It was more in keeping with what seems an innate personality that serves to make me even less cautious of necessary sings as on a highway than any notice warning to beware the signs. Should this effort in a self-description fail either to gain a reader's attention or as a start to something to be more exciting, it was my failure to beware the signs that landed my naked ass in a place that had a sign outside its main entrance as Marty's Massage Parlor.
It was not so much that it had been so long since I got a good blowjob as much as the way it came about, suggesting deception. This issue neither confronted differences in languages and/or dialects nor a true play on words for the careful observer. Massage, as a title for a business, may read as no more or less perhaps than a warning for stroke, rub, kneading or tapping with the hand or an instrument for remedial or hygienic purposes. Somewhat in keeping with cut requested and amount to remove as in hairstyling, Marty's backstreet establishment bases its service fees on a client's sexual endowment. While a good pussyfoot truly identified as a man with twelve inches usually leaves the place without charge. Anything under is charged by inch of his penis' shaft in its state of erection, (better known as a hard-on to frequent flyers.) Seems as if as soon as the client begins to sense how deep the masseur takes the shaft of his penis down his throat, there is a good indication as to the charges for the service. And if a man coming for service is lucky enough to see the custodian in person, he soon learns at least one the advantages of not living alone.
Much as the way any interested man learns about Marty's Massage Parlor, it takes little time for knowing how and why Marty chose James Able, a synonym for endowed. Somewhat like father, like son or one naked man checking out another naked man in the gym locker room, "some fortune suckers owe it all to Daddy!" It was no town guarded secret that the hired man at Pete's Billiards was there for more than maintaining the place and collecting fees. And to prove the truth as to why he always dressed in tight-fitting pants and evidently no underwear, every time an interested customer sensed that Marty was on his way to take a leak, the commode booth immediately adjacent to the wall of three urinals was occupied before the show arrived. And here lay, impossible to move from the indescribable ecstasy of that split-second closeness to ejaculation, one of those former men who used to rush for the best seat in the house (men's room) to watch Pussy Foot Marty take a leak. Hell! I was so out of tune with the real world that I failed either to see or to sense what was ready to transpire at the immediate second of my fast approaching ejaculation.
Still having difficulty with separating fantasy from fiction and dreams from reality, the spit second that I realized that I was beyond any point of return as a trip in a barrel over Niagara Falls and felt the semen moving to the opening at the opening in the helmet of my penis, my mouth sprang wide open as if preparation of a giant shout, falling short for representing any true accounting of this height of all heights in my entire life since discovering puberty in the teen years. And as I, the narrator required a long and run-on sentence in hopes of stating the impact of indescribable emotions, seeing was believing! With my eyes covered with the flesh and pleasant scent of a man's pubic area and a hint of heavy sweat in the pubic hair and testicles drawn up but managing to rest on my forehead, more than dreams assured that this invited intrusion had to be none other than former Pete's Billiards housekeeper and pleasantly surprising to learn the custodian of Marty's Massage Parlor.
Why I had in mind that age-old and well worn metaphor, "all good things seem to come at the same time," proved as interesting as the closeness to a living proof. No sooner than had Marty managed to get the head of his monstrous phallus passed the base of my tongue and its large load of heavy semen chugging down my esophagus like a fire hose emptying into the opening the size for adding gasoline to an ordinary passenger car, I could feel my own fully erect and pulsating cock emptying down the willingly receptive throat of Marty, the town's star masseuse. Before any sense of true reality became a part of my rationale for the last several minutes that seemed like an hour, any remaining curiosity as for how Marty, himself has reacted to all of this, that is, sexually, dissipated like cold air in a tight men's gym workout room when activity changes to that exercise men dream about and eventually find right under the noses!
It would be less than the truth man swears to tell in a court of law if I stated that I have never performed oral sex on another man. And before some smart ass reader starts thinking the idea that I have sucked my own as versus a mirror image to add to missing reality, the answer if affirmative. A chief reason for dropping lessons in the martial arts, calisthenics, along with oriental exercises involving head-over-hills, heels and worse, over-head, not to exclude the a body closeness comparable with no-hold-barred one-on-one wrestling or the nonsense supporting an instant brawl that breaks out in a men's room with both instigators knowing but never admitting why. When the sun rises, man knows a new day had arrived. When it sets and there is no moon, man's common sense dictates that it is night. Then there are those times when it becomes interesting to blend pretended violence and that temperament that finds two men on the floor in a tight embrace, preferably in a more comfortable position known worldwide as sixty-nine.
"Remember to close the door and push it tight to make sure the lock engages!" came a call from the same massage room where I just left. "I have decided to close early," the now well recognized voice of former billiards manager Pete added. "If you wish to drop by later for a little activity with both Marty and me, feel free to use the door at the other end that is an extension of the men's room at J. O.'s Bar and Thrill."
Much as that over-used slang for suggesting agreeable, I called back "O.K.; and added in a whispering voice, "only King-size for me any more!" With visible heavy deposits of semen on my pants, managing to pass through my boxer underwear, I attempted to cover it over until I could get home. All I had with me was the newspaper I was sifting through for an idea for tonight's entertainment when I happened upon Marty's Massage Parlor. The idea that I associated that with an all female staff catering to all men got lost the instant I found myself inside. And as memory served to retrace passed efforts for getting intimate with another man while keeping the affair very discreet, an approaching man who seemed a stranger to me, slowed as he near when I walked slowly in order to maintain my composure with concealing the show of spent semen on the legs and crotch of my thin nylon pants. At first, his choice for greeting had a tendency to turn me off prior to learning his purpose. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" And before I had time to weigh any and all visible evidence to support a suitable answer, he added, "voracious," young coach James used to call you, but Coach J. J. preferred "gifted."
Somewhere in the immediate distance and probably coming from a music and records store across the street came a tune from Walt Disney World, "It's a small, small world." But as if added insult to injury but in a more interesting antithesis, Pete grabbed his crotch with his left hand at the same time his right hand reached for mine. Then like a sudden and unexpected summer shower when a man is not carrying any sissy umbrella, "what's with all this fresh man milk on those neat dressy pants?" Before I had time to weigh the idea as to whether I wished to share the truth about my pants, Peter Underwood had more. "Guess you just have to remember twelfth grade dropout, Andy Holmes, the guys back then used to tease and call him John?" And as memory served me well for a change but before I had had time to answer, Pete added more. "Did you ever learn why he never dressed out for PE or removed his school clothes for a shower?" Again before I could think of a proper answer, yes, history does indeed repeat itself. "Here is my calling card with phone number and address." As I reached for that card while attempting not to show and signs of reservations and as confused as that day I came face to face with Andy Holmes in the boys' room in high school.
"Hold the fort," came another of Pete's somewhat originality not so cleverly blended expanded interjections. "You will be coming as I do every day!"
"What the hell is all of this supposed to mean?" I was asking myself while trying to decide how to respond. Then came a both inviting as possessing reservations based on my personal ignorance from parts of an unknown past.
"Let you conscience be your guide" Pete added as he handed me the small card with a photo of himself made at least ten years earlier in his life. "That miracle of a real man has been sharing a home in the older area of the suburbs for more than ten years now!" Let it be noted that the information-giver showed similar signs of exaltation as did the receiver of now pleasant news about the past. Desperately and determined to maintain my identifying composure, I attempted not to show any visible outward indication of excitement, instant and noticeable penis erection or signs of inferiority simultaneously. For a first time since growing years, I found myself mentally asking myself, "does envy have a way for never going away?"
Just as I was trying to say if and when I might take him up on the offer to visit the place that he and old high school dropout, Andy Holmes share, here came Pete's surrogate man-to-man handshake. In that I was unintentionally sporting another erection from the exciting news I was trying hard not to show, when Andy's hand met the crotch of my tight pants as versus the more typical handshake, the uncontrolled emission of semen was to him enough man milk for Pete to extend the visit to his and Andy's place to an entire weekend adventure. "Man," Pete addressed me but not in the same tone depictive of past arguments at public school or a ball game and the like, depending on time and circumstances, "perhaps if things had worked out different for both of us, it just might now be you and I sharing the same living quarters!" And as he paused in a very obvious injection tone of voice, "that if, if you still enjoy a great blow job the way you did back at Sleepy Hills Consolidated?"
By: DeBu MA Engl. Ed.
Part II -- Tricks of the Trade