Author’s notes: I suppose every man wonders what it might be like to do something ‘different’. Just how different depends on the man. (45 years ago I made bareback porn in France, enjoyed doing it, too.) In my own mind, I’m inclined to think it’s broadening to give in, maybe in a modest way, to ‘do something’ you ‘never thought you’d do’. Most people have a fear of speaking in public…well, once you’ve been filmed, naked, that concern will never happen again. While I’m not exhorting anyone to go out and do something that is dangerous or they may truly find repugnant….I am suggesting that perhaps doing something you’ll regret just a little bit but still enjoy the memory of doing it isn’t all bad…. Petr-Johan
The open car door, hanging over the gutter, not quite grazing the top of the curb, at least not this time but other times, the scraping had shaped the curve of the door in to a rough diagonal piece of metal. Made a perfect shield for what went on behind it, almost in the car, from which spilled out just a little warmth onto the man squatting on the sidewalk, leaning in, his mouth open…..The man in the car, turned out, his penis hanging from his pants felt relief, the man on the sidewalk, his mouth full of cock only felt the time a few dollars would buy, maybe a better place to sleep.
“How’d I find you when I wanna get sucked…?”
“Depends….usually I’m around here, slow down….if I see you…”
But if he didn’t see him one of several men would….all of the them gave curb side service for blow jobs….some were willing to take it in the ass but very few would get in the car and go…some where. Most came back, most. Cops might come around, ask questions, anybody seen anything? That morning? SUV? Did Dusty get in it? They got no answers, didn’t expect to but, as one Detective said to a street officer, “Fuck, we gotta ask…you know they know…something.”
The man who worked the beat wanted to tell the detective working the case this time, it was his first homicide, that…no, they didn’t always know ‘something’ even if they did….protecting themselves went along with not knowing…anything… except the Salvation Army, the other places that would feed them, some even had basic medicine but…the group that wanted to know things, might wait to try and collect DNA when their targets were really sick when they’d risk the places that would help. Hospitals? Emergency Rooms? There they might, only might, get the samples they wanted. But…they Only ended up there when they were found cold, or bleeding or…in whatever shape that drew EMTs that made visits to the ER mandatory. However, if they wanted any thing, information, maybe a DNA swab, they had to be quick for as soon as they could walk, maybe get a ‘script, they were out the door back onto their home, the street.
The same problem with any group that feels persecuted or disliked, frightened of each other. Fifty people could see an incident but when asked…no one did. The men investigating would argue, these were their friends, family, didn’t they want justice? But….everyone has their own idea as to what justice might be and to these people, justice was just being safe, making it through the night, maybe even warm. Most of them had already had ‘involvements’ with the cops, done from a lot to a little time and no interest in doing any more. Even going ‘down town’ for a ‘friendly’ questioning about someone they knew, was….threatening. Word was that, if they really needed you, thought you knew more than you told, had been a witness, something could be found to put at least a 48 hold ‘hold’ on you. It was always a problem for those from the street, risk the trip downtown for what really was a buddy or shut up and hope someone else would or….the cops would solve it without them.
Names, they all had them but when they left home days, weeks, months, years ago and what they used now, usually not the same. Most prized possession, which occasionally one of the had, was something that had truth on it, a piece of paper, a laminated card, anything that if absolutely necessary they could produce, prove they existed on the event horizon of main stream life…almost. Then go back to their world composed of other men, some women, like them, adrift for separate reasons but adrift. Officers looking at them could point out, based on skin texture, who was a drunk, a crack head, a meth user….who shot heroin…but some, few, though they existed, were just men who walked away from whatever their life had been and into this, whatever this was, settled in, learned the way to survive then proceeded to marginally live; It was all they wanted to do, live, survive to the next sunrise….
Leaning against one of the more comfortable walls, Lew remembered when he sold supplies to contractors, went out on jobs, dealt with supervisors, companies, men on the job all of whom were glad to see him as he was The Man, the one who could get whatever they needed to keep working that day, Lew had a phone in his hand that connected him to places that would load up…something, get it to them, the job continued. Lew was a good guy, so, one day when he didn’t show up, the guys on the job didn’t really notice, figured he had some business, he’d be there…maybe not that day, not that first day…but the next day when his presence equated to not getting what they needed, they did notice, now not only was he missing but what he made possible didn’t show up as well. The third? That’s when they called the cops.
He laughed as he drove across the Mississippi River, threw his hard hat out the window, assumed it made a small ‘plop’ as it hit the surface-it was plastic so it floated…a little way, didn’t get to St. Louis but then neither it nor Lew were headed there.
Somewhere on the Interstate he gave in to what he knew he wanted; men. Pulled into a truck stop, found he wasn’t quite what they wanted, mainly because it was thought he was in some way involved with some group investigating something. Their theory was he’d crawl into their cab, pop a badge then ask them…something… about…whatever. Nice guys wearing dockers, a button down shirt, even polished work boots did not hang around parking areas offering blow jobs. One driver, almost for fun, told him what he needed to look like, if he wanted some male tail, particularly driver ass, he needed to make some changes….a lot of them. Start with not bothering to shave, get a haircut that looks like it was done with blunt scissors, get some dirt under his nails, but most important, Stop Looking like a FUCKING cop.
It was good advice which Lew took. Only problem was…as with much advice, he had not one idea how to put it to good use. Sure, easy to quit shaving, even take a pair of scissors then massacred his hair but the rest of it….? On the plus side, he was a smart man, knew how to figure things out, do research then apply what he learned to whatever the problem was. He thought of a way, almost laughed but it was the surest, quickest in and, eventually out; He found a part of a town where he stood out, found a guy who really needed a new set of clothes and traded with him. Also ask him how he made cigarette money or…money for whatever he needed. The simple, direct answer was he gave blow jobs; Lew asked him to show him where, he wanted to blow some dick himself. Whether the guy believed him, he took him to a street, showed him how to indicate he would do..what he said he did….then left him there.
A car came along, slowly, window went down, a voice called to him, asked him to step to the curb to give him some ‘directions’. He did. Standing by the passenger’s door, the driver told him to turn, drop his pants, show him his ass….offered him ten for a few minutes work. He took it, heard the door open….felt a hard cock go in him, got rabbit fucked, knew he now was carrying a load for which he was paid a ten dollar bill. Alone, he pulled up his trousers, stuck the ten in the pocket then wondered how long until he’d get some more practice, look more like the wall, like a man who needed money, who would go to the cars that slowed down, stopped….
Months, maybe years, earlier he’d be stretched out on his bed, naked, working his cock while he watched the sort of porn that got him hard, led him to squirt, made him want more, want the guys on the screen. He knew they were frauds, photographed for money so that suckers like him could lay on their beds and….but that wasn’t what he wanted.
Each day on the job, in his pickup going from job to job, taking orders, filling orders, scooting to suppliers then back with whatever they had needed. All these men. Some days, and with some guys, it was all he could do to not reach down, grab their work worn pants that almost let their equipment out. Nice guys, not trying to do anything but order what they wanted, never thought what Lew might want was…them. He wanted them to flip him on a stack of lumber, rape him, make him suck them until their sack drew up into their bladder. That’s what he wanted, men. Men that he would let do anything sexual, didn’t matter, just tell him, he knew how, could please them, whether they were pleased, what he cared about was the feeling, the pain, the joy of a male coming for him, ready to do whatever to him….
Lew lay on his bed forgetting the man on the screen but remembering the foreman who didn’t realize his balls looked bigger than the casters on the bottoms of the pallets they sometimes rolled around. He could envision his cock, big, swollen, cut or not, pointed at his mouth while a ham sized fist pulling on his neck, making sure he wouldn’t try and run. He wouldn’t but…they couldn’t know that. In his imagination they came for him, a line of them, their pants down, hands fondling their junk, their eyes looking at him; They weren’t seeing him, they were sending him a sentence of sex, hard, deep, endless sex….Lew rolled over then slept while he bled white syrup on his bed.
There is a distinct difference between fantasies that every man has now and then about sex, no matter what kind of sex, just the sex that involves getting off or, maybe, feeling a hard, hot cock forced into his ass or his mouth, whichever one fitted his fantasy. But why stop there? Make him….make him a muscled up ex cop, tossed off the force for stuffing a cuffed prisoner up his bucket, yeah, humiliated, made to surrender his badge, end up in prison where the guards, who knew his history, kept him for themselves, all day, all night, guards, guards, guards….no, that’s not it… he’s the prisoner who drops to his knees then tries to get the cop to let him suck them…or whatever…but.. he could do better….after a particularly violent whipping, on his television, now he was in the hands of a sadistic German Army Officer (everyone knows all German Army officers are sadists…) who has him stripped, gagged, made him watch while the Officer slowly peels his clothes, starting with the full length leather trench coat, the high, tight boots, the tunic revealing his massive chest down to his slim waist around which was wrapped the….whip.
No! He woke up, sat up. No good, that was fake, he wasn’t some muscled up man who was a prisoner or a captive…he was a man in heat in his own bed, his abs covered with the sperm his own cock had shot out while the cop or the Officer….but, fuck it, he had been asleep, his own body cheated on him!!! If he came, then he had to be the cause not some imagined scenario where, okay, eventually, he’d shoot but reality. Sitting in his bed flicking off the loop that, now, showed kids, and they sure looked like kids, almost giggle while they played at sex. He knew a twink when he saw one-and lately he’d seen too many-but that wasn’t what he wanted; He wanted full grown, testicles descended, two day beard, as hot to screw as he was, hair on their chest….ready to slam him down, rip his pants off MEN. Then …. then….then what? He looked at the clock, time to go to the real world of planks, bolts, number ten nails….his job.
The Wall. Like a pop up shop, you just leaned against it, maybe let your hand wander near what was available, sometimes squat down, forced the goodies to the front….finally found a used clothing store where he bought old jeans, ones a size too small but intentionally so. These were pants a man found then wore as they were the only pants he had. Too small? So what. Also….what approximated a tramps bindel, maybe a back pack held together with rope or…whatever could be scrounged to keep the fraying pieces together.
But it wasn’t enough….not for him. Not for a day when getting fucked only two or three times, maybe sucking a few dicks, nope, that wasn’t what he wanted. He’d passed fantasy as, on the screen, fantasy only lasted, tops, thirty minutes. Life here was 24/7, he didn’t have an Open/Closed sign hung from his cock, only way to be, Open. He was.
It wasn’t quite it. Okay, he was getting some sex, some few bucks, some satisfaction for what he’d thought he’d wanted but…it wasn’t there. He didn’t ‘feel’ cheap, a street corner whore, a man who peddled sex, no….what he felt like was a guy who’d had a good job but was playing out his fantasies almost as if….this was his vacation, at the end of thirty days, he’d shave, get a decent hair cut, put on his Dockers, jump in his truck then go out to take orders…..
Against his wall he knew that return wasn’t what he’d do but going forward, being taken out to a dump, stripped, fucked, by a gang, that wasn’t happening and…he kinda knew, that sort of idea came from his porn born fantasies. Maybe it did happen like that but he doubted it. What he didn’t question was that if you got your self into that mess, you might not walk away. Not quite death but praying somebody would find you call the Fire Department or the EMTs or whoever….if they weren’t too afraid to deal with authority themselves. Get into something like that and, until you lost consciousness, you knew what it was like to feel your body give up, begin to be more meat than flesh, feel the little teeth that hung around dumps waiting for food….your body, food….not a fantasy, a terror but one that they all, every man against the wall knew and feared more than cops or the car that held someone with twisted ideas, from them maybe only broken limbs but not at the dump, not smelling your own body rotting while things saw you as a gift from heaven, fresh food. Even after you were dead, food. Yum.
One thing he never did, not when talking, let on that he was smart, educated, came from a life some, some few, would remember. The men whoever they were had intentionally or for reasons best not discussed, thrown out their histories, whatever was in their past was gone, forgotten, not discussed. You didn’t ask for to do that was to seem to pry and who pries? John Law. Conversation, if you could call it that, revolved around that day, shelter, where they were handing out food, clothes, where to score drugs, some place that had cheap liquor, that was the lingua franca of necessary conversation. Newbies, like Lew, spent their time trying to find some sort of permanent place to sleep, maybe safe, hopefully dry but….safe was first.
He took chances. Some men who cruised by looking for meat to use….didn’t get takers. As carefully as he could, he’d ask. The answers, never complete, whispered that this had happened to some guy or another just never came back. Some had reputations for just wanting bum fights, grab two guys, make them fight, no rules…and no medical. The winner might get a bottle or a few bucks for drugs…the loser? Dropped off someplace. Maybe he finally survived. But in that Lew knew something….he kept himself in shape, that gave him an advantage when there was a line up by the wall. He looked like he could ‘take it’ if that’s what they were looking for, his body still hadn’t collapsed into what happens when drink, drugs, foul water, shitty food finally ate away their bodies. Lew stood out, he looked healthy, dirty, but they all did, but healthy. He could take a long fuck, he let the men beat him before he was stripped and jumped by however many wanted him. His teeth were all there so he had to be careful when he got fucked in his mouth not to tear foreskins or shred cocks….got good, some who where looking for a man to take some place and ‘have fun’ of an excessive sort remembered him, sought him out, sometimes find him. That was another thing he learned real quick, it was a matter of taking turns when it came to going with the big scores, the cruising men who paid a bit more or gave a guy something he needed. Of course, the price was…whatever they wanted to do but it was better than sucking dick at the curb for a couple of dollars then getting splashed as the car pulled away, the sound of laughter at the further distress of what had just given them pleasure.
But it wasn’t right, he was still playing games in his head, this wasn’t what he wanted, it didn’t give him the feeling of being a sex object stuck in a man. He craved whatever he could get but found that his access to the sort of sex he wanted was limited by the situation, the one he thought would produce men who simply wanted sex, he’d do if he was next up, he’d do whatever but…didn’t work that way. There were hours when nobody came by, he could have stood stark naked waving his stiffy at a street lamp and…nothing. He learned what he could not have known, as with everything, there is an ebb and flow but…where he was, the wall, the crevice he finally found, the few men he now knew, provided him with nothing. His ass craved to be filled by cock meat, he wanted to scream when he was whipped then made to suck one guy while another ran his meat up his ass. It was like the dreams he used to have, they were great, the reality was…not enough.
A fight among the bums he lived with gave him a boost in a way he could not have expected. Some got seriously damaged, taken off to the hospital which brought the cops. He was fingered for a ride to jail only because he had the fewest bruises but the best build. Still had some strength, defended himself, did so….120 days, got his picture taken, joined the ranks of those who now had a record. Whatever he had been, and they found that out as part of a routine background investigation, didn’t count. They’d seen this man, the one who walked away, before. It wasn’t up to the booking officers or the sentencing judge or the bailiffs who locked him up to give a shit, what he had been made no difference in this jurisdiction, no wants or warrants from anywhere; He got a number, a pile of clothes then joined the other temporary tenants who’d done ‘something’.
Lew had just gone up in the eyes of the world he wanted to join, he was a felon, done time, some figured they better stay away from him, might beat the shit out of them too…He had arrived at the level he wanted, a man who sucked, fucked and didn’t care much what you did to him just so long as there was something in it for him; Your ass or cock. And one more thing he’d learned…..
Jail is a veritable university of criminal information or could be if you were smart, clever, wanted to learn what you didn’t know. His first cell, with five other men, was one step above a sewer, the first place he had to fight which led him to the brief time they were let out and the weight lifting area, the pile. That body he’d somehow hung on to he now found, had value for exactly what he wanted, sex. Other men, like himself who’d watched porn, fantasized, wanted a street tough who put out, wanted to be fucked, whatever you had in mind, he had the body to do. And did.
The time in lock up didn’t finish what he started but it gave him the wisdom and the tools to know what to do next; Get in shape, get prison ink, lose a couple of teeth, fight enough to get righteous scars, shave his head, learn how to stand against a wall looking more like an oncoming storm than a guy looking to make a couple of bucks with an open mouth or ass.
His old life wasn’t completely gone, some, few, important parts were living in a long term locker nowhere near where he had been hanging around. Once he got out his keeping this stash of the past was precisely what was needed, the most important thing was…capital to finance his further degradation. For money you could buy the bad tats, the weeks in the gym where you hung muscle on your body, got into fights, got scarred, spent time outside so his skin toughened from too much sun…which was good as it made his new tattoos look old, faded, not very well done.
Jail, again, sent him to a former skin artist who’d lost his license, his shop as well as his clients when it was found that most of his ‘clients’ were there to make a buy that had nothing to do with getting an Eagle on their chest or working on their sleeve. The time he’d served wasn’t anything he wanted but his former profession did provide him with a way to make commissary money; In prison, money is pointless, what you’ve got to barter is priceless. At first Lew only had his ass but, when it was noticed he was strong, getting stronger, his ability as muscle got him some leverage. It also introduced him to the former well respected tattoo artist who, when he got out, still would have his needles, just no license to use them. Lew was almost his first customer, one who, rare, seemed to have some money to pay for what he was getting, insisted that what he got was bad, looked like the sort of ink that was a cross between jail and what you’re kid brother did to you when the two of you were young and he had a needle and some thread.
Both men needed, for different reasons, new names. “Lew” didn’t square with the persona he was creating so as “Jerry”, the inkster, was working on a piece on his arm, when he idly suggested that, like the image he was doing, ought to put “Street Angel” across his chest. Done and done…although his handle was just ‘Angel’. He also put “Fuck Me” on his ass, no point in leaving any question as to what his business was.
Liking his canvas, Jerry offered to put more ink on him for an exchange of talents; Angel could get what he wanted if Jerry could get what Angel was selling whenever he wanted some. Struck both of them as a fair deal sealed with spooge that drooled on the freshly tatted information as to what could be done to Angel’s ass. Also….just happened in his line of illegal work, he knew men, men who had tastes that ran to the…unusual, some might say perverted, twisted….in Angel’s mind, he was back on his bed a long time ago imagining how he was going to be used by sadistic Officers, a motorcycle gang, a man bigger than he was getting to tied him over wedge and stuck him so deeply his bladder sprayed twenty feet away. Just thinking about it got him hard, so hard that Jerry found himself on the receiving end of what a client wanted to give him…hard, deep to the point that Angel had to use his hand to gag him.
Both men enjoyed it, looked forward to his next ‘ink’ session in addition to finding a couple of guys who were up, and got laid down, for an Angel with a really nasty attitude as well as a big dick. Thinking about a motorcycle guy who had ‘Pay Me’ inked on his palm, Angel’s said, “I don’t take checks.”
Couple of years later he strolled up to the fence where he’d started, crossed his arms, tied his shirt, with the sleeves ripped off, just above where his pants were almost completely done up then waited to see what sort of offers would come to the curb. A closer inspection showed a pair of heavily used gloves stuck in a back pocket plus a short dog quirt wound tightly then pushed into his waist band. That there was no dog only meant that the client better learn to say, “Arf”…quick.
That first day he no longer felt cheap, no longer wanted to believe he was sufficiently degraded to not give a shit about what a guy wanted cuz now it was about he’d do to them if they looked like he was worth their time. That name, “Angel”, was an inspiration, Jerry was being well paid, on a sort of installment plan, for whatever he wanted and, oh,yeah, one day while Jerry was making his thumb look like a cock, Jerry mentioned that he put holes in people, if they wanted holes….course, he didn’t fuck around with ears, belly buttons, you wanted that, go to Walmart. He had his cock up Angel’s tail when, between heaves and groans of pleasure, he ran his index finger across the flat area between his balls…..
“Guiche ring, a big one, would look good right about there. Yes it would.” He laughed when he thought of something’ “Get the hoop down there, put a leash on it, give it to a client then let them figure out what they might like to do.” Their eyes looked in each other, their smiles slowly developed as Angel put his finger about where it might go.
Jerry wasn’t one to stop with one hole, not while his meat was up his buddy’s mine shaft, finding gold. “Yeah, cuz of how you use your cock, better not to ring in but….stick a good sized hoop right center on your balls, run a chain up to your tits, maybe have one go around those nice rolling abs….”
“Full chain suit…almost? Or the idea of one. I can see it under a shirt….I don’t suppose you have some chain now do you?”
“Might, let me finish back here….oh yeah, you are one fine fuck, good thing you let those guards in the P house take you for rides around the cell block, if anyone knows how to fuck it’s them….Jesus, they’ve had everything pass through, give them a real selection, also, how best to screw them. Angel had been the most eager student for what they’d learned and now by doing to him, taught him things that made what he’d watched on porn seem juvenile.
Looking at Jerry, who was scrambling around looking for some chain, Angel quietly said… “Ya know….couple of guys asked if I had a friend who was a real sick fuck.” He held his gaze. “I do believe that qualifies you. Us, together, at a get together…fuck, after they finish with you, take your tools, might get some business….”
“Jerry reached around him, grasped Angel’s fat piece of pipe, ya know…a flaming arrow going down this pointing out where the good stuff is might be quite a crowd pleaser…doncha think?”
“Do it”.
But then he stopped. Angel rolled his eyes, looked at him then started to laugh. Jerry took the gag out. “We’re fools, there are guys out there, like watching porn, who would pay big bucks to see a guy get his meat stuck and colored….real slow….real painful…Christ, have to put newspaper on the floor where they sit while they watch, probably have to cuff them so they don’t get too involved….just do you slow….particularly when I start putting the flames coming from the cock head….”
He stopped talking, looked at his potential partner, cocked his head but knew what the answer would be, had to be. They both grinned at each other. Jerry put away his needle then leaned over to begin a long suck session, oh yeah, edge him…at least twice, maybe three times. In anticipation of Angel bucking, he tied him down, gagged him again then squeezed his ball sack hard before leaning over to suck the bulging stalk of his favorite pervert and client for his work… then started swallowing the tasty meat stick as far as he would go…
Didn’t take long to find three guys who ponied up a grand a piece to watch Jerry torture a guy while he stuck his cock, real slow, with a tattoo needle. They couldn’t take pictures-secretly the two guys were making sure this was being filmed for sale-but they could lean in drool, stay naked, tied in their seats, watching the agony, enjoying it, trying to imagine what it would be like if they….but they never would, that’s why they were only watchers, they’d never do this no matter what they said they’d do. But for money, this was the show to see.
Jerry slapped a gag in Angel’s mouth. He’d already put him in severe bondage on a plank under bright lights. On one side, Jerry and his equipment, on the other, three guys, also secured. He’d stuck needles in dicks before but he was better, he was gonna take his time, one small line at a time. He was looking forward to torturing this fucker, oh yeah, and he knew how bitchin’ it would look when he got it done…..Yes it would.
Sure it hurt like a sonofabitch but the money they got plus the sales of the disc with his new tattoo being applied, made it real worth it. Also, the guys who’d paid to watch spread the word within a certain community of men with specialized tastes who gave the ‘Angel a ring, asked what he was up to? What was he up to doing? Had some time to do it? All that remained was to negotiate the price which was simple, they paid what he asked. For that, nobody went away dis-satisfied with what they paid for even if some of them didn’t quite believe the expression, “Hard fuck” but did now.
When he wanted to laugh, he’d go back to the wall, take his place, open up, show what was available and wait to see what would role up. Now he didn’t squat on the curb while he sucked dick, nope, Angel didn’t bother. Most times he’d yank them out, sit on their sit, pull out his cock then allow them to pay him to suck it, suck it all the way, til they choked….But They’d paid for the whole deal so when his balls were empty, Angel would drag them back in their car, rip off their pants, fuck the sin out of them then, just to prove they’d met the Angel of the street, he’d take out a little, hot gadget, really a brand, which he used to put a pair of wings on their ass.
Having those became a symbol of honor within a certain group, only trouble is…like looking for most Angels, he wasn’t all that available. Nope, he was not. What he was doing was laying on a bed in a cheap motel where he watched porn he could enjoy, really get off on. After all, he was the star…once in a while he remembered some old porn that, once, made him hard; He wondered why? Just to perk it up, he kept a tube of very hot crème, the sort used for joint pain. Slathered his dick with that, work it in then hit “Play” on the video, relax, give himself a leisurely jerk til he shot. Time then to hit the street, find the place where the guys who liked to take it the way an Angel laid it down….
Some days he wondered how the guys were back at the construction projects. There was still one foreman he’d like to punch….if he ever stopped back.
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