The Stripper

Near Home—September, 2013

 I was back at the bookstore which is closest to my home.  I had bought the combo pass, so I could go back and forth between the gay and straight theatre. 

 I am on my knees in the back corner of the straight theatre.  I wipe a fleck of cum out of my mustache and onto my tongue.  The man who just came in my mouth is all business—wiping his cock down, doing up his belt, and hurrying out of the theatre before some other man might come in and figure out that he let me blow him.  I rock back on my heels and just stay in the corner.  It’s the third load I’ve swallowed tonight.  I can’t find a single man to attend to my cock.  The few men here have all been eager to unload in me.  I close my eyes and lean against the black cinder block wall.  It’s cool and rough.  I’m alone in the theatre, but for the squeals on the movie.

Eventually I move to the low couch.  The faux leather feels more comfortable than the floor.  I sit on the side where the springs have not been sprung by the overweight porn watchers.  I watch the flick.  It’s one of those fuck-my-wife-as-I-watch videos.  I don’t bother to stroke.  I’m pretty sure I’m not getting off tonight.

The door buzzes.

The most stunning twenty-something walks in.  He is not tall, maybe 5’7”.  He has longish, dark hair which curls slightly.  A Roman sculptor would ask him to model.  He’s dressed in a white, white shirt and khaki’s which hug his bubble butted ass.  He sprawls in one of the chairs against the side wall.  He watches the movie intently.

I open my fly.  My cock is at full erection.  I stroke.

He glances at me, stands up and says “Do you care if I get comfortable?”

“No.”

He kicks off his penny loafers.  The white shirt is off first and hung on the back on a neighboring chair.  The khakis come down and are carefully folded.  He is wearing a cross between a thong and a wrestling singlet.  It’s cut in back to go up his crack, showing off his magnificent ass.  The electric blue spandex goes up to thin straps on his shoulders.  Most of his back is bare.  He turns and sits.  His chest, seen through the fabric, is as sculpted as his aquiline nose.  But there is next to no bulge where it counts.

His hand goes to his crotch.  He begins kneading himself through the fabric.  There is no evidence this is having any effect.  That’s not true in my lap—my cock is painfully hard and dripping.  I stroke it, showing it off.

The young man gets up.  He pulls the chair away from the wall.  He leans against the back of it, thrusting his ass towards me.  He begins doing deep plies.  But his plies end with a slight hip thrust.

I watch and stroke.

Finally:  “Can I help?”  I walk over to him, my cock jutting out obscenely.

“Yeah,” he says.  “I have a show tonight.  Stripping at the gay bar.”

I  nod.  “What do you need?”  I am pretty sure I know the answer to that as his ass points right at my erect cock.

“Spank me.”

I pause.  I remove my pre-cum soaked hand from my cock and whack his right ass cheek.

“Harder.”  He bends over the chair, thrusting his ass back.  I back hand his left cheek.  “Oh, yeah.  Like that.”

I hit him again. Alternating right and left.  A red glow is developing on his bare, hairless ass.  He swings the chair around and kneels in it, presenting me a better target.

I spank him.  As hard as I can—with him coaxing me on.  I spit on his right cheek and slam my palm into him.  The spit helps change the sound of it all.  And he loves it.  I spit on his left and paddle that side.

I pause.  Nothing ventured…and all that.

I kneel.  My tongue connects with the thin fabric covering his ass hole.

“Ohhhh…” he groans.  I try to work my tongue around the strap.  He wiggles away.  “Hit me again.”

I stand.  Right.  Left.  Right.

He gets up off the chair.  “Thanks.”  He turns.  He has a beautiful bulge under the spandex.  “Ready for work,” he tells me.  “This helps with the tips.”  He reaches down and ties a piece of rawhide lace around his cock and balls.  Tight.  To keep the blood in place. 

“I’m straight,” he continues, grabbing his khakis and putting them on.  “Well, Bi.”  The shirt goes on next.  As he sits down to slip into the loafers, he is eye level with my cock.  He looks at it for a long moment.  “Damn.  I think I’m about a month away from going gay.”

I wait. 

But his paycheck calls.  He starts for the door.

“Catch our show,” he says, over his shoulder.  “And thanks again.”

Once again I’m alone in the darkness.