Ryan entered the abandoned warehouse.
The music pulsed, a low thudding beat like that of a heart. People danced—girls, guys, androgynes—or else thrashed around in the throes of an epileptic fit. Most of the crowd kept themselves to Miller Light and marijuana, but a few shot heroin as openly as they downed their drinks. Posters covered the walls, for other shows or anarchist movements.
None of the guys at work, used to polo shirts and khakis, would recognize him now. His leather jacket was full of safety pins and band patches and metal studs and spikes. He wore a band shirt and combat boots and ripped striped pants with zippers up the back. He'd tied feathers and beads and ties in his brown hair, gelling up random spikes and flicks and curls. He wore liquid eyeliner and mascara. Probably everyone at his job would run screaming and clutching their wallets.
Ryan had told his wife he was working late. She believed him, like she always believed him. She was too stupid to guess about his secret life.
Sometimes Ryan hoped that his wife was cheating on him, simply to add some interest to the boredom of his life with her. No, she wouldn't have the courage. Even if attraction to her tennis pro or grocery-store clerk made her clit throb, the idea of doing so couldn't pass her faded blue housedress. She was exactly what she seemed, as shallow in her stupidity as a puddle.
When he entered, he gathered some attention from women and men. Ryan cut a fine figure of a man: he worked out regularly and took care of his body, and always dressed well for his visits. But it was more than simple surface attraction. With his well-cut hair and clothes that obviously didn't look like they came from a thrift store, he looked like someone that could score you drugs, and that also made him desirable.
For a moment, Ryan considered dancing or getting a beer. But he had been horny for days, ever since his wife's last attempt at getting more of the mediocre sex she was so good at, and getting his erection taken care of was the first order of business.
He tossed aside with a gesture a leering girl in fuck-me boots and a short denim skirt and too much red lipstick and walked to the bathroom.
In the walls of one of the back rooms, someone had carved several holes. The walls were thin enough that even a girl could put her cunt up to be licked, although a man's cock was better suited for the purpose. It was the ultimate in anonymous sex.
Ryan undid his pants and dropped them around his ankles. He had no underwear on. He put his cock through the hole.
Within a few moments, a warm hand found his cock and started to stroke it up and down, very slowly.
Ryan relaxed as the girl's (man's? Ryan decided it was a woman, since he was straight) hand sped up a little, increasing the pleasure. Every once in a while she pulled back to focus on a different area, lightly circling the head of his dick with her fingertip or tickling the underside of it ever so lightly. She was very good, and he felt waves of pleasure through his cock. He breathed quickly, enjoying the sensation. There was nothing better than being in the hands of a woman who knew cock and loved cock and needed cock and worshipped cock.
So unlike his wife.
