Author: Michael Thomas Ford
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/michael-thomas-ford/page,4,56257-tangled_sheets.html
Albert couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said simply, “Thanks.”
Tony handed him a towel, and he wiped himself off. “So, what’s your name?”
Albert paused momentarily, then heard himself say, “Al.” Then, more confidently, “My name’s Al.” He liked the way it sounded, short and barked from the throat like a declaration.
“Good to meet you, Al,” Tony said. “I have to go get showered before the next show. But if you want to stick around, we could get together after I’m done.”
Albert looked at Tony’s expectant face and started to put his pants back on. “I’d like to,” he said. “But I have to go home.”
Tony smiled. “Too bad. Well, come by whenever you feel like it, then. I’ll be here.”
Albert nodded and started toward a door that looked like it led to the outside. He found himself in the lobby again. As he walked out the door and onto the street, he fumbled in his pocket. The ad was still there, and as he walked to the bus stop he unfolded it and looked at Tony’s picture. As he did, a feeling of deep satisfaction rose up in him, blooming into a warmth that filled every pore, and he decided that it might be nice to walk home for a change.
Diving the Pit
Every so often I like to just start with a particular image and see what grows out of it. This story started that way. I liked the idea of a punk kid dancing wildly. I also think my ongoing crush on Henry Rollins had something to do with it, although these days Eminem makes a nice substitute as well.
Shortly after midnight the club is teeming with people. While there are a few women scattered around the room, it is mainly young men I see as I make my way up the stairs to the main floor. Most seem barely over the legal age for being there, a reflection probably of the type of music this bar caters to—what we used to call punk but which now goes by the less threatening and vaguer title of “alternative.” They stand alone or in small groups, their bodies covered in tattoos, their noses and lips pierced by knots of metal. They hold cigarettes in their fingers like knives and seem filled with the promise of sex in all its many forms. While they maintain the strict appearance of having no interest in one another’s bodies, I sense that the subtlest shift in time or place would find all of them naked with one another, fucking strangers in dark corners or on their knees sucking cock while someone beat off in their faces.
The band they have all come to see is an hour late already, and the crowd is growing restless. They have been drinking steadily all night, and this has only fueled their impatience. They stamp their feet and chant the name of the band in an eerie chorus, entreating them to come out like a band of children calling to their playmates to join a game. Their cries drown out the grungy strains of the Ramones tape blasting over the speakers, the power chords and familiar growl drowned out by calls for this band they have paved the way for. A few unseen hands throw bottles at the equipment sitting on the stage, sending fragments of glass scattering over the floor.
I stake out a position toward the back of the room, where I can have a good view of everything going on. The air there is thick with the smell of beer, smoke, and sweat, and it heightens my senses. I lean against the bar and take a long draft on my drink. The alcohol burns in my throat and settles hotly in my stomach. I feel its warm breath working up my insides and relax.
After another few minutes the lights go down and the band takes the stage to a roar of approval. As they launch into their first number, the crowd begins to move in time with the pounding beat. This is rock and roll at its hardest, angry and raw, and the dancing is the same. As guitars grind and the singer spits his words into a buzzing microphone, arms and legs flail in a twisting knot of bodies. Heads bob up and down in time with the driving bassline. The room quickly fills with the heat of moving bodies and the smell of sweat grows stronger, mixing with the acrid stench of the dry-ice machines pumping out clouds of filmy smoke that roll across the floor and surround everything with their gauzy touch.
The area in front of the stage is the most frenzied and the most dangerous. It is the mosh pit, where die-hard concertgoers throw themselves against each other in violent celebration of nothing at all. The center of the surrounding maelstrom, it is populated by young men whose rage finds an outlet in the battering of the body, both their own and those of others. In this arena noses are frequently bloodied and bodies bruised by the force of flying hands and the sting of heavy boots as moshers collide with each other and spin away again to connect with someone else.
Tonight the pit is filled with nearly naked men slamming against one another. When they are eclipsed by a cloud of smoke, their shadows jump and leap against the scrim of dry ice like puppets in a sadistic pantomime. Watching those who have adventured into its madness, I am filled with a strong desire to join them. Normally I avoid moshing, preferring to stay to the sides and listen to the music, sometimes venturing to the fringes of the fray but never going into its heart. But tonight I am searching for something different. I am on edge, and I need a release. I have neither fucked nor been fucked in several days, and my craving to be near other men is strong.
One young man in particular draws my attention. He is shirtless and wearing cutoff shorts worn thin in many places from hours of rubbing against his skin during nights like this one. Shorter than I am by several inches, he has the powerful build of a bulldog, his arms and legs roped with thick muscle. His chest is broad and hard, covered in short dark hair that swirls around his nipples, which are pierced through by small circles of steel. Like many of the men in the crowd, his head is shaved, a light shadow of stubble just beginning to dust the pale skin of his scalp. He has a Vandyke beard and there is a tattoo of barbed wire curled around his bulging left bicep.
He is dancing wildly, his body thrashing from side to side as he slips into the music and rides it like a leaf over water. His fists beat at the empty space around him as he loses himself in the droning rumble of the drums, hammering the song’s underpinnings out of thin air. His eyes are closed, and the smile on his face is one of complete contentment. He is beautiful, and I want him terribly. Without thinking, I push through the crowd so that I can be nearer to him, parting the wall of spinning bodies roughly and shoving past dancers until I am separated from him only by two or three other people. I can see the sweat on his skin clearly as he moves, claiming his space with sudden jabs of his elbows when someone gets too close.
I let myself fold into the music until my heart is tangled up in the beating of the bassline and my head swims. My feet move on their own and soon I am one of the many faceless revelers in the pit. As bodies swarm around and past me, I keep one eye on the dancing man nearby, wondering what it would be like to touch him, to fuck him. My prick begins to stiffen as I imagine running my tongue over his back, plunging it into his armpit or beneath his balls. I rub myself through my jeans as I feel my body being pummeled on all sides by other moshers.
As the music plays on, people climb onto the stage and throw themselves off into the crowd to be caught in a safety net of welcoming hands. Diving the pit it is called, a ritual of the underground music scene. There are no bodyguards positioned to stop them; it is both expected and encouraged. The wounds gathered as results of failed dive attempts are worn proudly, the chipped teeth and bruised faces symbols of bravery. I watch as a tall young man with long hair clambers up and then leaps out over the mosh pit, his hair twisting around his head as he flies, landing on his back on the outstretched hands of his friends. They lower him to the floor and wait for the next diver.
Finding myself in front of the stage, I pull myself up onto it. I have never dived before, just as I have never braved the mosh pit. But I see this as a chance to enter the world of the man whose body tempts me, to prove myself to him. Standing to one side of the wailing singer, I look out into the sea of sweating, masculine faces, all looking up at me expectantly. I find his face, look into his eyes. He sees me and stares back. “Dive,” he mouths, and others around him take up the chorus. “Dive. Dive. Dive
,” they chant, skinhead mermaids luring me into their depths.
Bending my knees, I jump headlong into space, flying for a moment above the raised arms before falling downward. My body is caught by dozens of hands, held aloft by the contact of unknown fingers on my bare skin. As I pass along from person to person I feel hands grab my erect prick, squeeze my balls. I search for the face of the one I am looking for, but because of the flashing lights and the ever-shifting bodies I can’t distinguish one from another. When I am finally lowered to my feet and stand once more on the floor, I find that I am next to him. He turns and grins. “Nice dive,” he shouts over the music.
I nod my thanks and begin dancing again. He does not move away from me, and I can see every line of his body as he moves. I feel his sweat spray across my face as he shakes his head and I lick the salty drops from my lips. His hairy chest brushes my arm, and I feel a sudden stirring in my nuts when I realize he is pressed against me. Then he turns again, and all I see is his back. I stare at the muscles flexing beneath his skin and reach out to touch him. I run my hand across his shoulder momentarily just to feel the heat of him, hoping that in the fury of bodies he will not notice.
I am surprised when he backs up closer to me, his body touching mine. When enough time has gone by that I know it is not simply an accident or the force of other bodies pushing him against me, I put my hand on his waist, leaving it there to see what he will do. He leans back until his shoulders are against my chest, my growing hard-on pressed into his ass. He is still rocking to the music, and the motion of his skin against mine is electric. We have moved out of the center of the mosh pit and are in a less active but more crowded area. Because of the number of people and the billows of chemical smoke, no one notices that I am holding him.
I run my hands around him to the front, feeling the hair on his stomach and the firm ridges of his abdomen. One hand travels up his chest, stroking the soft hair and fingering the coldness of a nipple ring. The other slips into the waistband of his shorts, where I find that his cock is hard against his belly. It is amazingly thick, and the bulletlike head fills my palm easily. The movement of his body forces his shaft to slide against my hand, and I stroke him as much as I can within the confines of his pants.
I jerk him off surrounded by dozens of unknowing witnesses while the band hammers out song after song. Several times people bump into us, but none notices what is happening. His cock becomes harder as I play with it and my fingers slide along the smooth sides, pumping him to the edge. When he comes, he fills my hand with a heavy, wet load, spurting several times. Pulling my hand out, I bring it to my lips and lick his cum from my fingers. It is still warm, and the stickiness of it coats my tongue and throat deliciously as I swallow. I run my fingers over his face and slip one into his mouth, letting him suck himself from my hand. His beard is rough under my palm and his lips sweet and wet. I want more.
“Come on,” I whisper in his ear.
He follows me through the crowd until we come to a doorway that leads into the club’s bowels. No one stops us, so I go through. Walking down a short corridor, I push open the first door I come to. I pull on a string hanging by the door and a single bare lightbulb burns with weak light. We are in what appears to be a storage room. Crates of empty beer bottles line one wall and the room is filled with wooden boxes. I usher him inside and push the door shut behind me, making sure it locks. Through the walls the music is nothing more than a dull thumping, like the heart of a giant beast pushing blood through its veins. I turn to look at him.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, drawing my finger from his crotch to his neck. I don’t need to know, but I am curious.
“Jesse,” he answers. His voice is low, guttural, and it is hard to hear him.
“How old are you?”
He looks away from me. “Twenty-three.”
I know he is lying, but I pretend to believe him. Probably he has added two or three years to his age. It doesn’t matter. Away from the crowd he is even more attractive than I first noticed. I see now that his eyes are blue, his lips full and soft. I look at the bulge in his pants and remember how he felt in my hand, the way his body shook when he came. Thinking about jerking him off has made me hungry for him, and I am anxious to begin.
“I’m going to fuck you,” I tell him. “Show me your ass.”
He drops his shorts and takes them off, managing to pull them over his heavy black combat boots. His balls and crotch have been shaved and his cock, already stiff again, looks even larger against the naked skin. It stands out from his body in a heavy arc, the fat tip dipping down over his sac, remnants of dried cum still streaking the pale skin. I quickly slip my own shirt off and pull my pants over my boots. Folding them neatly and placing them on a crate, I give him time to look at me before I move toward him. His eyes travel down my muscular body to my hard prick and I see that he is more than willing to take what I have to offer. This is what I have waited for, what I need, and my body is filled with tremors of expectation as I think of what is to come.
I walk around behind him and study his ass. It’s so perfect that it’s breathtaking. His rounded globes are smooth and clean, his legs hairy. The bare moons of flesh look as though they have never been touched. I smack a cheek and feel the firmness of his skin and muscle beneath my hand. Gripping one mound tightly I leave a handprint when I let go, the red skin fading to pink after a few seconds. I am going to enjoy fucking this ass later, but there are other things to come first. I move back around to stand in front of him.
“On your knees,” I order, and he drops to the ground in front of me. His legs are spread and his hands rest on his thighs as he waits. Holding my cock in my fist, I let him look at it for a minute as I stroke it to full hardness. I see the change in his eyes as he gazes at the thick shaft and realizes he will be taking it up his butt. He licks his lips as he anticipates the way it will spread his hole and slip into his chute. Gripping my piece loosely, I slap his cheeks with it several times. I love the way it feels when my prick hits the heavy bones of his jaw, the way his beard scrapes the sensitive skin. He opens his mouth and I let him lick just the head of my big tool. When he starts to close his lips around it I pull away.
Positioning the tip above his face, I release a thick stream of piss that splashes down over his nose and mouth. It is unexpected, but he does not make any attempt to move out of the way. As the bitter water runs over his lips he opens them and drinks it in, his throat rippling as he swallows what he can catch. The sight of it rushing over his beautiful face and dripping from his chin to trickle down his chest pleases me, and I move my still-spurting dick down so that the pale yellow torrent washes his torso and soaks his cock and balls with my juice. When I am drained, I shake the last drops onto his face. The smell of it rises from the floor, where it has puddled around his knees.
“There’s some on my boot,” I tell him. “Lick it off.”
Bending forward, he slides his tongue obediently along the piss-spattered surface of my boot. His ass cheeks part as he stretches his legs wider and bows below me, supported on his hands. His cockhead trails through the pool of urine as his face moves over my foot and he washes every drop from the leather. When he is finished, he moves on to my leg, licking shining beads of piss from the hair on my thighs as he travels up toward my crotch.
When he reaches my cock, he looks up expectantly. My prick is bobbing before him only inches from his waiting lips. I stroke it until a drop of precum glistens at the tip. He sticks his tongue out and I slide my hand up my cock. The droplet hangs for a long moment and then falls in a thin string into his mouth, where he slurps it up like sweetest honey. Filled with lust for him, I put the head of my prick against his mouth and he takes it in greedily. I force the entire length into his throat quickly, putting my hand on his neck and pushing him forward onto it. To my surprise, he takes it without too much trouble, and soon my balls are banging against his chin as my head pounds deep in his throat.
I let him suck me at his own
pace for several minutes, enjoying the way his lips slide over my shaft and pull hungrily at my engorged knob. He knows what he is doing and brings me close to the edge several times. His hands pull roughly on my balls while he blows me, stretching them out until they are sore and aching. I like that he is in control for the moment, and enjoy watching him milk me until I am slick with his spit and the precum that is oozing steadily from my dick.
When I feel myself nearing a climax again I take control and start to fuck his face harder. Holding him still, I slam my cock again and again into his hot mouth, his face pressing into my belly with each new thrust until I wonder how he can breathe. My balls begin to pound as my pent-up load claws its way through my insides. Pulling out of his mouth I come all over him. Fat globs of jism pepper his handsome face, covering his eyes and nose as I shoot repeatedly. Long strings of it streak his beard. He opens his mouth and I release another blast onto his outstretched tongue, where it drips from his lips.
When I have finished shooting, he is covered in my jism. It paints his face and chest and smears his mouth and hands where he has tried to wipe it away. His fat dick is hard as a rock, standing up between his legs as he plays with it. I push my slimy cock back into his mouth and he sucks on me until I am hard again. Then I pull out and tell him to stand up. I push him onto his back on top of a dusty box and he pulls his legs up. His ass cheeks are spread wide and I can see straight into the center of his clean-shaven pucker. The skin is pink and tender, darker and rosier as it nears his hole. As he breathes, the tiny slit flutters open and closed.
When I kneel, my face is positioned right in front of his hole. As he holds his legs back with his hands, I lean forward and lightly run my tongue along the clean lines of his cheeks and up to his balls. I can feel the stubble of his recently shaved skin beneath my tongue as I lick the ridge from his asshole to his ballsac and take one of his fat nuts into my mouth. His body tenses as I suck forcefully, my tongue pressing first one sensitive globe and then the other against the roof of my mouth.