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Broken Glass


Toon

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Remember the last time AOL chat rooms were a thing? A long time ago? I do.  It was the mid-90's and I was a young punk who had some severe depression issues. Pretty sure I inherited it from my mom who hung herself when I was eight years old. I had some pretty major self-destructive tendencies: I chain-smoked, never exercised, drank all night, ate crappy fast food ,and would quite often slice my bare skin with a razor blade. I never cut deep enough to do anything but give myself some gnarly scars. 

Where was I? Oh yeah -- AOL chat rooms. There were tons of them back then. One of the first ones I visited was called "POZ AND RAW PIGS KC". I mean. Hell. Why not? I wasn't all that attached to my life and was not afraid of getting infected or dying. Not many people chatted with me  -- mainly because I had no way of posting a pic of myself. I lacked a digital camera or a scanner or anything. I felt so left out, but one guy decided to start talking to me anyway. He was super-friendly and kind, and had full-blown AIDS. He didn't care about my missing photo. I was smitten because he paid attention to me. Sometimes that's all it takes. Ya know? We mostly made pleasant chat that I enjoyed except for the long pauses on his end, I knew drugs were the reason because of his profile which mentioned "PnP". I was stupid back then but still smart enough to know that probably meant cocaine or meth. It was meth. He confirmed this a few minutes later. He also sent me a photo and I waited to open it until his next long 'smoke break'. He wanted to hook up even though he had no idea what I looked like. Before we made any plans, he took another break. I checked my inbox and saw the two pics he sent. The first was a torso shot that showed a pink, skeletal body covered with bizarre tattoos. The second was a dick shot (the first I'd ever received). His cock was probably a tad smaller than average in size, but the fat, pink head of it was pierced with a large steel ring. We set up a time to meet the second his break was over.

He picked me up outside my office. I had a real job back then, but knew it was only temporary because I was such a huge fuck-up that I never worried about getting fired. I thumbtacked a note to my chair that said "Be Back in 15 Minutes". Yeah, right. We drove away but immediately my guy slowed to a crawl because there was a cop car behind us. He had meth on the pocket of his camo shorts. We eventually made it to the scummiest gay bar in the city. It was known to be a haven of hustlers and dealers, but I didn't care.  Beer is beer.I'll describe his looks: He was a few inches shorter than me and had no body fat whatsoever. He had a shaved head and a scruffy goatee. He wore a right army green t-shirt that showcased his amazing array of badly-done tattoos. We played darts. I innocently asked about the tats and he proceeded to tell me that they all meant something personal to him. He tried to explain each one, bit they still made no sense.

I drank a whole pitcher of Miller Lite after we settled at the bar, but he had no desire for alcohol. His mind was on the glass pipe and stash he carried everywhere. Well, I guess we should go. 

He "owned" a house in a really iffy part of midtown. It was a pretty shitty-looking place behind a padlocked fence. Big surprise that he couldn't remember the combination to the lock. We jumped the chain link fence and hurried up the front door. He fished some keys out of his pocket and, of course, none of them worked in the lock. I should have bailed right then. But I had a belly full of beer and the image of his pierced cock in my head, so I followed him to the back of the house where he had to break a kitchen window for us to get in. I was worried some busybody in the neighborhood would call the cops and report us, but my host wasn't concerned. Once inside the house, I was astonished at what a mess it was. The kitchen was a mess of dirty glasses and greasy pans and, weirdly, a pile of dirty laundry. In the kitchen.

As we moved further into the house, he warned me not to take my shoes off because of all the broken glass everywhere. No kidding. Smack dab in the middle of the living room floor was a full window with all the panes shattered. A few feet away was a an old player piano that had been harshly disassembled.  I had the thought that this dude  did not have his life under control. But his balls full of venom and the brutal piercing kept me following him up the stairs to his bedroom. It was almost too much. Seriously. There was more broken glass on the carpet (from where?) and a huge stack of VHS tapes and more dirty laundry. He stripped off his shirt and lit his pipe. There was bright sunlight in this room and I saw red sores dotting his mouth. I came right out and asked if he had herpes. Credit to him that he said they were just burns from the hot pipe, and that if he really had herpes, we wouldn't be doing this. I guess I had to believe him. He offered me a puff and I didn't hesitate. Taking a hit of meth felt like sucking on a blast furnace. But I felt good. Really good. 

After he put a porn tape in the VCR and pulled down his shorts, I got a good look at that steel ring through the head of his cock. I thought those things were permanent like tattoos, but he unscrewed it and let me look at the hole it left om the underside of his penis. On the TV, I saw a young blonde twink getting fucked on a bail of hay. His modest cock was really red because he jacked off pretty much all the time. I was sitting on the mattress and decided to get things going by bending forward to suck his somewhat deformed dick. It grew. Boy, did it grow! I thought he was too full of drugs to get it up, but I was wrong. He was steel hard.

He wanted to go at it right then, but I told him he needed to put the ring back in first. He shook his head "no" and tried to climb back on top of me. I was insistent. So he screwed the thing back in and then mounted me like he was my groom on our honeymoon. Maybe I should have been smarter because it felt so painful that I cried out. My screams settled all over this mess of a house and all the shards of broken glass everywhere. He pumped and pumped and made noises like he was cumming, but I can't be sure he really did. Anybody who jacks off that much probably has nothing left to deposit. But maybe.

And that was it. Never saw him again. Am I poz now? I don't care about my life enough to get tested.

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