Date: Mon, 24 Mar 2008 14:09:36 -0700 (PDT) From: Ted M Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: Remember The King: Part I Author's note: Thanks to all the awesome emails and support during the first six chapters. Holy crap! I didn't expect to write any more than that, but the two main characters, Mark and the narrator, let me know they were not done. Especially the narrator. This story is a bit different from the first six chapters...and similar in some good ways. Enjoy. mpls_ted@yahoo.com ***************** "Dude, I don't fuck bears." The stud in question is picking up a drink from the crowded bar as he snaps at me. He angles in, nosing out three or four guys waiting in line. He picks up his drink immediately, the bartender knowing exactly who he is and what he wants. (And apparently how soon he wants it.) The stud flings down crumpled bills. I bet it's good for business to have this guy wandering around. The guys behind him shift their weight in frustration, but nobody dares to tell this asshole to get the fuck back in line. It's hard to confront the pretty people. I admit, he busted me observing him, but he misread my exact intention. That's okay. Now, to business. If I have pegged him correctly, he will turn away with a cheap beer like Bud or Miller Lite dangling deliberately in his left hand. "No offense." He adds briskly and saunters away. Yup. Miller Lite. He struts as he moves and perhaps he had a right. Strong, chiseled features, and an angular jawbone that cast a serious shadow along his well-tanned neck. Tufts of blond peeking out from under a meticulously tattered baseball cap: standard issue faded brick red. He isn't stupid enough to wear an A& F tee. No, he wants to radiate that special Abercrombie & Fitch look from every inch of his sculpted body, but he also is careful to make sure that it looks like this is by accident. He is doing it mostly right, too. The standard inch of checkered boxer shorts rise above the tight-ass jeans as intended, highlighting the globes of ass muscle. He's hairless, of course, whether by nature or his salonist. Most people think bears absolutely insist on body hair. Meh. I don't really care one way or another -- just be proud of what you got. Because of the club lights and shadows, I did not see The Stud's crotch, but I would bet money that he filed down that jeans' pouch for an hour to make sure the fabric was tender and gave way under the weight of his cock and balls. Eh. Maybe he spent two hours. I only caught his eyes briefly while he was at the bar and they were as expected: haughty. Icy. He had taken my measure and dismissed me instantly. I think they flashed a shiny emerald in the second or two he looked at me. He is a barfly, though he is convinced that he is not. I am guessing that he doesn't actually like the taste of Miller Lite, not much, but he drinks it because it's cheap (which is important if you spend a lot of time in a bar) and it may help if you're trying to pass yourself off as a "regular Joe" instead of a prissy muscle queen. Which, unquestionably, he is trying to do. He moves in a chunky way. It's a studied way of moving, as if walking gracefully were feminine and he wouldn't want that. No, this is the walk of a man aware how others see him. This walk was more likely to be explained if he just got done workin' the farm, baling hay and that's why his arms droop like that and he walks a little crooked. Clearly he lifts, but not hay. Steroids? I ponder. Nah. The Stud would be far too vain to want false inflation of his muscles. He wants everyone to know every ripple is 100% his own. That's a 7-day-per-week-at-the-gym body. I turn back to the bar, grab a white napkin and pull a flick pen out of my leather jacket. I pen these words: DID YOU EVER WONDER HOW YOUR LIFE WOULD BE DIFFERENT IF YOU HADN'T BEEN SO INFLEXIBLE? WOULD YOU STILL BE WITH HIM? Never underestimate the power of a good napkin note. When it's my turn at the bar, I pull out three twenties for the bartender and hand him the napkin. He crinkles his eyes. "You're kinda weird, you know that?" I nod. See, the bartender knows me too. "Which one." "Jawline." I point to him. "Red ball cap. Clunky arms." "Jeeesh...narrow it down, will ya?" "HIM. Right there." "Got it. Mr. OnLeave." "On leave?" "Yeah, that's our name for him. He always kinda acts like he's on shore leave from the navy. Like this is his first time in a gay bar and he's really surprised to find himself here...lot of guys pick up on that scent. He's popular." I nod. "Sure. That's a good one. He's a one-fuck-wonder?" "Definitely." Says the bartender. "Trolling for different twink meat every weekend night. Only does repeats if he's truly desperate, which isn't usually the case." There's a slow and steady pounding beat accompanying this conversation but there's a break in the vibrating notes so I ask another question, "Hey, what's your name for me?" He cocks his head again and I can tell he's debating whether to tell me. "The Watcher. The other bartender down there came up with it. Some comic book reference. I guess the Watcher lives on the moon and just watches shit. Never gets involved. Except for sometimes he does." I grin. "And I know how you want it done, Watcher. Silver tray with the golden silk scarf, single bottle of Summit Pale Ale and the napkin sticking out the top. I'll make sure it goes down like that." I point at him. "This is why I'm naming my next car after you. Because of this. This love." He smirks and scuttles off to assemble my drink order. I turn to leave for the night. My work is done. *** It's another two weeks before I see him again, The Stud. We're in a different club, the one that you go on Saturday after 11 but before 1:30. There are rules about these things. He flashes recognition and his face uncharacteristically wrinkles as he frowns. It's as if he smells something he smelled once before and can't remember if it was a good smell or bad smell. I nod and continue past him. An hour later he sidles up to me. I almost didn't recognize him. He's wearing a faded blue ball cap tonight. "S'up." I nod but I'm busy looking for someone in the crowd. He drinks a swig or two of beer waiting for me to begin. I look at him blankly and then resume my scanning of the bar patrons. My brow furrows in concentration. He's a little thrown that I am not falling all over myself to talk to him. "So thanks for the beer. The other day." I flicker a glance and a nod to acknowledge him and return to my studies. "So I guess you're a friend of Derrick's..." he says again. "No." I say distractedly, my voice booming louder than the thumping base. "I don't know any Derricks." I don't appear to be interested in conversing and he is a bit confused by this. "Oh. Are you a friend of Xavier's?" "The only Xavier I know," I say loudly without looking at him, "lives in Fort Wayne Indiana and swears in Spanish when he cums. Same guy?" "No!" he wrinkles his face. "Jesus." "I'm looking for someone." I explain loudly. "I can't see him." Naturally his eyes scan the crowded bar quickly, despite the fact that he has no idea who he's looking for. "What would you wear if you were royalty?" I ask. "Excuse me?" he says, irritated. I think he's getting nervous that someone might see us chatting together. That probably wouldn't bode well for his image. "If you were a king and were hanging out in this skuzzy club and you wanted to blend in with all the locals, what would you wear?" "A king?" he repeats and he's definitely irritated. "What the fuck you talking about?" "A King." I tell him firmly. "He's here tonight. I shouldn't say more; he's trying to hide. I'm trying to find him. Warn him. He's running out of time." "You're shitting me." The Stud is already beginning to back away. "Dude, you're a crazy fucker. There's no ..." "He's here." I tell him, nodding with confidence. "There are things I know. I know things that you do not. The King." "Just a fucking thank you." He mutters. "Don't sweat it, bud." I punch his arm. "Go dance. I can find him on my own. Do that thing where you pump your arms over your head and you're wearing your weightlifting gloves. Really highlights the extra triceps crunches. You do it." He backs away in a daze. "Remember." I call after him harshly, eyes blazing. "RUNNING OUT OF TIME." I resume scanning the crowed with a crease in my brow. *** Another club. Another two weeks have passed. He sees me again and he breaks out laughing. Must have been my grinning, goofy expression. But now, now he doesn't care about me, so who cares if he laughs in my face? "Hey freak." There's an odd affection in this greeting. It's intended as a slight, but not entirely. "Fitch." I say to him. "What's shakin', crazy?" He grins at me. "I'm glad you're here." I tell him. "I'd like to use you for 4 minutes. I need a favor." "How's this?" he asks, surprised. "Favor?" "Yeah, I need you to do this, Fitch. In 30 minutes, come to the cigarette machine. I'm going to need you to just be a witness to something. It's gotta be you, Fitch. You in on this? For the team?" He barks a laugh. "For the team? Holy Shit, you really are a freak. Yeah, of course I'm in. This is gonna make the best fuckin' story! You're a total nut job!" I nod. "Thirty minutes from now. Be there." "Hey freakshow," he says with a bit less jocularity. "I'm not going to kiss you or do anything weird like let you feel me up. Don't brag to your friends or anything." "It's at the cigarette machine." I say with some insistence as if this somehow answered his comment. "For the team, Sport." He shakes his head in disbelief and raises his Miller Lite. "This is unbelievable." Almost exactly thirty minutes later he appears near me, surprised, as if he just accidentally happened to emerge from the traveling crowd at the exact moment I requested his presence. Yes, he thinks I'm crazy, but he somehow can't quite ignore me either. I doubt he knows why. "Yo." He says to me and then notices that I am not alone. My charge is a 31 year old African-American man, with gorgeous full lips and delicate eyelashes that contrast a strong, square face. His hair is shaved tight and fades beautifully. He is gasping for air and staring straight ahead, trembling head to foot in his JC Penny jersey and an expensive watch clunking around on his quaking wrist. "Say it." I whisper and stroke the side of his face. Fitch takes this in, noticing how gently my fingers touch my dark-skinned friend. "I want to suck your cock." The man says to Fitch in a strangled voice. Fitch frowns and looks at me. "Elaborate." I gently nudge this powerful chocolate man by moving a half-inch closer. "I want to suck it all," he shivers and the cork is out. "I know your cock is big, I can see it pushing out your jeans and it makes me want to clamp my mouth around you until you can't stand it and you shoot four separate cummy loads and I keep gulping them down and even then, I'm just going to keep sucking it into my throat until you can't stand it and you push my head away." Fitch's eyes are wide at this stunning declaration. "Even then," my friend licks his lips, "I'd fight it. I'd keep sucking. I promise you that fat, pink head would not get out of my lips." "Yeah?" Fitch gasps. He likes this talk but hasn't quite ever heard it bantered around with this ferocity, this over-arching confidence and eagerness. He's a little dazed, but he likes where this is headed. My friend with his back to the cigarette machine is probably exactly the type that Fitch desires. He's handsome, sure, but just a twinge nerdy enough to not quite fully realize it. Or wait - I guess nerdy is `alternative' now. Anyway. This guy is clearly one of the Fitch Fan Club and though probably against it in principle, in practice wouldn't mind being used like a piece of meat as long as it's Fitch Meat. Fitch is scanning my friend from head to toe and when imagining fucking this man in various positions, is picturing how the Fitch Dick would look pumping into that gorgeous dark body. "Thanks, buddy." I tell Fitch. "You can take off now." "What?" he jerks towards me. "I just needed to have you hear that. Thanks, bud." The black man between us trembles and blinks and I think for the first time in his head he's hearing the words he just said aloud. I put my hand on his neck to reassure him it's okay. He's okay. Okay. "That's it, Fitch. We're good." Fitch stares at me in amazement, refusing to believe. "It's his first time being hypnotized." I explain with a nod of my head. "My friend Tim here didn't believe he could do it. Say things that he'd only fantasized about saying. I just corrected that opinion." "You hypnotized him?" He's hypnotized now?" I nod with a slight inclination. "Yeah, in a way. He's still conscious and in control I guess. I can't make him go do something against his will. I just tapped his deeper will. It's more of a freeing of his inner self, I guess you'd say." "Here? Now?" There's blaring trance music bouncing off a half-dozen walls and even right at this moment Fitch and I must communicate in louder than normal voices. I look at him with a `whats-wrong' face. He shakes his head and looks at Tim, who has recently added `breathing again' to his repertoire of currently engaged abilities. "Oh God." Tim says softly. I massage his neck. I whisper, "You're okay, babe." Fitch is staring at Tim's beautiful lips and imagining his truly fat dick sliding in and out of Tim's mouth and Tim's unabashed devotion, the kind that Fitch craves. "That's so..." Fitch says in a face that suggests lust and mild disgust. Or wildly impressed. It's hard to tell the difference in this light. I nod vigorously. "But to your implied question, it's not just voice. It's the everything, The stand-still presence. My scent. The energy I radiate. And it only works on some men, though." That's when I nail him with my most intense, unflinching stare. "Men whose hearts are so unbearably swollen with love they have to be a total asshole in the world because it's agony to walk around so raw and vulnerable. Men who know their best qualities aren't even touching the surface but they get can't figure out how to get unstuck." Fitch shrinks from me in horror and his eyes well up with tears instantly; he staggers back as if I stabbed him. "I can happen to help these men." I growl at him, staring fiercely. He says nothing but turns angrily into the crowd, careful not to shove too hard because he doesn't want to draw attention to his face at this exact moment. *** Our next encounter is a week later, at a Sunday beer bust. It's The Place To Be on Sunday afternoon. Fitch is sheepish. "Hey." He says quietly next to me. I look at him, as if to confirm it's him and I nod. "Where's your friend?" he asks cautiously. "Back in Los Angeles." I tell him. "Tim just got promoted at work last week. I think he's going to be a bank president at some point. He's quite well researched on prime rate trends." "Yeah," Fitch says vaguely. Fitch wants something but if I don't bring it up, he certainly can't. And it's definitely not to sleep with me. Well, maybe it is. Or not. But he wants something and I'm holding it. "Later." Fitch walks away and doesn't look back. *** The last time before he gives himself to me, we're at a different bar, the first one, I think. I dunno. It's hard to keep up with Fitch, he works the nightlife pretty well. I wouldn't be here if I weren't hunting Fitch, and I am already looking forward to this one being completed. I shouldn't think that way. I won't be so cold and calculated once we're done with this initial chase. But honestly, I am looking forward to sleeping on a Saturday fucking night like a normal person. Once again the energy has shifted and our encounter is different again. This time, more relaxed. Well, he's also a little drunk. I take three questions to measure his level of drunk and it turns out it's more for show than true. `Drunk Fitch' gets to swagger a little more, appear a little more free than he normally is, maybe a few of his shirt buttons get snagged open and the chest he polishes daily peeks out. And if his mighty pecs get sloshed with a little cheap beer and if they happen to glisten in the multi-colored light, so be it. "So here's how it works." I tell him cheerfully in my booming we-are-probably-too-near-the-dance floor voice. He leans in and plugs his other ear. "For 30 hours you do everything I say. Everything. Bottom? Top? My call. This means slow kissing, ass-eating, and licking the crud between my toes if that's what it comes to. And honestly, it truly might. If I want you dressed as a naughty Catholic school girl, then you fucking do it and without me asking a second time. "And after that," I grab his neck and pull him to me. "Well, then it gets weird. Swear to god, Fitch, these 30 hours will fuck you up. You'll have a hard time jacking off for a week afterwards and I can't tell you how much of that is physical and how much is emotional." I can't see Fitch's face in this less-than-half light but I don't need to for this part. Tonight, I'm just delivering the invitation. "And you will be changed. A door will open in your life. You do what I say to do for 30 hours and things will be different. And to be clear friend, I'm not talking about you leaving my house with three more STDs or that you'll now be addicted to crystal meth. I don't need props for this, Champ. But again to be clear, you will leave fucked up. Things will change in your life. And so you gotta think about this, think about how much you like your current life. Because this is gonna fuck you up." Fitch is stupefied, total deer in headlights. He thought that perhaps I was going to invite him out for potato skins and a beer sometime and he was going to deliberate it fully and with confusion before answering in a hesitating voice, "Maybe." This is not an invitation for potato skins. "Fuck. You. Up."I repeat because I need him to remember the essentials of the message. He is a little bit drunk, after all. "It's 30 hours." I tell him. "And the only thing out of your mouth is nothin' but `yes.'" He is reeling in place as if I just punched him. "You're...you..." He staggers and he can feel me now, he can feel me radiating my power. It's pulsating off me and I am all over him. Getting inside him and he doesn't even know it. "I don't even know your fucking name." he protests weakly. "Names are overrated, Fitch." I bark at him. His face toys with several reactions from incredulous to scoffing to arrogant to humbly asking for clarifying details. But his face can't quite choose any of these and so he remains in a state of disbelief, waiting for an answer from his brain. I start backing away from him while staring him down, beginning to disappear into the shapes and moves of those bodies around us, moving and pulsating bodies intersection our lives, speckled under mottled dance lights, twisting away. "FIND ME." I yell at him in a voice that transcends the party din and finds his ears. He hears me, he hears me, and he stares at my retreating figure. This is already way too X-Files for him. Oh god...I hope he's old enough to remember the X-Files. I pegged Fitch as 32. Honestly, they've got to be 30 or older. 28? Yeah, maybe. Depends. I can't handle them younger than that. Too much trouble. "ONLINE." I continue to yell. "FIND ME ONLINE." He reaches out a hand, looking like a staggering zombie wearing a black silk shirt under neon green club lights, struggling in the sea of the pushing, the pulsating, and all the while, sharking him in lazy circles are fourteen guys wearing A&F advertising tonight. Fitch is a little bit lost. Which is exactly how to leave him. *** For two weeks I keep thinking I'll hear from him and I get nothing. I'm only surprised by the end of the second week. I don't think I miscalculated Fitch, but maybe his `second-thoughts' bone is more resilient than I thought. In the meantime, there are a couple responses to my online presence. A stocky 34 year old cub in Florida. Another hit from the Wisconsin dude. "But if my army buddies knew..." Eh, he just needs time. There's also this 19-year-old kid in New Jersey. This is his third email. He's a persistent little fucker, I'll give him that. I figure persistence counts for something so I reply with only two words: TOO YOUNG. Towards the end of the third week, an unfamiliar name appears fourth in my Inbox and it's not selling Viagra or inviting me to consider a larger penis. The Subject line is a single word: Fitch I open the email and expected to see fourteen paragraphs of exceptions and clauses, accusations and promises to hunt me down like a fucking dog if I were to...but they aren't there. Funny. I'm sure they were written and then rewritten, consequences considered, debated, and maybe -- maybe a semi-close friend was consulted by my Fitch saying, "Have you heard of that weird thing on the internet where you spend 30 hours with a guy serving his every..." Fitch wrote these paragraphs, composed them, edited them, if not on his computer at least in his brain every night before bed. His fat biceps spilling over his flannel sheets exhausted by their all-day effort to hang proudly off his meaty frame. Tufts of blond hair in his pits of course, the right amount. Shaved and groomed like English topiary, he wouldn't want too much hair. Just the right amount. Fitch would lie in bed and wonder. Consider. What could happen? Seriously, what could happen? Many of the imaginary paragraphs had red underlines proclaiming in the margins, "NO I DEFINITELY WON'T DO THAT" but in the end, Fitch was more ready than I suspected because his email was devoid of all caveats. Instead, it boasted a single sentence betraying a begrudging surrender: ARE YOU FREE NEXT SATURDAY? *** feedback and comments welcome and appreciated. mpls_ted@yahoo.com