Coc-Sucer: 'psycho-Sexual'

Sometimes, going home with the wrong guy can be a mistake, a terrible mistake...

*

It started out a lousy day. And it just keeps getting worse. I meet him in a bar for the poor, the stupid and the stinky. I'm sat there drinking, thinking, sinking, feeling low, hungry, depressed and far from home, wondering what I'm going to be doing once tonight is through. Watching an endless flow of sad and derelict faces.

He says 'hey boy, you got a match?' He's gaunt, fidgety, not an especially attractive character. I could have walked away, but I was alone.

'No sorry, cigarettes are not one of my addictions.'

'So what is it you prefer to slip between those pretty lips?' He was attentive, sympathetic, and eventually, I decide not entirely bad looking. Some years older than me, sure, but with a charming seductive manner and a no-nonsense aspect that has me intimidated from the get-go. Intruding into my personal space. He'll intrude into even more personal space before the night is through. He's so close it's like I'm breathing in my pure essence. When he looks at me, I can feel that smile crawling across my body. Me, who's on first-name terms with the shittiness of life.

'Beneath this rough roguish, devastatingly handsome and extremely well-hung exterior beats the heart of a true sophisticate. I am lonely, but you can free me' he leers. 'This looks to be the kind of bar where only namby-pamby suckers hang out.'

'You could say that.'

He makes his intentions clear from the open. 'You got a sly tongue on you. You one of those suckers?'

I look him up and down warily. Sometimes there are voices inside my tongue. Sometimes they take me places I don't particularly want to go. Or say things for me I don't really want to say. Now it's saying 'Guess I could be. For a guy who had the right... attributes,' and I can't stop it. I meet his eyes. Then look away.

'You look hungry. Looks like you could do with something to swallow.'

I look up. Nod wearily. 'What exactly do you have in mind?'

'You know something, boy? Even if you don't have a match, I sure as hell do. My todger and your pretty white throat would make a perfect match. What'dya think eh?' he sneers unpleasantly.

I turn away, unsure how to react, 'honestly sir, whatever would make you say something like that?'

'I like that respectful way you call me 'sir', boy. Keep that up while I'm fucking your throat and we'll get along just fine.'

Here we go again. He slouches up, makes a thumb at the exit. Indicates me to follow. Meekly, I do so. Out into the sultry night. There's a world out there. Across the street, tripping on a cracked paving stone (those things can cripple you!), hurrying to keep up with him. Into a dark parking lot where his half-truck stands. He indicates me into the passenger seat, sprawling the drive-side recliner back for himself.

'Are you going to make me do bad things now' I pout.

He ignores my attempts at coquetry. 'So do it.' I have to do the work. Sometimes I hate this. Sometimes I'd be in physical dread of this moment. Throat-dry, tongue-tied, clumsy, perspiring. Other times I hate not doing it even more. Missing the chance of human warmth, of intimate closeness. I was born under a bad sign, slapped when I came into this life, and I've been slapped every day since. Ever since I could walk and talk people have been against me. And they outnumber me. I'm a failure specialist. Failure is what I know best. You don't have to love your specialty to be a specialist, you just have to live it.

Nervous, reaching down to unzip him. Sucking a guy's cock is the quickest way of making a friend. Give him good head, he comes back for more. It's a survival technique I've learned by experience, do it good, it buys you favours. Not for long, not forever, but long enough. I can be a total shameless slut for the right guy, and most times for the wrong guy too. Of course, I've had what I call 'lovers'. Some of them lasted up to a fortnight. I'm told they were abusive relationships. To me, they were just relationships. This is what men like to have done to them. If I want to be liked by them -- and I do, this is what I have to do. Having an abusive friendship is better than having no friendship at all. I'm grateful for their attention, while it lasts. And when they drop me I know absolutely it's because of my inadequacy, and not through any fault of theirs. What other reason is he going to want me for? My intellect? My erudite wit and sophisticated conversation? I think not.

This is all I'm good for, but it's enough. Fishing a rank semi-hard cock up and out, with an ancient earthy faintly sour smell, levering it, a pale magic 'shroom with faint matching fungus bouquet. He's crude, far from the smooth-operator of my dreams, but this fuck-tool is just about the sexiest thing I'm likely to encounter this night. He's watching me, so I avoid his eyes, dipping in at it to conceal my face. Fisting it up, lips closing around the salty glans, following its sensual flared contours. It looks, smells and tastes like the rankest mushroom in the patch, my mouth stretching open further and further as it slithers in. It's hot and raw, its salty taste bursting in my mouth. I hear him exhaling sharply somewhere way above me, encouraging me to take it deeper.

Again he grunts, then confusingly he's tugging at my hair, 'get up off-of it you slut.' I come up, wiping my mouth. He's laughing at my expression. It's like I've got a wire crossed upstairs. There are spirits with claws that wake me when I try to sleep, by gnawing at my skin and the roots of my hair. Sometimes it feels as if there are spirits of dead ancestors and alien shape-shifters that must have teleported down, and are fighting each other for possession of my physical form. It's like I'm being eaten alive from the inside out.

I protest 'I don't fraggin' need this. Can't we just do this thing, or you go mind-fuck some other guy.'

'Slow down, don't be so eager' he chides. 'All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die. Is that such a bad thing? I'm thinking. Weighing things up. You're a cool guy. No doubt about that. But what happens when I come into you? I know your dirty little ways. I've been with sluts before. I know what you do. You make me come before I'm ready and cheat me out of what I'm rightly entitled to, what I'm about to pay good money for, right? You're sneaky little fuckers, all of you.'

'So do you want it or don't you?'

'I'll tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You got somewhere to go? Someplace to sleep tonight?'

I shake my head, truthfully. Friday night and I'm going nowhere, all the green lights in my life have switched to red. Rough-sleeping with the garbage is no alternative.

'Thought as much. So come with me. This is the deal. We get to spend a little quality time together, ya might say. I'll do some crazy stuff in your face, we make it three times. You stay with me until it's done. Then I pay you, and you can go. If you want to.' A passing car paints his face with a splash of headlights. He's smirking at me. So this is a transaction, not a relationship. So be it, all relationships are transactions of a kind. At least this way the rules of engagement are clearly defined.

I won't go back where I've come from. No way. It was there, in the Big House I'd just signed myself out of, that they'd strung me out, torched my soul, tortured me with electrodes, amputated my arms and legs with a rusty chainsaw, then stitched them back into place. You can trace the dotted cut-here lines still visible. I guess having your drokkin' cerebellum cauterised will do that to a boy. So, no. With no skills or aptitude to learn them, no book-learning, looks or ambition to do anything with my life, I guess I'm what they call dumb. Sometimes I try, but just as quickly I forget, it's too hard, too difficult, it's no fun, so I don't do it. To people I don't know I appear surly, sullen, awkward, uncommunicative, withdrawn and self-absorbed. I never know what to say to people, and when I do get to speak it seldom comes out the way I intend it to, so I sound dumb. The only thing I've ever been interested in, or have ever been any good at is sex. And with the right guy -- or sometimes, even the wrong guy, I use my lips, but I don't need words.

I meet his eyes. 'I'll do whatever you want, OK? Whatever you want.'

It's approximately three hours since this began. He zips up. We drive. Twenty minutes, no more than that. I don't know where. We pull up slowly out of the urb-sprawl, floating in magical dereliction, past do-nut shops and boarded-up pizza delivery stores, flyovers, cats-eyes, and nocturnal petrol stations illuminated by streetlight orange and sodium yellow, drifting from one dark tenement-canyon to another, getting lost in an infinity of side-streets. Too dark to see. Then, a big old house, set back in some lost square. We go in.

I'm wary now, this could be a trap, there could be three more guys waiting here to put me through my paces. I've been there. Back then, on that other occasion, he'd seemed like a sweet guy. I remember how I was looking forward to doing it with him, back then. But when we get to his apartment I find out it's party time, and they're using my body as the venue. They paid me pretty-good afterwards, to keep quiet about it I guess (maybe a couple of them were married, or in 'committed' relationships), but I was sore for a week. True, this new guy doesn't seem the type. He's sure weird enough, but I doubt that's his intention, he seems more like a creepy loner than a pervy gangbanger.

Then he calls out 'only me, Mommy, I'm home.' Which is in some ways stranger. And he conducts me upstairs. A heavy chandelier. The walls are pale green. Or ochre. Or they might be dull sapphire. There's a sour smell, the legacy of lingering damp. As I climb, there's old-style paintings that look to be real, angels, and religious images. A crucifix. Vases and things that look expensive. Time accelerates, in this direction, then it slows. I follow obediently. At the top of the flight a giant stuffed grizzly rears, its dusty bead eyes still palely glistening. The place is like an overstocked theatrical props department. The acquisitions storehouse of the 'Museum of Arcane & Esoteric Artefacts', the unsorted stock, before they've been catalogued. I wander on the brink of hallucination, talking to voices that aren't there. Navigating junk-space. It looks as though Quentin Crisp might have lived here -- during his untidy phase. The floorboards creak as though they're liable to collapse through some rift in the quantum continuum.

He leads me into a room full of hodge-podge, bric-a-brac. A green Buddha that grins as I pass. A Ganesh with curving trunk. A glass display-case of impaled bugs. An old-fashioned treadle sewing-machine with mother-of-pearl inlay, unhealthy-looking plants with long pale spindle-leaves. Some other stuff that might be apparitions, or guilty secrets. I forget, or maybe don't even notice. My memory crammed with useless fragments. Lavish. Over-decorated. Mahogany units with marquetry-front drawers that must be bulging with valuable steal-able stuff. If I ever get chance to check them out. I deserve it. I give good value, I'm entitled to a little looting. An old-fashioned desktop screen on standby, with coloured patterns fishtail-swirling in random formation. In its sick fluorescence he bolts the door behind us.

Then clicks thin fingers impatiently. 'Do you want this? You're sure you want this?'

'Sure I'm sure I want this. I'm the Blow-Job Fairy here to grant you your three wishes,' making kissing-noises at his crotch.

'So c'mon, you should be naked. Do I must tell you every damn thing.'

I undress hesitantly. Carefully folding my clothes over a chair arm. Self-conscious now, I hate this part, I'm too skinny, there's a stale body-funk wafting as I stoop to pull my pants off -- the crotch already uncomfortably sticky-moist with a dark patch of pre-ooze, and my dick's not as big as I'd like it to be (early on in my life I'd decided that the only way I'd ever get to have a big cock was to take temporary possession of someone else's, by whatever means I can). Soon, I can't conceal the fact I'm already aroused, so I don't try. When I'm nude except for my St Christopher he sits and inspects me critically.

'That's quite a hard-on for a shy boy. Looks like you're less dead than I thought you were...'

I try to smile, shifting from one leg to the other. Indicating I should turn around, which I do, conscious of the lazy sway of my penis.

He picks up my clothes and disappears with them. 'You won't need these.'

'That's not part of the deal' I protest.

'Deals change,' peremptorily. 'Sometimes they last until the street-lights change, sometimes they don't even last that long.' His eyes are unreadable.

Out of sight, by candlelight, he is not exactly what he seems. Do you see him as a man? Or just a jagged outline? Whatever, he's trying to weird me out. There's close proximity, and then there's accidental travels. When he returns he beckons me, and all docile and compliant I'm bare-foot pacing after him. A low couch covered with a heavily-embroidered throw. This time it's his turn to undress. Heavy-built, but puffy, in shades of toadstool pale, nude he slouches back on the coverlet. Unlike me, he's not even fully erect. A dark phallic slug draped across his thigh sheathed in wicked foreskin. I crouch ready.

'You really can't wait for this, can you? Just how many cocks you sucked anyway?'

I hesitate. 'Five, only five. You'll be the sixth,' I nod at it as though to say a little less conversation, a little more action please. I'm ready. I'm more comfortable doing it than talking about it. But no, it seems he's intent on milking his moment to the max, psyching me out.

'Liar. I mean, how many in your life, not how many this morning. I wager you've been doing this stuff for just about forever, am I right? I bet you were the kid who always took sweets from strangers. You were Billy Blow-Job, the small-town slut who'd go down on anybody. I bet you were the runt they'd promise a quarter to do it, and they'd take you into the barn to do your dirty business, and you'd get so goo-goo-eyed and fuck-happy sucking on that thing you'd clean forget to pick up the quarter on the way out. I'm right, ain't I?'

I shrug, if that's what he wants, if that's part of the game, if talking filth gets him horny. 'If you say so, I guess it must have been something like that.' But his appraisal is so close to real it's like he's been reading my memories. Now I'm out here, doing this...

And this awkward wait is spooking me out. I'm impatient. It's hung there invitingly. I'm ready for it. Stiff with anticipation. He can plainly see I'm stiff and horny for it. He knows what effect it's having on me. But he's toying with me, gloating over his power over me, enjoying that power. I've met this kind of guy before. He wants Gay sex, but that's not something that fits well with own his self-image. So it has to be the other guy who is the sissy-boy. The other guy with the need. Sometimes I hate this. Other times I hate not doing it even more. I've had a quick taste of it earlier, in his half-truck, now I want it all. If I didn't before, the more I look, the more it transfixes my attention, the more I'm hungry for it. Just let me at it.

'So don't just stare at it, do it. Do what you've come to do. Do what you've been gagging to do ever since you saw it. I can tell you're a natural-born cock-sucker with a mouth made for sin. So do what you were born to do. Do what you've already done with all those other guys. Hunt it, like a dog, hunt dick boy.'

I crawl forward along the floor on all fours, genitals hanging, humouring him. My dangling balls jouncing up against the inside of my legs in a dirtily pleasing way. Nakedness is the only real honesty. People lie to you. Deceive you. Mess with your mind. Even in the Big House where it shouldn't happen there'd been creepy-crawlings going on, and opportunists taking advantage of my easy nature. When they discovered my weakness for guys, me, the original boy who can't say 'no'. I said yes. Got seduced and betrayed, same old same old, and that was just by the security staff abusing their position of trust. Two of them take turns escorting me to the shower-room for bad-thing sex, and I swagger all the way, feeling like I'm being specially privileged. They're in uniform, important, and they'd chosen me. Almost like they're my friends. And they laugh and make crude jokes as I hurry to crouch naked for them, smiling up at them with my mouth open ready. And they fuck me hard. Almost as if they like me. Each spunk-spurt up between my butt-cheeks, each sloppy-come in my mouth tells me so. I guess I've got the kind of face that guys just like to fuck. The kind of lips that send out the signal 'insert penis here.'

Even when I try to make a new start it betrays me, lets me down, and I end up here again, doing it with some new low-life guy. Why fight it any more? I'm born this way. Born as bad as sin. Born to do bad things, and have bad things done to me. I'm drawn to guys who use and disrespect me. So be it. Sure, I've got grass growing inside my brain. But I know this much, bodies don't lie. They can't fake their reactions. Everything's up front and on display for guys, once you're naked and horny there can be no secrets. There's something about anonymity too, you've nothing to hide, nothing to pretend. Nobody on the planet knows I'm here, doing this. What happens in these rooms, stays forever in these rooms. No-one else will ever know...

In between his splayed legs, I drop my head into his groin. Sniffing at it like a dick-hound. Lick it luxuriously, lapping down from the fat bulb all the way into the coarse pubic growth. It stirs. I go back up to the tip again, close my lips around it although it's still semi-hard and flat on his gut, drawing it up by pure force of suction so it uncoils up into my mouth. He wants a long slow blow-job, I'm more than qualified to give him one to remember. It's big and raw, getting fatter all the time, but I can slither most of it down, and begin attacking it, goggling on it, my tongue teasing and darting.

'That's where you belong, down there, doing that' he breathes. 'You might as well make yourself comfortable, you're gonna to be down there doing it for some considerable time. But if you're liking it now, you'll love it later.'

When they're happening, things happen in a forward-blur, it's only later as you replay them in your head that they come clear. Yes, I did this, yes, I did that, sure, I said this but meant that. I know I'm squirming my head around, slithering it up and down aggressively, feeling it firm and stiffen, the action setting up an answering pendulum-motion in my own groin. His thighs moving up to meet my throat. He's manipulative and fairly unpleasant, but he's got a nice big cock. I'm getting into it. This arrangement might not work out so disagreeably after all. His body warmth is not only stimulating, but oddly comforting. I can do this all night, if he'll allow me to.

'You're not doing bad' he grunts one tone below laryngitis. 'But I'm sure you can do better. You're a dirty bitch, so c'mon, show me just how much you love that cock you got in your filthy mouth. C'mon -- you say you suck cock, so show me just how good you can do it, take it deeper than that, much deeper, all I wanna be able to see is my balls snug up against your chin -- ah, that's it, there's nothing more gratifying than total obedience from a compliant young whore'.

His foul-mouth taunts and jibes are having an effect, galvanising me, spurring me to greater intensity of effect, I pull back ever so slightly, to feel the pleasurable sensation of my lips fit snugly up under the thick flared ridge, then burrowing my head into his groin, twisting and circling there to increase sensation and genital stimulation. He's going to remember this blow-job as the best he's ever paid for.