Manhandled (16 page)

The lights dimmed as Jake fell to the bed, then everything went dark, and when the lights slowly came back up to an eerie
shadow they found me onstage. I felt for a pulse and let out a cry; I had no trouble with the requisite tears.

Jake Cavett was on his side, curled slightly, eyes closed. I climbed in beside him and took him into my arms, kissed his cheek,
and placed my hand over his crotch to knead the lifeless prick. Not a single sound, barely my own breathing, then a slow fade
to darkness. When the curtain fell it took the audience a moment to react. Stunned silence, then applause.

I was grateful Fall didn’t leap from my arms. He lay still and let me prod his dick until others rushed onstage to pull us
up, hug us, congratulate us. I didn’t want to let go, but rose to take my bows with the rest of the cast, then just the two
of us side by side, and finally Fall alone, to thunderous applause. From the wings, I joined in.

Abel had arranged a party at a friend’s penthouse, and after an hour of backstage crowds and champagne I was finally alone.
Before leaving Abel made me promise I’d be along soon. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Fine,” I told him. When he raised a brow I added, “OK, not so fine, but I survived.”

“You were wonderful, Carl.” He patted my shoulder and left.

I needed to change but managed only to take off my makeup. Time was what I wanted now, room to absorb what had happened, to
sort out performance from…performance. I wandered out onstage in a confused sort of elation, reminding myself that the man
had fucked me in front of five hundred people. I flopped onto the bed and burrowed into the covers. Fall’s scent was there,
and I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Carl.”

He’d crept in like a cat and stood leaning against the headboard, beautiful in the half light. I rolled onto my back and opened
my arms. When he slid on top of me I felt no bulge at his crotch and none of that awful tension he usually carried. He seemed
to have uncoiled, as if the play had solved him, and yet I still wasn’t sure just who I had here.

There was no urgency now. Fall simply hung on for a few minutes, burying his face in my neck while I ran my hands up under
his shirt and kneaded his back. He was lean and smooth, taut as an animal, and I explored every inch of him, gradually working
down into his jeans. I squeezed his ass and he groaned softly, then pulled back and began to strip. I lay paralyzed at the
sight of him: skin tawny gold; cock quiet, flaccid, yet still so formidable, something that belonged on a lion, not a man.
His chest was hairless, well defined, the nipples ripe; his stomach had a strip of hair that splayed out into a golden bush
engulfing the cock I coveted. Just looking at the whole of him sent me into a frenzy, and I reached out and took his sizable
prick into my mouth.

He eased back onto the bed and lay beside me as I swallowed all I could of him, tongue inching down his shaft, squeezing and
sucking until he began to fill. As he stiffened I licked him to the root, then pulled back and fixed on his knob until I could
feel him oozing juice, at which point I raised up off him to finger his dripping slit and stroke his magnificent meat. And
I realized only then what he was giving me, that this was the first time he hadn’t arrived fully primed.

When he began to pull at my crotch I stopped working his cock long enough to shed my clothes, then slid back down to him,
but in reverse, my dick in his face, his in mine. We took each other then and lay sucking pricks onstage, bare as newborns
and playing to that imaginary audience.

I wanted it to last forever, my hand cradling his heavy balls as I sucked his fat knob and licked that long sweet shaft. Everything
was in slow motion now, the feast of a lifetime, and as much as I wanted to shoot my wad I wanted more to keep eating, to
suck my way to infinity or die trying.

Fall’s prick finally began to grow hot inside my mouth, jamming into my throat with a thrust that told me an eruption was
imminent. My own load was churning as well and I began to push into him, to fuck that beautiful mouth I had never so much
as kissed. Fall was moaning and slurping, lapping at me as I jammed into him while taking his massive meat deep inside my
throat, sucking it until it began to squirt. Seconds later my own explosion hit and we lay feeding off each other, hands squeezing
ass as we swallowed gobs of cream in the ultimate exchange.

Even after we were spent we didn’t let go. I buried my face in his balls, inhaling his musky scent, while he ran his fingers
through my dark bush. He was so incredibly gentle I had to remind myself it really was Derek Fall’s dick in my face. And then
he slid a finger into my crack, and farther, into my pucker, probing lightly, as if he hadn’t been there before, then pulling
out to gather spit and sliding back in. I knew then, as he finger-fucked me, that we would go on to Abel’s party and that
later, behind a locked bathroom door or on a remote terrace corner, he would fuck me. Derek Fall would fuck me.

Bob Vickery

A
t a quarter after four, Nick tells me to carry a load of two-by-fours up the ladder to the journeyman carpenters on the third
level. I stare at him. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow, Nick?” I ask. “It’s almost quitting time.”

Nick’s mouth curls into a lazy grin. I know I’m not going to like his answer. “Sure, Rossi,” he says, his voice low and easy.
“I’ll tell the new apprentice, the one who’s going to replace your ass if you don’t do what I tell you, to do it first thing
tomorrow morning.” He raises his eyebrows. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” I say quietly.

“Good,” Nick says. “Then I suggest you get your ass in gear.” I stare at his back as he walks away, my eyes shooting daggers
at him. But that doesn’t stop me from checking out the easy strut of his body, the butch little pivot of his ass as he makes
his way to the foreman’s trailer.

I don’t get home until after six. The muscles in my upper torso ache, my shirt is plastered to my back, and my pits are ripe
and smelly. I pull a beer out of the fridge, pop it open, and fall back onto the couch. The beer pours down my throat like
the jizz of God, and I close my eyes and savor the sensation. When I open them again, I glance to the side table where the
phone and answering machine sit. The message light is blinking, and I push the “play” button.

“Surprise, surprise, Tony. This is Mike.” The voice is loud and pissed. “Surprise” is right—my name’s Angelo. “I bet you didn’t
think I’d find you, but I got your number from Carol.”
Carol who?
I think.
I don’t know any Carol.
Angry laugh. “You know she can’t keep a secret. Anyway, you had your little fun and games, now you better get your ass back
here
tonight
!” There’s a bang as Mike slams down the receiver.
What was that all about?
I wonder. I don’t know who the fuck Tony is, or Mike either for that matter, or how this Carol wound up giving him my number.
As I eat my dinner and watch the evening news, I find my mind wandering back to the message, wondering about the little drama
behind it. Maybe Tony owes Mike money. Maybe Tony’s been fucking around with Mike’s girlfriend. Hell, maybe Mike and Tony
are lovers, and Tony’s tomcatting with someone else. I guess I’ll never find out.

The next day when I come home from work, the message light is blinking again on my answering machine. I push the “play” button.
“Tony, Tony,” Mike says, his voice low and anguished. “Don’t do this to me, baby. You’re ripping my heart out.” His voice
breaks on the last word. There’s a long silence. “I’m sorry we fought, man,” he says. I have to strain to hear him. “Come
home, baby.” He hangs up.

I sit down and stare at the machine. This is getting pretty heavy. For the rest of the evening I keep thinking about Mike
and Tony, about what the story might be with them. Since dumb-fuck Mike didn’t leave a number, there’s no way I can call him
and straighten him out. There’s something about his voice that snags my interest, a roughness to it. I’m not good with accents,
but I’m guessing blue-collar Jersey. I try to picture what he looks like. I see tattoos, a stubbled chin, a torn T-shirt with
a pack of Marlboros rolled up in the sleeve. This gets mixed up with images of the guys at the construction site: Danny with
his sleepy, half-lidded eyes, Carlos with his muscle-packed torso, even that sonuvabitch Nick with his lopsided smile and
easy strut. My dick stirs and pushes up against my Jockeys. Even when I go to bed and drift off to sleep, I find myself wondering
about Mike and Tony.

I wake up to the phone ringing like there’s hell to pay. The clock on the bedside table says a little after two. I fumble
for the receiver, finally find it, and put it to my ear. “Hello?” I mumble.

“Tony?” a voice on the other end asks.

Shit!
I think. “Tony’s not here.”

“Oh, yeah? And who the fuck are you?” Mike’s words are slurred. He sounds drunk.

“I’m nobody,” I say. “Stop calling here. You got the wrong number.”

“Don’t give me that shit! Get Tony on the line or I’ll rip your fucking lungs out!”

I laugh. “You don’t even know where I live. Good fuckin’ luck!”

A pause. “You fucking Tony?” Mike asks. “You swinging on his dick? Because, if you are, you’re dogmeat, fucker! Do you hear
me? DOGMEAT! Just say your fuckin’ prayers if you’re fucking my Tony.”

“Look,” I say. “Will you listen to me? There’s no Tony here. You got the wrong number.”

“JUST SAY YOUR PRAYERS, DOGMEAT!” Mike shouts into the phone. Then he slams down the receiver.

Christ!
I think. I hang up the phone and pull the covers back over me. But as I lie in bed, I find myself thinking about Mike. He
sounds like an asshole, major bad news.
Oh, yeah?
I think.
Then why’s my dick hard right now thinking about him?
After a couple of minutes I wrap my hand around it and start stroking, conjuring up Mike’s voice again, his rough, raspy
baritone. The fantasies blend to the guys at the construction site. I finally shoot my load with the image of Nick cramming
his dick down my throat, growling obscenities while Carlos fucks my ass. I don’t bother to wipe my jizz off and drift off
into sleep with it crusting on my belly.

Two days go by without any messages from Mike. Maybe Tony finally came back home, or maybe Mike gave him up for a lost cause.
I tell myself I’m relieved it’s all over, but I can’t explain away the little throb of disappointment I feel. On the third
night, though, there’s another message from Mike.

“Hello, Tony, it’s me,” the voice says. Instead of the usual drama, Mike’s voice is subdued, almost calm. I hear voices and
glasses clinking in the background. “I know you’re sitting there, listening to this message. Will you please pick up the phone?”
Long pause. Mike sighs. “OK, have it your way. I’m over at the Cinch Bar, on Polk Street. I just want to talk with you, face-to-face.
I’ll behave myself, I promise.” Another pause. “Tony, you motherfucker!” Mike snarls. “You owe me this. You’ve fuckin’ lived
with me for two years, you can at least give me a half hour of conversation before you kiss me off. I’ll be here till ten.”
Mike slams down the phone. I glance at my watch. It’s eight-thirty.
Well,
I think,
I can either blow this off or do something about it.
It’s not much of a struggle to make up my mind. I want to see if Mike lives up to the fantasies I’ve been weaving around
him.

I walk into the Cinch with Bonnie Raitt singing “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About” on the jukebox. The place is packed.
It’s going to be tough picking Mike out in this crowd,
I think. I slowly swing my head, searching for men sitting alone and looking desperate—which turns out to be about half the
bar.

I see him hunched over a well drink at the bar, eyes glued to the door. They shoot over toward me, do a quick scan, and then
flick away. The guy is a couple of years older than me, mid-twenties maybe, clean-cut, short red hair, and a tight, muscular
torso straining against a polo shirt one size too small. He doesn’t look desperate, just grim, his mouth pulled down in a
slight scowl, his eyes hard and dull.

I walk over to him. “Excuse me,” I say. “Are you Mike?”

The eyes shoot at me, pinning me down like an insect on a specimen tray. “Yeah,” he says. “What of it?” There’s a pause. His
gaze flicks up and down my body. “Did Tony send you?” His voice is taking on an edge. I see that it wouldn’t take much to
push him into full rage.

“No,” I say. “I came here to tell you there’s been a big mistake.” His eyes are pale blue, as best as I can guess from the
light of the bar. With his square jaw and the spray of freckles across his face, he looks like the original all-American boy.
That is, the all-American boy bent on murder. The fucker is very sexy. I feel my dick stir and push up against my 501s.

“There’s been a mistake all right. You made it, fucking my Tony.” Mike’s tone is level and cool, his eyes hard.

“Jesus.” I laugh angrily. “You’re a real piece of work. I can see why Tony left you.” Mike’s jaw is clenched so hard I half
expect him to start spitting out broken teeth. A vein pulses in his forehead. “Will you calm down?” I say. “I just want to
tell you that Tony’s not—”

“What did Tony say about me?” Mike demands. He slides off his stool and faces me, fists clenched. I can feel the heat from
his body, smell the fresh sweat. My dick is fully hard now. I find myself wondering what it’d be like having sex with this
punk, how it would feel wrestling naked in bed with him, his muscular, tight body pressed against mine.

“If you’re thinking about slugging me,” I say, “you’d better think again.” I glare back at him, staring him down.

After a moment, Mike relaxes. He climbs back on the stool and regards me coldly. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Angelo,” I say.

Mike shakes his head. “Fucking Italians. All they do is cause me grief.” His eyes sweep up and down my body. “So Tony’s hanging
out with his own kind now, huh? He doesn’t like Irish boys anymore?”