Page 155 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 125

leaned against the black wall smoking huge cigars, their feet booted in
black leather knee-high boots, enticing many, picking and choosing and
admitting one, maybe, a bearded lumberjack leaning against the door-
jamb of the patrolman’s room, both men rubbing their cocks, until the
patrolman nodded the lumberjack on in, the door closed, and they did
the deeds a big-biceped patrolman does to a hefty woodsman in a flannel
shirt and logger boots laced knee high.
Men turned over mileage in the Barracks halls the way they cruised
streets as teenagers in their hot cars. They passed from room to room, from
scene to scene, climbing up the carpeted stairs, then climbing down again,
searching for adventure.
Under overhead lights, on a raised platform in a hallway niche, a
heroically buffed exhibitionist bodybuilder posed. He stroked his penis.
He rubbed his hands over his well-greased muscles. He teased the nipples
of his huge pecs. He played to the kneeling, adoring crowd of men. They
jerked off to his muscular build with one hand. With their other hand,
like Israelites kneeling before the golden idol in The Ten Commandments,
they reached toward him like a god. He shot his load across the rolling
field of their open mouths.
In darkened toilets, men lay back in long urinal troughs, jerking off,
wet by hot streams from a hundred cut and uncut cocks. In darker stalls,
men, late arrivals without reserved rooms, sat squat on cold porcelain,
Rodinesque, living statues waiting William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. In
the orgy rooms, men stood four deep around the central bed, and pressed
up against bunks, sucking dicks and assholes, fucking butts and faces,
swapping deep-tongued spit, kneeling to lick feet and thighs, rising to
hard washboard abdomens, bending to bite on turgid tits, knowing whom
they tongued, not knowing who in the pig pile below them sucked on
their dick and balls, reaching out to fold in a new handsome hunk stand-
ing fresh and aloof and watching the action, pushing away the hands of
insistent ugly trolls, cuming, shooting, collapsing in the swaying surround
of tight-packed bodies, trying to inch their way back to the door of the
steaming orgy room to escape to the coolness of the halls, sidestepping the
naked bodies writhing on the carpeted stairs, descending delicately over
fellatio and sodomy down to the juice bar in the lobby, to catch a second
wind, to smoke a joint, to check in with friends and fuckbuddies, to watch
the newly arriving meat being buzzed in at the door.
“It’s better,” Ryan said, “if straight people don’t know places like this
exist. If they knew what went on here, they’d be more jealous of us than
they already are.”

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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