Tales of the ginbar

By Jan L 
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No. 1: Lucky Thought

He awoke to the spicy smell of someone's groin adjacent to his nostrils, the moistness of drool and the gentle zephyr of breath caressing his prick and balls; obviously they had fallen asleep after 69ing. A muscled arm was thrown across his torso, its hand cupping a buttock and every so often slightly squeezing in rhythm to the nighttime trick's own post-coital dreams; he reached down with his own free arm and gently disengaged it. His other arm was carefully drawn from between the legs of the other. Slowly arising so as not to disturb his recent lover, he shifted off the bed and went into the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder that had built up overnight, then washed his face and groin in the sink, not wanting to take a shower and wake the man in the other room, giving him a chance to leave without getting his number. Oh, no, not this one. This guy had been special…specially good anyhow. It was almost as if he could read your mind, and there is something familiar about him, his lovemaking, his eager athleticism in the sack, his refreshing enthusiasm that was so different from what so often recently had been a dull repetition of “let's get it over with, man, I gotta sitcom to catch” of the modern-day hookup. But what?

As he sat on the seat, gently massaging his member to a light tumescence in anticipation of morning nookie at least before his new contact had a chance to leave, he recalled how they had met the night before. He had wandered into this odd little bar off Simons Street, a tiny little alley off a minor street in the Village's outer limits, and had gone in even though it was far too early for a clientele to arrive…he had not gone looking for sex, but to put on a bender like nobody's business. He had just seen half his department downsized-funny how people thought that sounded better than 'fired'--maybe it was because he viewed things sexually, he mused-and knew he was next to be put against the wall by the newly-acquired upper management in the now-merged—again a quaint term like 'absorbed' or 'bought-out' or 'acquired' for a swallowed-up little fish in the food chain…ignoring the rather lumpy seat cushion which was unbeknownst to him spilling a small stream of coins of gold to flop softly into the deep carpet he had not noticed now covered his parqueted inlaid-wood floors… # The bar had been quite empty, only the barkeep and the doorwatcher around. The place had sort of an Orientalist theme, rather liuke a bizarre opium dream of a Sultan's seraglio with pictures of youthful male odalisques in emerald-hued satin turbans with bejewelled peacock-feather-adorned aigueilettes on their fronts, seafoam green diaphanous gauze harem pants with studded black cockrings keeping them erect and visible beneath, and glittering embroidered mule-slippers on their feet with upturned tips—and nothing else. Multi-colored glass-and-plastic bead curtains separated parts of the bar from others, fabric hangings to look like tent sides covered the old NYC faux lathe-and-plaster common to the genre of peripheral Qbars, some antique hookahs with different types of tobacco stood as phallic yet impotent wall displays since the Bloomberg administration had passed its draconic anti-smoking ordinance. He'd bellied [literally, his 6-pack calculatedly showing beneath his top-only buttoned shirt friskily grazing the polished mahogany] up to the bar and asked the tender to give him a boilermaker, leaving up to the lean but sexy stud what type of beer and booze to use…then walked around the place ogling the decor and amenities. One odd note was this old fortune-telleing machine with a marionette-also turbaned, which probably explained its present location—saying Fortunes Told- 5 Cents! Every 100th Fortune gets a prize!

What the heck, he'd had a spare Jefferson, so he stuck the nickel into the old slot and cranked the handle around. Nothing happened, so he jiggled the machine a bit, then noticed its plug was detached from the wall. Plugging the machine in, it warmed up with some fairy-lights winking on and off in the turban and some underlighting of the profile gave the marionette not a nasty look, but-oddly, a sort of supercilious lusting leer, and it seemed to wink at him. But of course marionettes don't wink, do they? Suddenly from the base of the machine wafted a vast cloud of vapor, rapidly filling the lower reaches of the bar up to about knee-level.

“Hey who plugged in the fog machine” yelled someone from in back “That's not supposed to be used until tomorrow night!”

He apologized and hastily unplugged the socket and the machine stopped spewing its smoky mist. He noted however that a small plastic egg-container had dropped out of a slot of the soothsaying device with the word “winner” on the outside of it in an elegant yet unusal cursive script, almost hand calligraphy yet etched into the material, with a scrap of paper and a tawdry trinket-a cheap plastic ring-inside. He unscrewed the box and extracted the paper which read:

Lucky thou to get the ring, Mind thee what to say, One chance only joy to bring, Else for thy folly pay

The ring also was unusual in that it was not one of those slit-plastic one size fits all sort usually given in these cases, nor was it the generic size 10 styrene nor the gaudy pseudo-metal he expected. Rather it glowed gently silver, was round in all edges, with a faint arabesque design on it in holographic multicolored beauty something like abalone shell or the squares on that old disco-era Positano shirt he'd gotten that was such a hit at SF convention costume parties. It—surged, there was no other word to describe its eager expansion around his index finger as he tired it on, shrunk coherently to an equally perfect fit on his right ring finger as he switched it over. At least it looks like I have SOMEBODY who cares about me he thought as he absently began twirling it around on his digit…then with mischief alight in his eyes he made his way through the still swirling mists to the “Men's Room”--typical of the type just containing a waterless trough urinal big enough for a man to lie in and a small washstand which was all the running water in the room. He hurriedly undid his 501 buttons and inserted his cock and balls through the circuit of the ring.

Not a bad fit came suddenly from behind his right shoulder and a young-looking man with somehow ancient eyes unzipped beside him and began taking a leak. His hair was dark brown like burnt umber, narrow brows capping both liquid sienna eyes with small peaks to them, separated by about an inch of hairless skin over the bridge of a roman nose above full, luscious lips made for fellatio or cunningulus, lips quirked upwards in the half-challenge, half-plea for acceptance of the young hunk-about-town when he sees something aged but possibly still edible. A quick check of the newcomer's equipment showed promise too, as it began lengthening and thickening even as the flow of -a sniff suggested recycled beer- began to slow and another liquid bedewed the tip some 8 inches later, the sight becoming fantastical due to the still churning false fog made by the machine which held hidden his legs below the knees, making it seem as if he stood proudly on two columns of twisting smoke and fog.

He'd blushed as he'd stuffed his still-accoutred cock and balls back into his pants; going commando as he had it was a matter of some pain redoing the buttons in the haste with their catching on his pubes. Taking a quick wash in the basin he'd offered his hand to the stranger and said, “Hi, pleased to meet you. My name's John.”

Thankfully the man-boy had not responded with some wiseass quip to the lame line like “Perfect name” but had just said, “My name's Azrel. What do you desire?” arms akimbo, cock protruding nicely, still oozing the drop of clear liquid at the tip.

Hmmn. Quick and direct, these young guys do move fast. Was I ever that young? What I desire is for you to fall completely and permanently in non-possesive, non-jealous guy-on-guy lust with me starting with leaving this popstand and coming home with me tonight to make mad gay monkeylove all night…sigh…but fat chance of that flashed through his brain. “…Uh…,” he said like a moron.

The intrusive trick blinked, stepped back a bit, then his eyes deepened to an aqueous chocolate as his pupils widened and he murmured “Maybe this time it worked.” A shy, tentative hand reached out to touch the hand outstretched of the older guy, and like in the stories a spark seemed to pass as the elder knelt down before the younger and gently, delicately lapped up the precum at the tip, causing a joyous bounce to the rod and even more liquid to begin escaping.

“Not here, do you have someplace to go?” wafted up through the fine pubic hairs from the man.

“No, only here. Do you need a place…”

It sounded like 'master' but mut've been 'mister, and he chilled a bit at the knell of approaching age. He thought of his apartment several blocks away, that his former love, his relative, now ostensibly “straight” with a wife and two fine kids, he had rented for years as their pied-a-terre downtown and whose key he still had on his car chain…maybe it was fate he had not abandoned it. More likely a fool belief M'ld come back to me he thought, and whimpered a bit in self-pity. But it would suffice.

“Yes, let's go” and they'd left somehow-he did not exactly recall, perhaps it had been a cab, perhaps they had walked, it felt like floating along and dropping into bed and they had indeed made passionate love to each other in the night, the youth crying out “master, let me please thee” in full passion and he had responded “I am not into that scene, please do not use the term, my family always freed slaves, it did not take them. I do not like it even in roleplay.”

“So you would free any slave you had?” queried the young man between pants of exertion as the giver of the seed into the elder's receptacle. “Yes, a thousand times yes” he had said in reply.

“Free me then” the youth suggested, exquisitely gyrating his hips, sending throbs of pleasure along his dick massaging the inner chute as the prong slid smoothly, deeply inside the older man…poking into corners and into deeper depths that had not been abraded by pleasure in years and which made him squirm with passion.

“If it means that much, you are free. But please keep on this job” Anything, just keep-unnnhhh-doing it!!!

“So be it, and gladly, once-master” as a spurting pulsating gusher rose through the pistoning throbbing tube into the waiting hungry passage, each surge sending new waves of joy and happiness through both men, lubing and electrifying the hastening continuation of their communion of the flesh, the burning cooling of the friction keeping them hard at it until shortly before the dawn…switching places and the elder's stiff prick tumescing, hardening, conquering more strongly than it had for years, all worries of unemployment and lost loves and other cares passing, stress-reduction proving a fine aphrodisiac and waves of pleasure through the oral and anal satiation of its released desire bringing both to happy exhaustion in a gentle, laving 69 with occasional side trips of the tongues to the dripping anuses, mouths absorbing the semen exuded by the well-pleasured yet by now oh-so-well-used holes…. #

“Good Morning” said the prone figure amid the tangled bed-clothes. “Want some breakfast” and the lissome form of his beloved of years ago, not the current spare-tire waisted figure with the balding pate and the other accoutrements of middle-age, like the wife and two progeny, cute though they were; but the lean, muscled, athletic mega-cute twink of yore—leapt high out of the bedclothes onto the carpet and pranced into the kitchen to rustle up some food for them both. Something was weird here…

To be continued????


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