you didn't want to be a cocksucker, why didn't you
deck Mr. Samuels instead, like I did?"

"I was descending into hell.  I had to draw the line somewhere." I
responded.

Understanding the answer, but still frustrated, Steve responded,
"You're still IN hell,"  then reasoned with me, "Look.  If you go
to the club, you can work it out with Libby and Carlito.  On their
terms, but safely.  Eventually you can quit the club, hell, by 16
they don't even want you in the "boy revue" anymore anyway.  But
out here, I don't think just getting fucked will be the end of it.
You WILL get fucked, but you'll also end up wearing cement shoes on
the bottom of Lake Mead!!"

That sorta ruined the evening.  It certainly ruined the sex until
the next morning.  We went to bed, sleeping nude curled up in each
others' arms, the only way I could feel safe enough to fall asleep.

I awoke the next morning to a cock going up my ass, "Mark, I wanna
fuck.  Mark, wake up, I wanna fuck," the difference being that he
was already taking my ass while saying it, laughing of course.  I
loved it.  Steve was relieving his morning wood.  I relieved mine
next by riding his cock, while massaging his chest, he massaging
mine.   We laid around nude a couple of hours, fucked one more
time, emotions high, me in tears, then got into the shower.  I
washed his body.  He washed mine.  There was never more
sensuousness and caring than in that act.  I was crying as we got
dressed afterwards.  Steve was too.

We went downstairs.  Steve checked out and had the desk clerk call
a cab.  We were paranoid of both the clerk and the cabby, afraid we
would be recognized from the T.V.  We went about 5 miles down Gowan
towards town and got out at a filling station.  We wandered the
streets a bit actually looking for cops.  Steve was hilarious as
always, "Hey kid, which of these donut eaters do we want to make
`cop of the year'?"  We found our targets sitting in a parked squad
car next to a manhole, doing paperwork.  We found a manhole around
the corner.  When we lifted off the cover to climb in, Steve cut
right away into his Jackie Gleason, "After you, monsewer rat," and
me into my Art Carney, "Certainly Ralphie boy."  We easily
navigated the sewer system back around the corner to the desired
manhole, and were "caught" climbing out of it.

Needless to say, it was a media sensation.  As Steve and I
expected, Scooter and Tim were "caught" coming out of the sewer
within a few blocks and within an hour.  The media sensation bought
us all a little time.

I spent the rest of my Sunday afternoon with my Dad.  He was great.
 We were constantly hugging and playing, fighting back tears. His
only comment about me getting caught made me feel like a
responsible adult, "You're too old for me to beat you."  But he
also knew I remembered his admonishments about The Drain from the
first time, knew I wasn't stupid, and knew I knew he wasn't stupid
either.  Late afternoon, the apprehension aroused a question from
him, "Mark, what's really going on?"  I couldn't shrug off the
question, but couldn't answer it either, "I can't talk about it."
He let it go.  After supper while my Mom and sister were doing
dishes (this was before the age of enlightenment), "the men" were
in the living room, talking and reading.  At one point, I broke
from my reading to stretch a bit, watching the fading daylight out
the picture window after a late summer sunset, Dad still with his
nose in a newspaper...when I saw it.

A black car pulled up in front of the house, headlights on, engine
running.

I stood transfixed, frozen in fear.  My Dad eventually noticed,
came up behind me as the wraith was pulling away, his question
startling me, "Mark, who's that?"

I looked into his eyes, mine full of fright.  In abject terror, I
couldn't speak, only registered in my brain the only time I ever
heard my Dad swear, "Mark, what the FUCK is going ON?!"

"I ... I ... I can't answer you, Dad!" I cried, breaking his embrace
and running to my room.

So yeah, Nifty reader, I did go back to the club.  I had to, not
only to protect myself, but my family.  To this day, I can't write
about it.  Let's just say I danced one dance that night, then
started my first session.  I don't remember much after that, in
fact I can't recall if I even danced another dance that night,
spending most of my time backstage.  Eventually Wednesday
"sleepover at Scooter's" became "part time job Wednesdays at
Libby's club," and for awhile I was a regular.  Eventually I had an
arrangement where I could choose who I would sleep with, even if
that meant no one.  After awhile, my virginity gone, I was less
sought after anyway.  I slept a lot with Mr. O'Connor, and as I
think back, he probably had the most sex of any of the adults
there.  He was less virgin fixated, and more compassionate.  Every
time after we would fuck, I would lie on his chest while he would
rub my back, cup my butt, and call me a little boy.  Even at 14
going into 15, I loved it.

Steve, Matt, and Tim were regulars as well.  In fact they kept
going after I had stopped.  We were 14 and entering high school
after the August of this adventure ended.  I loved Steve, and to
this day I still do, but none of us had relationships in high
school.  Even though this was after Stonewall and Harvey Milk,
milestones and benchmarks I would only learn about later, high
school homosexual relationships were not out in the open like they
are now, not that today is any modicum of openness.  Gay
relationships simply "didn't exist," just intense friendships with
trysts, where those in tune may have known what was going on, or
just the trysts and nothing else.

I did have enough sex in my high school relationships to start
learning that sexual compatibility is critical.  It seems a cruel
joke that after you finally accept who you are, and can find
someone else the same, you've only begun your quest.  I guess I
first learned about sexual compatibility just trying to have a
sexual relationship with Steve, let alone an emotional one.  He was
a confirmed top.  That slug in the gut was the last time I tried to
fuck him, and that was after he had already told me, "no way, kid"
when I offered him my cock, confirming that a blowjob was out of
the question.  Though I'm mostly a bottom, my sometime need to fuck
a nice ass makes me a flipper.  As passionate as Steve was while I
was satisfying myself, either by riding his cock or from a handjob,
it wasn't enough.

My first fuck was Matt.  He had the cutest little butt, and I'll
never forget it when it was first paddled on stage.  Turns out that
night was his first too, and his virginity was taken right off the
bat by Carlito while sucking Scooter's cock.  So when we had come
out of our first sessions wearing lipstick, he had already been
fucked, as well as haven given his first blowjob.  The first time I
fucked Matt was in a threesome Scooter arranged.  The three of us
were skating when Scooter said, "Hey Matt, I need a blowjob,"
within earshot of both of us.  Then to me, "Mark, Matt told me he
wants you to fuck him."  The three of us left the canal we were
skating and found an abandoned warehouse.  As Scooter was lowering
his jeans and underwear, Matt started getting completely undressed.
 I asked him if he truly wanted me to fuck him, and trusted his
answer.  I never could, and to this day never can, just "take"
someone's ass.  I lowered my jeans and underwear, got behind Matt
completely nude on all fours between us, his mouth already sucking
Scooter's cock.  Scooter threw me a small bottle of baby oil he
kept in his pocket, while taking off his T-shirt.  I worked it onto
my cock and into Matt's crack and asshole.  I'll never forget
lining up my cock along that arrowhead that is formed from the
parted lower butt cheeks and upper crack, the arrow pointing to his
spine, settling my cock into the cradle of his crack, and having
his asshole yield to my power.  I gave him a good fucking; my hips
connecting with his lower butt seemed to lift his ass into the air
with each thrust.  Thinking about his butt after it had been
paddled that night, and that I was FINALLY fucking it, built me to
a climax too fast.  I wish I could have enjoyed the fuck longer.
But when I saw him submitting to Scooter's cock, while feeling mine
in his warm canal, I busted a nut deep inside his ass.

Matt was great friend and sex partner.  We loved to give each other
blowjobs, 69'ing a lot.  I loved to fuck Matt, and he loved getting
fucked by me, he was quite the moaner.  But Matt could never fuck
me.  He was as much a confirmed bottom as Steve was a confirmed
top.  Eventually I discovered a flipper, Tim, late in high school.
We were able to enjoy all the sexual positions together, but Tim
was distant emotionally.  I guess that's why I don't really want to
write about it.  The sex was great, but I was always left feeling
empty inside afterwards.

So perhaps now I'll write about our fates, and end this for now,
and I'll start with Tim, the first of two tragedies.  I later
learned that the reason Tim could bottom so well was that he had
been fucked by his dad growing up.  I'm not going to get moralistic
on Nifty, but to me:  talk about crossing a line that should never
be crossed.  I guess that's because I was blessed by a great
relationship with my Dad, and to this day.  The irony is that when
Tim's dad discovered his homosexuality, he almost beat him into the
Marine Corps.  I'm not into military or uniforms, but Tim was HOT
after basic training.  He "survived" the Gulf War, as in came back
un-maimed, but he came back fucked up.  Arguably he went in fucked
up, but thus began the war in his head, the war he lost.  He
committed suicide in 1993.

Unfortunately the second tragedy was Matt.  His dad discovered his
homosexuality (as if it weren't obvious) ... and kicked him out of
the house, all too typical.  Matt left for the Castro at the young
age of 16.  This was in the early `80's.  Yeah, he and his dad
reconciled their relationship ... on his deathbed when he returned
home to die.  He died of AIDS in 1986.  Talk about the personal,
societal, and political indifference to his fate, and the others
who shared his fate, in those days.  To me, it's just too much to
bear.  I prefer to think about Matt's vitality when he was alive.
Many blame the Castro for his death.  I say bullshit.  Matt
experienced the richest years of his life there.  I'm convinced he
got AIDS from the club.  Why do I say that?  I was lucky and only
caught a non-fatal STD from there.  Unfortunately I was still too
young to be able to keep medical secrets from my parents, and with
its anal symptoms, I was outted to them.  I would rather not write
about that drama, other than to say my parents, through my Dad,
eventually accepted me for who I am, though never a smooth
transition, whatever the story.  They still do not know about the
club or my experiences there.  It would be our deaths.

Steve.  God I love him, but he confuses the hell out of me.
Remember when he doubled my universe by telling me there are as
many men who want it up their ass from a 14-year-old cock as there
are men who want to fuck a 14-year-old ass?  He doubled my universe
again by getting married, having kids, and having gay sex on the
side.  For some, their wives know, for others not.  We still fuck,
and it's a complete turn-on.  First and foremost, he's my first,
and I dream about that hotel room when we were 14 every time we
fuck.  How many guys can get it on with their 14-year-old first
this late in life?  Second, I think about the fact that he has
procreated every time I swallow his sperm or take it up the ass.  I
know he seeks it elsewhere too, but it's riskier these days, and we
still have an emotional attachment, so he uses me a lot, and I
don't mind.  Many in the gay community resent the hell out of guys
like Steve.  First, do bisexuals really exist, is a hole just a
hole, or are they just closet cases?  Second, they float into and
take from the community for which so many, like Matt, have given
their lives to create.  They need us, and take from us.  But let me
ask you this, fellow bottoms (and feel free to answer; I'd love to
hear the responses):  don't you think we need them too?  The want
ads are 10 to 1, "I have a tight ass that needs fucking" to "I have
a huge cock that's looking for some ass".

Lewis.  Lewis kept his nickname, Scooter, into adulthood.
Eventually I was fucked by him; as if the whole club experience was
NOT getting fucked by him?  I think everyone in the skating group
was fucked by him at one time or another.  My experience with him
was similar to the threesome I had with him and Matt:  arranged by
Scooter, with me in Matt's position, Scooter fucking me on all
fours from behind, and me sucking Tim's cock.  I kept thinking
about the time in the shower between dances, when Scooter was
manipulating me to dance again, his hard cock on my thigh.
Definitely hot, and I blew a huge load without hands, even in doggy
position.  I think that excitement is why I went along with it in
the first place.  Lewis Scooter Libby met up with some guy from
Wyoming.  True to his manipulative nature, Scooter and the guy went
into politics together.  They ended up screwing a lot of people, a
LOT of people.  The irony is that the guy from Wyoming ended up
screwing him big time.

Me?  I'm the author of this story.  You already know enough about
me.  You don't want to know The Mystery of the Deep.  It would ruin
all the fun.

The End

As always, I would love your feedback:  marianasdeep3@hushmail.com
My other stories can be found here:

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#marianasdeep