Axle

The 'regulars' moved aside when he came in and took the stool beside mine.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

"You waitin' for someone?" He looked around twenty, his body so built, even his high-cheekboned, velvet-skinned face looked muscular.

"No--I was just about to leave."

"I'm Axle. Who're you?"

"Todd."

"I don't like this place much, either." He looked around. "Yo' got plans, Mr. Todd?"

He had no drink--just swaggered right on through the dance floor drawing all eyes to his five-eleven, big-shouldered, big-biceped handsomeness.

Guys like Axle were an extreme rarity.

"It's not Mr. Todd. It's just Todd. And plans? No. No I don't have plans." I spoke down at my drink.

Axle laughed, the sound high spirited and sharp. "You think I's hustlin' yo white ass, don' you?"

I felt blood rise in my neck--a mix of surprise and annoyance. I don't much like being second-guessed or sized-up.

"Yeah, I do." I looked him up and down, then into his large and surprisingly soft brown eyes. "I'm twice your age."

"Shiiiit--get him another," he theatrically announced to Joe, slapping a fifty on the bar. "--an' I'll have th' same,"

Axle swiftly turned and stared at the cloying, eavesdropping regulars. They backed off, moving into the shadows, trying to listen-in despite his glare, and the loud electronic music.

"I can't help that, man."

"What?--help what?" I raised my eyebrows, finishing my drink.

"That I'm a kid an' you're a man--that's what," he pocketed his change, leaving two bucks for Joe. He sulked as he took a sip, then made a face. "What IS this shit?"

"Rye."

"Rye?? What th' fuck's 'Rye'?" he sipped again, his sexy lips curling over the glass.

"It's whiskey. It's Canadian."

"Shiiiiiit!"

I had to smile.

"Don' act superior, wi' me, man--I gets enuff a' that shit at work!"

My smile disappeared. "That's on me, Axle. Sorry."

"Good--sayin' sorry's good. I neva' hear dat," he took way more than a sip this time.

Once again he turned to stare off the voyeurs. "What's wi' this place, man? They's like a bunch'a women."

"It's a gay bar, Axle," I shrugged, shifting my eyes to glimpse the nipple-stretching heft of his t-shirt. "What do you expect?"

"I nev'a been in one. My bitch kicked my black ass outta bed--so I came in t' see waz up."

"You want me to believe that, huh?" I didn't smile this time.

Axle came off the stool, turning full front. Over the white t-shirt was a black leather vest, his baggy jeans falling from his slim hips, revealing a 2(x)ist waistband. He crooked his fingers to gesture at his full-chested, big-all-over, V-shaped body.

"Does THIS look faggy t' you, man?--shiiit--" He fell dramatically back onto the stool, shaking his head.

Joe looked at me across the bar, not even having to roll his eyes.

"So, Axle, let me get this right...you're not queer, but you want to know if I've 'got plans'?" My voice was quiet, confidential, yet betraying my irony. I didn't care for drama.

"Yeah. You gots it--Bingo!--that's right! You're a big motha'fuck'a," he smiled as he drank, those lips curling into dimpled creases in his muscled, ebony face. "Tonight, I just need a man--OK? That's how it is wi Axle--" he completely killed his drink, then looked down at the bar, suddenly serious. "When my bitch acts up, I think about shit--what I need--what I want...."

"...and this time you didn't just think about it." I put a twenty on the bar and nodded to Joe. Axle waited till he was once again fixed up, then slid his glass over to clink mine.

His young, husky voice fell to a whisper as he leaned closer. "You want t' know th' truth?? I'm shakin' inside me, bein' here like dis. This ain't my scene, man--feel me?" He turned quickly to the side, but by now the crowd had learned to stay away. "--creeps me out."

"Then let's go," I pushed my drink away.

Axle looked left and right, the whites of his eyes very white in his dark, seriously handsome, and yes, seriously young face. "Yeah? No shit? --where, man?--yo got a place??"

I nodded. I'd questioned whether he'd never been in a gay bar before, but I knew that look--that look I myself had that first time out, so long ago now. That look? That look was real. That look bought him some cred. That look can't be faked.

He slid my drink back at me, then took a swallow from his. "I don' know--I don' know--you serious, huh? Me wich you?" His eyes ran over my face--at my nose, bent over from boxing in college. "I don' go back tonight, she's gonna freak--" His eyes fell to the hair curling from the opened collar of my loosened, necktied shirt. "--Look, uh...."

"...Todd," I countered his nervousness with an open, no-pressure, blank face.

"...Yeah, man--Todd," he smiled quickly, his teeth dazzlingly white. "--this?" He pointed to his chest. "This ain't no act, feel me? I'm scared, ok?--" he looked to his right, then turned back, letting his baggy-jeaned leg dare to touch mine. He spoke down at his drink. "You sure is a big motha'..."

"...and you aren't?"

He laughed, his full lips spread. He lifted his rye, purposely flexing a T-shirted bicep. "--I is, that's no lie!--takes anotha' dude t' say so, huh? She sure don' fuckin say it!" He laughed, then scowled. "--thinks it's all 'bout HER, man--the queen bee, the..." He was getting loose, the whiskey already more than his youth could handle.

"Ok, Axle--let's cut to the chase, here."

"Huh? What's that mean??"

"--when you don't want your girlfriend," I fixed my eyes on his, not blinking, "--what do you think about?"

"You mean wi' a guy?" His voice fell, his eyes shifting left and right.

"Yes--with a guy, Axle. With a man."

"Shiiiiit," he grinned, then stopped--then drank--then grinned again and then frowned.

"Axle...."

"--ok, Todd-man--I hear yo'! Shit. This shit ain't easy for me, thas all. Chill out, gimme space, man--" he stirred his rye with a finger, looking lost in thought. "--not that gay porn shit, man--hear-what-I'm-sayin'?--not that fag shit. I ain't gonna suck...."

"--that's cool, Axle--ok?"

"--good! Ok, then," he cleared his throat, adam's-apple bobbing in his muscular neck. "--don't laugh, is all. Jus'...don't even SMILE, brotha!" His finger shot out from the glass to point in my face.

I opened both palms. "Who's laughing?"

"Yeah--ok--cool. Ok. Ya'll cool wich Axle, huh?" His large, light-brown eyes searched mine.

I suddenly reached over and gave him a brotha' grip in reassurance.

"--yeah--tha's it, man--ok. I neva' told no one this shit, feel me?--" he took a quick sip. He looked around once more. His voice dropped. "--I see me with a white dude--older--a real man--like you, man...."

"--OK--"

"--someplace nice--no one gonna bust in, or mess it up, or that shit. Door locked...." He turned his glass with both hands--his hands large with prominent veins. "...an I's posing..." he looked at me quickly, then back at his drink. "--yeah--posin' fo' th' dude. An' he's watchin'. Watchin' me strip. Openin' his shirt--sittin' there...undoin' his pants..." He laughed--then drank--then shrugged--then looked around. "--like that!"

I waited.

Axle raised his glass to his lips, his ice clinking. "--tha's it--tha's all."

He looked at me, sizing me up--looking like even a glimmer of a smile from me would send him out the door, back to his ass-kicking woman.

"....and then??"

He shrugged. "--and then?? Why, by then I's popped my cork, man!-- and don' wanna think 'bout it no mo!" His smooth, broad brow attempted to furrow in thought. "--it's like my very own homemade porno flick in m' head when I'm fuckin' her, man. An' I get t' that part, and blow m' load...an', POOF!--it's over!..." He spread open his palms.

"How old are you, Axle?"

"Why?"

"I'm thirty-five--ok? And you're...."

"...nineteen. So what?" he flexed his arm. "--I ain't man enough for you, man?"

"C'mon, Axle," I pulled out my keys and stood up.

"What??--waz wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

He looked around, still sitting, like he was comfortable just talking.

I wasn't. It was decision time. "I've got a place. No one's going to be there or come in. Three locks on the door. A sofa...."

He pulled me back down onto my stool, his grip like iron, his voice a shaky whisper. "...no fag shit, huh, man? --no...."

"...I've got two bedrooms. You just want another couple of drinks? You change your mind all of a sudden? Don't feel like it?" I shrugged. "It's cool. Whatever. You go to your bed, I go to mine. I make you breakfast. You go patch it up with the girlfriend." I stood up again, waiting.

He tossed back his drink.

"Careful on the roads," Joe said, rolling his eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *​

"Shiiiiit," Axle went right to the sliding doors. "--I only seen this view in pictures, man! Y'all sit out here, sometimes?"

I threw my jacket over the couch. "Go ahead--could be a little windy, though. You want another drink?"

"Can you put somethin' in it this time? --like Pepsi?"

I headed for the kitchen, watching how his low-slung jeans couldn't even try to hide his solid soccerball butt--an ass only his height, broad back and developed shoulders kept in proportion. I heard him clattering deck chairs around as I searched for my Crown Royal--Crown Royal, and a Diet Coke.

Axle was right. He had a man's body--an amazing build for any man, much less someone so young. It was only his face and energy and teen confusion that gave away his age.

Not allowing myself even a moment of fantasy over what I might be allowed to enjoy of that teen-thug physique--I used my foot to slide open the door.

"Whoooee, man! I never seen the lake before! THIS is Chicago??--shiiiit--" he'd put two wooden chairs together--close together--his Nike feet propped up on the railing. "--not MY Chicago, man--fuck!!"

My balcony's in the middle of a semi-circular building, my condo visible by those on the outer edges. I prefer privacy when at home, but Axle looked like a kid at a Macy's Christmas window. He clinked my glass so enthusiastically, it almost sloshed out.

"I never been up this high in m' life!" he tasted his drink, "--what're them buildings?--them round ones down there?"

"--granaries--full of wheat. They fill those barges with it," I positioned myself to view the breadth of his upper back and shoulders, surprised by the cuteness of Axle's little ears. His head was almost shaved, the nape squared-off and razor trimmed.

He obviously took pride in his natural appearance --no earring--nothing flashy--no rings or apparent tattoos.

"Barges?? What's that?" a look of open curiosity--an amazed, seeking quality in his large, dark-lashed eyes.

"Flatboats--and out there? Cargo ships--the ones with the little lights on them."

"Shit--I'd work on one'a them, man--no questions asked, man! I hate construction..." He removed his long legs from the railing, splaying open his jeaned thighs.

"--they give me all the dumbass jobs--bustin' up concrete --fuckin' slave-times, man." He complained out at the night sky--his large hands making rap gestures.

Meanwhile, I pulled my tie loose and began undoing my buttons.

"--'hey, Axle,' they call out, 'swing that sledge, man!', they tease m' ass--a'ways hootin' n'....." The whites of his eyes grew very white all of a sudden. "--hey! Wuz up??"

I shrugged. "It's warm out here."

There was a long, long silence. A police car whined through the streets far below.

"Yo sure 'nuff built, huh?"

His voice dropped nearly an octave, his eyes softening--growing heavy-lidded--the man in him awakening. "--bigass hairy ches', huh?" He tongued his bottom lip.

I spread my shirt.

"Bigass nipples, too." His eyes moved slowly, deliberately now, lust changing his rhythm--his pace.

I imagined Axle in bed with his woman and slid my hands over my abs to push my muscletits up at him.

This wasn't the way his fantasy scenario was supposed to play out. He wasn't posing in the living room while I watched. It was me, on the balcony, stripping for him, wondering how shy he'd be with a man.

His right hand came over, the movement natural, at one with his body, his energy centering, finding its pace. He squeezed my meaty pec, his little finger thrumming my nub into erection. "Nice," he whispered into my face, bending over me. "--better'n Wanda's, brotha. Fuck."

My hand came down over the back of his nappy, close-cropped head and pushed. I groaned to feel his teeth rasp my nipple bud, his tongue then lapping like a cheetah.

"You like those don't you, Axle?" I touched my forehead to the top of his fragrant scalp, half-whispering in his little ear. "--you've seen big hairy pecs like mine on the job, huh?"

"--Bossman Scarlotti gots one," he whispered back, his breath hot in my chest forest.

"You see the guys mopping their open shirts with a rag--watch those mantits slog up n' down when they're working..."

"...jackhammerin'," he murmured in sync with my sentence. He used his badboy lips to slowly frenchkiss each nipple, tonguing, then suctioning them, nursing on my maleness, making me pant against his head, making me plant wet kisses on his sweet-smelling, kinky scalp.

In one feline, graceful move, he was out of his chair and kneeling high between my legs, pulling my shirt free of my shoulders, burying his handsome face in the hairy valley dividing my mounds.

"A boy needs a man sometimes, huh, Axle?--a man who understands--won't give you grief--a man who'll...."

"...hold me tight," his voice muffled into my furry pecs, his fingers tugging at my shirtsleeves.

I quickly pulled free of them while he himself managed to peel both vest and t-shirt right up his wide torso and off his head. Rising fully up on his knees, he crushed his giant, teen body against mine, his loaf-sized biceps around my shoulders, his face planted against my neck. "Hold me tight. Hold yo' boy some now," he kissed my leathery jaw, his voice husky, urgent.

Proud to have the kind of body he hungered for, I slid under his armpits, impressed by the breadth of his flared lats. Spreading my legs fully, I pulled him deep into me, our naked chests rubbing--my hairy swells massaging his smooth, sloping, youngbuck pecs--our nipples erect, frictioning together.

"I don' mean yo' 'blackboy', get me?" he kissed and whispered into my ear, "--not that way--not that racist way...."

"....it's ok...don't..."

"...I mean 'boy' like yo's m' daddy n' Axle's yo' boy, feel me?--huh?--y'hear what...."

"...yeah, I do Axle--you need a dad, maybe--a man..."

"I ain't got dat--jus' m' mamma. An' Wanda? She ain't no man!--no big..." he licked my neck, his big lips all over my earlobe, his voice so soft now I could just about hear him, "...strong muscle dad t' praise me n' make me feel like I'm somebody--give me some hope..."

His need fed my heart, my lust, my biceps flexing to full power against his thick back. "Don't you fret, I've got you covered--I'm the one who's got you now, Axle. You're safe, home with me now."

His hands came behind my head, pushing me into his youthful, urgent teen mouth, his sexy lips pulling at mine, his pink tongue finding my own, washing it over and over, tasting, probing, lapping, sucking. He may've been nineteen, but he was a natural lover. He knew how.

The wooden chair rocked, almost tipping as Axle rose up from the kiss, slipping free of my grip to straddle my thighs, his twin bubble-butt cheeks perched on each knee, his huge, black-shiny tits in my face. Like the dark side of the moon, they blossomed from his collarbone--pure, expansive, solid muscle--wide-circled, dark, saucer-like nipples bullseyeing each mammoth, curvacious swell. Almost feminine in their juiciness, those tits were calling out my name and went straight to my thick meat.

His boulder-sized biceps enfolded my neck, planting my face between his muscular pillows. "I ain't got what otha' brotha's got--no bigass piece--but I got what they DON'T got," he whispered into my scalp. "I gots me some tits--an' somethin' else, too, white-daddy Todd...."

Axle rose up again--this time to stand--interrupting my chest licking--leaving me panting and wiping my mouth, staring hungrily as those hot tits backed away from my needy lips--watching him pull open his jean button, his pants falling to his ankles. Not boxers, but 2 (x)ist snow-white jock-type briefs mounded out from his smooth dark thighs, the contrast against his black skin dazzling in the dim light from the living room.

"...no, I ain't got th' BBC, twelve-inch thang goin' on...." his hand cupped the incredible bulge of his pouch as he started kicking free of his Nikes and tried to get rid of his jeans.

"...I don't care, Axle--" but my eyes were telling me he was way too humble--that something very large had to be aching to spring out of that pouch, "--size isn't important..."

"...they's lots'a brothas who got big wangs--skinny dudes--a'ways grabbin' their crotch--braggin' n' shit--" Now free of his pants, Axle stood against the railing, his bubble ass bouncing over the edge. "Shiiiiit," a smile spread open those lips, "--they can't even get hard--have t' squeeze th' bottom half before they can fuck!" Axle's hands slid up his satin ab ripples to cup his perky-nippled pecs. "--I seen them porno flicks, man--" he laughed, the sound rich and husky, "--no, I ain't got a dick like that--jus' normal one--gets hard as a rock in no time--big fat head on it...."

I watched him fondle his pecs, squeezing the black half-moons of those meaty, sloping slabs--a construction man's tits, not a hint of steroidal assistance--beautiful in their ripe, youthful, perky, potent, upward-tilting heft. As he became more settled and confident, his blaacent got even more hood-like, as though he was getting more comfortable being with me. "...what I got me is some bigass tits fo' m' white daddy t' play wif' n' suck on..." He looked down at them, removing his hands, then pinching his cones into bullets. "--sorry they ain't hairy..."

"Jesus, Axle..."

He laughed again, full of teen horniness and tease "--but I gots manhair where it counts, daddy! Under m' arms--" He raised both elbows skyward, hands behind his neck, his muscular pits full of ultra-curly hair, his triceps bulging, along with his delts. "...an' down below, man--lots'a it! Turns me on, man. Fuck...." he used his thumbs to pull his waistband down, a puffy wedge of kinky black wool piling out at me between his smooth, hairless, black thighs.

"Yeah," he smiled at me impishly, letting his waistband snap back, "--this baby's jus' normal," he patted his pouch, then made sure he caught my eye, "--but these babies sho' ain't!" Axle hooked his finger into the side of his meshed pouch, letting loose a sac of velvety balls so fat and heavy, they flopped out like two ocean-polished rocks held inside a purse of generous man-drapery--a sight so full of youthful potency I couldn't begin to imagine how much cream they could churn up, but knew I would before the night was over.

"Sweet Jesus...."

Axle laughed, slinging them inside his pink palm, one of them falling over the edge. "Yes, oh YES! I may be a kid, but I KNOW what makes a man, a man!--it's how big a load he got! An' these honeys're holdin' a whole BUCKET'a buttermilk!"

With youthful abandon and casualness, Axle climbed out of his briefs to stand preening and pornographically naked for my voyeuristic pleasure on my outdoor front balcony. Only the pale glow from the living room illuminated his dark Belgian chocolate physique--a muscular, glimmering work-of-art, cloaked in darkness, the night adoring his classically-sculpted body.

" Axle..."

"...boy! Call me your BOY, daddy," his voice dropped in a conspiratorial reminder of our roleplay, which for him was something needy, a fantasy with great longing attached. He reached his arms to the sky and sucked in his abs, his stud nipples standing in bold relief, armpits deep and hair-pilled, all reflecting the available light. His cock--bigger and fatter than any cock I'd challenge anyone to call 'normal' --jutted forward, half-hard, over a pair of truly enormous, skin-luxuriated balls. And yeah--his kinky, woolen black cockhair looked erotic as hell-- stuffed in the sexy depth of his amazing Apollo's belt as it swooped down from his intercostals, below a beautifully deep navel and between his bulging thunder thighs.