Date: Fri, 9 Aug 2013 11:30:29 -0700 (PDT)
From: abbadabbaisme@yahoo.com
Subject: Party Guest

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PARTY GUEST

Now this is a party. It's Hollywood the way they show it in the movies. Men
in expensive suits and some of the best built dudes not even wearing shirts
under their jackets. Women in practically nothing that you know costs more
than what any ten guys are wearing. Waiters plying you with booze. The
stars, the makeup, the hair, the colognes, the jewelry, the colors, the
music, the food, the wine, the drugs, the valets, the videos, the pool, the
balconies, the lights, the everything. It's the dream and I'm living
it. The only thing missing is some guy getting his cock sucked on the sofa
out in the open but I'm sure it's happening here behind closed doors
somewhere.

I'm saying hi and giving air kisses and wrapping my free arm around some
chick and doing a little dance move with her while I down the last of my
Cristal before moving onto the cute boy and sipping from his beer glass,
sticking my tongue in his ear and moving on to even more people I've never
seen before and will never see again. To some producer I'm talking Netflix
and Red Box, to some agent I'm talking signing bonuses, to some ten million
dollar actress I'm talking passion and hair and to some sizzling actor I'm
talking dicks and asses. Fuck, I love this party.

I am on goddamn fire tonight.  A little shrimp here. A little cracker
there. Here a smoke. There a toke.  There's a boy a I wanna poke...

Okay, so my imagination's going a little wild. The reality? I'm quietly
sipping my white wine, accompanying my boss as he works the room. My job
isn't to attract attention.  My job is to make him look important. He's the
one talking to the producers and agents and actors. And that god over
there. (Man, what I wouldn't do to get ahold of him. He could do to me
whatever he wants...) And no, my boss didn't talk about dicks and
asses. That's just what I, the assistant, would be talking about. How the
boss stays so focused on work with all this eye candy around I don't
get. Every little thing is distracting me. The color of men's eyes. The cut
of their jackets. The fit of their pants. The abs on the shirtless
ones. Their hair. Their lips. Their teeth. Their tongues. My incredible
need to pee right this fucking second.

The nearest empty bathroom is upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Maybe there
was a free one downstairs, but this house is so big I would have pissed
myself before I ever found it. So I'm up here doing my business. When I
finish, I exit through the adjoining bedroom thinking maybe there's a pair
of men's underwear in a drawer I could take as a souvenir (used would be
better, but hey) when I see the god from downstairs. You know the type.
LA's full of them. He's fixing his hair in the mirror, flashing a smile at
himself. Then he sees me and now I'm the one he's smiling at. All that
charm coming at me, I must look like one of those dummies in old 50s movies
being hit with a nuclear blast. I actually take a step back. This guy is
looking at me?  Okay, I'm cute but there's easily three dozen dudes in this
house who are better looking than me. And if he wants the best looking guy,
there's the mirror. This whole scene has to be more of my wild imagination
going to town, but when he pushes the bedroom door closed, I know it's for
real.

He starts kissing and groping without even so much as a "hello" or a "hey"
or a "what's your name?"  It's just kiss and pet and grab and squeeze and
breathe and hug and suck and nibble and push and next thing I know my Hugo
Boss and I have been pushed onto the bed, me practically sitting up by the
headboard while this big time what, model?  actor? god himself? undoes my
pants and slides them down just far enough to get access to my dick and
balls. We haven't been at it for more than two minutes and I'm already
trying to catch my breath. And I'm only 23. This man – and I mean "man"
in all the "take charge," "alpha," "merciless," "fucking out of this world
body" meaning of the word – this man has my stamina beat. Maybe when
you're used to taking what you want, no questions asked, extra stamina just
comes with the package.

He's got his face between my legs and I notice a flash of something at the
bedroom door. It didn't fully close – it's still open about four inches
and a waiter just passed. The god between my legs pinches something and I
forget about the door. I lean forward to try to give him a kiss but he
pushes me back and licks my balls. He grabs my left hand and plants it on
his head, scrunching up my digits for me. He wants a scalp massage? I'm all
fingers. He returns his hand to my balls which are just a balloon animal
between my legs he twists and twists and twists into fuck knows what. If he
lets go, my nads will probably spin backward so fast I'll fly off this
bed. (I actually kind of hope it happens.) His pinkie's in my ass. His
thumb is right at the base of my cock, where it meets my body, pushing and
scratching. And all of this – better than I've ever experienced from
anyone before and believe me, I'm not new to this kind of shit myself –
he's doing one-handed. He's that good. With his other hand he's diddling
himself.

The god bites, I moan and the Latin waiter passes the door again. Does he
peek in? Now I'm feeling a little weird about that door. Sex isn't a
spectator sport in my book. It's for doing. In private. Just the two of you
alone. Or the three of you. Or the ten of you. Call me old-fashioned, but
if you're not licking or sucking or fucking or kissing or something, you
shouldn't be there.

I'm still thinking "shit, that waiter" when the god takes my whole member
in his mouth in one big swallow. What, does he have three tongues? How does
he do what he's doing down there? I'm twisting on the bedspread and
pounding the mattress with my free hand.

From the look of things, he's squeezing his own cock just as hard as he's
squeezing mine. I'd like to pitch in but he's making it kind of
tough. Every time I reach for his dick, he pushes me away. He's got his own
ideas of what he wants. Now he twists his head so my left hand is all over
his face instead of his scalp. Okay, that's what the man wants, that's what
the man gets. With my other hand, I try to reach down to his cock. I mean,
I want some dick, too, but his shoulder pushes my arm up, so my right hand
also ends up playing with his head. Big head, not little head. So he jacks
me and himself at the same time while I get the thrill and joy of rubbing
his face. Swell.

The shadow passes the door again. I'm thinking "fucking waiter, is he Asian
or Latin?" and "when is it my turn to suck some dick?" and "oh fuck oh fuck
oh fuck, I can't move" when I realize the shadow hasn't left. There's an
eye at the door, watching us. The immigrant waiter. I'm trying to tell the
god between my legs about our little voyeur but every time the word is
about to come out, the god licks my cock head and my whole body twitches
and I sound more like someone reacting to a ghost than a dude trying to
say, "Hey, we're being watched, mind if I shut the door?"

I want that waiter to go away, not necessarily back to his home country,
just downstairs, but he just keeps watching with no expression, his one
visible eye locked on mine. The god has me close so my body's doing that
tightening up thing it does just when I start to cum, like it's suddenly
super important I do some ab crunches, and now he's making the "hunh hunh
hunh" sound that can only mean one thing and I know I'm going to be making
the same sound in seconds and my eyes are locked on the little Latino/Asian
waiter's single eye and then –

Nothing.

God's done.

He's shot his load on the bedspread and probably my pants for all I know
and that's a wrap. His hand's off my cock. His mouth is off it, too. My
poor penis is abandoned without so much as a good-bye kiss. Not even a
little thwack with the finger. Just...  nothing. He flashes me a smile –
gosh, aren't I lucky? – adjusts himself in the mirror and exits. I guess
I should be grateful he shut the door when he left so I'm not visible to
every passerby, the young dude lying on the bed with his pants around his
knees, trying to catch his breath with a big "what the fuck just happened?"
look on his face, but... fuck.

That's when the door opens again and the waiter enters.

I'm too fucking stunned to move. Waiter guy shuts the door tight behind him
and locks it. I guess it's one thing to watch and another thing altogether
to be watched. His eyes are on my crotch. They never leave it. Not when he
puts down his tray, not when he removes his tie or his shirt or even his
t-shirt. Never once. He peels off every stitch of clothing and even removes
his ring and necklace so he's as naked as the day he was born and he still
doesn't take his eyes off what I've got going on down there.

Clothes gone, jewelry gone, this dude lands on the bed and crawls toward my
crotch licking his lips.  There's nothing special about this guy. He's no
god. He's probably never been in a gym in his hard-working life. Maybe
there's no fat on him but there's no muscle definition either. He's just a
smooth-skinned, slightly built, caramel colored dude with a little beard
thing at the tip of his chin and two of the most intense eyes you've ever
seen and he gets to work. Those piercing eyes of his closed, he slowly rubs
his nostrils up and down the length of my shaft, taking his time. He lets
his bottom lip touch the underside of my dick once or twice. The first time
he touches my cock with his moist tongue, it's right on the sweet spot he's
already primed with his breath and a brush of his lips.

Carefully, delicately, he licks down to my shaved balls. It's gentle, like
he's making sure I don't blow yet. But it's precise, too. This
Latin/Asian/Whatever really knows what he's doing. If he could fit that
tongue of his in a glass bottle, I bet he could build one of those old
sailing ships. He slides my pants down, but so slowly, so gracefully, it's
like it's not even happening. He uses his feet to pull off my shoes. His
big toes hook into my socks and slide them off me. He executes all these
simultaneous complex moves – the licking, the fondling, the stripping –
with a finesse I can only envy. Wow, I wish I were this good.

He nibbles my upper thighs and drags his fingertips to the back of my
knees. He explores my body, his eyes closed, just feeling his way over the
entire thing. When he gets a response – and believe me, he gets
responses – he goes over the spot again. But it's not like he grinds
gears into reverse to just repeat what he already did. He makes it all one
smooth, progressive action. You can tell it's an art to this guy, a real
dance. Along the way, he finds the space between my toes that gets my ass
to jiggle. He nails the spot on my right calf that makes me squirm. One
spot after another he finds and mines for my pleasure and then moves
on. And this is only my lower half.

He crawls up me, this guy with the kind of body I've ignored a million
times in the showers at the gym.  It's so average, so un-special,
so... nothing. The way he looks, all light brown with no tan line, it's
like he's never worn a stitch of clothing in his life. He's a wild
animal. A panther slinking its way into my tent to do heaven knows
what. All grace and precision. This guy who's probably never once looked in
a mirror he wasn't being paid to clean is easily the sexiest beast with a
cock I have ever seen.

He moves past my dick and starts kissing the little trail I have leading to
my belly button. He pushes my shirt out of the way, not bothering to
unbutton it. Instead, his hands slide under it. Fuck it's a sexy move.

There's voices in the hall. Then some laughter. Something's said about the
architect being from Germany and Architectural Digest wanting to do a piece
on the house, "But I couldn't.  Just couldn't." The woman talking concludes
with, "As if." Apparently that's funny. Then again, when you're worth what
she's worth, probably everything you say is funny if you tell people it is.

Waiter guy, my panther, my amigo from Mexico or Guatamala or Cambodia,
kisses my stomach between the buttons of my shirt and a whole new world of
hot men opens before me. I'm flashing back to the bars where I hang out,
the restaurants where I eat my dinners, the office buildings with the execs
I want to become, and I'm zooming past all the usual perfect gods with
their wide shoulders and narrow waists and square jaws and penetrating eyes
and bubble butts and massive cocks and landing the camera in my mind on all
the average, dark skinned waiters and busboys and gardeners and cooks and
janitors and mail guys who keep the world of LA moving so the rest of us
are free to work overtime on our bodies and make obscene amounts of money
and suddenly what's obscene to me is me overlooking all these incredible
men I have judged beneath me whenever I have even bothered to notice they
exist at all.

And now he kisses my lips.  The woman and her guests are still out there. I
hear the doorknob jiggle once, twice, then a "Huh" and some murmuring about
the color scheme in the guest room she can't show them and then footsteps
move down the carpeted hall. And my panther keeps going. His lips are soft
and all-enveloping. They're wet and warm and I want them to wrap around my
entire head. He moves up to my nose and eyes.  His hands cup my face. He
whispers something in my ear I don't understand. I love that I don't
understand it. His voice is simply music. Anyone could hear the sex in it.

Suddenly things speed up.

He sits up on my stomach as he kisses me and unbuttons my shirt, quick,
every once in a while bending down to plant a peck on my mouth. I reach up
for him and instead of pushing me away like the god did, my panther rolls
over, so now I'm on top and he's on bottom.  He pulls me toward him,
impaling his tongue in my mouth, one hand holding my head in place while
his other digs into my back. I grab his dick, he grabs mine. We twist
around, me still in my shirt and jacket, him still beautifully naked, and
we 69 it. His cock is luscious and warm and maybe not a baseball bat
disguised as a human appendage, but it's a perfect fit for my mouth. He
copies what I do to him and I copy what he does to me. It's the give and
take of great sex where neither party can tell who starts or finishes
anything. It's a match made in sex heaven and there are voices echoing off
the tiled bathroom walls, footsteps hitting the tiled bathroom floor, a
door opening and a woman saying, "And this is the bedroom my designer said
she – oh my!"

Shit!

The way Panther and I are positioned on the bed, I can't see who just
entered. All I can see are some pubic hairs and some wrinkled scrotum, some
caramel thigh and a bit of a dresser with what looks like an expensive lamp
on top of it. The doorway to the bathroom – and anyone standing in it –
is behind me.

There's gasps. There's an "Are they...?" There's a "Holy shit!" And a "Do
they belong in here?" There's a few laughs and a little snicker followed by
"Friends of yours?"

Fuck!

I try to pull away but Panther amigo dude has his legs locked around my
back. He must feel me trying to release his dick – I want to apologize
to the hostess and get the fuck out of here – so the little waiter
clamps his leg around my neck. Now there's no way I can get my mouth off
his cock. He gives me just enough room to move up and down his
pole. Actually what happens is when I try to release, he forces my head
back down his shaft with his leg. He lets up the pressure a bit, so I think
I can back off his cock, but just when I near the top, he clamps down with
his leg again, forcing me back down his little friend. Forcing me to blow
him. None of it stops me from trying to apologize to our visitors, though,
but I'm sure all it sounds like is I'm having a really, really good time
despite people watching us. Or maybe because people are watching us. Who
knows what the fuck it sounds like.

The hostess, she's too Hollywood to be thrown by us for long. She takes a
deep breath, says, "Well..."  and then launches into the thought process
behind her choice of gray for the walls. How the sheets – "If I was able
to show them to you" – are the perfect compliment for the walls, the
carpet, the movie poster and "Even the blue of the pool which these young
men could see from where they are if they were to look up." Honestly, I try
to, because I've heard nothing but great things about that pool for weeks
now but the panther doesn't let my face leave his dick.

One guest gamely asks about the drapes and the hostess launches into the
kind of detailed answer that suggests she may have actually convinced
herself we're not here, when one of the men in the group says, "So that's
what fags do." Yeah, we lick and suck and use our tongues and
hands. There's all kinds of flesh and sweat and noise. It's called
sex. Man, the guy's question makes you wonder what the hell straight people
do in bed.

And if all this weren't embarrassing enough, my Southeast Asian Latin
Something Or Other goes back to unbuttoning my shirt.

"Oh my god, look at that!"  Some woman I haven't heard speak before. "The
brown one's undressing the white one!" Brown one? White one? What are we,
dogs?

"It's kind of sexy," purrs one old woman. I can't see her but I like her
already. My shirt and jacket are off and go flying. My arms released, I
think this is my chance to finally get free and get out an "I'm sorry about
this." I peel Panther's leg from off of my head and manage to sit up, but
just that quickly he gets an arm around me. Before I can get out a single
word, he flips me around and my arm flies out so it must look like I'm
waving a big ole' hello to the folks. Then I am slammed back down to the
bed, my head where my feet used to be.

Someone jumps. One guy says "My lord." And another guy, just above a
whisper, says, "Jesus..." And the panther is kissing me again and gradually
I'm kissing him back and his fingers are playing with my ass and I'm
digging my fingers into his shoulders and the hostess is saying, "Let me
show you the kids' room" and leading the others out.  >From what little I
can see, she stands by the door to make sure all of her guests exit with
her. But the bitch – when she goes, she leaves the door wide open.

I'm going to get up and close it. I swear. I just need one more kiss. One
more squeeze. One more whiff of his breath hitting my tongue and nose at
the same time. Then I see his eyelashes and am lost. He looks into my eyes
and I can't look away from them.  There's not just hunger there. There's
sadness and smarts and wisdom and playfulness. There's a human being
reaching out to me and seeing the real me and welcoming me into him and I
forget about the door and the people and the party and we move together and
now I'm face down on the bed, head buried in the pillow and I feel his
tongue on my ass, licking and digging and slurping and –

"Fuck! There really are two guys going at it in here!"

"No there aren't!" I hear the tinkle of bracelets moving in rhythm with
high-heeled footsteps. "That can't be – haaa! Oh my gawwwwwd!"

Some other woman now: "Isn't that what you do to me?"

Some man, flirty: "Not often enough."

There's a giggle and a kiss.

The first woman wants to know the name for what the panther is doing to
me. The voices are louder now. These people must be standing right by the
bed. The woman is told it's called rimming. There's a comment about how
clean my ass looks and speculation about whether it was that clean before
the waiter started to lick it.

I don't want these people to see my face but can't help being curious about
them so try to peek out from my pillow. I see a man with a bald spot and a
woman with a pony tail squatted down next to my ass, cocktail glasses in
hand. Her eyes go wide at something waiter does that makes me gasp. She
pokes the man next to her. When he doesn't respond, she turns to him and
giggles. "You should see yourself." He's pressing the tip of a little
cocktail weenie dipped in some white sauce against his lips.  He catches
himself and hurriedly inhales the whole thing. The woman laughs,
standing. "Yeah, that makes it better." Red-faced, the man stands,
too. They leave along with the other couple. It sounds like the first woman
says something about a souvenir and I think I see my jockeys twirling on
her finger and then they're gone.

Now we are an official stop on the party circuit. There's more
laughter. More giggling. More ice in cocktail glasses. Movie deals are made
to the accompaniment of Panther licking my ass and slapping it with both
hands. He spanks it with his cock and, my face still buried in the pillow,
I hear someone say it's just like a porn. Panther never reacts. It's as if,
for him, the people aren't even there. He just licks and kisses and
spanks. He slams down on my body, his cock in my ass crack, his lips on my
neck. He pulls my hair and reaches around to my nipples. I'm on my knees.

"Oo, I think they're going to do it!" Whoever it is – another woman –
she's actually clapping. "Do it! Do it! Do it!" It's a little chant. Some
fingernail reaches in, but Panther Boy slaps it away. They can watch all
they want, but I am his and his alone. The woman huffs, offended.

"I want to see this." It's a man's voice. Deep. An older guy. I feel
Panther's cock up against my hole. I hear him spit and feel it land on my
anus followed by his hardest slap yet.  Somebody says, "That's rough!" And
someone else says, "Treats him like a whore."  And someone else says,
"Well, isn't he?" And then the pillow's away from my face. My head is
sideways on the expensive sheet and I'm looking eye-to-eye with some sixty
year old man with puffy cheeks and cigar breath. "Yeah" is all he
says. It's the guy who wanted to see me get fucked. Shouldn't his face be
by my ass? That's where all the action is.

Panther pushes against my hole. Instantly I open my mouth and gasp. It's a
natural reaction. And this straight guy staring at me, he opens his mouth
at the same time, raises his eyebrows just as I raise mine. With every
stretch of my mouth, he stretches his. He is my mirror reflection. And when
Panther finally enters me and I flinch, the old guy flinches, too. I let
out a whimper and so does he. But as my head starts to bob, adjusting to
the incredible sensations my body is experiencing as Panther slides oh so
deliciously in and out and in and out, the O of my mouth perfectly in
place, the old guy's O turns into a wide grin, all artificially white teeth
and twinkly eyes. He lets out an "Ohhhh" as if he himself were getting
fucked. Then he takes a puff on his cigar and blows the smoke right in my
face. He gives a nod of approval and a little wink as he stands. "Now that
I like." I can't criticize. If I could form words right now, I bet I'd say
the same thing.

Who knows exactly what happens after that? I reach the point of just not
caring any more. So Panther fucks and I moan. He rolls me over so my face –
my whole body – is visible to this room full of high rollers and big
time couture. I shiver shamelessly. When Panther pulls out and kisses me, I
don't care who is watching. I'm as wild now as Panther is. More movement,
more craziness, and Panther's dick is in my mouth again, my nose buried in
his pubes, his hands gripping my head. I'm in heaven, licking and sucking
this delicious piece of man. I'm –

"Danny?" Oh SHIT...  "Danny? Is that you?"

I open my eyes and look to my side. Right there, crouching down and gawking
at me from not eight inches away is my boss. Our eyes meet. His mouth opens
but no more words come out. I try to say something – anything, really –
but I've got this dick twisting and turning in my mouth, buried to the
hilt. Even smiling is impossible in this position, but I do try. Then
Panther's paws tighten on my head, his dick swells and – my eyes still
locked on my boss's just inches away – Panther explodes in my mouth. The
boss reacts more than I do. He inhales suddenly. His eyebrows jerk up. His
eyes spring open, riveted on the thick, pulsing cock in my mouth, my
expanding cheeks, my flaring nostrils, the little drips of cum which escape
my lips. I struggle to keep up with all the jizz. My boss watches my adam's
apple bob with every swallow. Panther is pumping now and boss is there for
all of it. The glistening shaft emerging from my mouth. The round, pink
head. The blast of white against my lips and the second impaling of my
face. He must see my eyes close for the single moment I forget he's there
and allow myself to simply enjoy the experience. And he must see the
instant I remember he is still there. Sees as the panther smears his cock
all over my lips. Sees my tongue clean it while my eyes embarrassedly meet
his. My apology for doing what I can't stop myself from doing right that
second and right in front of him. My boss never takes his eyes off
me. Unable to look at him any more, I close mine.

Panther collapses on me.  There's some mild applause and even some woman
enthusiastically saying "Hooray!" in that cultured way that sounds like
she's never said the word before in her life. I get a glimpse of people
leaving. Apparently we packed the room. And Panther kisses me and rubs me
and I think "Oh my god... oh my god... oh my god... I am so so SO fired..."

Waiter dresses faster than I do – he's got a job to return to, after all
– so I'm alone when I discover it isn't just my underwear that was
taken. Someone made souvenirs of my socks, my tie and even my shirt. Fuck
fuck fuck!

The party's still going when I leave the room. The men, the women, the
music, the booze, the food, it's all just as I left it except I'm half
naked. The only way out is down the stairs and through either the front
door or one of the side entrances. But whichever exit I choose, I'm going
to have to walk through crowds and crowds of the beautiful, powerful people
who just watched the shit get fucked out of me. Talk about your goddamn
walk of shame. Here goes...

The front door is only fifteen feet away. I'm almost home free when some
woman kisses my ear and whispers, "We have to talk." I look up and her
movie star husband is nodding at me. Is that my underwear he's holding up
to his nose? Random hands touch me. Cards with phone numbers are slipped in
my pocket. An A-list director wants to talk about an upcoming project. Even
the god who got me in the bed in the first place winks at me, giving me his
charm routine again, as if I'd be interested in a replay of his one-man
show. One of the beautiful shirtless guys smiles at me. Then another
one. Another shirtless guy simply stares at me in disbelief, then I realize
it's just my own reflection.

"Hey, Danny!" Great. The one person I really wanted to avoid. "Danny, come
here. Join us." My boss grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's
tray and puts it in my hand. His hand he puts on my hip and uses to guide
me to the little group of people he's talking with. The conversation is
light and fun. It's still about signing bonuses and quality scripts and
beautiful people, but apparently I have become one of the beautiful
people. These men and women are talking to me. Asking my opinions. A waiter
circulates among them, taking their empty plates and dirty napkins. One of
the power men says, "To the sexiest man alive" and other rich voices,
including my boss's, say "Here here." All these beautiful people – these
famous faces and money gods – raise their glasses and smiles to me.

It's heady stuff and for a few seconds there, I almost buy it. Shit, who
hasn't wanted to believe he's the sexiest man alive? But just as my
champagne glass touches my lips and I'm about to sip, my smile fades. Sure,
they're all looking at me but my eyes have landed on the waiter bent over
to pick up some napkin smeared with cocktail sauce. My very own
Latino/Asian/Whatever. My panther. I take the glass from my lips and
gesture with it to him because I'm not the sexiest man alive. He is. The
invisible man cleaning up after the rest of us.