Manhandled (17 page)

I don’t say anything. It would be so simple for me to set Mike straight, to tell the dumb, sexy fuck that he’s been dialing
the wrong number. All I have to do is open my mouth. But something inside me suddenly wants to play this out, keep the conversation
going. “Is Tony
your
type?” I ask.

Mike glares at me. “What the fuck kind of question is that?” His voice is low and raw. He takes a steady pull from his beer,
and shoots me a hard look. I meet his gaze, and after a few beats Mike’s shoulders drop and he gives a short, bitter laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “In spades. That was always the problem. Tony can pull the most outrageous shit with me, and the sonuvabitch
knows he’ll always get away with it.” He gives a long sigh and stares out the window, as if he expects Tony to walk by. I
seize the opportunity to take a longer look at the bulge pushing against the frayed denim of his jeans. When I raise my eyes,
Mike is looking me in the face.

“Yeah,” he says. “It
is
a lot bigger than Tony’s.” He flashes a nasty smile. “Tony’s a little deficient in that department, in spite of all his other
plus points.” His smile widens; his eyes gleam maliciously. “But then you must already know that, don’t you?” I don’t say
anything. Mike takes another sip from his beer. “Does Tony know you’ve got a roving eye?” he asks, his tone conversational.

“Jesus,” I say. “You’re making a hell of a big deal over a little glance.”

Mike gives a hard laugh. “Yeah, well we both know where those ‘little glances’ lead to, don’t we? Tony’s big on ‘little glances’
too.” He regards me shrewdly. “You’ll find that out soon enough, if you haven’t already.” Some rap song starts playing on
the jukebox, its volume deafening. Mike grimaces. “Look,” he says, “it’s too damn noisy here. How about continuing this conversation
somewhere else?”

I give a short laugh. “What’s there to talk about?”

Mike shrugs. “Oh, I dunno. I still got a few things to get off my chest.” I’m uneasy about his sudden calmness. He nods toward
the door beyond the pool tables. “Maybe we could step out into the back alley for a while.”

I shake my head. “No thanks. The last time we talked, you said you were going to rip my lungs out. I like it better with people
around.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re
afraid
of me!?!” He laughs. There’s nothing mocking in the laughter; he seems genuinely amused. I don’t say anything. His eyes sweep
down my body and back up to my face. “A big guy like you, with all those muscles… Hell, you could mop up the street with me.”
He slides off his stool and stands in front of me, arms outstretched and hands open. “Look, Angelo, no concealed weapons.”
I still don’t say anything. “Come on,” he says. “I’m sick of shoutin’ over the fuckin’ jukebox. Let’s step outside.” He walks
toward the rear door of the bar without looking back. After a few seconds, I reluctantly follow him outside.

The alley behind the bar faces a crumbling brick wall, lined with garbage cans. There’s a streetlight at the far end dimly
illuminating the place. Music and conversation pour out from the bar. “So what do you want to talk about?” I ask.

Mike doesn’t say anything. He reaches down and gives my crotch a squeeze and then backs up against the brick wall. He calmly
unbuckles his belt, unzips, and tugs his jeans down. He’s not wearing any underwear, and his half-hard dick flops against
his thigh.

“Are you crazy?!?” I say. But my eyes are riveted on his dick. It’s a beauty, all right, thick and long, the head flared,
veins snaking up the shaft. My own dick starts pushing against my zipper, hollering to be let out.

Mike leans against the wall and starts beating off, his strokes slow and sensuous. His mouth is curled up into a small smile.
“I just figured you’d want a break from Tony’s stubby little dick,” he says. “Maybe swing on something with some
meat
on it.” He works his T-shirt up and tweaks his nipple. His torso is beautifully muscled, cut to perfection.

Well, before my brain even has a chance to think about it, I’m on my knees, slobbering over Mike’s dick, working my lips up
and down that beautiful thick shaft. Mike grabs my head with both hands and starts pumping his hips, thrusting his dick deep
down my throat. I reach up and grab his ass, squeezing tight. The flesh feels smooth and hard under my fingertips. I drag
my tongue down his dick and burrow my face into his balls, breathing in their ripe, musky smell. I open my mouth and suck
them in, rolling the scrotal flesh around with my tongue. I yank down the zipper of my fly, pull out my own hard dick, and
start stroking.

Mike slaps his dick across my face with a loud
thwack.
“Yeah,” he growls. “That’s good, baby. Juice those balls up nice.”

I look up at him. Mike’s face is hard, his eyes skewering me. They gleam with malice. He pulls his balls out of my mouth and
stuffs his dick back down my throat. He proceeds to fuck my mouth in long, savage strokes, slamming his dick in like he’s
trying to drill a hole through the back of my head.
That’s OK, Mike,
I think.
I can get into playing rough.
I take his hard thrusts eagerly, twisting my head from side to side as my tongue wraps around the thick shaft. I work a finger
up Mike’s asshole, knuckle by knuckle, and then start sliding it in and out. Mike groans. I wiggle it again as he plunges
down my throat, and Mike groans again, louder. His balls are pulled up tight and his dick is solid rebar. He whips it out
of my mouth. “Get up!” he says. “I want to fuck your ass.”

“I don’t have a condom on me,” I say.

Mike’s eyes burn. “Yeah, well, I do.” He bends down and pulls one out of his back pocket.

I stay on my knees, my gaze locked with his. Finally, I nod my head. “All right,” I say. I climb to my feet as Mike rolls
the condom down the length of his dick. He spits in his hand, sliding it up and down the shaft, and then wraps his arms around
me from behind, pulling my body tight against his. I can feel the muscles of his torso press against my back, his dick thrusting
up against me, probing into my ass crack. He shoves me toward the garbage cans, using the weight of his body to push me over
them.

I break out of his hug and turn to face him. “Yeah, you can fuck me,” I say. “But you’re going to do it the way
I
like it. Face-to-face, me watching you as you shove your dick up my ass.”

Mike gives me a grin that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Sure, Angelo. Anything you say.” He lifts me on top of the garbage
cans and hoists my legs over his shoulders. I hold on to his waist as he pokes his dick against my asshole and then slowly,
inch by inch, slides it in. Mike’s face is right above mine, his teeth bared in a fierce grin, his eyes burning holes in mine.
“How do you like that, baby?” he growls. “I bet that fills you in a way Tony never could.”

I slide my hands up his torso, tugging on the hard flesh, feeling its smoothness, flicking his nipples with my thumbs. “Yeah,”
I say. “But can you fuck as good as Tony?”

Mike thrusts deep into my ass and I cry out. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” he says. He starts pumping his hips,
his thrusts fast and vicious, his grip on me as hard as iron. I reach up and pull his face against mine, biting his lips.
Mike shoves his tongue deep down my throat as he skewers my ass. He grinds his hips against me, rotating them, driving his
dick even deeper inside, churning my ass with it. I squeeze my ass muscles tight and push up against him. Mike’s eyes widen
in surprise, and he gasps with the sudden rush of pleasure he feels. “Sweet Jesus, but you’re a hot piece of tail,” he says.
He spits in his hand and starts jacking me off, timing his strokes with each thrust of his hips.

The metal handles of the garbage can lids dig into my back, and the smell of ripe garbage fills my nose. I can hear Bruce
Springsteen singing “Pink Cadillac” inside the bar, and the murmur of voices just a few feet away through the door. Mike starts
fucking in time to the beat of the song. I reach up and twist his nipples hard, and he groans again. The air in the alley
is close and stifling; sweat beads Mike’s forehead and splashes onto my face. Mike varies the way he plows my ass: a series
of long, easy strokes punctuated by a savage burst of piston thrusts. He pulls out and slams me with a particular viciousness.
I lose my balance, and the garbage cans tip over. We crash down amid a heap of spilled garbage: coffee grounds, banana peels,
bottles and cans. I roll over on top of Mike and pin his shoulders down as he continues to slam his dick up my ass. I reach
back and cradle his balls in my hand. They’re pulled up tight and swollen, ready to pump out their load of jizz. I press my
finger hard between them, and that’s all it takes to push Mike over the edge. He cries out as his body trembles under me,
and I feel his cock throb as it squirts its hot load into the condom up my ass. I ride out his orgasm, the bucking of his
muscular body under me, garbage scattering everywhere. It takes just a few quick strokes of my hand to trigger my own orgasm.
I groan as my jizz squirts out, splattering against Mike’s face, dripping down his cheek in thick, sluggish drops. When the
last of the spasms passes through me, I collapse on top of Mike.

We lie there in silence, the music from the bar’s jukebox filtering out into the stale, reeking air in the alley. Mike is
the first to move. He wipes his arm across his face, climbs to his feet, and pulls his pants up. They’re stained with garbage,
dark spots splattered against the denim. He brushes them off in a futile effort to clean them, and then straightens up and
looks down at me.

I struggle to get up, but Mike plants his foot on my chest and pushes me back down. “Of course you realize,” he says calmly,
“that as soon as you leave, I’m going to call Tony and tell him I just fucked his new boyfriend in the alley. You’re going
to have some explaining to do when you get home.”

I push Mike’s foot off me and clamber to my feet. “I don’t know Tony,” I say. “I never met him in my life.”

Mike looks at me with narrowed eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Just what I said,” I say, brushing bits of eggshells off my shirt. “This Carol friend of yours gave you the wrong number.
Your friend never stayed at my place. That’s why I came out here. So I could tell you, since you were too fuckin’ stupid to
leave a number for me to call you.”

Mike gives me a long, long look. I return his gaze calmly. “Is this a joke?” he finally asks.

I shrug. “I’m afraid not.”

There’s another long silence. Mike suddenly laughs. “You know, I think you’re telling the truth.” He pulls his shirt down
and runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes scan my face again. “You sonuvabitch, you
are
telling the truth!” He shakes his head. “I guess the laugh’s on me.” He flashes me a broad grin and holds out his hand to
me. “You must think I’m one big dope. You want to shake hands and be friends?”

I smile back. “Sure.” I take his hand. Mike tightens his grip and pulls me toward him. His other hand arcs through the air
and smashes into my jaw. I fall, crashing among the overturned garbage cans. Mike looks down at me. “You still laughing, Angelo?”
he asks. He spins on his heel and walks back into the bar. After a couple of minutes, I pick myself up and follow after him.
Mike is gone. I go to the john and splash water on my face. My jaw is beginning to swell, but it doesn’t seem to be broken.
It’s going to hurt for the next couple of days, though.

When I walk back into my apartment, the message light is on. I push the “play” button. “That was a funny trick you pulled
on me, Angelo,” Mike says. “You shouldn’t hold that punch against me. You had it coming.” Pause. “I’ve been thinking about
our little good time in the alley. You got the right name, Angelo. You fuck like an angel. If you want, next time I’ll plow
you on an honest-to-God bed. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

I take a couple of aspirin and go to bed, nursing my sore jaw. I lie there, wondering what I’m going to say to Mike when he
finally gets around to calling again.

Jay Starre

I
was deep in the heart of bayou country, the Louisiana summer somnolent between tropical storms and hurricanes. From the suburban
sprawl of southern California, I had fled my parents to visit family friends before I was to enter college. I don’t know exactly
what I expected to find, but beneath the Spanish moss and soft breezes, I did find something— something I cannot ever forget.

Jacques was a year older than I. His father was a descendent of French pirates, and his mother was my own less interesting
mother’s best friend. He was boisterous and big: big hands, big gestures, big heart. I had a summer job on a fishing boat
with Jacques and his pals, and I reveled in the fresh air, the freedom from my parents, and the bayou itself.

It was Jacques who offered me my first taste of beer. That same night I upchucked that first beer—along with several others,
stumbling back to the cabin I shared with Jacques while berating myself for my folly. I came weaving in the front door and
collapsed on the couch in the front room. There was music playing in the bedroom, some wild fiddle stuff they liked down in
Louisiana. My head hurt and my throat was dry. I rose and attempted to make my way to my bed. At the door of our shared room,
I froze. There on the bed was a heaving back and butt, naked, and another naked body beneath it. In my blurred state of mind
I stood there like an idiot while the bare ass moved up and down, slamming the body beneath it into the bed with frantic thrusts.

That big ass belonged to Jacques. I focused on it: the soft coating of blond hair that covered it was dripping with sweat,
each powerful butt muscle tensed and straining as his hips rose and fell and rose again. I was mesmerized by the vision until
the sane part of me realized Jacques was obviously fucking some chick and I should not be standing there gaping at him like
a moron. But the sight of that ass rising, thrusting, and gyrating was impossible to turn away from.