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It was a Saturday on Market Street when I rambled through the crowd into the small shop where I worked. When the bell on that door clanged, it was like stepping back at least 60 years when your foot firmly planted on the well worn warehouse wood floor and the mixed scents of the tobacco took over from the now almost sterile air of the street. I worked in what was a true anachronism in these health obsessed days—an actual tobacconist. In here there was a safe haven for the last of the smokers. In here, you could feel free to take a deep draw on the smoke of your choice and there wasn’t a stink-eye in the place. Well, unless you were stupid and green and just wanted a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lites because “I only smoke when I drink!”
That line was always delivered in exactly the same way: a flourish, a giggle, and a twenty dangled offhandedly at you, never toward you. For those, you banged out the transaction on the register and tossed the change at the counter, never toward them. Assholes can sweep up their change.
It was moments like this, and chasing off the dead eyed bro-stoners in their year-round cargo shorts and teva sandals who touristed the hell out of the pipe selection, always trying slyly to prize out a secret stash of glass pipes. “Head shop is six blocks over,” and a distinct nod at the front door to demonstrate we were at the end of our interaction.
“How are things tonight, Mick?” I asked as I passed my buddy behind the counter and made my way back to the barbers chairs set strategically in front of the walk in humidor.
“Calm before the storm,” Mick laughed. The streets outside were packed tonight, maybe a little more than usual, with a different flavor to the air than usual as well. “They’re having some sort of Leather something or other up at The Hammer and Anvil tonight. Probably gonna be some interesting folks in, I’ve already seen some assless chaps and they look like they mean business,” Mick laughed around his ever present cigar. I felt myself flush a little, some tightness developed in my jeans as I tossed that image around in my head. I sat down in the well worn leather of the barber chair and crossed my legs to adjust the growing discomfort downstairs.
I had recently come through my divorce. It had been a bitch of a time, but I dealt with it like any sane individual. Namely I drank way too much and made as many bad choices as I could possibly access. The drinking was now mostly back in check. Mostly. The other choices, well, I was beginning to see them as not so bad as I got further into them.
As I reclined back in the chair, still getting harder, the thoughts of those assless chaps were banging hard inside my head. Right before the divorce, when things were getting out of hand, I escaped to the seedier side of town and the adult bookstore that dimly glowed like a vaguely Pizza Hut shaped pimple is the center of a large parking lot. When I was younger, it was a taste of real rebellion. Getting ankle deep in porn when there was no internet to pump it directly into your skull was a real buzz. It smelled like danger and it had those doors to the back rooms and the video booths. At that time I never had the stones to venture back and explore. Just picked out a Hustler and maybe a Barely Legal to jack to. But my eyes, and my mind, always were magnetically drawn to those dark entrances. I could never shake that.
So, with the marriage heading south and a head full of lager, finally I ventured back. Got my tokens at the register and in to the unknown I did dive. Quickly I took a dim walk around the maze of booths to figure out what to do. It was pretty self explanatory so, without making eye contact with the ten or so guys loitering around, I slid into a booth. After dropping my tokens, the TV behind the plexiglass began to blast my eyes. As my pupils finally constricted enough, I saw the channel was on gay porn. I went to switch it, but the switch was in about the shape you’d imagine it to be. So I was watching one guy do an absolutely miraculous blowjob on another guy who clearly had a special effect for a cock. It was mesmerizing and my own cock immediately leapt to attention. I undid my jeans and yanked it free from my boxers and started the five finger shuffle.
Just then, a note skittered under the door, ricocheting a bit off the sole of my shoe. I dipped down to see what it was and, unfolded it said three simple words: “suck your dick?”
I broke into a cold sweat immediately. I’d never been anywhere near this kind of action but goddamn I wouldn’t mind getting my dick sucked right now. I slipped the bolt and the door popped immediately open and in slid a guy who was pretty much the trashiest guy I’d ever seen. He had a trucker hat on and a grey sweatshirt and bam, he was on my cock. No words, no eye contact, no nothing but my cock in his mouth and he worked it like there was some kind of cure buried inside my balls. And the weirdness made me even harder. As hard as I’d ever been. He sucked and tongued and licked and sucked again so hard I thought he was going to give me a full dick hickey. As lost as I was, I had zero control and after about three minutes total I unloaded like a fire hydrant that just took a direct hit from a truck. He sucked it all in really quickly, then he turned his head and spit it right on the floor and then, poof, out the door he went.
There I was, some cum still dripping off my cock along with plenty of saliva, and I was both grossed out and completely hooked. It was a pump of weird adrenaline that I knew I needed to keep feeling. But for now I had to get the hell out before I passed out from the sensory overload.