Glass Houses

What it feels like to enter a Strip Contest

My dick is one inch long


My therapist is a prostitute. I pay her two hundred dollars. I strip naked and we talk about my dick. I make her look at it. My dick is so short I don’t even feel it in my hand when I jack off. It’s so short my orgasm feel like popping a pimple. I make the prostitute yell at my dick to grow. I just think it needs discipline. Growing up I was told to never touch it or feed it, so I think it stunted its growth. My dick can be very insecure. It hated gym in middle school. My dick has self esteem problems.

The last Wednesday of every month the Omega Bar has its strip contest worth $50. Intentionally it begins right after the shirtless men drink free from 10-11 p.m. I’d seen it hundreds of times. It’s not like I needed the money. Actually the drag queen begged me to participate. Well, she didn’t beg, just mentioned it in passing. Well she didn’t just mention it to me as she announced it on the microphone but I knew she was talking directing to me. I tried to play coy and shy, but after seeing the hundreds of inebriated rejects who obviously needed attention fail miserably, I convinced myself I could win. I could do a better job. I told myself I had nothing to lose. I told myself it would be great self-esteem for my dick.

In the contest, the person had to strip to their underwear in front a dick hungry crowd. It was a gay bar. They were all old and fat and hadnt’ been laid since the Civil War. I knew they would stare. I knew they would outline the print, measure the inches by how far their tongues stuck out. I wasn’t trying to embrass myself. I was making a statement. I was refusing any longer to feel ashamed. I was taking those pills they advertise a four in the morning and send to my email. It was as if everybody knew my dick was on one inch long.

Immediately, there was regret after I gave the DJ my name and picked out a song to take my clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk enough. The shirtless men drink free hour went by too quickly and I needed more liquid courage. I sprinted to the bar. I figured vodka always made me do stupid things, so I ordered vodka and cranberry and then another one, and then another, and another one. My heart began to pound. I told myself I should have done those fifty sit-ups. I looked around the bar, at the strangers who would judge me , and they looked ravenous. On my fourth vodka and cranberry in less than 15 minutes, I heard my name. The drag queen had yelled my name like Grandma calling me in from the streets to eat dinner and get ready for bed. I wanted to back out, run the opposite direction. She called my name again. I lowered my head. And just when I decided to avoid a very awkward situation, the drag queen noticed me, pointed the light towards me, and commanded me to come to the stage. I felt trapped. I screamed in my head, “What the fuck did I agree to?”On stage with the lights shining directly in my face, on my body, I froze. I looked out in the crowd for a friendly face, but nothing but disappointing one-night stands, disses and misses, no friends. Nobody cheered me. I felt utterly alone and naked and I hadn’t started stripping. They started the song I handpicked. I closed my eyes. I tried to find a beat. I tugged at my shirt. I tried to remember scenes in movies and television, something I knew I could mimic, grab, hold on for dear life. I remembered “Footloose” where Kevin Bacon taught that idiot how to dance. I quickly realized that I was the idiot and was making a fool of myself. I knew I needed another movie, and thought about “Dirty Dancing” but I couldn’t figure if I wanted to play Patrick Swazee or Jennifer Grey. Next, I remembered Demi Moore in "Striptease" but I wasn’t so ambitious. Lastly, I remembered the tacky “Showgirls” with that “Save by the Bell” hooker Elizabeth Berkeley and knew I found my muse. I just needed to be as tacky and offensive as possible. So I took it off and folded it neatly like I worked at the Gap. I placed my clothes neatly on the side stage like undressing for a one-night stand, making sure to remember everything so I wouldn’t forget nothing when I woke and suddenly knew it was a bad decision. I got to my underwear. I could feel my dick retreat like the coward it was. I slapped my balls, felt the pain shot through my body like burning down the house to make sure my dick was could out to play. I teased the crowd. I figure I show them some ass, make them think of pussy, but I knew they all just wanted dick.

I shook my ass to Tina Turner “Rolling on the River.” Did I mention it was a gay bar? On stage, drowning in the bright light with no lifesaver was beginning to feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I felt my dick smash against my underwear like I just hit the brakes at a 100 mph and it came flying forward. The crowd just looked at me like they were all on painkillers and I was a freak in a cage at an insane asylum throwing himself against the walls. I kept dancing. I was spinning like Tina Turner, throwing my hands out in the air, playing with my nipples, hopping to get some damn attention. I tried to smile, so that the starving crowd figured me friendly and could be petted, tipped. I could tell they were bored and emabrassed for me. I could tell them the drag queen who shook her head thought she was going to have to take off her Judy Garland over the rainbow heels and put me out of my misery. I shook my ass, trying to get at least a smile or sign of life. I felt as panicked as a paramedic pumping on the chest of a geriatric yelling at him to live. LIVE DAMNIT!!

I played with the tip of my underwear. I stuck a finger in my ass. I straightred my socks. I crawled around on the floor like in that movie “Flashdance.” I did anything to live in that bright ass light. I’d watched so many drunks before on Wensdeday night die miserly in that bright light and I thought they were just retarded. I thought it would be so easy to take off my clothes in front of strangers, after all, I’d done it so many times before. Two minutes into the song, I just wanted the nightmare to end. When I was just about to quit, storm off stage, I got my first fan. He shoved a dollar down my underwear, maybe out of pity. I could feel my eyes fill with tears. My dick was happy somebody liked him. The winter finally started to thaw but I felt tired going into the second minute of the song, clinging to my breath. I shook my ass. I bent over. I tugged at my underwear. I winked. I licked my nipples. I did a split. I begged in my eyes for the indifferent crowd to love me. To please love me! And all I got was four damn dollars.

The hardest four dollars I ever worked for in my life. Then it was over. The drag queen told the DJ to stop the music. She had had enough. She instructed me to pick up my clothes and exit the stage. I felt used. I felt like I just had sex with an entire group of men and didn’t get off. But yet as I put on my clothes in a dark corner, like I’ve done so many times in my life, I had no regrets. My hands shook as I button up my shirt because gallons of adrenaline were pumping through my veins. I felt exhilarating. Most importantly, I felt I was in a good place in my life. Years ago, I could have never done such a thing because I hadn’t accepted my dick. Now everybody had seen it. They saw the freak. It was only one inch long. It was no longer a secret. I felt free.
A hour later and many more drinks, I was back on stage and I knew I was going to lose, and not to the hot Latino with the “Jennifer Lopez” wide ass in his grandma underwear, but to Edgar, the lovable and lesser intelligent black Forest Gump with one arm. His song of choice, “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. The crowd cheered as the drunk Edgar started unbuttoning his jeans with his one arm, then in a very bold move he revealed that he wasn’t wearing underwear, in which of course the crowd immediately jeered, yelling for Edgar to keep his clothes on rather than take them off. He had already revealed too much, the head of what seem like a very large penis. It had the biggest dick I’d ever seen.

His dick made my dick look like one of his pubic hairs. Edgar, in his toothless grin, crawled around on the floor. They just threw dollars at him. He was like the big headed slow girl with big tits. He was Anna Nicole Smith. I felt so damn flat chested.

They quickly forgot about me and my naughty performance to Tina Turner’s “Rolling on the River.” They had forgotten how I shook my ass and did that Tina Turner dip and spin. I was going to lose.

When I awoke the next morning with the hangover, then memory, I just screamed in embarrassment. I felt something move in my bed, that’s when I turned to my left and it was Edgar. What the fuck! He was in my bed with that toothless grin, both of us naked, his big dick gently cuddle my small dick like it just had a baby. I knew I was going to have a lot to talk about to my prostitute therapist.

Cuming out of my underwear

Coming out in my underwear by Michael Whitley (copyright 2008)

I discovered my hard dick at twelve years old in the Sunday newspaper, the middle section, between arts and entertainment and the metropolitan, the part that fell out and spilled onto the floor if held incorrectly. It’s the part only important to bored housewives, the consumer section, filled with coupons to get ten cents off green peas or a bucket of chicken free if you buy a cake and large soda. I learned to read when I was four years old, or at least I learned to recognize certain words, so I anticipated the Sunday paper for the cartoons because I liked the funny colorful faces, but it wasn’t until I was nine years old that I started paying attention to the department store advertisements: average looking people wearing average looking clothes that were half off for some dead President’s birthday. Maybe it was just curiosity, maybe I was looking for a new toy when I first opened one of the department store advertisements and flipped passed the pictures of dull jewelry, plain looking women looking bored, little boys and little girls trying to appear happy, towards the back, where at first rugged men posed in khakis and business suits, but as I flipped further, the clothes lessen, first to short shirts and jeans, and then finally, the men’s underwear section.

As I stared at the page, I felt different but I didn’t know what it was, the heat, why my stomach felt uneasy, why my heart quickened and thrust in its cage, why I stopped and studied strange men with defined lumps for a stomach, hard nipples, smooth slender arms, and muscular legs protruding confidence. Their glistening almost naked bodies were curiously appealing but it was the underwear, not so innocence that clung to masculine hips like a tightly gripped fist hiding a secret. It was the same mystery of neighbor’s Ken doll, how I stripped it bare hoping to find something I needed, but there was nothing, just smoothed over lust. Staring at the page, it was different than the Ken’s doll, no longer plastic but flesh and alive and seemly calling me to its rabbit hole. I found myself touching the page with my left hand, and my right hand suddenly with a mind of its own slid itself down my pants, and as I ran my twelve year old hand across glossy teasing hoping to absorb a feeling, find its secrets, I realized that I was different, and the discovery frightened and excited me.

I wasn’t like most growing boys; I wanted underwear for Christmas and my birthday. I loved going shopping with my mother so that I could gently pull my hand from her when she saw a pair of shoes or purse she had to have, and sneak over to the men’s section. It was there that Sunday newspaper came alive, not just men in one type of underwear but men in various type of underwear: bikinis, thongs, briefs, boxer briefs and jocks. I liked the Designer labels because the models were raw with sweaty slippery skin and seductive penetrative glances. I started buying my father underwear for his birthday and Father’s day. My mother thought it was strange for young boy spending two months of his allowance to get his father a Calvin Klein mesh bikini or a leopard thong. I would ask her why it was strange, hoping she would reveal the secret I was so longing to hear, but she’d just smile as if she knew that I didn’t know what I was doing like a baby cursing manically, just repeating what he heard. My father was a military man, hardly spoke and demanded quiet children, so when I handed him his birthday and father’s day presents wrapped in the Sunday cartoons, he’d open it casually, shake his head in disbelief and throw the box in the trash. It was exactly what I wanted him to do. And when everyone was sleep, I would sneak from my bed, rummage through the trash, pluck out the box and dust it off. I would sneak back to my room and with a pair of plastic scissors I cut the picture out and place it at the bottom of my drawer. My allowance increased as I got older, and I had a part time job with the church cutting grass and also delivered the paper in my neighborhood, so soon my father’s presents became cliché, a tie with a frog on it or a coffee cup that said “world greatest dad” and I started buying the underwear just for me. I also bought me a lockbox to keep my hobby protected.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my mother started needlessly interrupting my life. She was bored, my older sister started college and my father had been shipped off to Korea to train soldiers to be sent to the Gulf War, so it was just us and she had no job. I stayed in my room with my door closed and demanded to be left alone. She didn’t. One weekend she decided to invite her sister and her rowdy kids to come visit us. She didn’t even ask or warn me. I just heard the door bell ring, screaming, and suddenly two cousins I hadn’t seen since I was five years old were sleeping in my room. Derrick and Derek were fraternal twins and a couple of months older than me. They barely looked like brothers. Derrick was short, stocky and insecure about both so he overcompensated by being extra belligerent. He was a red-blooded thug. Derek his younger brother by two minutes was the complete opposite. He was tall, slender like a slice of grass and almost as fragile. Derrick voice filled a room but Derek often whispered if he spoke at all. Yet, Derek was Derrick’s sheep. He followed his older brother blindly often to juvenile detention centers or getting kicked out of schools.

I somehow managed to avoid all human contact even at school. I had no friends and felt comfortable living in my head with my science fiction books, underwear hobby and the television. All that changed. My mother felt I needed to hang around other boys my age. She didn’t understand other boys my age didn’t like me. She didn’t understand that she was offering up a seductive rabbit to ravenous wolves that liked to play with their food before they killed and ate it. I somehow had managed to avoid the bullies at my high school and my mother moved two of them into my room. The twins didn’t read books. They brought with them a bb gun, basketball, football, and a stash of porn.

At first I tried to fit in. I tried throwing the ball around with them. I tried staying up all night watching violent movies like Scarface and The Godfather. I tried to seem interested in their dirty magazines. I’d watched the two twins sit up late at night and flip through their stash of busty women in bad lingerie and even worse make-up, how the heat in their underwear would rise but mine stayed cold. I didn’t play sports nor did I care about Hustler and Playboy magazines. It was the first time I was around real boys. I somehow managed to avoid gym. The twins seem so free with their bodies. If I was taking a shower, one of them would just walk in and start using the bathroom. They seem to know no boundaries. I slept in my pajamas, they slept in their underwear. They always seem to be almost naked around me. It confused me. I wondered if all boys were like the twins, so free with their bodies. They figured we all had the same equipment so it was no need to hide it. I encouraged such thinking.

Yet, however hard I tried, the harder I failed. It was clear that we couldn’t be friends. I was just too flimsy for their taste. I didn’t like the unsolicited punches in the arm, twisting of the nipples or sometimes sneaky blows to the nutsack. I complained about everything. The twins decided they didn’t like me and made it very clear they were going to beat the shit out of me the minute we were alone. I hated my mother. I hated her more when she decided to take a spa day with her recently re-discovered sister. I was left alone with Derrick and Derek. Three hours later I had locked myself in the bathroom because Derrick had gotten out his BB gun and shot me in the arm while I was washing dishes and again in the back of the neck. I was scared for my life. If I had gotten access to a phone I would’ve called the police. I decided to stay in the bathroom until my mother returned. I was going to show her my blood and demand their eviction. It was Derek, suddenly the kinder of the twins, who begged for me to come out of the bathroom. He promised that his brother was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. I ignored him. And then I heard a loud scream, Derrick screaming for Derek to come see what he found in my bedroom. I immediately knew the bastard somehow opened my lockbox and found my hobby. I snatched open the bathroom door, not caring for my life anymore but the secret I had promised to take to my grave. And just like I thought, Derrick had found my stash of men, cut out pictures from underwear boxes and Sunday advertisements. It was almost three years worth, the older pics beginning to fade and tear at the edges, the newer pics shimming in their glossiness. “He’s a real faggot,” Derrick laughed. I knew immediately what he meant. I liked men more than just friends. I wasn’t as horrified as I imagined I would be, because finally my heat had a name which meant I had an identity and there were others like me. I raced over to my bed, swung at Derrick and hit him in the face and knocked him off the bed. He stared up at me with intense surprise, his nose started to bleed and when I went to hit him again, Derek caught me, but not to hold me down, but stopping me from killing his brother. Derek helped me put my secret back in its box. Derrick ran out the room.

I thought he was going to tell. I thought as soon as our mothers returned Derrick was going yell at the top of his lungs what he found, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet. Yet, he didn’t say another word to me the rest of their trip, and I didn’t know if it was because I’d hit him so hard or because I was gay. He even stopped sleeping in my room. He slept in the living room on the floor by the big television. At first Derek also slept with him, but one night I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and there was Derek standing there in his underwear and his heat. His underwear was the domestic kind, the ones that came six in a box and the same color. His underwear hung from his narrow waist, a delicate cotton white, almost transparent, with a yellow strip, the elastic band a couple of more washes from retirement. “Do you want to?” I could barely breathe. I knew what he meant. Derek didn’t say much, but when he did, he got straight to the point. It was the first time I realized his face, so young and gentle, his eyes a shimmering hazel, his curly brown hair, he wasn’t drop dead gorgeous but comfortable. In my next breath, as I mouthed the word yes, he was no longer my cousin, tormentor, he was now my lover. He grabbed my waist and kissed me as he pushed me into the room. I closed the door and locked it. We didn’t even speak. I usually slept in a t-shirt, underwear and a pair of old shorts. Derek pulled my arms up and slid my shirt off. And then he unbuckled my shorts and they fell to my ankles. I also found myself falling to Derek’s nipples, then belly button, and finally the tip of his impoverished underwear. His stomach was so small, soft and flat like a deflated balloon, not at all like the pictures of the men on the underwear boxes who stomachs look as if it was chiseled from marble. At the tip of Derek’s underwear, there was a faint sense of must, he was sixteen years old, his pubic hair seemed new, almost wet. I slid Derek’s underwear down, and it was so natural, had never done anything thing like that in my life, and I found what had been missing in the pictures, his dick. It was no longer just heat, but flesh on a mission. It stood before not defiant or cocky but almost vulnerable and begging for touch. I grabbed it with my right hand and squeezed, like I had squeezed my own, and I felt Derek’s body slightly convulse, and he pushed his pelvic towards my face, I opened my mouth, at first tasting the tip with my tongue as if sticking my foot in a water to see if it’s warm and safe before I plunged into the deep end, and then I slowly slid Derek’s hard dick in my mouth, past the tongue and towards my throat. He wasn’t even in for two minutes before he unloaded; his knees buckling like a fallen horse. He pulled his underwear up and left my room. I swallowed what he left behind in my mouth.
***************************************
The twins and their mother left the next day. I didn’t say goodbye or saw Derek again. I did steal a pair of his dingy underwear from his bag. I also noticed that a couple of pictures from my treasure chest were missing. A decade and half had past and I’d forgotten all about Derek. I wondered what happened to his life. I wondered what type of man him grew up to be. Did he have a mustache? Did he get fat? Had he learned to last more than two minutes in bed? I did hope at least he gotten better underwear

Tony

Destruction

if I didn’t think with my dick
my life would be sober
don’t want to be a better man
I just want to get high and nutt
I just want to fuck and not know their names
I just want my dick sucked

Mirror, Mirror on the wall

I know he’s my destruction
a whore
less than a dog
but I want to lick his fleas
can’t help it
his dick got too many niggas spit on it
his hole filled with strangers waste
nothing but a trashcan
but why do I go back
and I love to watch him finger his hole
like he can dig for his soul
he get so high on G
arch his back and don’t care
I smoke my t, tongue kiss with E, snort K
we are nothing but alphabet
but there is something in his eyes
when I piss in his face
something about the musk of his ass
when I suck on the dildo I just took out like a pacifier
how it lingers on my fingertips and lips
I love the kink and think
he couldn’t love another
if I fucked him so hard that I broke the condom
but no dick is big enough
he can’t get full
that child in his eyes sucking daddies dick
makes me want to clean the destruction in his eyes
makes me want to wash his body clean
but I know you can’t love a broken soul
so I smile
put my fist in his ass
let him wrap around the intensity
give him his freedom for now
pretend I don’t want more
he’s sucking my dick
and the snow spit looks good dripping down a dark as death shaft
and I’m getting that feeling in my stomach
that feeling I got when I was 12 years old and discovered vasoline
that if I kept rubbing like I was trying to make a wish
that I would be
and I’m thinking in my head
what if I stop pretending
like I’m some nice guy
fuck prince charming
get my dick hard and I’m the devil
that’s why they kicked me out of heaven
so he’s sucking my dick
I’m smoking the blunt some guy eating my ass
and I tell myself just let go
but I’m so conscious of how it would look
don’t want to give in too quick
got to hold it for show
but fuck
it
I need to cummm
damn nigga
I need to cumm
Get off this fucking ride
so fucking tired of acting like I don’t like
destruction
spit my frustion in his mouth
watch his eyes lightup like poiice sirens
kiss his lips to foucs his storm
we worry about we did tomorrow

I can't get no Satisfaction

I can’t get no satisfaction.
By
Michael Whitley (copyright 2008)


Michael, Thank you for your submission of "Diesel" to Velvet Mafia. Some greatmoments, but the piece is too scattered to pull the reader in. Find thestory you want to tell and stick with it. Although it was not quite what I was looking for, I did enjoy the tone of the piece and an rawness of the work.

Every Monday morning they ask that stupid question. What did you do with your weekend? I hate the receptionist at my job. She complains I don’t smile in the morning. I want to strangle her. Every Monday, it’s the same bullshit. I get into work late and they asked me what I did with my weekend. I smirk. I try to hide my tweaking. Every Monday they ask that question, I usually lie and say something like I read a book or volunteered at the homeless shelter. the truth I went searching again. I went searching for some damn satisfaction

Suck my dick. I thought he was playing. We were just watching televions and then he hit me in my jaw. The pain came quick and it throbbed. I just held my face and hoped that I wasn’t broken. He pulled it out. He pulled his dick out. I didn’t understand what a dick was. I just thought it was a pee pee hole. I didn’t know dick could sometimes be evil. that it could be violent. That it could me a murdrer. I didn’t know. I was four years old.

He would tell me if I told he make that scary wrestler off the televion come kill me. Every time my mother left me alone with him I would cry. I scream. I scratch. I throw things. She just thought I was crying because I was going to miss her. She just thought I was a baby. But every time she left, he grab me by my throat, drag me to the bathroom and make me lick his asshole. He make me stick fingers in it. He’d slap me hard and complained why I couldn’t get my dick hard. And all I ever wanted to do was please him. I just wanted to give him what he wanted so that he’d leave me alone. I could never understand what he wanted from me. I just wanted him to love me, like me. He’d strip me naked and yell at me that my dick was too small. And when I tried to love him, it just made him more angry. And when I tried to ignore him, it would just make him hungrier. I couldn’t win. The torment. I JUST COULDN”T UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK HE WANTED FROM. For three years, I couldn’t win. I would please just let me please you so you can stop hitting me. I can suck your dick better. I don’t’ know how to get hard. I’m fucking four years old.

For three years he stole my body. He shamed. he robbed. He murdered my sexuality. He made me so goddamn confused. I couldn’t understand why he was attacking me. I went silent. I knew nobody was going ot save me. Nobody was going to save me.

And then it was that day, that smile on his face when he held me down on the bed, force vasoline in my booty hole and shoved in his dick. It was that moment of smothering, force my face down in to the pillow, pounding like he was trying break something. And then it was that moment when he screamed, and he jumped up and he got it all over the bed. I remember he looked so scared. That intrigued me. he never looked scared before. I wondered what he did. Why did he look scared.

I knew instinctly, It was like there was now evidence. I knew he could get caught. He ran to the kitchen and got some bleach and a towel. He scrubbed my mother sheets. He then got the iron and ironed his stain. I didn’t know what it was. It intrigued me. What was it? I didn’t know. I just remember how scared he looked but he was finally at peace. He was fighting me anymore. I watched him iron the stain. There were tears in his eyes. I couldn’t understand why he was cyring. He never did what he used to do to me after that. He left me alone. He was my cousin. I was four years old. He was tweleve. Now I know somebody hurt him. Now I know he was diseased. He infected me with his hurt. Now I can’t get no satisfaction. I can’t get pleasure unless I’m come undone. I got to pull the thread. I got to watch it all fall apart. I just got to.


Liqour. A drop of diesel fuel begets the internal combustion. It just takes one sip to get the intransigent desitute purring. Its how the heat builds and burns fast-- taking over responsible thoughts. This exothermic reaction is the result of a fool with a sharp emoitnal knife, cutting, trapped life. The boredom creates gases of high temperatures and pressures, which expand, acting directly to cause movement that molest pistons, lick rotors, until the entire engine itself is alive and racing. I feel as if I’m always hiding like a dusty sports car in a barnyard. Some days I am as egotistical as a Ferrari. Some days I am as seductive as a Jaguar. Some days I am as coy as a Mustang or as kinky like a bloody red Corvette. But all it takes is one drop. And then I’m not coming down until I’m empty.

Nobody came to save me. I haven’t decided if I even wanted to save myself.

Friday, on the train after work I hated my sobriety. the tie around my neck felt like it was strangling me. I got to get free. I got to get free. I reached into my book bag and pulled out a Sprit bottle filled with vodka. I sipped cautiously. I worried that the others could smell the stench. I worried I no longer looked normal. I wasn’t normal. I couldn’t pretend, but I wasn’t normal. I worried I looked like a freak, a societal reject. After the fifth sip, the worry eased and I could feel the engine wanting to start. I suddenly like being a freak. I hoped they smelled the liquor on my breath. I want them to watch me self destruct. I needed witnesses.

Liqour. A drop of diesel fuel begets the internal combustion It cranked and coughed. I pressed the pedal releasing more fuel into the engine. I stop sipping from the Sprite bottle and began gulfing. The engine started. I’m purring. I need drugs now.

I can’t get no satisfaction. Friday night, I found myself at some leather bar. It was dark and intimidating. His name was Master G. I thought he could be something I wanted. I hoped he hurt me. Make me bleed. He was aggressive and unnecessarily mean. He slapped a black collar with metal spikes around my neck. The collar was attached to a rope that was attached to his cockring. He wanted me to lick his boots. I smiled. I first needed to finish my cocktail. I second needed to sniff my poppers. I then need snort a little Tina in my pocket. Now, I’m feeling good. Now I’m feeling good.

I got down on all fours and tasted the dirt on the tip of his black boots. I liked the griminess of it. I imagined him walking over shit and piss. Now my dick is hard. He felt satisfied and commanded me to follow him to the bathroom. He made me lower myself to the position of the toilets. He took out his dick. He pissed in my face. The warm yellow stream shocked me. I felt myself pulling away and he grabbed me back by yanking the rope. He said he wanted to humiliate me-- that I had too much going on in my eyes. He said somebody needed to calm my ass down. I told him I couldn’t be humiliated. I hated the kindness in his voice. My name was Diesel not “boy.” I can’t get no fucking satisfaction. The game was over. I ripped off his collar. He had messed up my shirt. I left the bar pissed. I went home and drank until I passed out jerking my dick.

Saturday night, they called last call, and he broke my fifteen minute rule. I knew he wasn’t fucking. Men tell you in the first fifteen minutes if it’s going to be the bathroom, their car, behind a dark building, my house, or his. But he was a liar. And I liked that about him, because he was so fucking easy to please for attention. .Men only lie because they have something to hide. I wanted to know his secrets. He, too damn sexy, tall and dark with eyes like a rat. He was young, younger than me, probably just got his voters registration card. I was high and drunk and feeling like I feel when I had too many drinks. I wanted something new. I wanted to be used and use. I wanted him to want me, maybe even love me, but then again, I didn’t give a fuck. All I could imagine was his sex, lust, sticky wetness and violence. I didn’t want a man but an animal. I was kissing him on his neck, massaging my fingers on his nipples, trying to get him to come with me. I was trying to get him to go to the bathroom, maybe behind some dark building. I just wanted to be on my knees. I just wanted to steal his soul. I just wanted to spread my legs. But he wasn’t listening. He just was a tease. He just wanted somebody to say he existed. Men let you know the first fifteen seconds if there is going to be fucking. I guess I wanted to play the game. I left the club alone. I passed out while the engine was still running.

Sunday morning, I awoke frustrated. My dick was still hard. The diesel fuel was blocking up my veins. I felt the gorge pulsating. I needed another drink. The season was summer but I hadn't seen the sun in days. The city was DC. But I wasn't looking for love. Anything but love. Boys like me were to have, not to hold. Boys like me only existed for the night.

Have I mention it was a full moon?
I thought I try again. Sunday night around midnight, I found myself once again at a somebody's bar sipping on my forth whisky and coke, feeling pretty and sexy in my green contacts, tight fitted camouflage G.I. Joe t-shirt and skin tight (size 30) Gap jeans. My yellow timberlands served as my masculinity. I had sex in my eyes. Maybe that's what lured him to me like cold hands to fire. Soulfully, he whispered in my ear "Are you man enough to spread your legs and let another man stick his warm tongue in that gorgeous ass of yours." I smiled coyly trying to appear shy as I slowly turned my head towards his burning words and found myself being penetrated by his eyes. In an effort to calm or prevent me from walking away, he touched my stomach as I looked him over and pondered his offer. He was playful, his look, dripping wet with Puerto Rican machismo and charisma. He was a Boriqua: a descent from the miscegenation of colonial Spaniards and African slaves. He was more sexy than cute, but not overly stated, but just enough presence to command attention. His creamy lemon ala bisque skin and almond eyes were his best selling points. I knew I could get lost in his eyes. His only flaw was that he was shorter than me. He was probably 5'9. I was six feet tall. I did like that he grabbed my cocktail free hand and audaciously shoved it down his baggy pants so that I could feel his hard, pulsating, thick and uncut Latino pride. I played shocked and smiled duplicitously as to say "you had me at eating my ass." When he licked his lips to give me a preview of his hunger for my musk, suddenly the room went quiet as the concupiscent blood quickly rushed from my head making me dizzy with anticipation. Needlessly to say, an hour later, he was making good on his indecent proposal.
At the beginning of Monday, just a little after one in the morning, I found my eager body at his apartment and we started slow. I felt my engine running low, but I was still Diesel. Another hit of weed and I pushed the pedal to the floor. I like for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I like to be fully clothed and have him stand there naked, his hard frustration penetrating the air, dripping with slimy tears, begging to be touched. I liked to see how much he wanted me. I liked to see how far he would go to get me. There was also something very virginal yet corrupt when one was fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was a hopeless romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head and temporary arrested me in darkness while the smell of my own musk and citrus cologne served as a quick aphrodisiac. I could feel my dick rise.

I was now shirtless, so he placed his warm hand on my neck and politely kissed my lips, then neck, before sliding down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He pinched at my nipples like tweezers trying to get a splinter out of a sore finger. He pulled and tugged. And then he licked to ease the pain and pulled and tugged and tongued some more. I felt the electricity run down to my feet. I let myself relax to the bed. I slowly was becoming submissive. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slid the zipper down. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those warm masculine hands on my waist. He slid my jeans off. I loved it when a man finally stripped me of everything. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. He kissed my lips again. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and searched for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body laid twisting and moaning on his satin sheets as he devoured my sensitive manhole with his aggressive tongue. He spread the cheeks all the way open. I could feel my sphincter purring, pushing in and out against his prickly gin soaked tongue. The intense friction of him stroking my weak spot had me begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He yanked my body to position himself to tower over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy whiskey and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit as I sucked him. I pushed him all the way to the back of my throat. I liked how it made a man weak --feeling his dick all the way back to the tonsils. It’s how I knew I had him. It was like having his masculinity in my hands. He told me to tug on his balls firmly without any regard if I was hurting him or not. I spat his dick out. I then slapped his attentive dick hard that dripped with my spit to let him know who was in control. I slapped it again to make sure I had his attention. I tugged his nut sack. I tried to pull it to the floor. I then spanked his nuts. I watch his body twitch. He needed more pain. So I put his nuts in my mouth and begin to grind them softly with my teeth. I could feel him want to give in. I stroked his dick and bit down on his nuts. His knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. Just a couple of more seconds.

I thought I saw something, movement in the dark. I ignored it. I had his dick back in my mouth when the cops burst into the room with their supercilious flashlights, slicing through the darkness like swordsmen. I was so drunk and high that it hardly seemed real. Palsied and eyes widened like a gay deer trapped in the headlights, I still hadn't spit his dick out of my mouth despite how the white spotlights screamed in the darkness for recognition. For seconds during the initial silence, because at first the cops just watched and said nothing. I pondered deviously that they were maybe there to join in like some kinky black and blue party. When I reached out to touch the light was when they started yelling for us to get dress but keep our hands in the air. My engine had been thrown into a rude stop. My dick was no longer hard. My head went light and I fell gently like feathers to the bed. The cops asked for him by name. He had barely put on his underwear when they dragged him out of the bedroom into the living room. The door quickly shut behind them and I was left naked and alone. I didn't know what to do. I was too drunk and relaxed from the joint we smoke earlier to even care or pay attention to reality. So I just laid there. I didn't even put on my clothes. I wasn't even scared. After all, it wasn't my apartment. Finally, after thirty minutes, his roommate crept into the room like a sneaky house pet. Apparently, someone called the cops because of the music being too loud. My trick also had warrants so the cops took him to jail. The roommate touched my thigh after telling me the news, smiling and pleading that I could still stay a little longer if I didn't have anywhere to go. I felt conflicted. The roommate wasn't nearly as cute or masculine. He was actually the opposite, fat and effeminate. Out of courtesy, I asked to see his dick. Again, he was the opposite. I decided to leave. I figured the night and I were still young and hot, and I also had a fifteen block walk home, so anything better could happen.

I began the search from my clothes. Did I mention it was a full moon?

Early Monday morning around four, I found myself staggering home. After my ordeal with my trick getting arrested and having to almost settle for tacky leftovers, the fifteen block walk home was once again insufferable. It didn't help that I was still high. The fucked up part was I still hadn't nutted. I still hadn’t gotten my release. The boredom hadn’t silenced. I knew I didn't have enough money for the bathhouse. I figured I could surprise a fuck buddy of mine who lived in the neighborhood, but figured he was probably fucking someone else. The thought of a threesome got my blood pumping again. But before I could think over the decision rationally, I saw something again in the dark. It was like a flickering of a headlight. A dark figure across the street flicked a mirror toward the streetlight and was waving at me. It was four o’clock in the morning and usually I would ignore such a thing, but like I said, I was still horny, drunk and high and suddenly wanted to know what the dark figured wanted with me. I cautiously crossed the street looking both ways. As I got closer, the dark figured motion for me to follow him and I did. I followed him behind the National Church of Christ and away from the traffic of the street. Once we were behind the church, the dark figure pulled down his pants and started shaking his dick at me. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or run. Suddenly I felt outer-body. I felt as if I was watching myself from a distance, like a movie, just waiting to see what was going to happen next. In the light, the dark figure wasn’t so opaque anymore. The church lights painted his face kind and attractive. Or maybe it was the liquor and weed. He seemed out of place. Maybe it was the glasses that gave him an honest and sincere face or was it his Best Buy work uniform so neatly pressed and immaculate. He just didn’t look like the type of person to lure strangers behind churches to shake his dick at them. As I looked him over, I concluded that he had to be in his mid to late thirties at least. I imagined him with a wife and a kid somewhere. I couldn’t help but think to myself why he had flagged me down. I wondered if I looked like that type of person who'd follow him. Was it my tight jeans? Was it my intoxicated staggering walk? Was it that because I looked easy? I didn’t care. I was bored

I didn’t run. It turned out that I was the type of person to follow strangers behind dark buildings at four o’clock in the morning. I stood there frozen watching him shake his dick at me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to admit to myself that it did look tempting. I liked what I saw. He was big. Really big. At least ten and half inches and thick. And the night and I were still young. I was also drunk and high. The moon was still full and no one had to know but the wind and me. I moved closer. I touched the shaking dick. I liked how the weight of it felt in my hands. I took deep breaths and tried to forget everything. I tried to erase my mind of the possibility of regret. As I argued with myself to determine if I wanted to stay or run, I felt his dick get hard in my hands. The engine started again. Once again, I could feel the salacious blood rush from my head and it left me dizzy. It was the pull of relentless lust and it bullied to get what it wanted. I felt out of control. I couldn’t say no. I pulled his dick one more time, to make sure nothing was leaking before I decided to fall to my knees and worship. I felt satisfied and so it began. I had his dick in my mouth when he lit up his crack pipe. The glass cylinder became ablaze with a howling and condemning blazing white smoke. He inhaled. It was bad enough that I allowed my pretty self to be lured by the big bad wolf behind somebody’s church for some sodomite fun, but the crack smoking just made it kinky. I felt my boredom stand attention, it wanted some. It wanted to feel his high. But I refused. I had enough problems. I stopped sucking his dick. I reached into my pocket for a half of joint I had left. I lit up. We were just two horny addicts who bumped into each other in the late night. Maybe he felt just out control as I did? Behind the church I allowed him to pull my tight jeans completely off and bend me over to eat my ass. He lit his pipe again and instructed me to play with my ass. He told me he wanted to fuck me. He said he had condoms. Who would've figured it, a crack addict who carried condoms? He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those packets from “Us helping us.” He opened the small tube of lube proceeding to fill up my hot tight hole. He reached for his crack pipe again and took another long hit. The stench was like burning cotton candy. The air became still, lights brighter and I could feel my heartbeat race in my veins. I had reached my intoxicated Mecca. Pressed against the brick wall, he inserted himself inside of me. Finally, my release.

There’s nothing like a nut to put reality back into perspective. With my fresh spilled sin on the church ground and sun rising too quickly, I felt shaken by the Holy Ghost and had to get the hell out of Babylon. I couldn’t find my clothes fast enough and run.

Speeding back to earth, my walk home was a mixture of shame, panic and exhilaration. It was almost six o’clock in the morning and I had to be at work at eight. I figured I would take some Tylenol, drink a gallon of water and eat a peanut butter sandwich before bed. I only needed an hour of sleep. Speeding back to earth, I started hating my life again. The fuel had run out. I was no longer Diesel. I was going to be just another bored face on the nine o’clock metro heading to work like a zombie. I was just a sports car out of gas, pushed back to his prison. I was back under the dusty cover waiting for another uninhibited soul to discover me as I anxiously waited for my next drop of fuel. It only took one drop to get the madness started again.