A Requiem for Masculinity

It was a seedy watering hole down by the tracks; the kinda place with lukewarm beer and watered down liquor. But Monday nights? It was standing room only on Monday nights! Mondays was when Spade and his pretty wife would come in...

She'd lead him over to the piano and have him play the blues while she sang...and stripped...and gave blowjobs to all the cops and the Wiseguys in the joint; right there in front'a him!

Some o' those guys he'd put in the Big house and there they were, fucking his pretty wife's mouth right in front'a him, and all the while he'd be watching...and playing the blues, just like she'd told him to.

I guess no-one ever really knows what goes on behind closed doors. Spade, he was a gumshoe, not the best but definitely not the worst. He had sand, he had; never knew when to back down. He'd get the scent of a trail in his nose and he'd follow it to Hell if he had to. Spade always got his man, or woman.

His pretty little wife, she came from uptown; so far away from the tracks you'd wonder how she even knew they existed; word was that she'd sneak out of her expensive finishing school back in the day and ruin her stockings for a shot of cheap gin.

It was raining the night she turned up at Spade's, it beat against the gutters and windows like a crazy drummer that just wouldn't quit. She was in the room before we'd even heard the door open all pale and wet and lithe and intense. Her short dark hair plastered to her skin, her make-up making a watercolour mess of her face and her clothes, translucent, leaving nothing to the imagination.

You could see he was entranced; their eyes locked in an intense embrace, hers smouldering with a fire that promised Nirvana to the right guy.

Spade, that hard-nosed, straight-as-a-die, world-weary flatfoot, melted like butter in a heatwave. I'd never have believed it was possible. One look from that doll and he was out of his chair lighting the stove and offering her a towel, a blanket, and some privacy. And boy did she take her time!

It was like Spade had forgotten I was even there. He didn't say a word the whole time just slumped behind Jane's desk in the outer-office, chain-smoking to the incessant rhythm of the storm, eye's glued to the privacy glass of the door to the inner office, drinking in each glimpse of her shadow.

When we were finally allowed back in she was sitting in his chair, behind his desk, fresh-faced and wrapped in the blanket; his whisky bottle in her hand pouring shots into two glasses and his shaving mug like she owned the joint. She kept the mug and gestured for Spade to hand out the glasses.

I'd never seen Spade act so meek before, especially for a broad: this was a guy carved in the image of Bogey, all man, yet here he was acting like this dame had him on a leash. As for what she wanted? She wanted Spade and, judging from the self-satisfied smirk on her pretty mug, she knew she had him.

When she told me to get lost I did a double-take: it's like she thought she ran the joint of something. I got outta my chair to give her a piece of my mind when, mild as a new-born, Spade told me, without taking his eyes off her, it was okay, I should go see the wife and kids.

I admit I was dumbstruck. I couldn't believe it! I started to give him a piece of my mind when, suddenly, she's right up against me, the blanket on the floor at her feet, all hot and naked against me and I can feel the warmth of her cush pressed against my slacks, her nipples pressing hard through my shirt.

The words died in my mouth and another part of me suddenly sprang, unmistakably to life pushing against her naked belly. I looked at Spade in disbelief. This doll had been making goo-goo eyes at my boy for the past hour and here she was, her hand now cupping my rocks, while Spade looked on silently: impotent.

And then my fly is open and her little hand is reaching in, freeing my jasper even as she slides down to her knees to offer me heaven in her hot, tramp mouth. Even better, she begs me to treat her like a strumpet, begs me to use her. And all the time I'm caught between wanting this hot, naked piece-of-ass and staring at Spade, willing him to object, to fly into a rage, to do anything to show me he's still a man, still my hero...but all he can do is watch. It's like she's tied him to a chair and gagged him and I'm so angry with her for crushing him like this; so angry at the way she's torn down his indomitable masculinity. I know he's lost now, lost to the world, lost to me, lost forever and I'm going to make this broad wish she'd never picked this office, on this day.

So I grab her towel-dried hair in my fist and I ram my Johnson deep into her mouth, fucking it with every ounce of hatred my body can muster, calling her every name under the sun and the rain pounds out it's rhythm on the gutters and the windows as she sucks all my anger out of me, as she takes everything I give her and gives me back her unadulterated lust for cock. I can't help it; to my shame I begin moaning my delight, begin caressing where before I pulled, begin enabling her delicious tongue, her hoovering mouth, her delicate lips. I begin to grunt and thrust and she's right there with me, squeezing my rocks, devouring my meat, encouraging my completion.

I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to see Spade, so I don't have to think of him and I cum like Krakatoa deep inside her warm, inviting mouth and I pull out to spill more on her lips and face, to own her for these moments, and then I'm done. With a last, gentle cock-kiss and a tongue bath, still on the floor she dresses me, and her cat-that-got-the-cream look she sends Spade's way makes me hustle for the door without a word.

I'm in the outer office, leaving a note...my resignation letter...when I hear her ask him to kiss her mouth, to kiss where I had left my mess, and I shudder with disgust and stalk out onto the street, into the pounding rain and I hope it washes all my memories of this night from my mind forever, that it never happened, just a trick of the storm...

...I admit that every now and again, on Monday nights, I go down to a seedy watering hole by the tracks to hand out with the Wiseguys and the cops and drink some watered down liquor. They've got a good piano player in on a Monday these days; he plays it slow and sad, the way I like it since my dreams were shattered on a wet night one July.

The floor show is good too, a hot tramp with a mean body and an angel's face. And sometimes I find myself pushing through the throng around her, catching her mocking gaze and lining up to fuck that delectable, willing mouth, and all the while the blues plays on, a slow, sorrowful dirge; a Requiem for Masculinity...