Last Known Address

[FFRubbrPIG]

Can only echo what Seattlebbbtm said. You are in a class of your own. Waiting for each new part is equivalent to what the Victorian public had to do waiting for a monthly instalment from the likes of Charles Dickens,Thomas Hardy or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[shoreboy]

I can only say all your words floor me and hope the next and last chapter is up to your high praise.

[Arcaner]

I'm reminded of a line from, I believe it was Dirty Harry, "People have a nasty habit of ending up dead around you."

[Fistcumslut]

Well, this time I've waited a while before to post my comment, indeed this time I haven't found what I am usually looking for in this site; unfortunately pure SM and whipping isn't my stuff BUT, as always, @shoreboy hasn't disappointed me.

This new chapter is another masterpiece, well done dude and thanks ... of course I'm waiting for more.

Edited March 25, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[lederpig]

This immersive writing is exceptional, compelling and hot as shit.  There are great story tellers on this site and shoreboy is one of them.  Thank you and please don't stop.  woof.

[bottomboyam]

Great writing. 

[Guest Deviantlad]

So looking forward to the next instalment 

[shoreboy]

...and here it is, the last chapter. Thanks to all you hot men, for the hits, likes, comments and encouragement. Hope the ride's been as good for you as it has for me. XXX, sb

[shoreboy]

12. Veracruz

Para bailar la bamba,
Para bailar la bamba,
Se necesita una poca de gracia

One week after the townhouse fire, they were anchored off the coast of Virginia, and Mike was done, had had it. The End. Flash disclaimers: no animals were harmed in the making of this film; all actors were eighteen or older at the time of production. Roll credits. 

He swam out to sea, far enough so he couldn’t make it back. Not a great plan, but he didn’t need a plan that was great, just one that would do the job. He swam away from the yacht as far as he could till he couldn’t see it anymore, then swam some more. This wasn’t the way he wanted the rest of his life to be. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Not Ben. Not Chris. He didn’t even want to be seen. The one thing the orderly Barkley got right, he was a freak.

He swam for miles. The yacht had long vanished, the coastline gone hours ago, his arms were finally growing tired. Still he swam. He’d go till he hit England or France or whatever the fuck was on the other side of the Atlantic. He was getting more than tired. He was getting delirious. Desperate, he wanted to rid himself of life, wanted to shit it out of his body like diarrhea, vomit it out like bad Little Neck clams. He managed seroconverting years ago, it was sketchy time but became manageable, something he sealed a bargain with and could live alongside. But this wasn’t something manageable, something he could live with. This made him not him. He swam harder. Furiously faster. Further out. Not a chance of returning. 

How much longer could he keep it up? If nothing else it was becoming tedious. He was bored killing himself. He could feel himself shiver, and yet it was July, after the Fourth for god sakes, but he was cold nonetheless. Maybe the cold would kill him first before he drowned. He wished he could stop thinking. The time for thinking was over. Thinking was overrated. Still he swam, one arm in front of the other, one kick and then another. Exhaustion kept at bay, but he could feel it creeping up on him like sleep. It was in the corner of his eye. He could never spot it, for when he moved to catch a glimpse, it moved, lingering just at the edge. 

He rubbed his eyes. They stung from the salt water. He hated the taste of the brine, hated almost everything right now. Except for Ben. Except for Chris. They let him be. He wished they hadn’t, wished they’d pressed him, made him talk about it, but anytime they did, he’d storm out of the room. So once they’d bought Boris and Roger’s boat and drove into the Great South Bay and points south, no one brought it up, no one talked about anything. Talking was overrated. Swimming was everything now. A goal in and of itself. Dying was everything. Dying consumed him. Dying. It’s an active verb, isn’t it? Means: Not Dead Yet. Because he wasn’t, and because this thing had been on his mind for weeks, he knew he wasn’t dead yet—he pictured Ben and Chris as he put one arm in front of the other. He wished inside he were dead, but he wasn’t—he was very alive. He was conflicted, confused. He hoped in death he would escape confusion. There wasn’t an easy answer. Either he cared for one or the other. He pictured he was with one or the other. It was a binary choice. And yet either choice was null as he felt himself to be null, he’d never satisfy either one. So, the coward that he was, he search for a third option: he swam. Thinking about any of this pissed him off and he swam faster, tried to outpace his thoughts. He doubled down on his strokes, kicked faster, harder, frantically wanting to die before these feelings killed him.

He began to weep as he swam. Real body sobs. And why not? He was alone. He was in the middle of the fucking ocean. Who’d see him weep? Fish? Mermaids? If one caught him boo-hooing with his face in the water, he could always say it was the salty ocean not salty tears in his face. He breathed in water accidentally as he sobbed and he choked. He was going to Davy Jones’ Locker soon, so did he care if he choked? He’d be meeting Davy Jones soon. Davy Jones. Wasn’t he one of the Monkees? He laugh. He stopped swimming. He tread water. He was laughing and crying. He was tired, really tired, hadn’t slept for days, tossing and turning, wrapped in his desires and utter pointlessness of feeling anything at all. He’d swum for hours and hours, far, far away, and if not physically swimming away, then for days and days he’d been mentally, emotionally swimming away. Closing off; shutting down. Away from everything. Away from anyone who cared. Treading water as an excuse for living.

Suddenly cramps. He folded in half, exploded bubbles underwater. Saw his toes. Coming up for air, he threw his head back, wailing to the sky, crying, Fuck you! for meeting Ben who introduced Drax, and the path his life took. But how could he ever really curse meeting Ben? And with Ben came Chris. He heaved and bobbed, sputtered profanities into the sky, shouted blasphemies into the water, thrashed violently against the waves, but there was nothing to make contact with, nothing to hit to make him feel better, only worse, more hollow, empty. Yelling at God, at the sky, was as fruitless as tossing matches at the sun. The sun didn’t care. It laughed. 

And at last he was growing weak. It couldn’t be much longer. Small whitecaps broke around his ears. Soon. Soon. He’d wait right here. Death knew where he was. He didn’t have to search any farther for it. Soon it would find him. 

But like an obligation he couldn’t get out of, like a promised he couldn’t keep, his tangled love followed him, came in sight—Chris at the bow with binoculars trained on him, Ben at the helm navigating to where Chris pointed. They sped up their approached with Chris waving his arms. They didn’t press, didn’t ask, didn’t tell, but they also never gave up.
But just as they pulled alongside him, Manetti’s body gave out. He slid down into the depths, went to meet Davy Jones. The Jolly Roger pulled up beside where they’d last seen him. Ben cut the engines. Manetti was finally let go, threading down to the bottomless sea. Chris jumped in the water. Turbulently he dove kicking down, searching desperately for Mike, saw nothing but fingertips disappearing into the grey expanse below. He kicked frantically till whole fingers then a hand came into view. He grabbed it, pulled on it till he grasped the whole hand, Mike’s still warm hand, then the arm, and pulled and stroked and kicked stubbornly trying to rise to the surface. He made no progress with the heavy body. He hadn’t taken in enough air and it was running out. His lungs burned but still he kicked doggedly, didn’t matter he wasn’t rising to the surface. He’d let Mike pull him under before he’d give him up to the sea.

There was another splash. Ben dove beneath him, found Mike’s other arm. Together they pulled till the surface came into view. The sun glistened like an orb rippling far above. They sliced water with their free arms, kicking stubbornly with their feet, chasing their breath in the form of bubbles racing to the surface. They broke through the ocean’s skin and gasped for air. Ben had left a life vest waiting close to the boat. Chris grabbed it and tucked it under Mike’s chin. Mike coughed salt water out of his lungs, barfed water back into the ocean. Dazed and half conscious, his chin rested on the orange life preserver. He eyed Chris. He eyed Ben. For a second he thought he’d fallen into heaven looking at the brothers. But then he remembered who he was, where he was, what he was, felt the whitecaps break around his ears.

Maybe death hadn’t found him today. But if he had any say, he’d let it find him. One day. Soon.

***

he yacht they bought from the morticians, Boris and Roger, called—what else—The Jolly Roger, skull and crossbones painted on the stern, bobbed gently in the harbor. Tucked in their rented slip, the vessel swayed slightly as Chris woke from a nap. He felt the movement so knew they were still on the sea. There was something reassuring about living on the ocean over the last several months. Maybe it was growing up so close to the beach, it was the one place of refuge he knew he could always turn to. She was always there, constant, unchanging from one season to the next. Each year he grew older, she didn’t.

Veracruz was a port town similar to Long Beach in a lot of ways. The smell for one. Brackish water mixed with heavy industry. Massive freighters carrying millions of tons of crude oil sat next to cargo ships with thousands of stacked containers. Millions of transaction daily. The port covered over five hundred acres of water, nine hundred acres on land. Veracruz was one of Mexico’s busiest port, its open hand to the world. The volume of exchange was hard to fathom, but it had been this gateway for centuries. Its open hand brought with it Caribbean and African influences. You could hear it in its music, see it in the people. 

The pleasure boats docked closer to the city hotels and to the city’s center; the massive ships stayed out by the barrier reefs with a nearly thousand foot quay connecting it to land. It was an extremely active port, a lively scene in the daytime, with huge cranes loading and unloading cargo till late afternoon. Then activity ebbed, trucks loaded with containers drove off, and the harbor took on a more serene and festive mood.

He got up from his small bunks, and climbed to the top deck bar where he knew Mike and Ben would be. Yep, they were there in flowery Hawaiian shirts bought in Miami, sipping vodka cranberries, watching the lights of the city start to flutter awake. The deep azure sky was quickly fading to night. The first stars of the night were unveiling.

“How you feeling, Chief,” Manetti asked him.

“Better,” Chris replied. “Can I have one too?”

Ben looked him over. “If you’re not gonna get sick, I guess you can.”

Manetti, the ship’s official bartender, asked if he wanted a cherry in his Shirley Temple. Chris glared at him. Manetti mixed his vodka cranberry grinning his goofy grin, throwing in a lime. “Arrrrg,” he said in a pirate voice, handing over the drink, “Yer wants to prevent scurvy, matey.” They settled on their barstools. “Perty, ain’t it?” Manetti said to no one in particular, watching the rippling lights coming toward them across the water. He’d come a long way, Chris thought, since the incident in Virginia months back. They all had, healed some or scarred over. Still no one talked about what they all kept quiet about. What was there to say? If you come to an understanding, an unspoken compromise, why talk? So they all slept in the boat’s many separate bunks in different parts of the ship, the master cabin at the bow left empty. Each alone in his bunk with his solitary thoughts, they sailed the Caribbean, hiding from each other as much as from Drax. 

After a long silence Ben said Veracruz reminded him of Miami. Long Beach, Chris replied. The radio softly played a local folk station—guitars, plaintive Spanish songs, son jarocho. A tune came on that pricked up Ben’s and Mike’s ears. 

Ben said, “Isn’t that…”

“La Bamba,” Mike finished the thought. “Yeah, a lot different from—what’s his name?”

“Richie Valens,” Ben said.

“Who’s Richie Valens,” asked Chris.

Ben explained, “He was someone who died in a plane crash with the The Big Bopper and Buddy Holly back in the fifties.”

“Who,” Chris asked again.

“Shut up,” said Mike.

After a few moments listening to the familiar song overlaid by the original folk melody, not as brash as the early rock n roll rendition, but with complex guitar work still rhythmically inviting, Ben asked Mike what they were saying.

Mike listened intently. He’d grown up speaking broken Italian in his house, so over the last months, as they sailed around Mexico and the Caribbean, he’d managed to pick up and got pretty good at Spanish. “The guy’s singing: To dance the bamba, to the dance the bamba, you need a little grace.” 

“What the bamba?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mike, “It’s the name of the dance, I guess, like the twist or something.”

“What’s the twist,” Chris asked again.

“Please let me throw him overboard,” Manetti begged Ben. 

“Kidding,” Chris laughed.

Then something stopped Manetti. A light went off in his face as he cocked an ear to the radio. “Aw, this is good. Listen.” Manetti sang, not very well, but passionately, a refrain, “Yo no soy marinero, yo no soy marinero, soy capitan. He says, I’m not a sailor, I’m not a sailor, I’m captain, I’m captain.” His smile blossomed, the first true smile Ben and Chris had seen since they left New York. Not sardonic or ironic either. Saying something for the first time he believed. “I’m captain,” he sang in his raspy off-key baritone.

The three of them sipped drinks and gazed over the port town, felt shrouded in the approaching night. The rocking of the boat brought them together. They didn’t need to talk. Maybe wounds weren’t healing so much as scabbing over. During their months at sea, they’d developed their own silent language, speaking only when something had to be said. Something like they needed a refill of meds, or they needed a new fuel filter. Their exchange over La Bamba had been the most they’d spoken to each other in months, particularly Manetti. Maybe they were ready to talk. Or maybe it wasn’t words they needed to express.

A little buzzed, Chris swayed on his barstool to the song’s refrain. As the song went on he got up and swayed to the music in front of Manetti. He’d grown tall in the last few months, still skinny as a rail but now eye height to Manetti. So with Manetti perched on his barstool, Chris looked him straight in the eye. He got in close and was dancing closer. “Bamba la bamba,” he sang in his reedy voice, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

***

A brief history of the internet would likely begin with the Advanced Research Projects Administration network, or ARPANET, a U.S. Department of Defense project, based on the idea that if nuclear war took out parts of the country, decentralized yet connected computer operation would allow data to continue to flow in the un-nuked parts of the United States. Comforting thought. ARPANET was a pioneering network for sharing digital resources among geographically separated computers. You can trace a direct line from its initial demonstration in 1969 to the development and adoption of what we now know as the Internet. 

Chris was two that year, making his first stack of building blocks—four high. He clapped his fat little hands sitting on the living room rug, while his mother, dad, and twelve-year-old brother watched a shoot-out on Bonanza. 

In 1976, Queen Elizabeth II sent her first email. As she pushed the send button, she placed her white gloves against her lips. She was very excitedly. The royal family, surrounding her, shared in her delight.

When Ben and Mike fucked for the first time at the St. Marks Bath in 1983, the Domain Name System, or DNS, was established giving us the familiar website suffixes .com, .net, .gov, etc., which was a heck of a lot easier to remember than the series of numbers websites previous used, like, say, 176.191.49.254. Two years later, when bath houses and sex clubs were shut down by the health department, in 1985, the internet was well on its merry way. So were Chris, Ben and Mike having dug up Chris’ buried treasure, bought The Jolly Roger, and set sail for a four years voyage hiding on the open seas. Miami, Freeport, Key West, Veracruz, Belize, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Martinique, Aruba, through the Panama Canal, up to Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas, with a brief stop in Long Beach to pick up Ben’s record collection and check in on mom. She was better than fine, had a new boyfriend named Burt, who actually was decent to her. She was disappointed they had to leave so soon, but packed the three sea voyagers a lunch, kissed their cheeks including Manetti’s scruffy beard, and with records tucked under their arms, they were back sputtering up the California coast by noon, chomping on Mrs. Prior’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and homemade Rice Crispy treats. Mike, Ben and Chris sailed under the astonishing Golden Gate Bridge revealing the magnificent San Francisco skyline, August of ’89. Within a week they dry docked The Jolly Roger, and set up house in the Castro. Chris was twenty-two.

One year later, 1990, Tim Berners-Lee develop the HyperText Markup Language, or HTML, which is still the basis of how we navigate and view the internet today. (Where you going with this, Chief? Bear with me, I’ll get to it.) Chris got his first computer the same year. It’s not really a part of internet history, but it’s important to the story because it was important to Chris: his first computer was a Macintosh IIfx. Mike and Ben chipped in together to celebrate both Chris getting his GED and an acceptance letter to Stanford just down the peninsula. That was back when Stanford wasn’t next to impossible to get into. Chris discovered that besides having a knack with car and boat engines, he had a natural aptitude for figuring out how things fit together—physical or otherwise. The very first thing he did when he got his Mac was to take it apart and reassemble it. So combine aptitude with physical objects to a newly discovered affinity for reading and writing code, Stanford was a logical place to park his butt for the next four years. 

Reading and writing code was intuitive for him. He tried to explain it to Ben and Mike, passing around some ganja they’d brought with them from Long Beach; it’s simply another form of language, he said. Ben and Mike tried to follow as he prattled on. It reflects the same rules as any language: the mechanics of verbs, whether motor engines, electrical systems, or logical functions and methods; the structure and solidity of nouns, whether you’re talking car parts or object-oriented programming’s classes and instances; the skin of adjectives, colors, attributes, the aggregate of forms that determine design; finally the assembled thought, the purpose, the reasoning, the expression, the i/o of flowing data, the brain giving orders—what is it you want this thing to accomplish, man?—it all interlocked in his mind, he’d just never had a way to express it before nor much inkling he even wanted to. But now all that changed: Hello world! Mike took the joint out of Chris’ hand.

It didn’t hurt that he graduated from Stanford in ’94. Two guys in the class before his had a startup called Yahoo! They brought Chris onboard first as an intern in his senior year, and then fulltime by summer. There wasn’t a whole lot of money in those lean, early days—the two founders were working with venture capitalists who weren’t immediately forthcoming with cash—so Chris got paid, against Ben and Mike’s advice, in options. Since he was a workaholic, staying up writing code throughout the night wired on caffeine and an occasional jolt of amphetamines, he piled up a shitload of options. He kept them in a shoebox under the bed. When the company incorporated the following year, Chris converted options each time the stock hit a new high. He made a killing in just the first year alone, and still had an almost-full shoebox under the bed. 

In 1996, Match.com was launched, and other dating sites sprang up soon after. One night, after Mike had brought home some kickass Peyote buttons, and during some powerful, transformative sex—i.e., the first night Chris took his first double fist—he realized he should create a new kind of dating site. He bought a domain the next day, and built the site, still amped from the Peyote and fuckin’ awesome sex, over the course of one weekend. Chris’ life, informed by Mike and Ben, showed him that the rainbow flag not only transcended a spectrum of races and cultures, it also, and more in line with his experiences, encompassed a spectrum of sexual universes. Where dating sites that competed for survival in the burgeoning, Darwinian world of online hookups viewed the model from top down as straight white vanilla, tossing out a net to capture the broadest swath possible, his take on sex was completely opposite, bottom up, a banquet of chocolatey rocky road. He started with all the categories and sub-categories of life he knew viscerally, starting with Master Drax and continuing over the last few years in San Francisco: leather, master & slaves, fisters, S&M, bondage, grunge& raunch, hoods & masks, pups & trainers, military, medical, uniforms, watersports, smokers, skinheads, punks, tats, piercings, feet, chastity, bareback, bikers, bears, rubber, and friendship—you name it, there was a place, or maybe several places, for you somewhere on his site. San Francisco was the perfect beta test city to incubate his idea. His site was free with limited search capability—proof of concept, man, search is gonna be the key, he claimed—but for a few dollars more, a monthly Premium membership gave you unlimited search capabilities. This bottom up approach, this one-size-does-not-fit-all model, this choose-your-own-adventure paradigm—plus, add-on messaging, chat rooms, picture sharing, winks, scorekeeping, leaderboards: the whole gamification of getting laid—it caught fire. First city-wide, then nationally, and within a year, internationally. We’re talking beaucoup bucks here, sailors. It, his website, and he, its sole founder, made scads of money from the get go and attracted attention. But, perhaps, attention might not be what he was looking for. But then you have to figure, hey, he—they—could only keep out of site forever.

***

The old guy at the end of the bar lit a Camel cigarette. Bobo, a large, very attractive middle-aged drag queen who helped Manetti run the place weeknights (and who had an obvious, though unrequited crush on him—but that’s another story) served Duke, a young, wiry, opinionated hustler who liked to badger Mike incessantly. They were at the center of the long saloon bar staring at the smoking man. It was a slow Tuesday night—only four of them in the place. The big green neon clock showed it was almost one-thirty in the morning, a half hour from closing.

“Not cool,” said Duke to Manetti. Bobo checked her nails studiously.

“Hey, mister,” Manetti said, walking over to the man. “You can’t smoke here.” He stopped short recognizing Drax. Under his black leather cap, what used to be grey beard had gone completely white and was now pointed and quite long. His bald head had had a buzzed crown around the sides, but he’d let that grow long, too, so the wispiest of white hair hung over his shoulders. Black circles sagged under his eyes. He’d once worn glasses but now they were absent. Instead his dark eyes were ghostly pale with thick cataracts. He hacked a loud, phlegmatic cough as Manetti approached.

“Bourbon neat, barkeep,” he said.

“We got a backyard bar for smoking,” Manetti said under his breath cautiously. Though Drax looked infirmed, he knew a wounded snake was a more dangerous one. He gave Drax a once over, checked what he could to ascertain if anything were holstered under his leather coat. It didn’t look like he was packing, but you never knew with Drax. He’d surprised many a wary adversary. He shot a glance to Duke and Bobo, a little afraid for them if things suddenly went south. “We’re getting close to last call. How ‘bout I get us a bottle and we talk out back?” he offered Drax.

The old man luxuriated in his cigarette, picking off a shred of tobacco from the left side of his split reptilian tongue. Manetti had forgotten that tongue. Drax took a long drag and blew a large plume into the stale barroom air.

“Not cool, man,” Duke pronounced from the center of the bar, waving his hand in front of his face as if from that distance he was bothered by the smoke. Manetti raised a scolding finger at Duke. Don’t! the finger and Manetti’s scowl warned him. Duke usually would take that up as challenge and start arguing with Manetti, but something told him to stand down. He clamped his pie hole and instead blinked at Bobo. Bobo took out a nail file and glanced a disconcerting look at Mike.

“These San Francisco street whores—little pansy ass lung fairies, aren’t they,” Drax said to Manetti. He turned his head only slightly, not bothering to look at Duke but making sure he knew he was talking to him. “Fuck you, cunt,” he said in his gnarly voice.

“Hey, now!” said Bobo alarmed and angry, pointing her nail file at the old man. “No C-word in my joint.”

Manetti sauntered back to Bobo and Duke. “Hey kids. This is an old acquaintance of mine,” Manetti said. “Sweetie, would you mind watching the door till closing? I’m going out back so he can finish his smoke. If anyone else comes tell ‘em I’m out back,” he said and kissed Bobo’s rouged cheek. “Night, Chief,” he said to Duke. “You be good, ya hear me.” He held up that warning finger again, and gave them both his reassuring shark-tooth smile. He knocked Duke’s chin, friendly-like, with his knuckles. Duke sheepishly grinned. Who didn’t have a crush on Manetti?

***

The back patio had a little straw tiki bar with two bar stools. Mike set Drax’s glass and his on the bamboo surface and poured generous amounts of Four Roses in each. He set down the bottle, picked up his glass and waited. Off in the harbor a plaintiff foghorn wailed. Drax came out hobbling with a cane. He limped along favoring his right hip.

The patio bar was perched on the side of a hill. Several picnic tables were scattered about, barstools lined the railings overlooking a deserted alley far below. Manetti positioned himself in back of the tiki bar and Drax slid onto one of the stools. Drax flicked his ash on the floor, hooked his cane on the bar ledge, and set down his lighter and pack of Camels next to his bourbon. “You grow a beard?” he asked squinting. Manetti nodded yes, running his fingers over it. “This your place then, huh,” he said to Manetti with an undercurrent of disbelief and maybe a little envy. Drax’s eyes were fixed on the bartender, his former stable boy, now spouting a few grey hairs in his unruly auburn mop. Drax’s near-blind eyes shined luminous in the gloom.

“Ben and mine,” Manetti answered. He picked up Drax’s Camels, took one out. He plucked Drax’s smoke from his fingers and lit his from it. He handed him back his cigarette. “Long time, MD. How’d you know we were here?” 

“It's an odd thing,” Drax began in an effete manner, flicking his wrist exaggerated by his cigarette. It was completely discordant with his nature, so against his butch, hard guy character, yet a very spot on mimicry. “But anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.” He brought his fingers to his lips and puffed.

Manetti gave a smile in recognition. “Master Drax quotes Oscar Wilde. A sign of the apocalypse,” Manetti snorted, taking a hit off his own smoke. Drax curled his lips displaying a gummy smile. Manetti exhaled into the overhead fog. “And then Wilde exclaimed,” speaking in his own mincing voice, “It must be a delightful city and possess all the attractions of the next world.”

Drax took a sip of bourbon. “I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet,” he said, “but give me a day. I only arrived tonight.” He approved of the bourbon and took a bigger swig. “When’d you get so fucking literary?”

Manetti took a long drag. He’d quit smoking when they were at sea, but tonight was a special occasion. The cool air and the warm smoke had a familiar sensation. It provoked some relished, decadent, post sex memories. He took another hit, felt the nicotine work its magic, salving the undercurrent of nervousness being back in Drax’s presence. He’d always been charmed and at the same time repulsed by the man; tonight was no different. “Taking a couple of night classes at City College, finishing my degree.”

“Hm,” grunted Drax. He paused thinking back. “You were on scholarship at NYU ages ago, weren’t you?” Drax asked. “Afore you became just another burnout.”

“I was on a wrestling scholarship back then, yeah.” Manetti drew deeply from his glass. “I was working out some issues. But I’m back now. It’s cheap. I’m getting a degree in English literature next year. Lot of good it’ll do me working here,” he laughed.

“Hm,” Drax grunted again. “You trying to impress me?” He fidgeted on his stool. “It’s cold for fucking July,” he groused.

“Welcome to San Francisco,” Manetti responded. “Drink up, it’ll warm you. Might even thaw you a bit.” Smoking brought out a sense of security. He went on, “I’m working on something that might interest you. Working with Bobo on it. Besides being one of the best bartenders around, she’s a great lyricist. You met her inside.” The bourbon was loosening him up, warming his gut. “Maybe you knew him when he bartended at The Mineshaft. He was Carlos back then. Big dockworker type. Large black horseshoe mustache?” Drax looked at him blankly. “Well, I remembered him.”

Drax downed the rest of his drink, then plunked down the glass. “Too hard to tell,” his said, pointing to his head. “All that big hair.”

“We’re collaborating, she and I,” Manetti said. He raised his hand eliciting a marque. “Mineshaft, the Musical,” he said with a flourish.

Drax crowed hard once, while Manetti refilled his glass. Drax crushed out his cigarette, drifted in reflection, studying the dying smoke. “Hm.” He rolled thoughts over. Manetti watched the old man’s pale eyes flutter.  

It was dark out here. Fog lowering. Getting dank, too. Drax looked up and tried to scan Manetti’s face in the dingy light. Mike saw his former director, confessor and pimp, shiver. Manetti, too, was cold, wearing his usual bar uniform: white t-shirt, jeans, leather vest. He flipped on an overhead heater. It cast both of them in a devilish orange light. The heat lamp sizzled, chewing on the fog as it warmed them both.

The foghorn softly moaned again. “I remember,” Drax finally began after taking a sip, “taking Benjamin to the Mineshaft for the first time.” He lit another cigarette. It triggered a bout of hacking and a prolonged, phlegmatic rumbling. It ended with him spitting phlegm onto the ground. He paused for a second, then took another hit off his cigarette, and ruminated for quite a while lost in thought. “Hm,” he said, looking off in a middle distance. “He only had been in the city a year. He was still so cherry. Hadn’t taken a fist, hadn’t done scat or been whipped, he’d only been pissed on once but hadn’t drank from the tap yet. You don’t want to rush a boy. Good pornography, it’s best when it records discoveries. We’re born like a rock with all these rough edges,” he said swirling around the contents of his glass. “Life wears you down. But you don’t want to smooth a boy down all at once. One step at a time down that long descending staircase. If you can, you capture that moment when a synapse fires off, that shows he actually likes it, whatever kink it is, that’s what make your viewer shoot his load. Yeah, sure, it’s also that big throbbing dick, but it’s also that spark of recognition. That identification. And sometimes to get it, you need to go off script. Plant some seeds. See what’s in the boy’s true nature.”

Drax flicked his ash, stared at his ember. Took a long draw sucking in his hollow cheeks. “So this night, it’s the night of the blackout of ’77, July. It’s sweltering hot in his apartment, we’re naked and dripping in sweat. I wanted him to learn to take a fist. I just slammed him for a second time, but we were getting nowhere. Been shoving big dildos and plugs up his ass, he was begging for them, shoving ones bigger than my hand, but when my fingers touched his hole?” Drax demonstrated for Manetti Ben’s tightly clenched butthole with his closed fist. “My experience, a good slam fixes that, but not Ben, not that night. Then the blackout happens, power goes out in the apartment and you might as well call it quits. Except we’re both higher than fuck, and I tell him, put on your jock and those chaps, I’m taking you somewhere. We usually didn’t go out in public. Some men recognized him, mostly from vanilla stuff that first year. Spreads in the soft core rags, beach boy, long hair surfer, jacking. Pics of him playing with his hole. Some with other pretty boys. He preferred boys his own age he could dominate. He was still skinny, tall though, aggressive with my other twink bottoms. Slapped them around some, nothing too violent, more bossy, really. Naturally verbal I was discovering. Bit of a nasty streak if you wanna know the truth. Had a real foul mouth when he got started. Loved when he got his bottom confessing to being his fucktard bitch,” Drax chuckled. “Said he got it from his stepdad.”

“Chris’ real dad,” Manetti injected. “Ben’s stepdad. He used to beat Chris mercilessly.”

“Yeah?” Drax paused interested, curious, mulled it over. “I could see that.” He gave Manetti a harsh once over, then pulled on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out his teeth as he spoke. “So we ride in the cab seeing there this blackout going on all over the city, wasn’t just the fuses in the building. We pass a Walgreens being looted, I don’t know, old men carrying out cartons of cigarettes, six-packs, old ladies with shopping carts full of boxes of clothespin and plastic tablecloths, the strange things people do. Plastic flowers piled in their shopping carts. We pass a couple of cars on fire on Broadway and Eighth, both of us high as shit. We’re in this real-life Hieronymous Bosch painting. Are we really seeing these things? Maybe we are. Guys breaking into the Crazy Eddies store, a dog running up the Six Avenue by itself, no street lights of course, so the driver takes it easy. We get to Washington Street, there’s cops lined up. Ben’s afraid ‘cause of the cops. I have to convince him they’re just dress-up cops, club customers waiting to get in. We get out, climb the stairs past leather men, policemen, denim cowboys, we push up the line ‘cause Wally’s at the ropes and he sees me and takes one look at this beautiful boy I have in chaps and a jock, and opens the rope right up. We’re walking around the bar and I’m holding his leash. I got him to cut his hair that week. Made him get a Mohawk, I thought it’d be fun.”

Manetti almost snorted his bourbon through his nose. “You’re shittin’ me. Ben let you give him a Mohawk?” he said.

“Of course he didn’t. You think he’d ever go for that, the little priss. But I did get him to cut it shorter. Much better. He twern’t at the beach no more, were he? Dorothy ain’t in Kansas.”

“Guess not,” said Manetti. He poured himself another glass and stole another of Drax’s smokes. Drax didn’t seem to care, but he did notice.

“So of course there’s no lights or music in the club ‘cause it’s the fuckin’ blackout of nineteen seventy-seven! We’re in the middle of this sweltering heatwave, Son of Sam’s on the loose knocking couples off, and Ben’s making his debut at The Mineshaft on my leash, struttin’ around in his jockstrap and chaps, and I got everyone salivating. Boy don’t yet know his worth, but the men do. The bar’s all lit up by a thousand candles. Men all murmuring. It’s like a fucking church, which is exactly what The Mineshaft is actually. Am I right? It’s hotter than shit so I have Ben strip, which he’s high but a little reluctant to do right out in public, but I strip and others are walking around naked, so what the fuck. He asks sort of innocently, what kind of bar is this? Not a bar, son, I say. Let’s go down those stairs, I tell him. We leave the second floor bar, go down naked to the first floor and he’s like a kid in a candy store. His eyes are wide, his pupils like black saucers, and I see he’s hungry for what the store has to offer. There’s glory holes, rim seats, slings, but what does that sick pup pick up on first? There a spotlight and a bunch of men surrounding the spotlight. Of course he’s drawn to it. We go over, and the light’s focused on a bathtub. Two guys are in it getting pissed on by all the men standing around it. He begs me to let him get in. I unleash him, and he runs over naked wearing just his dog collar, making his way through a sea of naked or semi-naked men in harnesses, all their cocks waving, and he climbs in and gets on his knees. More men come over to get a load of this new dirty blond hunk, this gorgeous piece of fresh meat, and of course they want to piss all over him, mark him. He opens his mouth and consumes shit loads of their piss. One short Asian guy nuzzles up to him with his big black bush, and Ben learns to drink from dick, then he takes this black guy’s Johnson and sucks out his piss till the guy’s empty. He can’t get enough drinking piss, piss, piss, piss, piss, and wallowing under the spotlight doing it. No telling what bonus chems are in those streams, but he’s certainly changed after that. He’s a wild man the rest of the night. Hyped and wired.” Drax’s eyes are glowing, the orange reflecting off the white, like a red-eye photograph. He, too, looks to Manetti like a wild man, not really here, but in the past, a blind seer, watching Ben decades before soaking in piss, riding the limelight in that tub. Drax takes a sip to fortify the memory. 

“And then this big muscled cop, or a guy in a jockstrap wearing a cop’s shirt, pulls him out. I think he’s going to fuck the shit out of the kid, this big stud cop, but the cop finds an empty sling, pulls Ben with him, and then flops back in the sling himself, and slides his big jackboots through the sling’s leg straps. I pull up next to him to see what Ben’s gonna do. He’s wet, smells acrid from the piss, short hair slicked back—never looked better—asks the guy if he’s a real cop. The guy, in a low voice, admits he is—he’s the real deal! The fucker should have been out protecting the city but he’s here, looks high, waiting for Ben to bone him. Seeing he’s a real cop, Ben pops an instant stiffy. It’s saluting at full attention, with veins so hard around his thick shaft they look like crawling worms, for fuck sake. Men around him notice. I notice. He sticks his engorged meat in the guy in one balls-deep thrust, buries himself right up to his brown curlies. The guy yells to let him get use to his big fuckstick, and more guys come over hearing that. It’s all shadows and flickering candles, and what your eyes can’t see, your brain fills in. Fuck, man, the sounds they make. Not human sounds. Animalistic. Some ritual not even I understand is going on between cop and his former prey, between victim and abuser—rolls reversed. He’s fucking someone in his past, or a group of someones, I can tell, ‘cause whatever motivates him out of his past he’s taking it out on this cop in the sling, right here, right now—and it’s something fuckin’ brutally beautifully. It has all the sounds of a rape but let me tell you the cop is absolutely into it. His ass ain’t never had a Big Ben in it before and he’s enjoying the shit out of it. It ain’t a bottom and a top going at it. It’s a top being fucked by an über-top. That’s what The Mineshift spawned, the original anti-Eden: not butches doing fems, but the homomasculine submitting to the Über-masculine. We’re in Tom of Finland territory. Ben rips the cop’s shirt open, fucking him blindly, pinching the shit out of his big cop tits. They’re exchanging snarls, gorilla grunts, and Fuck Yous, and he’s releasing on the cop’s ass a lifetime of stored up rage. He climaxes shooting all over the guy’s uniform and in his face, but isn’t done with him yet. No sir. He’s got the whole corner of the room captivated. He shouts, Crisco, putting his hand out like he’s waiting for a stagehand. He’s in command. He truly is. He’s sweating profusely from the meth, and whatever chem piss is running through his system, and someone puts a wad of grease in his hand. Ben lubes his fist and doesn’t go gently into that good night. No sir. He pulls up next to the cop’s face, pushes his still hard, shit-crusted cock in the cop’s mouth, and pushes his clutched fist into the guy’s ass. Not a gooseneck hand to start, but the full magilla, his big clutched fist plunges into the guy’s gut. You can almost hear it go pop. There’s this loud fart of air as Ben pulls all the way out afore he pushes back in. The cop’s gagging on his cock from its girth as he’s struggling with the force of Ben’s arm pumping straight into his chute.”

“Jesus,” Manetti said.

“That’s what the cop is crying. Jesus Chris, slow down, man! he’s shouting, but Ben’s not listening to any of that shit. Not that he’s punch fucking the guy violently. No. He’s standing next to him, making him suck his shitty cock, pistoning him slowly but deep into this big cop’s ass like he’s kneading a big vat of dough. In, out. Stroke after stroke, sending the guy into both heaven and hell at the same time. Then they’re not even talking anymore, just Ben silently watching the cop’s anguished-exhilarated face, watching what he’s doing to the man, what effect he’s having on this cop he’s turned into a meat puppet. All the while the cop’s nursing Big Ben like an infant suckin’ on his mama’s teet. It gets quieter the deeper Ben pushes in his arm. Swear to God, it got as solemn as a church service. Wasn’t a cop and a top anymore. More biblical, priest administering to a penitent, more like it. Like the agony he’d put the man through came out the other side and he was now tending to him, fist going in deeper and pulling out. A part of the cop’s colon comes with it, big ol’ prolapse, probably the first one Ben ever saw. Didn’t bother him, got him hard again, he just pushes it back in and goes deeper. Wants to see how much gut he can pull out of the guy. Men gathered around, some stroking, some just watching in wonder, trying to fathom what the story is between this naked holy man and the supplicant. When Ben forced the man to cum, and forced him he did if you saw his face…” Drax said.

“I’ve seen that face,” Manetti confirmed.

“Well, then, you know how Ben is when he’s in charge. The cop cums all over his uniform, his chest, over his face, shoots over his head. Rope after rope of cum. Men fall to their knees to worship this new priest among them, some fell to the cop’s ass and chewed on his spent prolapse, all wanted Ben to do to them what he’d just done to the cop. They lick Ben’s feet, like he’s fuckin’ Jesus coming out the desert, kiss his thighs, lick his ass, stick their tongues inside his anus, suck on his armpit, whatever Ben offered raising up his arms to his new flock. Three at a time are under him worshiping his cock, balls, and taint. The cop slowly gets out of the sling, shaking his head, pushing his prolapse back in, trying to figure out where the fuck he’s been for the last hour, and I come with a can of grease and lay Ben back down in the sling, in front of this group of envious men. I lock his arms over his head and hand the cop a bottle of strong poppers to administer to him, then I buckle the strap holding Ben’s feet high in the air. He’s spread eagle with men groping his body like a holy relic. I lube my hand and take a good scoop of Crisco and start pushing it into the boy’s ass. I do this a couple of times so there’s a lot inside him when I start pushing two fingers in his slippery chute. He’s as tight as he’s ever been but he’s also rock hard. You want this, I tell him. Tell me how much you want this, I say. Please, Master, he begs, put your arm inside me. I slide in three, then four fingers. Stop fighting me I say at him. Give him a hit, I tell the cop. I’m getting pissed if he don’t let me fist him this time, with this audience. The cop bends the kid’s head over the bottle and lets him huff all he wants. He breathing in the bottle for a while afore he lets his head fall back against the leather. I can feel now not only has his ass relaxed, he’s trying, as much as he can tied up, to slide down the sling on my hand. I don’t even have to push in. His hole is opening and his weight is falling over the edge of the sling onto my hand on its own accord. And then I’m in and still sliding deeper without me having to do anything. He’s yelling Oh Fucks the deeper I go. But I gotta tell you: too much is made over the trust a bottom must have from his top. Bullshit I say. Fisting comes out of the school of S&M, and giving the bottom control of the scene ruins it. Fisting was created as a form of punishment as much as it was a form of control. I tell the cop to give him another hit. He does and I’m taking the boy for a ride he won’t forget. My hand comes out and goes back in a second time in the form of a fist. He’s struggling to accept the width but I won’t budge until he lets me in. From sheer pressure he pops open but not without a cry of distress. Good, I tell him, that feeling is what you can expect for the next hour. And that’s exactly what I give him, no merciful, sensual assplay, but forced punching of his anus until its lips hang loose and sloppy. The red of his colon starts to show after a while. His first night fisting and I’m developing this beautiful small rose. Push out, I yell at him. It’s a pretty pink flower for all to see. I clear some of the Crisco so the men around can see it better. Someone goes down and licks it, giving the kid the first taste of what getting his rosebud eaten feel like. He’s loving it. I go for depth after the first hour. Each time he takes a hit from the cop I’m pushing in deeper before the chemicals have an impact so that when they do I can push him even further. The cop asks if he can take over for a while, Ben becomes afraid, begs me no. Did I ask you? I say to him. Sure. Have at it. And the cop, with his big hairy paws, is plunging into him. I make the boy suck my dick while the cop is exacting revenge on the boy’s sphincter. The cop’s even slipping in a couple of additional fingers while he’s alternating hands in the kid’s ass. He’s almost got two hands in but I see pink in the grease on the cop’s forearms so I have him pullout. I don’t want him damaged. He relinquishes him, but not without one last deep punch, sending Ben’s head flinging back in agony. His suffering is my aphrodisiac. I’m dripping, so I slowly and savagely fuck him. Hours—you been at my receiving end afore, so you know—hours reaming him in chem-filled lust. No need for a bathroom break ‘cause I got my toilet attached to my cock. Besides the chem-piss makes him even more of a whore. Around daybreak, as most all the candles have burnt out, it’s now almost pitch black inside, you can see some outside daylight in the cracks, the last two or three flickering candles are fading, so Ben can’t really see but only feel my cock inside him. I slide my hand in next to my cock, which has been tenderizing him in the last of the wee hours. I wrap my fingers in a fist and piston my cock. He don’t know what he’s getting but the whore likes it. In the cavernous dark as the last candles go out, men are kissing him, nursing his nipples, sucking his cock. And he’s moaning, speaking in tongues, is tweaking on another plane, sucking on other cocks being fed to him, asses bent over for him to eat, and I jack my spooge inside my fist inside him. He’s blathering invites to anyone around him to fist his hole. He’s where I want him. He turns me on so hard, so broken, so open, and I let other guys fist and fuck him, watching along the wall, drinking my beer. 

“Drax, you fuck,” Manetti said.

“He’s struggling under a brutal Neanderthal, fucking his insides out. Ben the boy is suddenly gone, surrendered, arms hanging off the sides of the sling. Taking it, accepting it, a martyr to sex. I bend over and ask him why he’s suddenly surrendered. He whimpers, Hunters got me trapped, Daddy, I can’t escape. I’m lost. Cops got me in a back alley. He’s lost in his past or his fantasy, it’s taken him over. He’s biting his lip. Four more men fuck him and four more fist him. I’m kissing him while they do, telling him accept what he is, just a hole for men to use as their cumrag. Then I see his hole drooling a steady, cloudy white stream of men’s seed, all pooling on the floor under his ass. I know I want back inside that warm, wet cave. I fuck my baby well into the day. Daddy’s got you, I tell him, won’t ever let you go. Then around noon the harsh club lights flickers back on. The blackout’s over. I don’t know how many times I shot into him. I know he shot wads more. Did he remember? Probably half of it. We go out into the daylight, blinded, looking to hail a cab. Butchers right next door to The Mineshaft, in their bloody white aprons, haul in large stabs of meat. Ben looks like just another one of their carcasses. I fold him into the backseat of a gypsy cab. Like one of the many hanging carcasses we ride away from, I look at him, his head’s back, he’s staring at the cab’s cloth ceiling talking to himself. This big human carcass of meat, flecked with viscera across his chest, his and many others—he’s a rock now as smooth as I want him.”  

Silence falls between Drax and Manetti. Fog veils the alley from sight. They both sip bourbon. Drax’s cigarette was a stub, had long ago gone out. Drax looks at the cigarette butt in his hand with his white eyes, and sets it in the ashtray. “Best fuck of my life,” he says, downing his second drink.

*** 

He’s fumbling with his cigarettes and lighter. He knocked one out of the pack. His lighter shook in an unsteady hand. He’s unable to aim the flame under his cigarette, so Manetti reached over and steadied his hand, and Drax managed to get it lit.

Manetti considered the man on the other side of the tiki bar. Sure, it’s the orange heat light and the backlit fog that created the illusion, but Drax wears the expression of a weary demon or maybe a withered angel; some hybrid of bliss and torment. He, Manetti’s, had witnessed that ecstatic tortured look, that rapture, firsthand whenever Drax was cumming inside him over the year he spent in his stable. This suspension between extremes, this balance between worlds; no wonder Ben stuck around more than a decade. Moth to a flame, night after night. It had its draw. 

“So,” said Manetti, rolling his ember in the ashtray. The glass ashtray’s imprinted with The Plan B Bar, the name he and Ben chose. He’s pretty sloshed by now, as is Drax, who’s smoking with exaggerated control. “How’d you really find us?” Manetti asked a second time, refilling his glass.

Drax covered his emotions with each cloud of smoke he exhaled. “Read this article in Wired back when I could read,” Drax said. “Don’t look shocked. I read sometimes.” Drax took up his drink, swirled it, and gave it a small sip. “There was this article, a profile of a kid, called himself Alistair Enge. Didn’t want to give out his real name to the magazine. ‘Fraid his mama’d find out, I suppose. He started a porn site, the article said, e-commerce, premium subscriptions, whatnot. It claimed it was changing the face of porn. No photo of this new face of porn, but I said to myself, Drax, you old fuck,” he flicked his ash, “where you hear that name afore?” He paused long enough to take a drag. “Then I remembered your pirate story from back in the day. When was that, Michael? Eleven, twelve years ago?”

Manetti thought for a second, stoking his beard, a few strands of grey now blending in. “Twelve years,” he says. 

“Well, I thought to go ask my friends Boris and Roger—they’re still together, if you’re wondering. Wallace died though. Pity, nice pooch. I asked my old friends Boris and Roger, I said, hey Boris, hey Roger, what you’d ever do with that boat. What was its name?” 

“We bought it. The Jolly Roger.”

“The Jolly Roger, yes.” He swirled his drink again and sipped a little more urgently. “So this is yours and Ben’s establishment. What about Chris, or is it Alistair now?” Drax held his cigarette to his mouth, sucked hard on the tip, smoke curling around his tattooed knuckles, H-A-T-E.

“Yeah, we own it. Chris has his own thing going, has a crew of programmers and managers, sales, regulatory, things like that. But Ben and I run this.” He hit his cigarette and blew smoke out forcefully threw his nose. “What made you think of the boat?” he asked.

“Alistair—the new face of porn—said he’d spent several years sailing with his family around the Caribbean before Stanford. Family,” Drax scoffed bitterly. “Three of you, huh? How does that work?”

“Works quite well,” Manetti replied, taking a last hit from his cigarette and then stamped it out. “So MD. You came all the way out here to…?” Manetti let the question hang. Drax let it dangle.

“Shame about Bichon, but I suppose karma has a way of catching up to even the best of us, wouldn’t you say, Michael?” Drax’s ghostly eyes looked accusingly at him. The patio’s becoming darker each minute by the encroaching fog. “So, how’s tricks, boy-o? Turned any lately?”

Manetti returned a cold smile. “No, man. Lifetime ago,” he said, calmly sipping his drink. “Very happily married. Proud owner of The Plan B, which we live above.” He pointed to a lit window over them. “Part-time bartender, full-time husband.” 

“Not even a nibble?”

“Not even a taste.”

“I have to say, when you three ran off, a third of my stable initially went with it. That took a big hit on my livelihood. To tell you the God’s honest truth, devastated my livelihood, completely. Put me right out of business.”

Manetti considered this. He tipped the glass to his lips, swallowed. “Never had much overhead, MD,” he said a bit confused. “Hard to see how that could’ve impacted you in any meaningful way.”

“Meaningful.” Drax tries the word in his mouth. “Meaningful. Full of meaning.” In the feeble light he searched Manetti’s face through his cataracts. “You tell me, Michael, what meaning is there when a usurper comes and steals your favored boy, the only boy you want, and gets away clean? I’ll tell you what that means. It means the rest of the stable sees there’s no repercussion for abandonment, and the whole stable dismantles, the tower crumbles.”

“Hold on,” Manetti said, brows tightly knit. “I’m supposed to feel sorry for getting away from you? You cut off my cock, fucker, planted a pussy on me, and I’m the one that should feel guilty about what happens to you?” He barked a mirthless laugh. “The night of the fire you’re lucky Ben and Chris talked me out of tracking you down. I would have been much more medieval on you than I was to the good doctor.”

Drax pulled out another cigarette from his pack. He wasn’t done with the first and tried to light the new one from the old, but his hand shook too much to get it lit. Manetti just watched him struggle, feeling no pity, only disgust. Drax finally got his Camel to light and blew out an enormous stream of smoke. “Truth is, you were damaged long before I met you, Michael. I just removed the damaged part I saw that was rotting away.” 

Manetti grabbed the old man’s shirt across the bar, and pulled him partially over the bamboo top. He cocked back his other arm in a fist but not before Drax pulled out a snub nose pistol from his pocket. Manetti saw the gun, dropped him and took a step back. 

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, hands where Drax could see them. He’s making no fast moves but his brain is racing. “So,” he ventured, seeing if he could tamp down the situation, “you come cross-country just to kill me because, what, you miss Ben? Mineshaft closed more than ten years ago, Drax. Boys grow up. Birds fly from the nest.”

“I came for the one point eight million you stole,” Drax hissed. 

Manetti’s hands are still in the air. “Okay,” he conceded. “Fair enough. You’re owed that. We can more than cover it.”

“And for stealing Ben,” Drax spits. “Can you cover that?” Manetti didn’t have a comeback.

Manetti’s heart was racing. “No, you’re right, you’re right.” Drax had him in a corner, emotionally, logically, physically. “I fucked you over. I’m sorry. You have every right.” But then, finding himself cornered, he felt a spark of anger he couldn’t hold back. “So castration isn’t enough,” he said darkly, “you have to off me, is that it?” Drax looked out through his white glowing eyes and slowly, viciously nodded yes. Manetti looked down, thoughtful, then looked at his drink. Looked at Drax. Saw nothing but the cold, dead eyes of a shark. “So I guess, cheers, to my rotten life, then, huh?” He’s pleading, reaching slowly for his drink, hoping Drax will grant him a dead man’s right for a last fortifying drink. 

Drax gave him a gummy smile. “Go ahead, boy-o. On the house,” he said, pulling back the gun’s hammer.

Manetti raised this glass, saluted Drax, and then tossed the alcohol in Drax’s face. Drax fired and hit Manetti, but Manetti snatched his lighter, flicked the wheel, and put the flame to the old man’s long beard. The alcohol ignited his doused beard, face and hair, and Drax’s whole head, right up to his eyebrows, lit into one giant flame. He’s reeling back, a human matchstick. He’s screaming, slapping his head, stumbling, wobbling blindly all over the patio. He’s firing at empty air, senseless of where he was. Manetti smacked the gun out of his hand and kept pushing him back, again and again, toward the railing. Drax was still screaming, clutching his head, consumed in fire. At the railing, Manetti gave him a final tap, not even that hard, and the old man flew downward into the alley, landed head first with a snap.

Bobo and Duke ran out soon after the gunshots. Mike was holding his shoulder by the railing, peering over at something. Bobo rushed to Mike to see the extent of his wound, while Duke gazed down, inspecting the singed, smoldering figure, its arms and legs bent out at unnatural angles, sprawled over the asphalt. Duke turned to Mike grimly, “I told you smoking could kill you.”

***

Chris danced in front of Manetti, with Ben looking on encouragingly. Manetti tried not to smile. The ocean was calm, the harbor breeze warm. The night sky was a dome of lights, moonless. Chris was feeling good, a bit buzzed. He swayed his hips close to Mike perched on his barstool. Chris reached up to the top button of Mike’s flowered shirt. “Bamba la bamba,” he sang.

“No,” said Manetti. Chris unbuttoned it anyway. He reached for the second button. “C’mon, knock it off,” Mike said batting Chris’ hand away. Chris went back and undid the second button and reached in his hand and felt Manetti’s massive, fur-covered chest. He leaned in and lightly brushed his lips, felt his scruffy dark beard. Manetti started breathing unevenly. Chris kissed him slowly, purposefully, sensually. Manetti relaxed, for the first time letting down his guard. Chris pulled away with a spark in his eye, undoing the flowered shirt’s last button revealing the man’s entire black pelt.

Ben was behind him and removed the Hawaiian shirt and placed it on the bar. He kissed Manetti’s right shoulder, then his left, then the nape of his neck. He threaded his hands around Manetti’s chest, feeling his warmth and his racing heart. 

Chris grasped the man’s belt and Manetti stood up quickly and pushed Chris away. “I can’t,” he cried. “No. Don’t,” he pleaded. Chris got on his knees and unlatched the belt, started lowering the zipper. Manetti was never one for underwear, so when the shorts fell, he stood on the deck naked, exposed for all the world see.

Chris bent in and kissed Manetti’s regrown bush, his soft black hair, brushed it delicately with his fingertips, drew a line along the soft pink lips.

“Stop,” Manetti gasped. “It just a cunt.”

“Not just, it’s you,” the young man said. “You is who I want.” He put his face between Manetti’s legs, breathed him in, licked Manetti. The unfamiliar sensation caused the man to heave a monumental breath, brought a sigh of pleasure but also one of confusion. Shaking he stepped back off balanced. Ben was there to catch him. 

Manetti felt weak, fought against his frailty. Turning his vulnerability to strength, he steeled himself, grabbing Chris and Ben by their hands and pulling them forcefully down to the master cabin. There he ripped off Chris shirt and tore off the boy’s pants, then combatively, ripped the buttons off Ben’s shirt, held his head forcefully, and sucked his face like he’d been wanting to every day for the past six months.

Ben, still locked onto Manetti’s lips, slipped off his shorts. Chris came over and stuck his face close to theirs. Manetti pulled back as Chris kissed Ben’s bent forehead, then as Ben looked up at his brother, Chris kissed his cheek. Ben found Chris’ mouth, and slid his tongue over his brother’s tongue. Both men were erect, which Manetti took full advantage of. He suck his lover’s massive member, then his brother’s smaller but still generous meat. He stuck both their cocks in his mouth and tortured them, rubbing their cockheads against each other, sliding his tongue around them, making them leak in arousal. He grabbed some bedside lube and rubbed it on Chris and Ben erections, then on his front lips and between his cheeks. He positioned himself on his side pulling Chris down with him. Ben laid down in back. Manetti eased his butt, like so many times in the past, against Ben protruding erection. Ben’s stiff and metal adorned organ slowly slid inside Manetti, familiar and so welcome. 

Chris faced Mike and held his cock at Mike’s new lips and looked in his eyes. Mike gave him a smile of permission, and Chris slowly, sensually parted Mike’s virginal lips. Chris rubbed his dick up and down, rhythmically finding he could part Mike’s body. Mike helped by rocking back on Ben’s cock, allowing it to penetrate him deeply, then rocked forward to take a bit, an inch, then two, of Chris’s cock. There was electricity in the dark cabin, palpable breath on a face, on a neck, mouth against mouth, inhalations and exhalations exchanged. A painful tearing of skin, slowly, erotically. Of all the collective torture they’d been through, this was the most protracted and agonizing. Like a band aid slowly being ripped off, one cell at a time. Tension and desire continually traded places, body parts awash in lubricants, smoothly flowing, painfully, exhilaratingly, new sensations every second between three men who found they were heading into unexplored territory. Mike felt the violation of his organ, both past and present, ravishing him, making him loose control. Once past the initial pain, at first the pleasure was too intense, but the allure of submitting to two men stroking inside his body, became intensely satisfying. Then, after accepting the satisfaction, he recognized he could invert it. Suddenly he felt more in control of them than they were of him. Writhing between them, he was in charge of their pleasure. He controlled their body’s rhythm, granting them unending satisfaction through his rhythmic, velvety undulations, granting them the pleasure they sought within his body.

Chris whispered almost inaudible, “Oh, fuck Ben. I feel you.” Their faces so close together not a breath escaped detection by any of them. The three shared this discovering. “I feel you, too, brah,” said Ben deep inside Mike. The closer he drew into Mike, the more Ben’s cock pressed against a wall that barely separated him from his brother. Ben withdrew and slid in deep with each stroke, not only thrilling Mike but also erotically rubbed under Chris’ cockhead. Not one of the three of them saw this coming. They gasped at the orchestra of sensation flowing through their bodies, the variety of pitch and crescendos they could produce. Chris was almost in to his balls, when Manetti cried out in pain. They halted abruptly. They caught their collective breath. No one moved.

Chris slowly eased all the way out fearing he’d damaged Mike. But the look on Manetti’s face showed how amorous he still felt, how much he wanted Chris back inside. Ben never left Mike’s ass. One of life’s greatest feelings for Manetti was having Ben’s full python buried deeply inside him. He nudged Ben until Ben fell onto his back pulling Manetti along with him. Then Manetti rocked on top of him, rising forward to impale himself in a squatting position. He bobbed in a wave of lust against his lover’s groin, sending waves of pleasure careening through both their bodies. He smiled lewdly at Chris, his hands parting his new lips, inviting the young man to come back in. Mike fingering his twat was an obscene gesture that excited the fuck out of Chris. He knelt like he was in church in front of the holy alter of Mike, as Mike reclined back spreading his legs, fall back onto Ben’s chest. Chris slipped in cautiously, but increasingly giving into his arousal, his desire to fuck Manetti as deeply and as hard as he could.

Chris never imagined he could share in such a complicated arrangement, of boomeranging and ricocheting needs and lust-filled desires. He made out with Mike as his cock rocked inside the man, then found his brother’s face alongside Mike and satisfied his forbidden, incestuous appetite, discovering how deep within Mike he could fuck against his brother’s hard, massive cock. 

How could they know how good this would feel, how tangled their emotions would entwined, how bound together their souls would become? They united in the moment, tonight, tomorrow, for a lifetime. 

Manetti felt the brothers shudder together, felt how wet he suddenly was, leaking out both sides of his body as the brothers continued to quake. And somewhere within, sliding against his core, against his body’s tectonic plates, a quake overtook him too, pulled him over a vista and he could see how this could all work out. He shuddered in gratification of the corruption and purity of this comingling of brothers cumming within him at this moment. They gasped, all breathing unevenly, laid there motionless except for the rising and falling of their chests.

Chris was the first to make a move, cascading them all to the side, all still holding each other for dear life. Had this even a chance of continuing? Just because it hadn’t been done before it still could be done. It’d be messy and complicated. They’d expect no understanding from others. Gee, didn’t that already sound all too familiar? Chris and Mike looked at each other with faces radiating satiation, Ben kissing the swirling hairs, the soft opera of Manetti’s neck. They lay quietly for a long time.

Then Mike exploded. “Alright, you fucking perverts,” he roared between them, snapping into drill sergeant mode. He quickly and rudely untangled their cocks from his body. Rising off the bed, he grabbed the grease. “Prior brothers!” he barked. “Edge of bed with your asses in the air! Now!” He greased both his hands greedily. “It’s time you boys ride the Manetti Chariot!” He smacked both their asses hard. They responded, excitedly bounding to their knees, aligning next to each other on all fours, pulling and playing with each other’s floppy cocks like naughty schoolboys, while Mike lined up his fingers against their holes. Ben draped his arm over Chris’ shoulder and Chris draped his arm over his big brother’s. “And don’t expect me to take it easy on either one of you sick fucks,” Manetti growled, plunging deep inside their cavities.
 

[Arcaner]

Bravo.  I almost feel guilty reading this for free.  You should do a second draft in a month or two and self publish this on Amazon digital.  I'd pay $5 for it.  If you have other stories in that sick and twisted brain of yours, I hope you see fit to share them with us greedy masturbators. Thank you again for making my world a bit more fun... and sticky.

[FuckBudMA]

Amazing, you're in a league of your own.

[seattlebbbtm]

Thank you for an amazing adventure 

[Fistcumslut]

Thanks! All other are now futiles, I can only repeat what others and I have always wrote you. The story is great, human and so real, I loved it... but your stile is above the average.

FFuntastic, you touched my heart passing through my anus , sorry for the FF joke .

[Fistcumslut]

sorry I 've made a mistake: instead of "All other are now futiles" I would say "All other words are now futiles" but I hope the general meaning was already comprehensible.

If I was in you, @shoreboy, I will take in consideration what Arcaner wrote...

Hugs...

Edited April 1, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[Fistcumslut]

16 hours ago, Arcaner said:

1) You should do a second draft in a month or two and self publish this on Amazon digital.  I'd pay $5 for it.  [...]

2) I hope you see fit to share them with us greedy masturbators. [...]

Hi @Arcaner I totally agree with you about the first point: This story shouldn't be confined here but I disagree with the second point.

Usually a jerking off story doesn't need all that background, usually the characters are provided with synthetic description (name, age & size), a place is a place and no more details are needed... Then... Yes I fuck you, he breed me, I fist you... But nothing describe the feeling, the emotions, the efforts and the fatigue involved in those action. Nothing describe how Fisting isn't only an abuse but it found his apotheosis when it become a willing cooperation, when emotions are involved everything is amplified...

No one gave me more satisfaction, describing those facts, than @shoreboy and this isn't just a simple JO story.