Date: Sat, 15 Sep 2007 16:16:59 -0700 (PDT) From: ron ronn Subject: "FIGHT" FIGHT! by Jack Russell The air was marinated in a cigarette glaze that coated everyone in a concoction of sweat and nicotine. DJ Steve was spinning a vomit of primal trance music that kept the crowd in a sorbent of transient cruises. This leather bar dubiously called Chaps was a virtual petri dish of men contemplating detours of heterosexuality. I eased back my beer oblivious to my cozy state of intoxication. The night was 1AM young and the brash lights of the city gave way to a cozy quilt of night time misbehavior. I surveyed the mountain of men pressed around the dungeon like bar. Being a regular, I've pretty much figured out how geography and motive intertwine in the recipe of a stern gay cocktail. Guys that are with their buds generally congregate on the porch and near the DJ booth. They're here for social interaction and shop talk and already have a trick or husband in tow. If you're with a date, it's the north side of the bar since it's quieter with its dead end design that discourages flighty cruising and bumping for a palm full of ass. In the pool room, hunky guys finished with their blue collared shifts are now squeezed into stingy jeans and spiky boots. They've raking the table in a serious scowl ready to settle a score with last weeks top dog at billiards. Local voyagers can expect to be treated to an emporium of tasty eye candy, stretched arm musculature, and the arousing swill of sweat. Look but do not touch. These guys are too busy to fuck. I made a confident swagger towards the back wall. It's the horrid gay equivalent of the day after Christmas sale at Macy's. If you can't pick up a John here, you might of well go down the street to the straight topless bar and get some cunt to lap dance over you. The bartenders haven't missed a night of illicit blow jobs, nipple sucking, or an occasional prison like rape imprisoned within its bare chested confines. It's no coincidence that the most senior bar staff get the territorial right to chose their work station and it's sole decision is based on more than where the tips slam down. The back bar is a badland of sorts where parodies of manhood seep in a cesspool of decadent acts. If it were a neighborhood, realtors would call it dicey, cops would patrol it at high speeds, and gay men looking for a pickup would be ringing the doorbell pre lubed. Pressed in a latte of hard men, I choreographed my steps carefully amid the crush making sure to avoid direct eye contact focusing on the peripheral instead. A well practiced disengaged pout on my face let all know that I was a regular and not easily impressed. I lapped up all that was around me. Eyes scanned the buffed bordello of tattooed men showcasing massive panels of beef slapped over their shoulders, backs, and shaved chests. A carefully groomed bearded man slid a cigarette between his lips and allowed it to dangle for a theatrical moment before setting it aglow. Physically imposing, his biceps erupted like softballs acting as sentinels to his mouthful of pecs. He seemed to be alone but curiously ignored by the stampede making power plays for who was going to be their bitch for the night. I focused on him. Compiling a portfolio, the facts were in. Age...late 30's. Weight...195. Descent...probably Italian or Mediterranean. Ass...two hairy mounds of cement with enough grith to sit on like a park bench. His height was the easiest to figure out since we could stand face to face and my tongue could slide easily into his mouth and explore his molars. He was a tanned popsicle of ass just waiting to be licked down to the stick. (hehehe) The only question was how I intended to take down this gazelle. My sense of inhibition was nullified by Mr. Millers brewery company so it was simply academic on which tact to apply. There's the ambush. You slither up to your mark and pounce with an unexpected question or comment. How about the the slide and eye? You simply walk past him and deliver a vote of confidence via an extended stare. Then there's my all time favorite, the bump and jump. This technique is the same perfected by pick pockets with one variation. While they want to split with your cash, I want the mans stash! In the b & j technique, one feigns a misstep and bumps into your mark followed by a heartwarming apology, masculine rubs, and a subsequent conversation starter. If all goes well, this verbal scrimmage is consummated by a dick up the ass. I was a half step away from him and could practically feel the seductive exhaust from his nostrils and smack of gin aromatizing in his mouth. His jet black hair glistened, his nipples were the size of quarters, abs serrated, and his pants were packed in all the right places. My cock stirred. Patience my pet, I thought. Suddenly, all went wrong. As I shifted the center of gravity forward to initiate contact, I was checked from behind by a football sized linebacker trying to shovel his way through the crowd. This was now a total fuck up. Like a cue ball on a pool table, I slammed into my mark creating a less than impressive entry. My frame compressed as if running into the side of a concrete wall. I still remember his expression. Not of anger but bewilderment. His walnut eyes widened, his muscles stiffened, and his face was screwed up in alarm. The poor guy must of been day dreaming and was startled by my unexpected arrival. Still in a full pressed ricochet, I rolled and then side swiped a rugged faced skinhead by the bar. His beer was propelled out of his hand and suds splattered out, baptizing his chest. He was extremely vascular and his chest glistened in a cartel of beer and sweat that dribbled down his thickish treasure trail before disappearing into his pants. It was so erotic but I could tell that he wasn't amused. A herd of men ran for cover as if in a Westerner movie when the gunslinger goads the sheriff into a gunfight. Just as I regained my balance and tried to apologize, he delivered a package of fist backed up by 180 lbs which ran true and hot to the bridge of my nose. Sounding like the snapping of a pencil, my nose broke, my eyes previewed a universe of stars, and my skin felt as if singed over a charcoal fire. Now I know what a lobster feels after it's submerged in a pot of boiling water. I dropped like a sack of potatoes, blood ozzing from my nostrils and my head feeling as it were about to shatter. It seemed so quiet. I thought DJ Steve had turned off the sound system and that now my stumbling defeated body was the center of the whole bars attention. It was a humiliating trouncing, but through it all, I couldn't help but notice that I must of found it sexually arousing since my cock was stove pipe stiff. My adversary bent over me and in an odd display of charity, wrapped his thickly developed forearms over my chest and effortlessly hoisted me to my feet. I was like a baby being righted by a disappointed parent. His arms were hairless and bands of muscle felt like sharp serrations across my aroused nipples. His torso was of tightly stressed muscle that flared like a hungry cobra about to strike. An lithography of Asian characters were tattooed on the inside of his arm. For a moment, I considered the translation to mean something along the lines of WWF Champ. My body in a bear hug, he willfully stroked my pecs with meaty hands and pinched my nipple as a retainer of who the alpha dog was, least I forget. This guy was built like armored Humvee although only a dozen pounds or so heaver than myself. Un-opposed, he then tucked my back into the cleavage of his chest and I was immersed in a erotic splash of his musky potency, warm beer, and well developed brawn. His chiseled face, adorned with a lone toothpick like scar on his chin, could have graced the cover of a woman's sex novel or gay magazine. He was one of those genetically gifted people blessed with symmetrical bold features and could look attractive in any venue. Why I didn't notice this steamy hunk earlier left me befuddled as I clamped my nostrils shut and tossed my head back as if swallowing a shot of tequila. He brought his mouth inches from my ear as if contemplating a bite. Then the most peculiar remark flowed from his mouth that will remain engraved in my brain forever. In the most bewitching venture of swarthy confidence, he whispered tenderly, "Next time, bring your cut doctor." His seductive eyes reflected a benign mischievousness. I hurt so bad but yet felt so good. Odd. And then with a dismissive push, he ejected me and was absorbed into the crowd. A fluster of men moved around me and I could see John, the Daddy bartender in a clumsy trot coming to my aid. His pants, routinely tied up around rolls of fat, left the crack in his ass uncorked adding comic relief to a disenfranchised audience. A purposeful expression garnished his face. He knew there was an undeclared truce and the night time naughtiness would continue after this short recess. I ran into a buddy of mine a couple of days later and he was on the other side of the bar and wasn't really aware of what was happening until he saw John dismiss his bar tending duties and assist me to the exit and point the way home. A lot of people didn't even catch the 3 second round and knockdown but simply thought I had tripped. It was all a puzzling mess that I would soon rather forget but discreetly found arousing. Little did I know, that the astrological stars would place me and my conquerer in a different kind of encounter once again. One night after nursing the television clicker, I realized that I was short on food items, put together a disjointed shopping list, and hurried off to Shopway. It was an hour before closing and the patrons consisted mostly of homos topping off their cupboards and chewing on their cell phones. I looked like a slob attired in a chaos of sagger shorts, sneakers, muscle shirt, and that just woke up from my nap look. I was in the refrigerated section on the last leg of my spree looking at packs of cheeses when a solid nudge came from behind. It was pokey but full of inertia as if a locomotive was being hooked up to an empty box car. "How you feeling, champ?", he asked in a playful Chesapeake draw. I attempted to shift into reverse but he was immovable. His swollen cock was enjoying the frontage pushing at its enclosure like a rhinoceros trying to escape its pen. I had a hunch that my weekday homogenized existence was about to change. "Better", I confessed meekly. It was a bit humiliating and at the same time, I must admit that I found it rather erotic. Before I could sort things out in my mind, my cock engorged itself in blood and I got stone hard. Well, at least one part of me knew what it wanted tonight. He reached around to my crotch and took a swipe at my meat. The cheese would have to wait. "Looks like you're up for a rematch", he joked. He stepped back and delivered a disarming grin. Dimples and eyes reduced to rascally slits, he appeared suddenly benign and approachable. "I'm Dan", he said holding out his right hand. His biceps were twice the size of mine and the silhouette of an plump dick tugged at his painter shorts. He edged forward violating my personal space but I didn't mind and couldn't do anything about it anyways. "Bill", I replied. "My friends call me Billy", I added lost for words. He had the deepest ocean green eyes and it made me verbally constipated. "Sorry about the other night", he said genuinely. "I was cruising the bearded guy and then you came crashing in. I thought you were a drunken interloper and I only wanted to sting you but looks like my jab had a bit more force behind it than planned." He passed his hand over his nappy scalp and contorted his face in dismay. It made him look so collegiate and fucking cute! I got a second look at the Asian script tattoo that served as a source of conversational fodder. "What's the translation to English?" , I asked. "Oh that, I kind of regret getting it. Everyone wants to know and sometimes I just make something up depending on the moment." He loosened a breath. "One of those what the fuck nights in Okinawa. It translates loosely in English to "fight to win". "Now you tell me!", I protested. We both laughed. "So you're in the military?", I guessed. "Used to be...Marines. Now I teach gym at Wellington Academy. It's a military prep school." I nodded that I've heard of it. "These are the kids that score perfectly on their SAT's and go to West Point, not Wall Street. I toughen them up. Boxing, wrestling, bar fight, filling out their taxes". Another round of giggles. "Ever bang any of em?" "No, I'm very professional at work and definitely not out, although I'd like to bend some of the tight ends over in the locker room", he post scripted with a wink. "So, you want to come over?", he offered enticing me with a six pack of beer from his cart. I couldn't believe that he just invited me over. My little ingot expanded like a Samsonite carry on. I was intrigued by his urban edginess, his boldness, and self assurance. It was a done deal. I was getting fucked tonight! We headed out to his Jeep and I fired off questions like media scrum chasing after a celebrity. Dan had a quite storied history. He dropped out of High School, was arrested for assault and did a year in the slammer before being sprung by the US Marines and recruited for his language skills. His mom was Japanese and growing up in the seedy Bronx, he learned street fighting, martial arts, and foreign languages. He went back to school on Uncle Sam's tab and excelled graduating in the top 1% of his class. He jumped through undergraduate training and encored with with a Masters in education. I was smitten. Once in the tuck I desperately asked him to park in the corner of the lot devoid of people and lighting. I could wait no longer. He smirked curiously but complied. No sooner did he shift into park, I reached over and relinquished his dick out from his pants. It bolted to attention like a plebe cadet and I engulfed it in saliva rocketing my head back in forth over his fat prepuce. He bucked up a bit and allowed me to engage my simmering hand over his pulpy ass. They were two ripe melons sprinkled with a fine dust of ebony hair. It was heaven. "Finger me!", he pleaded in a high pitched wail. In a disclosure of sexual malpractice, I bulldozed my middle finger up his ass and shoved aside his sphincter like a bodyguard manhandling paparazzi. After determining how cavernous his hole was, I doubled his pleasure with two more fingers. He would tense up and then relax, each time allowing me to add more digits. I figured it was only a matter of time before I could squeeze a shopping cart up there. We howled in mutual pleasure exchanging spit and deep Latin style kisses. I ran my hungry tongue over his cock and bit at its head sending him into a regal flush. Then I pushed my face under his shirt and was greeted by a sweltering confusion of upraised chest, spicy sweat, and a spunky aroma. His nipples were extended and generous enough to clamp on jumper cables. I was stretched to my limit with my mouth pulling at all corners of his torso and my two hands transforming every part of his body into an erogenous zone. Dan knew what he wanted and had me chew at his nips, bite at his abs, and suckle at his biceps. I excelled at all of it and then felt a shot of pre cum scorch my jocks. All systems pressurized. Something just had to give. "My place or yours, champ?", he managed to squeeze out of his larnax. "Make a left at the exit, straight at the light and right on 17th", I ordered. "And, step on it! He drove like a New York city cabdriver and we touched down at my apartment with our dicks so stiff, walking was problematic. No sooner were we in the door, I relieved him of his shirt and wondered over his muscled torso. I tasted him and would have swallowed him whole had my mouth been large enough. Gone was Dan's initial randy demeanor replaced by generous lips and arms that encircled me in a tender embrace. He whispered nasty suggestions in my ear and purred out my name. It was so obscene. Falling into the bed, I paid lots of attention to his armpits and hairy crack. Dan plopped on the bed and flung his thickish legs northward and bucked up his perky ass. No mixed messages here. Bottom boy needs a plowin! I eagerly mounted him and slid my ambitious cock in his hole while my kissings and scalding dirty talk diverted his attention and allowed me to plunge deeper. Dan coached me on and I brought tears to his eyes which I dispatched with a mop of my tongue. It was my turn now to be the dominator in a sexual way, of course. No nose bleeds here. "Take my big fucking rod up that cunt of yours, Dan!" He squirmed like a coed. This was going to be one intense organism. The shock wave was sure to make my next door neighbors cream themselves. "I'm your "drill Sargent"!" I fell back and pushed apart his thighs wider with my knees. I was amazed at his flexibility for such a muscled man. My balls slapped against his ass and received a tickle from his shock of delectable pubic hair.. I could feel my load pulsing out of their reservoir, escaping like convicts on the run down my urethra. A perfected kegel exercise judiciously applied terminated my juices for an instant that sent both of us into convulsions. Sex has the same premonition cues as sports like when you hit a golf ball with a driver and you know it's a great shot well before the club even meets the ball. Finally, nature relented and I propelled a gusher of spunk so far up his cheeks, I expected to see it ooze out his ears. We were in a synchronous earthquake of molten passion. I tasted his sweat. It was as salty and satisfying like a margarita. Dan breathed heavy gasping for a sock of air, his moist chest pounding as if just completing a merciless set of bench presses. I withdrew while tardy dollops of my load continued to singe onto his abs. Dan scooped them up with a finger and with an expression of gratitude, vacuumed them into his appreciative mouth. Re-invigorated, I urged him onto his side and he obediently lifted his beefy leg northward and I plowed into him again. My cock, always a willing accomplice, located his prostate and stroked it unrelentingly. Dan turned to face me and our lips collided in a shipwreck of drenched kisses. We were shrouded in a convulsed and savage moment. The bedsprings protested and Dan produced guttural groans between a rapid battering of eyelids that suggested REM sleep. He was on the precipice of organism but I was behind on the curve; devoid of the precursors that you feel just before you blow your top. I withdrew for an instant and wrapped my hand around his cock forming a tourniquet at the base of his penis deferring his ejaculation. He settled down a bit like a freshly disciplined 5th grader and I slathered more lube on my anaconda and struck him again. This time, Dan was ready for me and he pushed back meeting me thrust for thrust. I plowed, he squealed. I held him in a wrestler head lock and rammed my face past his armpits. Oh, the scent! There was no turning back now. My firing sequence was engaged. Suddenly, the moment of recognition was upon the two of us and he slammed his ass cheeks together repeatedly and vacuumed a milk truck load out of me. My organism was so intense, I thought my heart would be in need of a defibrillator. Dan exhaled some words in French. I had no idea what he said but my best guess was something along the lines of "fuckin hot!" We wrapped ourselves around each other and pondered a brief celibate moment and then Dan was on the move again shoveling my spent penis and nuts in his mouth. He insisted that no crumbs be left behind. Somehow I managed to pump some remaining juice into him before falling onto my back isolated in a private epiphany. Once again, he knocked me out cold but it was so damn hot.