Date: Thu, 1 Jul 2004 11:01:35 -0700 (PDT)
From: David <idlewild678@yahoo.com>
Subject: Beerpiss happy hour.

Love to hear from other piss dudes and their experiences. This is the
first part of one I had earlier this year. Hit me back if you like:
idlewild678@yahoo.com


Exactly how often do you actually have a sex fantasy totally fulfilled?
Right, exactly never. As for me too, until...

The online chat brought out everything I said I wanted a guy with the
screen name "inpublic" to be into: public sex, piss play, ass chomping,
cock sucking, and fantasy fulfillment. Yeah, right, he'll really do it.
Let's just see.

Sports bar was the venue, after work in our suits and ties were the
desired drag. The fantasy: two professional guys, meeting at a bar after
work for a beer, then ordering but one each and recycling over and over,
until we just couldn't stand it any more and had to leave, get
buckassed, and head somewhere to play in public.

In light gray wool worsteds, an impeccably ironed white button-down
oxford cloth shirt and rep-striped tie, with oxblood loafers and a camel
hair jacket, I happened to get there first. Asked for a booth in the bar
area, a booth that was slightly blocked by a structural column. Hopped
in, ordered two drafts, and was glad when they arrived in tall beer
glasses. Shoved the second directly across the table from me, along with
the color picture of two guys pissing, and a newly opened bottle of
poppers. I swigged about a third of my glass in one pulsating gulp.

My cell phone rang; he had just parked outside. "When you come in the
door, look straight ahead to the bar area, you'll see me sitting here in
a booth." Shorter and stockier than my six-two, lean frame, he walked
over to the booth, attempted a smile, sat down, and extended his hand. As
we shook hands, he noticed the picture and the poppers, sat down with a
bit more confidence, then, without a word, chugged half his beer down.
"Hi."

"Hello, Pissbreath," I smiled. "What the fuck took you so damned
long?"

"Fucking work," he said, his eyes still unsure where to focus. He
finished his beer with just one more tilt of the glass.

"Hand me your glass," I ordered. "Hit the poppers. Chill. It's all
good."

As he did, his empty glass disappeared under the table, only to be placed
in front of me full again. "Salute'," I offered, lifting the tall beer
glass to my lips and slowly letting its contents slow down my throat.

"Fuck you, piss dude," was his retort. "That should fucking be my
beer."

"Oh, sure," I winked, handing him the glass and taking my original,
half-filled stein and emptying it. "Return the favor," I urged.

"Be a minute," he sighed; you're way ahead of me.

"Not, but my gut is still bulging; I'll refill my own." Under the
table and back the glass went, from empty to light beer yellow in but a
few seconds.

"Not bad for happy hour draft," I laughed. "Shit, you'll look a lot
different with piss streaming down through that jacked hair all over your
face," I changed the subject. A knowing smile finally crept onto his
face.

"Better," his voice cracked. He sat up in the booth, I noticed more
closely his business attire: more fashionable -- he's in retail -- all
black, slacks, silky pullover, and shirt-collared jacket. "I'll look,
and feel, better. With the piss."

I squirmed uncomfortably. " S'cuse me, man; gotta go to the toilet."

"Don't waste anything," his voice was getting stronger and bolder with
each statement.

"Let me hit the poppers first," I said. He handed them to me I took a
long snort, never thinking that anyone in the bar might see me, then set
the opened bottle on the table and slipped out to head to the toilet.

_____

"Here. Suck," I ordered as I threw the piss-stained and soaked
jockstrap at his face. I had slipped it off so I could piss more easily
in the booth. He wiped it all over his face, sucking in air all the
while.

"Piss. Fucking man piss," he repeated several times. Both beer glasses
were full. "Order another round," I questioned. "Taste for yourself,
pissbud." He was leering at me by now.

"Good and fresh," I winked. "Maybe the next cycle will be as hot as
you are," I said, referring to the now second-recycled glassful.

"Is the beer not good?" Our wonderfully less-than-attentive waitress
had wandered up, and seeing two full beer glasses served some 30 minutes
before, wondered if there was a problem.

"Have to sip," I grinned at her, taking a small, delicate tip of the
glass. "Have to drive home tonight, you know. The beer is fine, thanks.
I don't think either of us can have more than one from the draft, so you
can go ahead and bring our check, then you won't have to worry with us
any more." She wandered off.

"What if I disappeared under the table, next time, piss whore dog?" My
buddy was loose now, having crammed the stinking jockstrap in his coat
handkerchief pocket, so he could easily grab it for a sniff. "Instead of
just a beer glass?" I feigned misunderstanding. "If the waitress got
here with the check, I'd have to make up some really great story to tell
her.

"Be my guest, you'll be drenched soon enough as it is. I'd fucking go
nuts to see you walk out of here with piss all over you, though."

"All over me, fuck," he smirked, "I need to drink straight from the
tap."

"Oh, thanks," my face was flushed as I took the check from the
waitress. I handed her a $20, more than overly enough for two happy hour
draft beers and a huge tip. "We'll just finish these and be on our way.
Thanks, again," I said. Our glasses were only half-full this time, thank
goodness.

"I need it from the tap, piss-source," he was now almost pleading. "I
need to drink your piss straight from your cock, out of your piss slit."

"Fuck, yeah, you DO, dude," I encouraged. "Let's get the hell out of
this place," he stated firmly!

"Okay. When you get to your car, call me on my cell, then start
stripping as you follow me."

"Where are we going," he asked, not so interested or worried.

"To be buckassed, hard, and to get totally piss-soaked and piss-drunk.
At least you will be," I flashed as large a smile as I could.

We both downed the rest of our beer, finishing them empty, finally, at
last. We scooted out of the booth and walked out the door, my jockstrap
still serving as a terrifically perverse handkerchief in my friend's
jacket pocket. Once outside, we pointed to the direction of each of our
vehicles.

"Call, strip, follow," I repeated.

"Piss," was his reply.

Oddly, and wonderfully, the fantasy fulfillment had only just begun.

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