an excerpt

Mason Cullulhan had fucked and sucked more than his share of men. Likewise, he'd been fucked and sucked by more than his share of the same. Helped by his never having had to bag his head. He had the kind of college-boy good-looks, lasting well beyond his university years, which seemed to appeal to a large part of the gay population, even to a large amount of wanting-to-experiment straight men. He still maintained a regular gym regimen that hadn't seen any part of his anatomy prematurely sag or bag. Trolling still, as always, saw him more likely to leave a gay watering spa with someone in tow before the glaring lights came on in the early hours before dawn.

He'd slipped into a kind of rut, sexually, but he wasn't complaining. There was something genuinely comforting and convenient about a coterie of steady fuck-buddies with whom he could manage orgasms without any kind of lengthy foreplay or commitment beyond a desire for some transient fun and games by way of good times.

He was with a couple of his share-dick-and-asshole buddies, Steve Fetter and Roger Platt, at a friendly gay neighborhood bar, none of the trio with anything sexual specifically in mind, any more, anyway, than any three gay males capable of becoming aroused by just a passing glance at a random knothole. If, later on, they'd all end up rolling around in the same cum-stained bed sheets, it would just happen without too much forethought: a nice arrangement since picking up complete strangers could often be far more bother than it was worth.

He had just drained his latest beer, having siphoned it suggestively through its phallic bottle-neck, and he'd motioned to the bartender, Ted Maxx, for a follow-up round of drinks for the table, when another trio of guys came in and sat along the banquette at the far end of the bar.

Imagine his surprise when, all of a sudden, because of one of these three new arrivals, his cock went all hard and stiletto-like before he knew what in the hell was happening. Its resulting imprisonment within his confining left pants leg required some immediate manhandling to manage it into any kind of comfort.

"I suddenly do believe in love at first sight!" he said, calling the attention of his companions to the newcomers.

"Oh, yeah?" Roger said. "And which one will be walking you down the aisle?"

"The dark-haired Adonis, of course." Mason couldn't believe Roger could believe Mason could believe either of the other two fit the bill; not that they were dog poop. "Do you know him?"

"Haven't a clue," Steve said, handing off his empty beer bottle to Ted who had appeared with refills.

"Members of the First Town Players," Ted obliged without being asked.

"Some kind of sports team?" Mason ventured.

"Jesus, Mason," Steve chimed in sarcastically. "You really do have to get out more and enjoy this city's thriving cultural attributes."

"It's the new theatrical group revamping the old Hipton Hardware Store on First and Sixteenth," Ted said.

The store had gone belly-up several years before and had been vacant ever since.

"We went to school with Rhonda Hipton," Roger said. "She was a junior our senior year. Did a lot of amateur theatricals. She played Kim MacAfee in Bye-Bye Birdie."

"You've a better memory than I have," Mason confessed.

"First Town's first production is going to be one of the Tennessee Williams plays," Ted said, lingering at their table.

"About the cannibals?" Steve wanted to know.

"Liz getting a lobotomy?" Mason chimed in.

"Try the one about a hot tin roof, poor closeted gay husband, Paul Newman, hobbling around on crutches."

"Put me down for a ticket!" Mason said.

"Rhonda Hipton and a couple of her girlfriends are managing the financing," Ted said. "They were in the other day talking business over beers. They seem pretty serious."

Another customer arrived, of no real interest to anyone, except Ted who headed off to provide a whiskey shot and beer chaser.

All of this time, Mason hadn't taken his eyes off the sexy brunet on the banquette. No way had Mason ever seen him before. Mason's quick-to-attention cock hadn't had the pleasure, either.

The guy was exactly Mason's type. So much so that it was scary. Usually, Mason didn't get overly excited, sexually, or otherwise, by any man. Arousal to the point of joyful performance was one thing, but on the verge of creaming his jeans by just looking was quite something else again. This guy was a total love-package. Mason could just tell he had a great body, to go with his great face and dark hair, even though he wasn't exactly decked out in skin-tight clothing. Mason had come across guys possessing parts of his male ideal -- Steve had great pectorals but couldn't develop his calves for shit; Roger had good enough calves but his abdominals maintained a kiddy-slide look rather than the more desired scrubwoman's washboard -- but finding one person who could stand up to Mason's whole check list hadn't happened in his memory ... until now. For the first time, in a very long time, he had the sudden impulse to get up, go over, and say, "Hey, buddy, let's fuck!"

As it turned out, he stayed put, doubting he could even walk the short distance with his boner so firmly pinned to his thigh. Nor had his cock softened even one iota by the time Adonis and his friends finished their beers and left the bar.

Shortly, Steve excused himself. He had a hot date -- or at least one with that potential. Mason went to ride Roger's cock at Mason's place. Roger sat a recliner and obligingly provided a wrap-around snug hand-fit of Mason's cock. Mason had never really been able to orgasm with just cock up his ass. A good hand-pounding of his cock, though, against and over his prostate, and a swift up-and-down accompaniment of a talented fist along the upper limits of his stiff cock, had been known to provide a geyser-like eruption of sperm to put Yellowstone's Old Faithful to shame. This time no exception, with the initial shot hitting Mason's chin and staying put. Meanwhile, Roger's cock went off with fire-hose intensity up Mason's ass. A novice would have been hard pressed to realize it wasn't Roger's cum blasting from Mason's cock.

The next time Mason spotted his love-at-first-sight dreamboat, Mason was, again, with Roger, in the very same bar as the first sighting. This time, though, Mr. Handsome was at a table with ...

"Rhonda Hipton," Roger identified; Mason still only vaguely remembered her from school, if he remembered her at all, not having ever been all that much ‘into' girls. On the other hand, Roger had had a brief spell of bisexual exploration that never really came to much. "Shall we buy them a round and see if we can trick her into providing introductions?"

As it turned out, Rhonda remembered both Roger and Mason. Go figure!

Dreamboat's name was Ganon Weston. Actor. Presently having taken an apartment with a fellow actor, Richard Hill, in the nearby suburb of Bookshaven.

The four sat at Rhonda and Ganon's table and discussed the theater's scheduled opening. Definitely, Rhonda was enthusiastic. Ganon was, too, Rhonda having recruited him after having seen him in the Coeur d'alene, Idaho, summer-stock production of Cabaret. Mason's cock remained most enthusiastic of all. Had it been set free at any time during the conversation, it would, Mason envisioned, likely have risen to whack the exact spot on his chin to which his cum had initially blasted and clung so precariously only a few night's before while Roger's cock simultaneously let loose up Mason's clamping asshole.

Rhonda and Ganon left first, together, still with a lot of work to do before opening night, quite aside from rehearsals. A hardware store was hardly the most ideal starter-kit for a theater; cast and crew were pitching in with the remodeling.

Having been left with his boner and Roger, Mason would have been more than happy to let the latter relieve the former, but Roger had to dine with his grandmother who was still, on occasion, contributing to his financial well-being.

As it turned out, Mason and his boner, back at his place, made do, solo, as his cock-free hand paged through a favorite art book, concentrating on pages depicting Rome's Ponte Sant'Angelo, its Bernini angels holding instruments of the Passion. Something about these particular sculptures had long been included by way of Mason's go-to for solitary major turns-on since he'd first seen them during his European summer spent between his junior and senior years.

Spending a few lingering moments, his cum-drenched fingers gently massaging the slick tip of his cock that had been made overly sensitive after orgasm, it didn't escape his attention that at least one of the angels on the bridge bore a striking resemblance to Ganon Weston.

"You know Patrick Ross?" Steve asked a couple of days later, at Mason's for drinks and for whatever else came as a result of the two gay young men already with very hard cocks. "Seems he's doing the sets for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. He's invited me for a look-see, including, I hope, a close-up viewing of his very big cock, and I just might be able to persuade him to let you tag along -- at least for the first part of the reveal. There being a good chance your one true love will be somewhere in the general vicinity for rehearsal or theater maintenance."

Physically and sexually, Patrick Ross wasn't Mason's type. Mason preferred a man with a little meat and muscle on his bones. Patrick was so painfully skinny that Mason truly believed that nakedness would have allowed each and every bone to be visually available for counting. Luckily for Patrick, the good Lord had somehow managed to mold his face with whatever excessive fat had been available. In that regard, Patrick wasn't all that bad to look at. He had an abundance of chestnut hair, wide-spaced chocolate eyes, a nice enough nose, and full lips. One other positive, for those who took such things into consideration, was that he was hung like a horse.