Wednesday, November 02, 2005


I awoke alone in the bed. The room was nearly dark except for the morning light's piercing delineation of where the heavy drapery panels met. I lay in a warm down cocoon, my eyes drowsily following the sunshine trail scribed along the carpeting and face of a brown mission oak chest of drawers. The smell of fresh coffee rose from below, rousting me.

I walked yawning and stretching to the adjoining bathroom, lifted the seat, and pissed out the last bladderful of the previous night's lagers. Washing my hands at the dressing room vanity, I could hear voices through the pocket door. Then clearly and assertively, the voice of the other guest boomed from the study.

"Are you dressed, boy?"

Puzzled, I replied through the door

"Um, no. No i'm not."

My clothes were in a pile in front of the TV, where they'd been tossed the night before.

"Then come out here!" he ordered.


Time for 'The Horndog Show' I thought. The other guest was well known and widely publicized for his debauchery, and I reasoned he was inclined to add me as a footnote to his exploits. I slid the door open and stood there for a moment in the contrapposto pose of the models in figure draving class; one leg straight, the opposite knee bent, one shoulder dropped, arms bent outward by my sides.

"And I'm NOT a boy." I reached between my legs and adjusted, in the manner of a rap video, to emphasize the point.

The other guest was sprawled on the leather sofa, wearing only jeans in spite of the slight autumn chill. Next to him was our host, his eyes cast down toward the two white mugs on the tiny table which usually supported his lap top. An adorable shyness, unwaranted since he'd seen everything previously, and at much closer range.

I could feel the guest's eyes as I scooped up my clothes, shook out my corduroy jeans, and raised one foot to the leg opening.

"Show me your ass, bottom boy."

I met the guest's leering gaze.

The host interjected, "He's not a bottom" and grinned, first at me, and then at the other guest.

"Is that right" the guest marveled.

I tossed my pants onto the loveseat, winked at the host and turned away toward the TV. I could see them reflected in the black screen as I set my stance; three quarters turned to my audience, a slight squat from the knees, feet shoulder width apart, and weight placed forward on the balls of my feet. The host observed fondly, smiling still, running his eyes over contours familiar to his hands. The guest made his cold appraisal, taking in my glutes, the seamless curve into hamstrings and thick quads, then down to baluster calves divided into firm lobes. Satisfied with my performance, I reached back and smacked one cheek to signal curtain.

"Shows over" I anounced, and resumed dressing.

The host started to rise "Let me get you a mug."

"Oh no, no, I'll go down and get it."

"No please, I'll bring the pot up. 'sides, we need sugar." he disappeared down the hallway.

The guest remained on the sofa, barefoot, shirtless, in faded jeans. He spread his powerful arms along the top of the seat back, knees wide, still evaluating me with cunning brown eves.

"Had a good time at the Eagle last night then, boy?"

"I have a good time wherever I go."

Now I considered HIM: twin slabs of traps, cannonball shoulders and big arms covered in veiny tracery, almost smooth shelf pecks and sharply defined six pack. No wonder he always had his shirt off. I leaned forward and placed my hands on his shoulders, grabbing two handfulls of hard muscle, set my knees at either side of his slim hips, and perched on his lap. I scrutinized the deep hollows of his cheeks where the fat had melted away, felt along his arms and down to the smooth taught skin of his belly, and up to his nipples, as large and thick as the first joint of my pinkys. First I caressed them gingerly. He closed his eyes, and I worked them harder.

His eyes snapped open, "Push it," he warned, "and I'll MAKE you a bottom." He closed his eyes again.

Push it?

But how far? "Uncle joe's not here to protect you, little man", I cautioned myself, and considered my options while kneading. Aw, fuck it. I clamped onto the guest's nips like the tunning knobs of some fleshy car radio, spinning the frequency higher and the volume WAY up, and lept backwards as he swore and grabbed towards my giggling retreat.

He stood up, clutching his chest, his eyes narrow slits. Laughing from the doorway, I taunted, "BOTTOM huh?"

Just then the host arrived, and set a tray on the tiny table. I sat back down between them, half an eye on the other guest, and splashed cream into my steaming mug. Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. I wondered if the other guest was considering a return volley, and whether I'd be kept around long enough to have to deflect it later on. I raised the porcelain to my lips and sipped the hot rich brew. The day was off to a good start.
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