by Marc Tremaine
WARNING: This story is a product of imagination; it is not a depiction of real life. It involves sexual acts between two or more males of the human species. If you are offended by that idea or its explicit description, regardless of whether it's the act that offends you, or the age or relationship of the participants, don't read this story. If writing about any type of sex between males is illegal in your nation, or in your particular municipality, county, state, province, or other political subdivision, don't read this story. If your age makes it illegal to read this story, don't read this story.
Copyright (c) 1998 by Marc Tremaine. All rights
reserved. You have the right to download this story to keep on your
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copyright notice. You do not have the right to otherwise reproduce
or repost this story. You do not have the right to rewrite this story.
You do not have the right to use this story to make any amount of money
for yourself or anyone else. If you do not understand these rights
as I have listed them for you, my address is above: ask before acting.
NOISY NIGHT, HOLY NIGHT
I think the bar was Touche's. I know it wasn't the Gold Coast, and back then...yeah, this is one of those "back then" stories...those were the only two bars I went to when I was in Chicago.
I guess it was around Christmas. I wasn't there on Christmas or New Year's, but it was that time of year. Saturday night...and during the holiday season there is an unusual kind of energy in a packed bar. Gay bar, of course. I've never been in a really packed breeder bar, and pray that I never will.
The room was rectangular with a rectangular bar running down the center of the room. At the far end were windows, I think. On the left side there were stairs, and at this point I don't really remember where they led to. The john was off that way, too.
This happened on the right side of the bar, at least the right side as you walked in. Along the wall itself was a drink rail, then enough space for a couple of people to stand, and then stools at the bar. I'd been there maybe a couple of times before, and on nights when it ranged from just a few men standing or sitting, talking or cruising (or both), to nights when it was fairly crowded. But nothing like that holiday night. Wall to wall men. Literally. Every size, every shape, every color of hair and eyes and skin, all with just two things in common: every faggot there was so horny he was quivering with the need to get his rocks off, and every faggot there was in leather drag.
Oops. Did I offend someone out there by connecting the word leather and drag?
Tough shit. Leather is as much drag as dresses, or the three-piece suit you wear to work. It just doesn't take quite as much time to get into, but take it from me, there's probably as much primping and pumping and spraying in a slightly different way getting ready for the Saturday night banquet at a motorcycle run, as there is when a bunch of queens are getting decked out in Armani or Gucci or whoever for their night on the town.
Well, maybe I should say butch drag. Most of the men were in leather, though. Mostly black motorcycle jackets, some leather pants, or chaps, some leather vests over jeans shirts or bare skin, and leather armbands, studded, plain. If you weren't wearing leather you were wearing jeans, the more faded, the tighter, the more torn, the better. Black boots, some Western, mostly motorcycle, or something similar. Tee-shirt, black or white, but definitely no other color, or a jeans shirt...also faded, tight and torn.
Me...well, I had to blend in, right? Motorcycle cap and jacket, with the chain running from the epaulet snap on my left shoulder down under my left armpit and up again, and a small silver eagle in the left lapel of my collar. Jeans shirt so faded it was nearing white. 501 jeans, although they weren't called 501's then, just button jeans...with the bottom two buttons undone, of course. They were faded, too, with holes just starting at the knees, and they kind of looked like I'd taken some pale blue paint and sprayed them on. I always did show a nice bulge, even though (as you know) I don't have anywhere near the dick of death. Square-toed, well-worn black boots. My keys were hooked to a belt loop on my left side.
I'd been to the Coast already, and nothing was happening...well, things were happening, just not to me or with me, so I decided to try Touche's. I almost didn't go in when I saw the crowd. I prefer my cruising usually with a little more distance. Well, of course, if I'm in an orgy room, the less distance the better. But with several bottles of Budweiser already in me...actually, in me and through me, by that time I was pissing clear...I was in a I'm-horny-what-the-fuck mood.
Damn, am I glad was in that mood that night.
To get anywhere in the bar you had to squeeze through tiny spaces between the men who were there ahead of you, and the room was in constant motion. Hot, too, because of all the men, noisy with the sound of laughter and talking and music over the speakers and the clatter of the bartenders doing their jobs. It wasn't an orgy, but the room had that kind of energy or tension. And the fact that in order to get from point A to point B you had to do so by rubbing your body up against multiple men...the further apart your chosen point B was from your point A origin, the more men to rub...made it all the more exciting.
Except I'm kind of perverse. Well, you already know that about me if you've seen the other transcripts. But not the way you're thinking. Sometimes I can be blatant when I'm cruising, but mostly I'm the somewhat more subtle type, mainly because I normally don't have the balls to go up to some stud, or just some average guy who happens to get my cock hard and dripping, and cut through the bullshit right to the chase: "I think you're incredibly hot...wanna fuck?"
So I worked my way to the bar, got a Bud, and tried to work my way over to the drink rail. I didn't quite make it. I'd say the distance from bar stools to drink rail was ordinarily four people: one on the stool, two in the aisle, one at the rail, leaning against it. Tonight there were at least three or four people in the aisle. Hmm, maybe the best way to picture it is one man sitting on a stool at the bar, another man behind him like he's waiting to get the bartender's attention, and then another man behind him, and another behind him, and then the fourth guy, and finally the guy at the end of the "line" who's in front of the drink rail. They're all close together, crotch to ass, since the aisle really isn't all that wide to begin with. And then there's another "line" right next to the first one, but kind of overlapping so everyone is slightly closer than just shoulder to shoulder. And another line next to that, all the way to the end of the wall and then going on around the far end of the bar and around the room. That, of course, accounted for all the rubbing, and the groping, and the squeezing, and the innocent who-me look you gave when you groped someone who looked you over, decided you'd just crawled out from under someone's boot and looked through and past you, as you tried to move through the crowd.
I'd pretty much decided that I'd drink the beer and then go back to the Coast; it was just too fucking crowded. Of course, I could have just put the beer down and left, but hey, that beer cost me money, and I wasn't about to waste the cash. The Bud was that kind of blizzard-sharp cold that makes you wish you were wearing gloves the first few moments it's in your hand, which is rare in bars, no matter what the weather or season outside, so all the more reason not to toss away the money.
I was alone, so I was seriously minding my own business, concentrating on enjoying the buzz from the previous beers and the slice of cold down my throat with this one...and the erotic feel of the men sliding past me, the scent of sweat and cologne and the scent of horny men; the smells of spilled liquor and cigarette smoke; the occasional whiff of a cigar, or of piss and Lysol wafting out of the john.
That's when he bumped my elbow just as I'd tilted the bottle to take another drink.
I gasped, gagged for a second when a lot more beer went down than I'd planned on, including the bit that spilled on my shirt, and looked down at him.
He was five-six, so he was about four inches shorter than me, maybe 120 pounds, short dark brown hair, brown eyes, an altogether average face, except for his eyes...there was something.... Well, the only way to describe his eyes is to quote Ray Bradbury: something wicked this way comes. He was wearing a tight leather jacket...black, what else?...and no shirt. His chest was smooth and I could see one tiny nipple. Down below, there was just a faint curling line of dark hair that started just under his navel and worked its way into his jeans, which were dark, black maybe, or maybe just jeans that hadn't faded from normal wear, and certainly not from repeated bleaching to give them that lived-in look.
He smiled up at me, and touched the wet spot on my shirt with the palm of his hand, leaving it there for just a moment. "Can I get you a beer to say I'm sorry for spilling yours?"
Jesus, politeness in a gay bar? Particularly a leather bar? And someone who spoke complete sentences? If I hadn't already been in love I'd have been in love.
I nodded, smiling back. As he turned to go to the bar it seemed that his entire body brushed mine, making me tingle all over. When he kind of disappeared into the crowd behind a couple of much taller men, and then didn't come back for a while, I figured what the hell. The usual fag. Makes a commitment and then can't, or won't, keep it.
Naturally, just about the time I was mentally sneering at him for being a typical inconsiderate self-centered queer, that's when he does his magic "appearing" act around the two tall guys, holding two slightly frosty bottles of Bud in his hands, and grinning victoriously. He handed me mine, and stood in front of me, our bodies slightly touching, but moving toward each other and apart from moment to moment from the waves caused by the men who were in constant motion, moving around and around the bar, looking for Mr. Right Cock, Mr. Right Ass, Mr. Right Daddy...or Boy...or Slave...or Master...or just plain Mr. Right Now.
We held our beers right handed, simultaneously tilted
them up and drank. Fortunately there'd been an opening a moment ago
so I could turn, stretch, and set the other bottle on the drink rail.
I moved closer, although that didn't seem possible, deliberately letting
him feel the pressure of my hard cock against him. He lowered his
right hand, and still with the bottle in it, rubbed my left hip, making
the keys jingle...or rather, making the move in a way that there would
have been a jingle if the bar hadn't been so loud right then. He
moved his right hand between us, rubbing his knuckles against my crotch,
holding the cold beer bottle against my jeans and my balls. He lifted
it slowly, letting just the bottom edge of the bottle lightly trail across
my belt and up my shirt before it lifted away as he took another swallow.
There was a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips and the wickedness
in his eyes moved a little bit nearer.
I'm easy. Oh, yeah, you already know that, don't you. Well, besides being easy occasionally I'm kind of dumb and don't recognize it when someone is cruising me. This time I recognized it. No idea why a really hot little number like this one would be going after me, but I'm not one to look a gift cock in the piss-slit...or something. I tilted my head down, tilted it a fraction of an inch to the side, just enough to indicate I intended to kiss him unless he backed off, not enough to be so obvious that if he moved away...literally, or in body language...I couldn't convert the motion to...uh, just stretching my neck, you know.
He didn't back away. He moved closer, molding himself to me, lifting his face to be kissed. I started gentle, tender, knowing that wasn't what he really wanted, slightly backing away without removing my lips from his when he tried for more, making sure he understood who was in charge, before forcing his mouth open and invading him with my tongue. He shuddered, from the kiss, from the cold of the beer bottle where I'd brought my right hand up under his vest, between his shoulder blades, from my left thumb and forefinger tweaking his right nipple. I kept the kiss going and going, like the damned bunny, while I squeezed his right nipple into erection, and finding a similar condition in his left nipple, teasingly twisted and pulled it, making him moan into my mouth. His left arm was around my back, under my jacket, pressing me, clutching my shirt.
He tried to pull his mouth away but I wouldn't let him. My right hand, bottle and all, quickly moved up behind his head, held him immobile while I fucked him with my tongue. His tongue got in my mouth only on my terms, only when I let him, but I did what I wanted with his mouth, roaming over his teeth, his lips, his tongue, the inside of his cheeks, trying to force my way it seemed down his throat, using my tongue almost as I would have used my dick. His moans became whimpers, while my left hand roamed in the virtually no space at all between us, working his tits, caressing his chest, groping and squeezing his cock and balls.
When at last I released the pressure on the back of his head, lifted my mouth from his, his eyes were glazed and he was panting, his lips were wet and gleaming.
There was almost a little start as he focused on reality again. I lifted my bottle of beer around his left shoulder, tilted my head, took a long swallow, as he did the same. I looked down at him, tilted my head as if to kiss him, and when he parted his lips, moved his head toward me, once again I backed off without moving. He subsided, but the wicked glint in his eyes said, "bastard!" to me as he waited, not exactly patiently, until I leaned into another kiss. This time there was no need to hold his head; he knew he would continue being kissed for as long as I wanted the kiss to last. This time he was circled with my arms, both of his around me, again under the leather jacket, holding on tight.
My right fist made circles against the bare flesh of his back. My left hand teased his tits into a little more hardness, and then moved to his back, stroking and moving down to his jeans, reaching inside them just enough for the tip of my fuck-you finger to rub the crack of his ass, right at the bone, and slip just a little down between those hard-muscled cheeks. I pulled my hand out, came around to squeeze his groin, and then moved to squeeze his right ass cheek, before heading to my goal. That's when I got an early Christmas present.
I already knew he wasn't wearing underwear. I also found out that his jeans were slit up the seam, and my hand slid easily right inside them, just as my first two fingers slid right down to and then even more easily up inside his already well-greased hole. I felt the smug little smile of his lips against mine. I kept on kissing him, while I tried to get those two fingers as far up inside him as I could, finger-fucking his eager ass, and he began to writhe against me, slightly raising on his toes to make the access easier.
I stopped the kiss and pulled my hand away from his ass. Yeah, that self-satisfied, hot little smirk was on his face, and it got a little wider when I brought my left hand up between us, rested the tips of my first two fingers on his lower lip. He'd learned. As eager as he was he waited until he felt the faint pressure of my fingers moving forward that told him it was okay, and then he began devouring my fingers, sucking off the grease and the juices of his ass, perhaps pretending it was a dick that had just cum in his ass that he was cleaning off. I held him close, grinding my hardon against him, while I finger-fucked his mouth until he moaned again. He really didn't want to let go when I at last pulled my fingers away.
They were still slightly greasy as I used them on his tits, getting just a little rougher this time, a little more pressure, a little more twist, a little more pull, and he inhaled with a slight gasp.
Another kiss, and his arms tightened about me with almost a sense of desperation. This time, both hands moved down to his butt, and he wriggled it a little as my left index finger teased the top of his crack, sliding down between his cheeks but not into his hole. When he felt the beer bottle, what he thought was that I was switching it to my left hand so I could work on his ass with my right. Wrong. I had something else in mind...or rather, something else in ass.
Still kissing him, I opened my eyes just before the warm top of the beer bottle slid past the lips of his ass. His eyes shot wide open, looked into mine, looked at the expression that said, "you want it?" and the ecstatic glow and the slight thrust of his hips away from me, pushing his ass out and the bottle a little further in was the answer I wanted....the answer I already knew I would get.
My hand around the lower half, I very, very slowly started shoving the bottle up his welcoming hole. His head rested on my shoulder, and he rubbed his cheek against the smooth, worn leather, murmuring faint, "oh, oh, oh" sounds as I got the neck of the bottle all the way in and just held it there. The "oh" sounds became a little louder as I started using the bottle on him, fucking him gently, just with the neck, not trying to get more up there. With my left hand I pulled on his nipple, hard this time, and he muttered, "oh, God, yes." And then I slid the bottle all the way out.
He knew, of course, what was going to happen next. He straightened up, opened his mouth, and when I held the bottle between us he demonstrated what a talented cocksucker he was. His agile tongue swirled around the top of the bottle, down inside it just a little, licking and licking around the grease-shiny neck before sliding his lips smoothly and erotically all the way down the neck. It was my turn to inhale with lust as I watched him inhale the bottle-cock, imagining it was those warm eager lips around my meat.
I don't normally leak a lot of precum, but I knew I was staining my jeans that night like a son of a bitch. I don't have a problem with sexual things in public...okay, give me a fucking break, so I don't just not have a problem, public sex is a turn on. But we'd gone as far as we could go. I had to get this kid back to my hotel, get him naked, fuck his face long and hard, get him down on the bed doggie style, eat out his ass, and then fuck him until he howled when I shot my load up his hot chute.
The kid had other ideas.
He lifted his mouth from the bottle, his lips even more greasy, parting them slightly, inviting the kiss that I gave him then. It wasn't anything gentle this time. It was rough and demanding, told him I wanted him, told him he was going to get used and ridden...used and ridden hard. When I broke the kiss I started to tell him, "Let's go," but he turned away...turned around in fact, so that he was facing the bar, and his butt was against my crotch. He leaned back against me, his head on my shoulder again. Okay, fine, if that was what he wanted...a little more playing, I could deal with that. I put my arms around him, rubbing the beer bottle over his muscular belly, playing lightly with his tits.
That's when I felt his hands against my crotch, felt his fingers beginning to unbutton my jeans with the confidence of a skilled artist who has unbuttoned jeans before that he could not see. He had the bottom few buttons undone in moments, and then I felt his fingers force their way inside, tugging at my rigid meat.
Now, there's a time for public sex, and there's a time for public sex. In the bushes in a park, that's one of the times. Or in a john. Or an arcade booth. Or an orgy back room. Or the baths. Or the balcony of an adult theatre with a bunch of other men watching you and jacking off. Even in a crowded bar...if you're in a stall in the john, or in some dark back hallway, or the alley just outside the door. You can always argue you had some expectation, if not of privacy, of not being watched by anyone who wasn't turned on by watching.
But pulling dick out in the middle of the crowded bar itself, where it's comparatively brightly lit, where you don't really have any excuses handy if someone gets offended, like an undercover cop, no, I don't think so.
At least, that's what the upper head said. The lower head, the one that was just hitting open air, and starting to drool copiously, wasn't paying much attention. Well, except to nod and say, "Fuck off" to the suddenly right-wing Republican head a ways north of the belt line. It took a bit of effort...and a bit of cooperation on my part...since my jeans weren't exactly loose ones, but he got my cock and balls completely out, and started smearing the precum around the head of my dick with his thumb.
I only noticed out of the corner of my eye when he tapped a guy who was closer to the bar on the shoulder, wig-wagged his beer bottle toward the bar, and the guy took it and set it there. The kid now had both hands free, and both hands were playing with my cock and balls...and the small opening in my fly that he'd made with just a few buttons was acting like a kind of cock ring. Although even with nervousness about where we were, I don't think I could or would have gone soft anyway.
A gentle push downward at the base of my cock gave me an indication of what he wanted, as if I couldn't have figured it out, hadn't figured it out. He leaned slightly forward, I spread my legs to balance myself, bent my knees so my dick head traced down the crack of his ass while his fingers guided me, and then I was right on his ass pucker. He moved the sticky head of my prick around and around his hole, and then thrust his hips back and took the head inside him. He paused only a second or two, bent just a little more and then quickly slid his ass all the way down to the base of my dick.
I was standing in the middle of a crowded leather bar, wall-to-wall bodies, with my dick up the ass of a small hot stud. Anyone could see us.
I was out of my fucking mind.
Yeah, with lust.
His ass was so wet, so hot. I could feel his pulse with my dick against the walls of his butthole, and then he started squeezing and relaxing his ass muscles. I wanted to bend him over, kick his legs apart, grab his shoulders and force fuck him, long and fast and deep and hard. Right. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. The trick now was to make him enjoy it, make me enjoy it, without being so obvious that we got arrested, or tossed out on our asses and barred for life.
He hadn't pulled his own dick out, but when I reached down with both hands to his crotch, he was fully hard himself, his cock jutting down his left leg, making what would have been an enjoyably visible lump if I'd been standing elsewhere and looking at him. Two guys kissing in a gay bar. Not unusual. One guy giving a blow job to another guy's fingers and then going down on a beer bottle. Not unusual. Two guys standing, one behind the other, dry humping and fully clothed. Not unusual. All just part of the fun, part of the foreplay before going home or somewhere to suck and fuck your brains out. So as long as we kept to that image we were okay.
I didn't know about him, but I wasn't sure I was going to be able to. I really wanted to fuck him hard and rough. But then reality set in. A little edge of fear, a little tinge of worry, about getting caught tends to short-term fucking, not the leisurely fuck-for-days variety you brag about later. He started rotating his hips, making my cock swirl around and around inside him, clenching and unclenching, and I got into the motion, started moving my hips around to probe all I could of his hot tunnel. And some in and out motion, too. Nowhere near all the way, but enough to feel the lips of his ass pull back as I pulled back, and fold around my shaft eagerly as I thrust back in and ground my crotch hair against his butt.
As I had moved my hands to his crotch I'd felt a smaller lump in his front pocket. I found out what it was a few seconds later when he squirmed a bit, got his hand in, brought it out, unscrewed the cap and took a long, leisurely hit without ever stopping his hip action. As his face began to flush a little he looked over his shoulder, his expression asking, "Yes? No?" I nodded and he passed the bottle back, keeping the cap. Damned right. No sense risking loss of the cap and therefore loss of the bottle, and all the money it cost. Holding one nostril closed with my left thumb, I inhaled the poppers. And realized it was the real stuff, not one of the imitation brands. I repeated the process a couple of times, alternating nostrils, before giving it back to him and letting him take another hit before carefully screwing the cap on.
Poppers...the real thing...are incredible. You feel a little warm, and you get a rush to your head, and your dick gets a little softer...or your ass muscles loosen up a bit so that the big dick up your hole feels better, feels even more right where it is. And with the good stuff you space out a bit, just for a short while, while you go right on fucking or sucking. And this was good stuff. Really, really good stuff. The Beluga of poppers.
I still had the beer bottle...nowhere to put it down out in the aisle...but I managed to work on his tits a bit anyway, while my left hand really started working his cock. I think he thought that all that was going to happen was he was going to get fucked in the middle of the bar, and keep his hardon, and maybe go looking for another cock to slide up his butt, greased this time with a full load of cum from me, but I had other plans. I started jacking him with my left hand, squeezing and stroking his meat inside his jeans, using the denim to rub against his cock, rub the underside of his dick head. He tried for a second to back off, but that just thrust his ass back at me and made my dick try to get closer to coming out his mouth.
It may have been his idea but I was back in control and he knew it. This wasn't going to last long. I could tell by the action of his hips, thrusting against his meat against my hand that he was getting to a point of no return, and the sensations in my own cock were screaming at me to stop wasting time and go for the fucking touchdown. I said "poppers" in his ear, and he took another couple of hits, and then held the bottle over his shoulder for me while I inhaled several times...a bit awkward but I wasn't about to let go of the cock in my hand.
I clamped my mouth over his ear, lapping and tonguing it, then drawing back so he could hear me. "Gonna fuck you, boy, shoot up your ass, and you're gonna shoot a fucking load when I do... understand?" He nodded frantically, giving himself up to the poppers, to my hand squeezing and grinding away at his dick, to my meat sliding in and out of his steaming hole, rotating over his prostate, until suddenly I felt him shudder, and his ass clamped down really hard on my dick, which was enough to send me over fucking Niagara in a barrel, blasting his hole with wad after wad of cum, while he was shooting the same load into his jeans.
When my cock stopped pumping, and so did his we straightened up and just stood there for a few seconds, enjoying the warm afterglow of successful, i.e., unnoticed, public sex. I gave his deflating dick a small squeeze, enjoying the sensation of the very wet jeans...he really had cum a lot...and regretfully pulled my hips back and slowly withdrew my limp dick from his butt. It could have gotten difficult then, but he turned around to face me again. Both hands were between us and he played with my cock and well-drained balls, stroking my dick to get the last of the cum out. Then, cupping me with one hand, he lifted the other to his mouth, and smiling up at me, licked the cum off.
Still Cheshire-smiling up at me, he opened the rest of the buttons, tucked me carefully back inside, and re-buttoned my jeans. What, did he practice this to become such an expert at sight-unseen jeans buttoning? Should we add this to the next Gay Games?
Taking control for a moment, he lightly pulled my head down and into a kiss. Not as deep and passionate as the ones before, but still erotic. My dick twitched, but it was too worn out right then to do more than mutter resentfully about the fact it couldn't do more than mutter resentfully. He pulled his head away, said, "Thanks."
I grinned, said, "You're welcome."
He pecked my lips, said, "Later, guy"--although we both knew there wasn't going to be any later--and then he glided away, lost in an instant in the crowd and the lights and smoke and noise.
I don't think this was the kind of "holy" night the song really meant, but it was good enough for me.