"That's one sweet ass. You are one sexy piece of ass."
"I can sing too, and will look good in front of your band," I said, trying to keep the focus on why I was there, in the sleazy hotel room, tinted red by the "O" and the "L" of the flashing neon sign just outside the window.
I wondered if he could hear the pain in my voice, although chances were that he'd be proud that he'd put it there. Phil Gauteau, the huge French Canadian of the trendy band of the same name currently playing the Chelsea Bathhouse, had his back propped up on pillows against the headboard. He was smoking a cigarette and had an open bottle of bourbon and a water glass on the nightstand beside him. He hadn't offered me either. There was a small pile of Magnum condom packets on top of the nightstand as well. One of the packets was split and empty, the used condom now on the floor beside the bed, fat as a sea slug with his cum.
I vaguely wondered if there was a smear of blood on the condom, as well. He was a monster of a man, with a cock to match. It wasn't appreciably long but was one of those known as a beer can dick. I'd never had a man that thick inside me before, and he had given me little time to prepare for it and had fucked me mercilessly, seeming to have enjoyed my cries of distress immensely.
I wanted something from him and he knew it. So, I was in no position to ask for more consideration.
I was stretched along his side, my right leg bent, the sole of my foot pressed into the surface of the thin mattress. I was doing what I could to keep from squeezing my anal channel shut, which was throbbing and was swollen, I was sure. I'd felt the opening for tears and found none, but the channel had been reamed wide open and hadn't closed yet.
I had no illusions that it would close anytime soon. He'd taken me hard and fast, missionary style, as soon as we'd entered the room, him saying that he'd hardly been able to keep his hands off me until we got into the room—a good sign for what I was after.
"I don't know what it is about you that's so sexy," he'd said. "You were born to be fucked."
I couldn't explain it either, but it had been my experience through life—for men to want to fuck me. None as cock big as he was, though.
I'd had no idea he'd be that thick—although his height and burliness should have given me a clue—and I'm sure anyone in the hotel at the time could hear my screams and grunts and groans as he spiked me, the sound backed by the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the wall and the squeaking of the springs as he pounded my ass.
I half thought he'd listened to the beat of the headboard and the squeal of the springs to set a rhythm. That's what he did in the Phil Gauteau Band, in addition to putting the musicians together—my interest at the moment. He was the band's drummer and manager. I was a singer—a singer badly in the need of a job and a breakthrough.
Moving from running my fingers through his chest hair, I let my hand drift down his belly and into his thatch. The cock fascinated as well as frightened me. It wasn't just because it was so thick—surely nearly as thick as a beer can—but also because it was almost jet black. The skin of both his cock and his gigantic balls were black. There was no sign of blackness in him otherwise, but the color here bespoke of an interracial mix. I encircled the shaft with my hand, barely being able to touch my fingers together. It began to swell instantly.
He laughed. "Ready for it again? So soon?"
Not hardly, I thought. But I wanted this gig badly. My way to standing in front of the band in the Chelsea Bathhouse and singing like Frank Sinatra went straight through this monster dick. Gauteau had made it quite explicit what I had to do to get the chance. And that it was an audition of long duration.
I bent over his belly and, while still encasing the base of the cock with a hand, opened my mouth wide over the bulb and began to suck. He groaned for me, which was a good sign, and after a few minutes, during which the shaft engorged so much that I had to unhinge my jaw to keep it in my mouth, I felt a nudge on my shoulder. I looked up to see that he'd split open another condom packet.
"Crown me. Then we'll go to town again."
Every ounce of my attention was on the baseball bat moving inside my passage, as he gripped my wrists, my torso cantilevered over his legs, my legs running up the side of his torso, his pelvis jerking back and forth as he pulled my body on and off the thick shaft. Grunting and groaning, I kept my eyes plastered to the red neon flash of the "O" and the "L" outside the hotel window and counted the strokes as he surely came closer to ejaculation and my liberation for now. The flashing sign was red; the tint of the atmosphere in the room was red, my swollen passage walls were red—my whole world was red, as I concentrated on surviving the fuck without split channel walls.
And then, slowly but relentlessly, I opened to him and the pleasure of the fuck—the satisfaction of accommodating a monster cock—flowed in, and I was crying out for it. "Fuck me. Fuck me hard!" and he was increasing the pull, striving for deeper penetration, crying out, "Take it, baby, take it!" as he filled the bulb of his rubber.
Later, our breathing having calmed down and his cigarette crushed out on the scarred top of the nightstand, the bottle of bourbon nearly spent, I felt him snuggling in behind me, his arms embracing me, his hand going to cupping and fondling my cock and balls.
"Such a sweet lay. I could fuck you for days."
It seemed to me that he had.
The fireplug of a cock was pressed into the small of my back. I couldn't tell if it was hard or not—I certainly hoped not. My passage was throbbing and, I could tell, was gaping open.
"So, is it set, then?" I asked tentatively, in a whisper. "Will you give me a chance to sing with the band at the baths?"
"One thing is sure," he muttered in a low-throated voice, "You've got one sweet, tight ass. You must sweat arousal juice."
I began to tremble as I felt his hand fumbling between the small of my back and his groin. There was no mistaking it, he was rolling on another condom.
I moaned deeply as he turned me on my stomach and came down on my back. I opened my mouth in a silent scream and my eyes bugged out as he began to enter me again. pulling my knees up, I raised my buttocks and spread my legs, trying to be as open to him as I could be.
"Oh, shit, of fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," I moaned, my eyes latching onto the blinking neon "O" and "L" outside the window as he began to pump again—in rhythm to the blinking neon lights.
I couldn't help myself. I begged for more of what he was giving and set my hips in motion, meeting his thrusts with counterthrusts.
"Oh, baby, baby. Yes, baby. Give it to daddy."
"Yes, YES! SHIT YES! FUCK ME!"
* * * *
We were celebrating in our small loft room at the edge of Chelsea—well, in Zane's small room. I was still living off of what little of a startup fund I'd brought to New York with me from Delaware. Somehow Zane, an aspiring actor, and I had hit it off well after meeting at one of those "aspiring artists" roving parties in Manhattan, getting half drunk, and coming back here for Zane to spike the night away on my ass. He too had remarked on how fuckable I was; I was beginning to think it was my only asset. I'd been sleeping here since then, on his nickel, and eating my principle meal of the day here, too, at his sufferance.
He'd said it was worth sharing the meal with me if I cooked it—that he would burn half of whatever he tried to cook anyway.
Zane had come back to the room with the news that he'd gotten the young hunk supporting role in an off-Broadway play, and I, of course, was full of the news that I was going to begin that weekend singing with the Phil Gauteau Band in the Chelsea Bathhouse. It really was a gay male bathhouse, but these had become trendy lately as places of entertainment as well. Some had gone so far as to be attractive to heterosexuals, but the Chelsea Bathhouse was still all gay male, with much open sex going on even in the main room during the shows. Certainly no women would chance it and a good-looking straight man would be raped in no time flat. The Phil Gauteau Band had gained a "to see" reputation as well, and it worked in the band's favor that, unless you were willing to take in a gay venue, you'd have to pay big bucks for a private gig. The underground press loved advertising largely forbidden venues and limited-access bands.
For the first time, that night, both Zane and I felt that we were "on our way" at last.
I had wanted to celebrate by sharing a bottle of cheap wine, but I was at a disadvantage with this, as Zane would have had to buy the wine. Zane, instead, wanted to celebrate our familiar, costless way—costless because Zane didn't believe in condoms and this was the early seventies, before the scourge of AIDS set in. Neither one of us could have afforded the cost of the condoms we would have needed anyway. Sex was nearly our only form of affordable entertainment in those days.
Zane couldn't keep his hands off me when we were together.
Both naked, we were sitting on Zane's air mattress on the floor, me encased in his arms, facing away from him, between his legs. That was the bedding we had: two camping blow-up mattresses on the floor, with sleeping bags on top of them, although mine was rarely used, as Zane liked to sleep with his dick in me. Between the two, they took up nearly all of the floor space in the room, where a kitchenette took up one wall and the only other room was a small bathroom, with a tight shower.
That was the major regret that Zane expressed about the small apartment—that it was physically impossible for us to shower together.
Zane was a real hunk—a Nordic blond, with a perfectly formed athlete's body that placed him squarely in the romantic "second man" love-interest roles—not always too bright, but always a hunk—in plays. In contrast, I was smaller, dark complexioned, Jewish, and with a sleek, young-man's body that was well proportioned enough, just not muscle bound. And there must have been something to that "scent of sex" thing men talked about when they were with me, because it was so often mentioned and I never was without propositions. Phil Gauteau had admitted that his arousal with me had been both a scent thing and the image of stuffing that beer can cock of his into the hole of a man as small as I was. It was a wonder to me as well that he had managed it earlier that evening—three times. Sometime during the third time, I'd adjusted to it well enough to have hoped for a fourth.
Zane had his arms around me, with one hand stroking my cock. His lips were buried in the back of my neck. What he had rising up the small of my back was getting harder and harder. His cock wasn't thick, but he was what we termed a "foot long" in length. Not nearly a foot long, of course, but close enough—it certainly seemed as long when it was inside me.
"Such a coincidence for both of us to get good work on the same day," I murmured.
"Yes, isn't it? I'm ready to celebrate. How about you?" Zane asked, his voice dreamy. He coaxed my head to turn with cheek pressure from his sexy five-o-clock shadow beard that he perpetually groomed. I opened my mouth to his, feeling the heat and insistence of him.
I wasn't sure I was ready for this. My passage still throbbed from Gauteau's beer can cock assault earlier in the evening. I didn't know if I could have sex again for a day or two.
But then I was having sex, whether I thought I could or not. With his mouth still in possession of mine, he slowly pitched my torso forward, raising my buttocks to him. The cock slid right in. If he had any sensation that I'd been reamed huge and still hadn't closed, he gave no reaction. His intent was to make me come before he took his pleasure. It was what he always wanted.
I moaned and writhed within his grasp as he invaded with his cock only far enough for his glans to reach my prostate and start to work that, while his hand stroked my cock. Where I expected pain, I was getting only pleasure and the slow, sure buildup to an ejaculation.
