Sex in the Sky

I

Around the living room, Cole raked his irises of honey-brown. Never had he seen so many matched items and polished surfaces. No wonder Rick wanted his other property painted pronto—to pay for the goodies of this house with the rent income of that apartment.

“Would you look at that screen?” Rick said. He sat up on his black loveseat of leather. “Our first baseman is switch-hitting.”

Tod’s soft-spoken voice sounded abruptly curt. “Don’t start with that.”

“What,” Rick uttered.

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“You’re right,” Rick pattered like an automaton. “So I’ll come out and say it. Number 22 is horny as the pigs; he has obviously failed to find a chick on the diamond; and he is thus searching for a dude to fuck.”

“Would you show some respect for our guest?” Tod said.

“I’m sure Cole can take a lewd joke,” Rick said. He turned left his squarish face of light cream and gave Cole a coquettish eye.

Cole spoke with a Tennessee drawl, one that was three times thicker than Tod’s Piedmont drawl and Rick’s brogue. Offhandedly, Cole said, “I can take a joke.”

“That’s my buddy,” Rick said and slapped Cole’s swarthy thigh.

Who would have known? Cole thought. Tod, the blond fresh out of high school, was acting mature relative to Rick, the dark-haired manager of a workout center. Tod even refrained from lolling back on his cream recliner of waxy leather. Rick, by contrast, had his legs on the glass coffee table, black hiking boots and all. If anyone was showing consideration for Cole, it was Tod.

Cole swigged some beer out of his glass bottle.

“See?” Rick said. “My talk is inciting Cole. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he wants to suck dick.”

“Watch it!” Cole said.

“Don’t take it personally,” Rick protested. “We’re all loaded as that player.” Rick wrapped his lips around the head of his glass bottle.

Petulantly, Tod sucked his incisors of porcelain white.

Rick slipped his lips off the neck of his bottle. This made the sound of air escaping the unfastening lid of a jug of water. “There,” Rick said. “We’re even now.”

What, Cole wondered, would his wife say if she knew whom Cole was hanging out with? If only Sheena’s mother weren’t so ill. Sheena would then have returned from Kentucky; she would have brought back Sheena and Cole’s little boy; and the three would no longer be separated. As for Cole’s side of the family, Cole could only guess: what if his parents and older brother hadn’t pressured him to conform to their way of doing things? Then, Cole wouldn’t have to stay away from them—especially, on weekends—and he wouldn’t be hobnobbing with Tod and Rick. Only Cole’s younger brother and younger sister accepted him despite the mistakes Cole had made through his teens and most of his twenties. Cole’s younger siblings, however, lived under the same roof as his crucifiers.

Rick croaked, “I can lend you my wife, you know.”

“You’re bluffin’,” Cole said.

“I’m serious,” Rick replied in a rapidly rising tone.

“Jeepers creepers,” Jennifer said.

Cole nearly flinched, but he managed to smoothly turn left his oval face.

Jennifer clacked onto the white mega-tiles of the family room. Her scent of jasmine prickled Cole’s narrow nostrils.

Cole’s tight chest pulsed as if a bass drum were beating in the bedroom behind him.

Jennifer lipped, “You duds just won’t let up on Cole.”

“Hey!” Rick said, his voice verging on drunk. “We’re only taking a hard break from a hard week.”

“Cole is married, for the love of God,” Jennifer said. “In a closed marriage.”

“Cole’s wife doesn’t have to know a thing,” Rick said, “and you, my wife, can have plenty of fun with him.”

“Do you really think I would betray one of my sisters?” Jennifer said.

“Don’t come to us with your feminist crap,” Rick said. “You’re the gal who coaxed me into swinging. Now, you want to see Cole remain monogamous?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Jennifer said. “I “introduced” you to nonmonogamy with girls and guys who were “all” single—not married with a 2-year-old son.”

Silence washed over the sunlit room like the sound wake of a passing jeep. Tod, however, fidgeted in his cream recliner.

The quiet rippled away like butterflies to a breeze.

Tod mumbled as if he had marbles in his mouth. “You can’t tell Cole’s wife we had this conversation.”

“I’m no tattletale,” Jennifer said. “What you do is your business. But I won’t be party to it.”

“To each his own,” Rick said. He raised his beer bottle as if to a toast.

Every part of Jennifer’s froze in annoyance—her dark orbs, her round nose, the freckles on her pale cheeks; the oval contour of her girlish face; and her gloved arms of black velvet and stockinged legs of black nylon.

Jennifer unfroze. “If I catch or hear of you luring Cole into something immoral, you’ll have to make do without my vagina.”

“For how long?” Rick said in jest.

“For as long as you guys are doing … whatever it is you’re thinking about doing. I’ll be with my girlfriends.”

With that, Jennifer spun toward the white screens of the shoji. Her shoulder-long curls of black flipped toward the paper panels of the room divider. Jennifer disappeared behind the checkered multifold. The front door of oakwood whiffled open. And her black low-heels of padded leather crackled on the walkway like the clicks of an electric range switched on cold.

Had it not been for the door spring, the front door would have slammed shut.

“I won’t have a girl tell me what I can and can’t do,” Rick said. He turned his attached earlobes right. “Are you with me?”

Tod’s hazel irises moved as if following a Ping-Pong ball. In a muse, they bounced from Rick’s baby blues to the glinting floor, from the white mega-tiles to the bamboos perpendicular to the big screen TV, and from the greenery back to Rick’s eyes.

Rick’s voice rumbled. “I said, ‘are you with me?’”

Tod jiggered his toned shoulders. “I guess.”

Tod’s words pounded Cole’s stomach like a boxing glove a punching bag.

Rick turned his shaved face left, and he jolted up his dimpled chin at Cole.

Dick sucking? Wife sharing? Cole had no choice but to feign ignorance—at least, until he had the chance to think things over on his own. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talking about doing some serious rock ‘n roll,” Rick said. Toward the end of his sentence, he jerked off the neck of his bottle.

How Cole hated being backed to the corner like this. “If you’re talkin’ about sowin’ our oats, I’ll have to pass.”

“Have?” Rick said.

“I’m a married man,” Cole answered.

“Is your wife giving you pussy?”

Cole puffed a laugh. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Tell me,” Rick pressed.

Once more, Cole was going down in life. “After the baby was born, ma wife lost her … sexual appetite.”

“I knew it,” Rick said, snapping two fingers. “When was the last time you fucked her?”

The cool room doubled in temperature, and the scent of perfumed apples intensified—compliment of Jennifer’s candles burning in the foyer. Cole’s mutter was a tad louder than the chatter of the spectators on the television. “Ain’t you gonna watch the game?”

“Was it a week ago?” Rick said, twirling his hands around each other as if they were a couple of pinwheels. “A month ago?”

“I haven’t been intimate with ma wife in … three months.”

“Holy Moly!” Rick said, marching to his black hiking boots. “A stud like you?” Rick turned his sharp nose back. “Tod, we have to do something about this dude.”

Cole rose from the black loveseat of leather. The jute fibers of Cole’s sandy-brown hair riffled on his strong shoulders. “I can take care of ma self.”

Rick turned his sharp nose back front. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Cole glanced from Rick’s black pants of cotton to Tod’s pale blue jeans. Only Cole was showing the skin of his legs. This accentuated Cole’s discomfort. Cole drawled, “Just make sure you pay me on Thursday.”

“As soon as I get those tenants to sign that lease,” Rick said. “Incidentally, you did a great paint job on the inside of that apartment.”

Cole looked at Tod so as to say: “This guy needs to screw some nuts upstairs.”

Tod bid Cole a dopey nod. Then, Tod grasped the lapels of the brown jacket of suede he was wearing.

Cole noticed the red lining of Tod’s car coat. The red satin of the inside and the brown suede of the outside combined well with Tod’s hazel irises and with his short and tidy hair of dishwater blond.

Cole brushed his eyes over the fuzzy parting at the front of Tod’s hair. Cole brought the leading edge of his hand to his forehead and offed the thing to Tod in salute. “Enjoy the game.”

II

Walking up the driveway, Cole felt uneasy. On the one hand, he needed to get paid. On the other hand, being around Rick was something no straight man would do—particularly, one who was married. Cole would leave as soon as he got Rick’s check. So Cole assured himself. Moreover, the young man concluded, he would never return to the approaching house.

Cole snatched off his black sunglasses.

The white cobblestones of Rick’s bungalow gleamed in the morning sun.

Cole squinted and turned his stubbled face left.

The grass of the front lawn sheened with viridescence.

Again, Cole squinnied. He straightened his head and entered Rick’s garage.

The rear of Rick’s silver pickup faced Cole, its glossy metal the stuff of car ads. Even the tailpipe glinted with the hue of mountain water.

Cole stomped one of his brown brogans as if shaking snow off it.

Rick stuck his head out from under his hood. “Hey, bud!”

Cole stepped further into the garage.

Rick neared Cole and extended a blackened hand.

Cole shook it. “Looks lak your truck needs some fixin’.”

“The battery came loose,” Rick said.

Cole chuckled. “Not on the interstate, I hope.”

“Nah,” Rick said. “It happened as I bumped onto the driveway.”

“You’re lucky,” Cole said. “The wires in ma van would never withstand a drav over terrain lak that.” Cole glimpsed back to emphasize the curb that preceded Rick’s driveway. “Even without bumpin’ over that, I may have to replace ma spark plugs.”

“I can get you some, if you want,” Rick said.

“I’d rather not replace ma spark plugs, yet,” Cole replied.

“Why not?”

“My engine hasn’t turned off on the road, although it’s showin’ signs,” Cole said. “Besides, the moment you start pullin’ out things under the hood, more things get out of whack. Before you know it, you gotta retrofit the ignition coil, the distributor, oxygen sensors—”

“I disagree,” Rick interrupted. “Working people need dependable transportation—especially, a handyman like you. What if your van goes dead, at night, in the middle of nowhere? Are you ready to make your tools vulnerable like that?”

“I’m really strapped,” Cole said. “I got ma wife this spic-and-span sedan. Between car payments, the house mortgage, food, cable, telephone, utility bills, and who knows what, I can’t afford to make unnecessary repairs.”

“Letting a spark plug wire deteriorate until things go south will only create major problems down the line,” Rick said. “Guys have to keep top-notch wires under their hoods.”

“I didn’t say spark plug wires,” Cole answered. “I said spark “plugs”, where the wires go. Those I’m hesitant to replace.”

“If the spark plugs aren’t working for your spark plug wire, you may have no choice but to retrofit the spark plugs altogether,” Rick said. “”Capiche?”"

Cole saw the connotation all too well. He had to care for his wire. That, however, would have required replacing all three sockets, two of which Cole’s wife never offered him in bed. Clearly, Sheena’s spark plugs were not servicing Cole’s spark plug wire in the manner he wanted. Cole’s dick twitched in frustration.

Rick said, “Give me that wrench.”

Cole reached toward the wooden workbench and tossed Rick the silver tool.

Rick caught it with one hand. He leaned slightly forward as if about to step toward Cole, shifted his weight back, and tootled back to the silver hood. “Sounds like you have a lot on your shoulders,” Rick said.

The subterranean vulgarity in Cole’s voice emerged louder than usual. “I’m managin’.”

“I know about managing,” Rick said argumentatively. From the left side of his hood, he stooped toward its underside. “I’m an assistant manager, for God’s sake.” Rick twisted his soiled arms to his wrench. “Sometimes, however, things can only be handled in certain ways.”

“Excuse me?” Cole said.

Rick peeked out from under his silver hood. “Do I have to get graphic with you? I’m talking about your cock!”

Rick might as well have slugged Cole. For the first time, Cole wanted to put Rick in his place—and this meant doing something that most fellows didn’t do.

Rick finished tightening his battery clamps. “There.” He un-stooped, sashayed to the workbench, and chucked the wrench. “Let me see if I understand,” Rick said, standing in front of Cole. “You work like an ox and provide for your family. You give your wife a son and the freedom to be away from you whenever she wants. Then, Sheena refuses to give you some cooch? For three “months?”"

“Lots of women go sour downstairs after havin’ a baby,” Cole retorted.

“If you come home tired, are hungry for a sandwich, and politely ask your wife to make you one, would she say no because she wasn’t hungry?”

“Of course, not!” Cole said.

“Then, why can’t women apply that principle to sex?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Cole said.

“I am offering you the chance to unload your balls—big time,” Rick said. “What sexually deprived man would decline such an offer?”

“I can’t cheat on ma wife,” Cole said.

“In the ideal world, cheating wouldn’t be necessary,” Rick said. “Open marriages would be acceptable. The absurdity of one man falling for one woman, marrying her exclusively, and never again lusting after—much less, having sex with—other people would be recognized as such. Absurdity. Human beings aren’t built for that.”

Cole whined, “I can’t have sex with a second woman.”

Rick ambled past Cole, stopped under the yellow rectangles of the aluminum garage door, and turned to Cole. “Straight women,” Rick said, half to himself. “They are so suburban.”

“How d’you mean?” Cole said.

“Bikini briefs, for example. Lots of men enjoy wearing them. But more often than not, their ladies freak out. How the “hell “are men supposed to explore their less macho side with taboos against things like that?”

Cole spoke like an adolescent boy afraid to ask a girl out on a date. “D’you enjoy wearin’ … bikinis?”

“I prefer cotton briefs,” Rick said. “Tod, however, loves to wear bikinis. His girlfriend fucking dumped him for that.”

“Tod wears … bikinis?” Cole said incredulously.

“Yeah!” Rick said.

“… and he fucks chicks?”

“Sometimes,” Rick said.

“I don’t get it,” Cole replied.

Rick spoke matter-of-factly. “Tod loves the feel of nylon on him, just like many guys.”

“This is gettin’ too kinky for me,” Cole drawled.

“Brace yourself, then,” Rick said, “because the 2020s will be for men what the 1960s was for women.”

“Come again?” Cole said.

“The coming decade will be about straight guys embracing their bisexuality.”

A guitar string of steel snapped inside Cole.

“Living in the late teens, we can already see the beginnings of that,” Rick proceeded. “Sociologists predict that by 2030, 24% of the population will identify as bisexual.”

“How could that be?” Cole said. “Men are “straight.”"

“As in heteroromantic,” Rick countered. “But for men in particular, that doesn’t mean they can’t be bi”sexual”. After all, males can have sex with or without romantic feelings. They can wank off with anyone. It is women who need a romantic relationship to get them going sexually. Therefore, sociologists predict that male bisexuality will be more widespread than female bisexuality. Monogamy, I remind you, is a gal thing.”

Cole’s brain cells could barely keep up. Still, he managed to speak. “If men are so bi, wha do they act so straight?”

“Social programming,” Rick said casually. “Also, men know that most ladies don’t dig the sight of men shagging. So men keep their mouths shut and repress the gay side of their bisexuality. The good news is that more women are getting turned on by gay sex—just like most men are turned on by lesbian sex.”

“Sounds lak a load of hooey,” Cole said.

“Experience will teach you otherwise,” Rick said.

What was Rick trying to do? Cole griped. Impress him with his Ivy League bullshit?

Stillness fell onto the garage like a giant wedding veil.

Cole’s mouth broke the quiet much as a stack of books spilling out of a backpack. “If ma wife discovers me in a compromisin’ position, ma marriage is over. Her folks will disown me, and ma family will take me to the guillotine.”

“Thus, we have no choice,” Rick said.

“What d’you mean?”

“Either your gonads burst, or we get discreet,” Rick said. “I know the perfect place where we can be discreet.”

Cole parted his lips and drew air to utter something. Something, however, corked his mouth.

Never had Cole been unable to speak. His heart sank like a pancake hitting a skillet, and his cock grew like a dry bean swelling under water in fast motion. On the one hand, Cole’s heart nudged him to be a gentleman. On the other hand, Cole’s dick tugged him in Rick’s direction. Would Rick really find him a woman? Cole wondered.

III

The wooden boards creaked to the skirring of the three. Never had Cole skedaddled—much less, over a woman. If Cole’s wife caught Tod, Rick, and Cole, not only would she have become suspicious. Sheena would have ended Cole’s marriage to her. Hopefully, Cole thought, Rick told the hussy to hide until the yacht was safe at sea.

Tod hopped onto the white floating iron.

The whump of rubber sneakers on metal resounded in Cole’s ears like a cannon firing at dawn.

The lightbulb to Cole’s left went out.

Now, Cole thought, any onlookers had even more reason to be leery of Tod, Rick, and Cole’s behavior. Surrounded by the night, Cole skimmed the quayside.

Rick and Cole entered the limelight of the quay light that followed. Never had a purple-white light shined so brightly.

Quickly, Rick untied the rope of yarn.

Cole flitted onto the white yacht.

Rick jumped in after him.

* * * *

The full moon resembled a golf ball on a black blanket. The many stars, in turn, glittered as if the salt grains of the sea had been dispersed into outer space.

Cole shuddered at the thought of being watched from the darkness of the encircling ocean. Whatever was about to transpire, it would have to occur inside the boat, Cole swore to himself.

On the second deck, Rick turned off the motor.

On the ground deck, Cole’s chaise longue stopped vrooming. Still, Cole felt the leftover itch of the seat slats on his calves, hamstrings, and duff.

Cole turned his straight nose right.

Like Cole, Tod was lounging on a white deck chair. The yellowish lightbulbs of the boat lit Tod’s jade-green polo shirt and blue jeans. Tod’s jeans were frayed here and there and looked as if washed routinely in hot water.

Was Tod wearing bikinis? Cole wondered. Impossible. Not an all-American dude like Tod. Rick must have been pulling the wool over Cole’s eyes—or at least, trying to—when he told Cole otherwise, Cole concluded.

The white vessel pitched and rolled.

Cole fidgeted on his white chaise longue. “What does Rick have in mind, anyway?”

“I wish I knew,” Tod said in his soft-spoken voice.

Cole’s eyes took in the yacht’s varnish of whitewashed metal. “I can’t believe anyone owns a boat lak this.”

As with the first round of fuckings, neither of them touched Rayne beyond spreading him and pulling him harder onto their savagely thrusting cocks. They were both grunting with lust and a slow kindling satisfaction and though it hurt, Rayne was also hard. His prick and balls were rubbing insistently against Chunky Dick’s bare belly, beneath his half open shirt and his swollen purple bell-end was leaking a steady flow of pre-cum as the pair buggered him eagerly. He could feel his balls beginning to tingle with anticipation of release.

Completely at their mercy, Rayne leaned his head back against the Jamaican’s powerful biceps with his knees over Chunky’s shoulders and his wrists still tied to the pipe behind that fellow’s close-cropped scalp. He was moaning deep in his throat, the sounds driven out of him by each hungry thrust, too weak to fight them much longer. With a sickly chuckle, he thought of how Peter Adam would give his left testicle to be able to film this gloriously seedy fuck-fest.

The idea of being observed and recorded whilst this was happening made him lose control of firstly his bladder and then his balls. He soaked Chunky in a fountain of piss, burning hotly out of his tormented cock in an arc of gold that felt like purest joy. Chunky cursed in disgust as Rayne whimpered an incoherent apology. This only made his colleague laugh out loud, then whilst that fellow was still chortling and pounding away like a stud horse at Rayne’s tenderised arsehole, the singer jerked wildly and uttered a strangled yelp of arousal and desperation. His balls contracted uncontrollably and spewed forth a deeply satisfying gush of cum that soaked his chunky assailant’s shirtfront yet again.

Rayne was completely wired, so high this time and so turned on that he was not even aware when his co-conspirators also reached their climaxes up his sore, stretched arsehole not long afterwards.

The concierge at the club called a taxi for him and he went home in a daze. The cabbie looked with some distaste at his disheveled appearance in the rear-view mirror - bloody nose, ripped shirt and spunk-splattered jeans and hair - but said not a word about it. Wylde slouched back in his seat, watching the city roll by in a blur, feeling deliciously sore and slutty. His prick twitched and stiffened insatiably in his pants. When the cab reached number 14 St John’s Gardens shortly after two in the morning, Rayne tipped the driver very generously and vanished as quickly as possible behind his own front door, sliding his hand down urgently into the crotch of his jeans even before the catch had caught.

Off again, we’d arrived at Nigel’s rather nice townhouse.

Sending Nigel to the bedroom, I’d gotten to work with Charles shifting a round, dining table. Nigel’s place was still half in boxes with overseas labels, but I’d found and dug out a trio of cordial glasses.

“This,” I’d informed Charles while tying some rope to the rod-iron staircase rails, “is going to be our hitching post.” I had a hat on my shaved crown and tin sheriff’s badge pinned to my teeshirt.

“Mason,” Charles rubbed his hands down his jeans, “I wanted to be part of this, and I’m not trying to back out, but I really don’t know—”

I put a Stetson on his head and tilted back his chin. His words stopped as his eyes met mine. He looked cute, adorable even in that hat.

I stroked my fingers from chin on down his throat. He shivered and swallowed, but his hungry eyes never left me. “Three things I want you to do,” I told him. “First, follow my lead. Second, remember that this is “Nigel’s” fantasy. Think about what he likes, what you think will please him. Not me. Can you do that? You do like Nigel, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. He’s a great guy—”

“Good,” I cut him off. Letting Charles think too much would make him anxious. “Then we should all have a nice time.”

His eyes flickered over to the ropes, then to the riding crop that waited on a telephone table along with a bottle of lube. His cheeks flushed. Pain, real pain, doesn’t turn Charles on. But he loves to be bound and helpless. And stinging slaps or whips to his ass can bring him almost to orgasm. I knew that handsome, white cock of his was already stiff and wetting his buttondown jeans.

I touched on his cheek, regaining his eyes. In them I saw a mix of lust and fear that made me tingle with anticipation. Leaning in and knocking back the Stetson, I kissed him. He pushed forward, crushing his lips to mine, asking for more even as I broke it off and backed away.

“Remember to cheat.”

“Cheat?” he echoed, his breath coming short.

“That’s the third thing I want you to do.” I snatched the deck of cards off the table and handed it to him. “You’ve got three minutes.” I said stepping up to Nigel’s bedroom.

I knocked. “Ready?” I asked as the Brit opened the door. He had on his hat and fake gun like the rest of us.

The man from Brighton grinned at me. “Feel a right bit odd. Haven’t played cowboys since I was a tike.”

“Just go with it. You’ll have fun.”

“I’m with two gorgeous men. I’m already having fun. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had this much fun since I was a worthless lad sucking off sailors. And you,” he grinned up at me, “are a right good bloke. Ain’t many strapping fellows willing to waste their valuable evening with a potty old fruit like me.”

I smiled back. Nigel was one of the few men I’d ever granted a fantasy to who saw me exactly as I was, no mystique, no stereotype. It was refreshing.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Doc,” I said with a Texas drawl and directed him into the living room. “Glad you could make it. Got this new fella, he heard about your reputation as the best poker player in town. He’d been itchin’ to play against ya. Claims to have been a riverboat gambler. Ain’t that right, Mister Beau.”

Charles, put on the spot, looked taken aback. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d panic. Then he managed, “Yes, sir. That’s right. Riverboats.”

So here we were, playing poker and drinking shots of whiskey. A nice way to ease into the fantasy.

“So whadda think of Dodge, Mr. Beau?” I asked casually.

“Exciting place,” Charles answered, tossing in two quarters, meeting the bet.

“But don’t you miss traveling up and down the Mississippi?” Nigel added his own pair of quarters. The Brit was getting into the game in more ways than one. Good for you, Nigel.

“No sir, I most certainly do not,” Charles said, exaggerating his southern drawl. I almost laughed. There was my boy! He’d figured it out. Nigel loved the accent, so give him the accent. “It’s a slow and muddy river. But I sure do miss the food. I could do me with a mint julep, a little fried catfish….”

I smirked. It was an inside joke. If a brother might digress….Not long after we became a couple, Charles asked if he might cook me dinner. What immediately popped to mind was a hearty southern meal, and so I’d requested catfish. You can imagine my surprise when, seated at the dining table that fateful night, I was ceremoniously presented with a whole fried catfish, sizzling on an iron serving platter and dressed with ponzu sauce.

Charles, it turned out, was deeply into Asian fusion. After putting down the catfish, he leaned in and gave me a crushing hug.

“Thank you,” he said, and I swear there were tears of culinary joy in his eyes. “Most tops only want meat and potatoes.” Then he handed me a pair of chopsticks.

Luckily for both of us, I did like a wide range of cuisines. So I dove in with the chopsticks. The catfish was delicious, fantastic. I just about ate it all and I didn’t confess the truth till later, after I’d rewarded Charles properly and we were lying sated in bed.

He was mortified. “Oh, no! Oh, Jesus!” he’d blushed and covered his eyes, “I’m so stupid! I swear, it never even occurred to me! You said catfish and I just thought of that dish–”

“Hey, hey,” I laughed, “It’s no problem. You can fry it up southern style next time.”

“No, I can’t. I mean, I can find a recipe–”

“Can’t?”

Turned out, Charles didn’t know dick about southern cooking. His parents, cosmopolitan and health conscious, had rarely served him the comfort food of their youth. In fact, they hadn’t even taught him how to cook. He’d learned that from a neighboring Vietnamese family.

“I can’t wait to make you my Banh Xeo,” Charles said after informing me of this. “It’s my signature dish.”

Sometimes I hate multiculturalism.

“Three ladies, gentlemen,” I set down my cards proudly.

“Damn,” Nigel laid out his hand. “Pair of nines.”

“No luck for you tonight, Doc,” I said. We’d played four hands and Nigel had lost every one.

“Read ‘em and weep,” Charles displayed his cards. A trio of aces.

“You’re having the devil’s own luck, Mr. Beau,” I murmured.

Charles reached for the quarters. I slapped my hand down on his wrist. He jumped and so did Nigel.

“The devil’s own luck,” I repeated, “Playing the devil’s own game. Doc, could you look down and check Mr. Beau’s left boot.”

Blinking, Nigel did as I asked. He came back up with two kings. I’d seen Charles rather clumsily scratching at his ankle and switching out the cards. If Nigel had been paying any attention he would have noticed, too. He’d hadn’t, and now the fantasy was really underway.

I brought up my toy gun and pointed it at Charles. “We take cheating very seriously in this town, Mr. Beau.”

Charles slowly raised his hands, almost clasping them behind his head before he remembered and kept them apart. “No harm intended, sheriff—”

“Stand up! Up!”

The chair fell to the floor as Charles did so.

“Get those boots and socks off. Now!” Off came the boots, a card fluttering out of the right one. I tsked and Charles blushed as if he really had done something wrong.

I removed his hat and shook it. Another card fell out.

“Shameful!” I shook my head. “Off with your shirt.”

The tee was pulled off and I heard Nigel suck in a breath as he got his first unhampered look at Charles’ washboard stomach and bulging biceps. A blue chain tattoo circled the right one.

“Now the trousers,” I commanded, unable to keep back a growl of passion.

Charles hands went to the fly, then I saw a flicker. He seemed to remember he was playing a part. “Now just a minute, sheriff—” he protested.

Bravo! I cocked the gun and put it right into his face. It was a toy gun but he actually paled. My pulse amped up. Fear excites me. “You’re gonna prove to the whole saloon that you don’t have any more hidden cards.”

Charles hastily unbuttoned his jeans, and the tremor in his fingers made my cock stiffen. He wore nothing underneath. That’s the wardrobe rules I’ve created for him. When he’s not at work he has to wear button-down jeans, no underwear.

Nigel’s intake of breath wheezed as Charles’ circumcised cock came flopping out. The B-shaped branding scar near his right hipbone blazed stark and pale on his shaved pelvis. His balls swung as he kicked aside the pants. Then he stood there, naked as a Greek statue.

Beautiful.

“Doc, come straighten up this chair and have a seat,” I invited. Nigel, eyes wide, did as he was told. He looked like a man in a dream, wondering what was going to happen next.

“Now,” I said to Charles, “I believe you owe the Doc a public apology.” I stepped around behind him, set his hat back on his head. “On you knees.”

Charles dropped.

“Suck his cock.”

“Sheriff—” Charles objected.

“It’s a dick in your mouth or lead in your teeth.” I pressed the gun against his head. Charles shivered and reached for Nigel’s belt. Nigel was breathing softly now, as if afraid of interrupting. The only move he made was after Charles unzipped him. He raised up his ass so that Charles could get his trousers and underwear down.

The Brit’s cock sprung right up. It rose thin and rosy from a wild patch of straw colored hair. The flared head was already gleaming with anticipatory precum. Charles’ forced strip-tease had certainly aroused Nigel.

A fiery tingle was sparkling down my own rod. I could well imagine the sexual hum that was going through Nigel as this muscled, American cowboy, kneeling at his feet, bent forward, breathed on his cock…

The Brit’s hips bucked as Charles’ lips enfolded him. He moaned and his hands gripped the chair.

I shifted to the side to get a better view. Charles bobbed and slurped then came off to lick and caress those pulsing veins before returning to the head. Charles was a damn good cocksucker and he was doing his award-winning best. But then he knew I was watching his performance, rating it.

Nigel, who I’m guessing hadn’t had it this good in a while, was completely lost. “Jesus, Jesus—” He gasped and groaned and his arms trembled. Having experienced Charles’ talent I knew that Nigel was helplessly leaking salty juices down my boy’s throat. That his balls were now high and hard and boiling. The way that warm mouth was stroking him, the way that tongue was teasing him, he’d be cumming any second now.

He did, thrusting and shuddering so hard I was afraid he’d gone into convulsions. A gargled sound from Charles as he rode the wave and swallowed down Nigel’s hot cream. A pause as both of them caught their breaths.

“Lick it clean, boy,” I growled, redundant as Charles was already at it, but we were still in the fantasy, and he need to be reminded of that.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nigel gasped as Charles’ tongue polished his still bobbing cock and flaxen-haired balls.

“That apology to your satisfaction, Doc?”

“Shit, yes!”

“Good. Then there’s only one more lesson to teach.” I snagged Charles under the arm. I pulled him up and spun him toward the stair rails. “Hands on the hitching post!”

He obeyed, still breathing hard, lips glistening with saliva and cum. I holstered my gun and got the ropes tied about his wrists.

“W-what are you going to do?” he managed to get out.

“You’re going to show the whole town what happens to cheats.” I snatched up the riding crop. “Meaning I’m gonna horsewhip you.”

“Sheriff, please—”

I slapped the whip across his tight, muscled ass. He jerked and caught a strangled breath. I laid another whipping across his crack and followed it with one up under his buns. Charles has a great ass. Muscled and white enough to show off those red welts. Neat, clean stripes appeared on his tender skin. I whipped him again, loving the whistling swish that always warns the victim that an evil, burning sting is coming. Charles cried out and clung to the rails, legs apart and trembling.

The shaking wasn’t from pain. Charles has taken worse than what I could inflict with my riding crop. It was the fantasy. He was into it now and his vivid imagination had him tied to a hitching post, naked and whipped in public.

Knowing that’s what he probably had on his mind made my cock rock hard. It throbbed with each mark I gave him, twitched with each yelp and moan.

I unbuckled and unzipped. I didn’t have anything on underneath either and my cock slapped up against my stomach, ready to pummel that sore, red ass. A final few whips that made Charles’ breath come in hissing gasps and his hands clutch white knuckled on the bars. His balls swung.

Precum spilled out of my slit in such copious amounts that I almost didn’t’ need the lube. But I exchanged the whip for the bottle and covered myself with it.

Then I spread his ass cheeks.

I paused, breathing hard. Sweat was itching down from under my hat. I glanced back. Nigel, pants still down and cock flopped over his thigh, was watching avidly. I almost wished we had some popcorn for him to munch on, he looked that enthralled.

“Let’s give the whole town a look at that pucker,” I said in my lowest, meanest voice and Charles shivered down from shoulders to ass. In his mind, every occupant of our mythical Dodge City was now stepping out or leaning from their windows to watch his humiliation. The very thought left him breathless with arousal. Sweat trickled down his spine and crawled into his crack. His pink hole fluttered with need and my lubed finger easily slid in.

I fucked him like that for a minute, stretching and greasing his warm, eager interior. “That’s right. Everybody’s watching me toy with you.”

Charles gulped and pressed his burning face into the bars, even as his welted ass pushed back, begging for me. My cock responded, barely letting my fingers escape before it pushed in. Charles hissed and groaned as I entered in one smooth glide. As I passed over his prostate he uttered a cry that was almost a sob.

I fucked him slow and steady, making sure to hit that sweet spot again and again. I could see, below, drips of precum from his cock falling and puddling on the floor along with drops of sweat. But when I reached around to give his dick a stoke I found it only at half-mass. Velvety slick with juice, but still not stiff.

He must be more anxious about his performance than I thought. Well, there was an easy enough way to get him hard, one I’d never used, but I knew would work.

I rested myself along his sweaty backbone and whispered into his ear, “You’re mine, white boy. And I’ll give you to whomever I damn please.”

His cock leapt up from my hand like a jack-in-the-box. I swear I’ve never felt a dick go so hard so fast.

“Doc!” I called, “Would you care to milk this steer for me?”

Nigel didn’t need to be asked twice. He stumbled over, holding up his still unzipped pants, and went to his knees. He latched his lips onto Charles cock.

I increased my speed, banging away at Charles, grunting and loving that slow burn making its way up and down my cock. Nigel hummed, and Charles rocked to and from our combined assault.

“Gonna learn you a lesson, cheater,” I said. Below, Nigel licked and relished Charles’ cock like a kid with a bright red licorice stick. “Take your medicine from both ends.”

“I’m gonna…gonna cum—” he panted.

“Think so?” I growled, tugging at his hair and jolting him up the ass with my thrusts.

“Please, can I cum—”

“Cum,” I commanded, and he did, his ass bucking, his sphincter clamping hard and tight on my rod. The squeezing sent a sizzle though me, one that pulled the trigger and made me fire my load deep into his chute.

Charles shuddered to an end even as I rode him.

“Oh, fucking Christ!” I heard Nigel moaning from the floor.

I finished, gasping, sweat dripping down my face and making my shirt stick to my back. Fuck. I thought, wiping a shaking hand across my brow. I love role-playing.

Nigel was slumped against the stairs, his mouth and chin bathed in cum. He shut his eyes and licked at his shiny lips. I pulled my cock free and without bothering to zip up, came around and untied Charles. Released, he collapsed, wincing as his welted behind hit the cold, wet floor. He was gasping for breath and bathed in persperation. I leaned against the rails myself, fighting for a second wind. There was a third act to the play involving another round of poker with some very different stakes. I was about to suggest it when Nigel interrupted.

“O.K. Corral,” he wheezed.

I wiped at my face again, taken aback. “Really?” It was the safeword. “Are you sure?”

Nigel laughed weakly. “God, yes. You two do any more and you’ll give me heart failure. I’m not a horny, young chap, just a dirty, middle-aged fart. Not that I wouldn’t like to keep going if I could. That was the best fuck I’ve had in years.” There was a bittersweet glimmer to his eyes. “Too many years.” He wiped at his sticky chin with his fingers and licked the tips as if finishing off the butter and salt from his popcorn.

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed? I fucking loved it!” The Brit glanced over at Charles. “Can I hug him?”

I might have said no. Bottoms can get ultra-sensitive after an intense session, and this had been pretty intense. I wasn’t sure if anyone but me ought to touch Charles, but Nigel was a good guy. I didn’t think he’d overdo it. “Go ahead.”

Coming up on his knees, the Brit threw his long arms about Charles’ neck, which got a blink of surprise from my boy.

“Thank you!” he said effusively, and almost knocked Charles hat off as he kissed him on the cheek. “That was wonderful! Splendid! I’m so glad I came to the States! I will love you both forever!”

I had to laugh. “Could you get us some damp towels so we can clean up?”

“Of course, of course. And I’ll make us all a cuppa, shall I?”

Cup of tea, I assume he meant. “Sure.”

Nigel stumbled off to the bathroom. I settled down next to Charles and used my hat to fan myself.

“Was that okay?” Charles asked anxiously. He still looked dazed and lost. “Did I do all right?”

I put my arm across his bare shoulders and dragged him in close. “You did right well, partner.”

#

Nash wanted to see me. He’d said as much on my voice mail.

“I want to see you. Ten-thirty, my place.”

Which, as a top, made me bristle, but Nash talked to everyone like that. As if he were General Patton and we were grunts in his army. So, at ten-twenty-five, I turned my Scion into the horseshoe drive of Nash’s opulent, ranch-style home.

Nash’s personality is well known, his background less so. He’d been in the marines once upon a time, which I knew but most of his patrons did not. I also knew, from the twang in his speech, that he came from the Midwest. As a voice actor, I’m pretty good with dialects.

As for the rest, he smoked either slim cigars or cigarettes in a holder, and was fastidious especially when it came to personal hygiene. His hair was regularly trimmed and he had his nails manicured every Thursday. He liked raw oysters, golf, gambling on the horses, and slender, obedient young men. This last had made more than one self-righteous top question whether Nash was a “real” leatherman. I tended to think he was, but then I think anyone with enough rebellious, fighting spirit and a taste for fetishware qualifies as a leatherman.

Who Nash was or what he’d been beyond that was a mystery. He had money, enough that he’d been able to buy the Cockpit Bar outright, no loans needed. His five-room, hillside house was in the upscale part of town. It had glitter in the stuccoed walls and a backyard that included fruit trees, a badminton net, a very large hot tub and a guesthouse.

I had just gotten out of my car and crossed to the step when Hadji threw open one of the double doors. He was a little out of breath and I got the feeling that he’d made a dash for the entrance hall, as if letting me ring the bell would have been an insult. Hadji was nineteen going on twenty but he still looked like a boy: small and slender with smooth, dusty brown skin, silky black hair and jet eyes.

The last time I’d seen him, he’d been serving drinks in the nude. This morning he was more modestly dressed in a leather jockstrap and Nash’s distinctive black dog collar complete with dog tags. He shivered as the October wind struck him. No surprise. I was wearing a fleece-lined coat and I was cold.

“Sir!” He stepped back as I entered, shutting the door behind me as quickly as decorum allowed. Nash didn’t bring his boys to the Cockpit, so the only way a person was likely to encounter them is if they visited Nash’s home. I’d met Hadji at the annual Fourth of July backyard barbecue, and all that I remembered about him was Nash’s insistence that the boy was Pakistani even though his accent was Canadian.

As for what the kid remembered about me…I had thought that I’d melted in with the other leathermen that night, but evidently not. Hadji, going up on tiptoe to help me off with my jacket, was scanning my height, my muscles and, most especially, my crotch with lustful nostalgia. It was the sort of look I got from men who’d been fantasizing about me. And masturbating in the shower while doing it.

I saw him lick his lips as he hung my coat in the hall closet. Hadji, by the way, is not his name. That’s just what Nash calls him, much to my annoyance. He might as well call “me” Sambo. But it was Nash’s home, Nash’s boy and I doubted that Hadji had any objections anyway.

“This way, sir,” Hadji said, with an attitude reminiscent of a small, eager-to-please dog. He took me down an airy hallway with overhead lamps shaped like stars. The place was immaculate, the floors polished smooth as mirrors, the white rugs spotless. It was quite warm and smelled of furniture polish and cigarettes.

“Is there anything I can get you sir?” Haji asked. “We have hot coffee and tea, soft drinks—”

“Mineral water?”

“Yes, sir. Right away sir. Ice? Master Nash is in there, sir.” He waved to the living room before hurrying off. I watched him go. I’m not into twinks, especially overly submissive ones, but Hadji did have a very tempting bubble butt. I liked the way those brown globes sifted against one another as he walked. Very spankable.

Nash’s living room had 60’s modern furniture, including low couches and a kidney-shaped coffee table. The color scheme was all gold and avocado green. He was standing at an easel near the picture window. Out in the backyard flame colored trees rustled and shed their leaves.

For a man nearing fifty, Nash still looked hard and strong. He was dressed in a black tee, combat trousers and boots, as confident and arrogant as an aging commander. His wavy brown hair was streaked with gray. His eyes were very light in color, close to amber and very cold. They were perusing the image on the canvass, which, to me, looked like a five-year-old’s finger painting.

No, I take that back. A five-year-old would have done a better job.

“You can’t paint worth shit.” I flopped down on one of the couches. My knees came up almost to my chin forcing me to push back into a corner in order to stretch my legs.

“Well, I guess I won’t waste money on art classes then.” Nash put down his paintbrush. He had a holder in his teeth, the cigarette at the end was almost all ash.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, settling down across from me and, thankfully, tapping his cigarette into a vintage ashtray. “I’ll get right to the point. I want to talk about Robbie.”

Robbie? I stiffened up. Nash has never been able to sympathize with Robbie’s romantic nature and I’ve often feared that he might one day fire the bartender. I hoped that wasn’t what this was about, because if it came to that I’d have to leave the Cockpit in protest.

A lot of us would.

Hadji reappeared with my sparkling water and cup of rooibos tea for Nash. The boy set the drinks on coasters before going to stand at Nash’s elbow.

“Robbie is very well liked,” Nash went on, “He’s the sort of bartender turns newcomers into regulars and keeps regulars feeling special. An asset to the bar.”

“No argument,” I said, relieved enough by the direction this was taking to sip at my water.

“Now, I don’t pretend to understand his love life,” Nash went on, “And I don’t want to understand it. Too queer for me. But I know some asshole broke up with him and made him unhappy. And that’s not good for business.”

“It’s not too good for Robbie, either,” I noted sarcastically.

Nash shrugged. “I suppose not. That’s why I want you to give him a fantasy for his birthday. My treat.”

I nearly spit up my water. “Say what?”

Nash flipped his cigarette holder. “You know. Lift his spirits. Make him feel better about himself. All that queer self-esteem shit.”

“That’s be a great idea, except that I haven’t any inclinations toward Rob and he hasn’t any toward me.”

Swirls of smoke drifted up to the ceiling. Nash’s amber eyes mocked me. “What about all those times you said that one day you’d give Robbie the romantic evening of his dreams?”

“I meant that as a…as an enchanted fuck buddy night. You know. Wine, poetry and sex and then everything back to the way it was in the morning, no harm, no foul.”

“Queer shit.” Nash snorted and drank his tea.

“Yeah, well, none of that’s gonna fly given the state he’s in right now. He’d take it as pity and he’d be right.”

“His birthday’s in a week,” Nash dismissively pointed out. “He ought to be over it by then.”

Sometimes, I think that Nash is just clueless. Other times I think, like all tops, he likes jerking chains, the shithead. “Look, Nash…” I started. Then stopped. Wait. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad an idea.

“I’m not meaning you should do it all on your own.” Nash blithely waved about his cigarette holder like a conductor leading an orchestra. “I’d be happy to provide anything you might need…within reason, of course.”

“Of course.” Cheapskate. “How about the guest house? Could I have that for the evening?”

He shrugged. “Why not? I’ll be out of town anyway, so…”me casa su casa”.”

“How about the black Beamer?” Nash owned one sweet, BMW sedan, a carriage for a Cinderfella if there ever was one.

He hesitated at that, flicking ash into the tray. “Well, it’s insured. Okay.”

“And Hadji,” I glanced over at his boy who stood there absolutely still, eyes lowered and hands behind his back. “I’ll need Hadji.”

“Sure. Take him.”

I leaned forward. “I mean, I going to “really” need him. He has to be completely at my beck and call.”

Nash smirked. “Fancy Man you can do whatever the fuck you like to him. Sodomize him with the garden hose if you want. Just make sure he can still walk when you’re done.” Nash was far less worried about me denting his slave than he was about me denting his car. “Hadji?”

“Master?” the boy perked.

“From now till next, oh, Friday, you will answer to Master Mason as you would answer to me. Anything he wants you to do, and I mean anything, you do. “Capisce”?”

Hadji sucked in a breath. “Yes sir!”

“Then it’s settled,” Nash stood up and I rose with him. “Keep the expenses minor and I’ll pay those as well.” He stuck out his hand.

I hesitated. Shaking hands with Nash was as good as signing a contract. It was the one other thing I knew for sure about the man, you did not screw him. If I shook, I was committed. If it had been for anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have done it. But this was Robbie. I grabbed hold of Nash’s hand and we sealed the deal.

“You’ve just hired the Fancy Man,” I told him. “You’ll get my best.”

“That’s all I’m askin’. Robbie’s a wreck.” It was the closest Nash was going to get to saying that he cared.

Walking out to my car afterwards I wondered what kind of headache I’d just inherited. Giving Robbie a romantic evening was easy enough, but giving him a romantic fairytale after his heart had just been badly broken?

That was going to be a challenge.

“To be continued…”