Need to Be Needed

"That's one sweet ass. You are one sexy piece of ass."

"I can sing too, and will look good in front of your band," I said, trying to keep the focus on why I was there, in the sleazy hotel room, tinted red by the "O" and the "L" of the flashing neon sign just outside the window.

I wondered if he could hear the pain in my voice, although chances were that he'd be proud that he'd put it there. Phil Gauteau, the huge French Canadian of the trendy band of the same name currently playing the Chelsea Bathhouse, had his back propped up on pillows against the headboard. He was smoking a cigarette and had an open bottle of bourbon and a water glass on the nightstand beside him. He hadn't offered me either. There was a small pile of Magnum condom packets on top of the nightstand as well. One of the packets was split and empty, the used condom now on the floor beside the bed, fat as a sea slug with his cum.

I vaguely wondered if there was a smear of blood on the condom, as well. He was a monster of a man, with a cock to match. It wasn't appreciably long but was one of those known as a beer can dick. I'd never had a man that thick inside me before, and he had given me little time to prepare for it and had fucked me mercilessly, seeming to have enjoyed my cries of distress immensely.

I wanted something from him and he knew it. So, I was in no position to ask for more consideration.

I was stretched along his side, my right leg bent, the sole of my foot pressed into the surface of the thin mattress. I was doing what I could to keep from squeezing my anal channel shut, which was throbbing and was swollen, I was sure. I'd felt the opening for tears and found none, but the channel had been reamed wide open and hadn't closed yet.

I had no illusions that it would close anytime soon. He'd taken me hard and fast, missionary style, as soon as we'd entered the room, him saying that he'd hardly been able to keep his hands off me until we got into the room—a good sign for what I was after.

"I don't know what it is about you that's so sexy," he'd said. "You were born to be fucked."

I couldn't explain it either, but it had been my experience through life—for men to want to fuck me. None as cock big as he was, though.

I'd had no idea he'd be that thick—although his height and burliness should have given me a clue—and I'm sure anyone in the hotel at the time could hear my screams and grunts and groans as he spiked me, the sound backed by the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the wall and the squeaking of the springs as he pounded my ass.

I half thought he'd listened to the beat of the headboard and the squeal of the springs to set a rhythm. That's what he did in the Phil Gauteau Band, in addition to putting the musicians together—my interest at the moment. He was the band's drummer and manager. I was a singer—a singer badly in the need of a job and a breakthrough.

Moving from running my fingers through his chest hair, I let my hand drift down his belly and into his thatch. The cock fascinated as well as frightened me. It wasn't just because it was so thick—surely nearly as thick as a beer can—but also because it was almost jet black. The skin of both his cock and his gigantic balls were black. There was no sign of blackness in him otherwise, but the color here bespoke of an interracial mix. I encircled the shaft with my hand, barely being able to touch my fingers together. It began to swell instantly.

He laughed. "Ready for it again? So soon?"

Not hardly, I thought. But I wanted this gig badly. My way to standing in front of the band in the Chelsea Bathhouse and singing like Frank Sinatra went straight through this monster dick. Gauteau had made it quite explicit what I had to do to get the chance. And that it was an audition of long duration.

I bent over his belly and, while still encasing the base of the cock with a hand, opened my mouth wide over the bulb and began to suck. He groaned for me, which was a good sign, and after a few minutes, during which the shaft engorged so much that I had to unhinge my jaw to keep it in my mouth, I felt a nudge on my shoulder. I looked up to see that he'd split open another condom packet.

"Crown me. Then we'll go to town again."

Every ounce of my attention was on the baseball bat moving inside my passage, as he gripped my wrists, my torso cantilevered over his legs, my legs running up the side of his torso, his pelvis jerking back and forth as he pulled my body on and off the thick shaft. Grunting and groaning, I kept my eyes plastered to the red neon flash of the "O" and the "L" outside the hotel window and counted the strokes as he surely came closer to ejaculation and my liberation for now. The flashing sign was red; the tint of the atmosphere in the room was red, my swollen passage walls were red—my whole world was red, as I concentrated on surviving the fuck without split channel walls.

And then, slowly but relentlessly, I opened to him and the pleasure of the fuck—the satisfaction of accommodating a monster cock—flowed in, and I was crying out for it. "Fuck me. Fuck me hard!" and he was increasing the pull, striving for deeper penetration, crying out, "Take it, baby, take it!" as he filled the bulb of his rubber.

Later, our breathing having calmed down and his cigarette crushed out on the scarred top of the nightstand, the bottle of bourbon nearly spent, I felt him snuggling in behind me, his arms embracing me, his hand going to cupping and fondling my cock and balls.

"Such a sweet lay. I could fuck you for days."

It seemed to me that he had.

The fireplug of a cock was pressed into the small of my back. I couldn't tell if it was hard or not—I certainly hoped not. My passage was throbbing and, I could tell, was gaping open.

"So, is it set, then?" I asked tentatively, in a whisper. "Will you give me a chance to sing with the band at the baths?"

"One thing is sure," he muttered in a low-throated voice, "You've got one sweet, tight ass. You must sweat arousal juice."

I began to tremble as I felt his hand fumbling between the small of my back and his groin. There was no mistaking it, he was rolling on another condom.

I moaned deeply as he turned me on my stomach and came down on my back. I opened my mouth in a silent scream and my eyes bugged out as he began to enter me again. pulling my knees up, I raised my buttocks and spread my legs, trying to be as open to him as I could be.

"Oh, shit, of fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," I moaned, my eyes latching onto the blinking neon "O" and "L" outside the window as he began to pump again—in rhythm to the blinking neon lights.

I couldn't help myself. I begged for more of what he was giving and set my hips in motion, meeting his thrusts with counterthrusts.

"Oh, baby, baby. Yes, baby. Give it to daddy."

"Yes, YES! SHIT YES! FUCK ME!"

* * * *

We were celebrating in our small loft room at the edge of Chelsea—well, in Zane's small room. I was still living off of what little of a startup fund I'd brought to New York with me from Delaware. Somehow Zane, an aspiring actor, and I had hit it off well after meeting at one of those "aspiring artists" roving parties in Manhattan, getting half drunk, and coming back here for Zane to spike the night away on my ass. He too had remarked on how fuckable I was; I was beginning to think it was my only asset. I'd been sleeping here since then, on his nickel, and eating my principle meal of the day here, too, at his sufferance.

He'd said it was worth sharing the meal with me if I cooked it—that he would burn half of whatever he tried to cook anyway.

Zane had come back to the room with the news that he'd gotten the young hunk supporting role in an off-Broadway play, and I, of course, was full of the news that I was going to begin that weekend singing with the Phil Gauteau Band in the Chelsea Bathhouse. It really was a gay male bathhouse, but these had become trendy lately as places of entertainment as well. Some had gone so far as to be attractive to heterosexuals, but the Chelsea Bathhouse was still all gay male, with much open sex going on even in the main room during the shows. Certainly no women would chance it and a good-looking straight man would be raped in no time flat. The Phil Gauteau Band had gained a "to see" reputation as well, and it worked in the band's favor that, unless you were willing to take in a gay venue, you'd have to pay big bucks for a private gig. The underground press loved advertising largely forbidden venues and limited-access bands.

For the first time, that night, both Zane and I felt that we were "on our way" at last.

I had wanted to celebrate by sharing a bottle of cheap wine, but I was at a disadvantage with this, as Zane would have had to buy the wine. Zane, instead, wanted to celebrate our familiar, costless way—costless because Zane didn't believe in condoms and this was the early seventies, before the scourge of AIDS set in. Neither one of us could have afforded the cost of the condoms we would have needed anyway. Sex was nearly our only form of affordable entertainment in those days.

Zane couldn't keep his hands off me when we were together.

Both naked, we were sitting on Zane's air mattress on the floor, me encased in his arms, facing away from him, between his legs. That was the bedding we had: two camping blow-up mattresses on the floor, with sleeping bags on top of them, although mine was rarely used, as Zane liked to sleep with his dick in me. Between the two, they took up nearly all of the floor space in the room, where a kitchenette took up one wall and the only other room was a small bathroom, with a tight shower.

That was the major regret that Zane expressed about the small apartment—that it was physically impossible for us to shower together.

Zane was a real hunk—a Nordic blond, with a perfectly formed athlete's body that placed him squarely in the romantic "second man" love-interest roles—not always too bright, but always a hunk—in plays. In contrast, I was smaller, dark complexioned, Jewish, and with a sleek, young-man's body that was well proportioned enough, just not muscle bound. And there must have been something to that "scent of sex" thing men talked about when they were with me, because it was so often mentioned and I never was without propositions. Phil Gauteau had admitted that his arousal with me had been both a scent thing and the image of stuffing that beer can cock of his into the hole of a man as small as I was. It was a wonder to me as well that he had managed it earlier that evening—three times. Sometime during the third time, I'd adjusted to it well enough to have hoped for a fourth.

Zane had his arms around me, with one hand stroking my cock. His lips were buried in the back of my neck. What he had rising up the small of my back was getting harder and harder. His cock wasn't thick, but he was what we termed a "foot long" in length. Not nearly a foot long, of course, but close enough—it certainly seemed as long when it was inside me.

"Such a coincidence for both of us to get good work on the same day," I murmured.

"Yes, isn't it? I'm ready to celebrate. How about you?" Zane asked, his voice dreamy. He coaxed my head to turn with cheek pressure from his sexy five-o-clock shadow beard that he perpetually groomed. I opened my mouth to his, feeling the heat and insistence of him.

I wasn't sure I was ready for this. My passage still throbbed from Gauteau's beer can cock assault earlier in the evening. I didn't know if I could have sex again for a day or two.

But then I was having sex, whether I thought I could or not. With his mouth still in possession of mine, he slowly pitched my torso forward, raising my buttocks to him. The cock slid right in. If he had any sensation that I'd been reamed huge and still hadn't closed, he gave no reaction. His intent was to make me come before he took his pleasure. It was what he always wanted.

I moaned and writhed within his grasp as he invaded with his cock only far enough for his glans to reach my prostate and start to work that, while his hand stroked my cock. Where I expected pain, I was getting only pleasure and the slow, sure buildup to an ejaculation.

"Oh, God, Zane. Yes. There. Just like that. Oh shit, FUCK!"

I shot my wad out across the mattress and collapsed in his arms, as his long, thin cock now began its journey deep up inside me. My passage walls constricted over the familiar shaft and began to shimmer. No pain—nothing left over from the rougher, near-splitting attention of Phil's cock. I set my pelvis in motion, riding back on the cock as it moved ever deeper—reaching for my stomach. He began to pump me deep, and I moaned and moved my lips back to his for a deep, all-tongues kiss.

I went down on my elbows onto the mattress, my cheek pressing into the mattress in front of me, the surface of the mattress slick from the cum I'd shot off there. Zane went up on his feet, crouched over me, gripping my waist with his hands, pumping me hard and deep, his golden pubic hair mingling with my silky, black curls, in to the hilt, reaching for my tonsils.

And then, with a "Oh shit, Mike. I'm gonna come," he did so in three long, wet spoutings deep inside me.

We both, panting, fell off to the side, him embracing me with his arms, still sheathed deep inside me.

"Congrats, Mike," he whispered.

"Same to you, Zane," I whispered back. "I hope you didn't have to sleep with the director to get the part."

I felt him stiffen. I don't know what had made me say that. Guilt, I guess, considering what I'd had to do to get my gig. I didn't have any reason to think he'd had to get the part this way. I was the one getting my job that way. He'd mentioned before times when it seemed he was expected to let a man fuck him to get a part, but there was no evidence he'd done so. He was a top. It would take serious consideration for him to submit to a man.

It hadn't taken that much for me to decide to do so to get ahead. But then I was a submissive. And I'd never had trouble giving it to a man with a good body and a stiff cock. Ever since my senior year in high school, starting with the former Marine living next door on the first day I could give consent, I'd willingly opened my thighs for any muscular, half-good-looking man demanding entry.

"No, of course not," he said defensively. "Besides the director is a woman."

"A good-looking woman?" I asked, digging myself even deeper.

"Yes, she is."

"So, are you going to fuck her?"

"If I can. But I didn't do it to get the part."

"But does she react to you like she wants you to fuck her?"

"OK, OK, I've fucked her, OK? But it was after she told me I got the part." He pushed me away from him and sat up on the floor next to the mattress.

It had been somewhat of a raw edge between Zane and me. He was bi. He fucked women too. He was fine—or least showed as such—about having me stay here and mooch off him. But he didn't rely on me for anything and was as easy sticking it in a woman's box as in my ass. I was the one who had needed him.

"And, how about you?" he asked, each word separately enunciated, like rifle shots. "This Gauteau drummer who gave you the job. He's got a monster dick, doesn't he?"

"Excuse me? I didn't sleep with anyone to get the singing gig."

"Really? You want to go with that? How many times did he fuck you? Did you think you'd come to me open enough for a Mack truck to drive up in there and I wouldn't notice?"

"Three times," I admitted meekly. "It was excruciating. Dick as thick as a baseball bat."

"But you've had a lot of dicks, haven't you?"

"Not that many," I said defensively. "I'm not a slut." Then, after a pause, "None that thick."

"But you'll take him again, won't you? to keep the job."

"Yes."

"And you'll enjoy it, won't you? Now that you're reamed to his size. You are such a slut."

"Yes," I shot back. "Now that I could take a Mac truck, there's no reason not to take him again. He fucks really, really well."

It was true. It had been painful, until half way through the third time when I just relaxed and went with it fully, already reamed to the drummer's needs. I already was thinking of having Phil Gauteau inside me again. Then, after a pause, "Quite the pair, aren't we?" I murmured.

But I'm not sure Zane heard me. He had risen from the floor and stumbled off to the bathroom.

By now it was late in the night. I turned on my side, away from the bathroom door and, with a low sob, closed my eyes to try to fool sleep to overcome me. I didn't want to think about what I'd had to do—what I'd had to give.

I felt Zane's body come down on the mattress behind me, stretching along mine. A hand clasped my right leg, low on the thigh, and I allowed him to raise the leg. I jutted out my buttocks and sucked in air as his cock invaded my ass and slid deep inside me.

"Sorry, sweetheart," He murmured in my ear, before sticking his tongue in my ear and swabbing it.

"You just want to have your way with me," I said, making it sound like a whimper. "You just want to get your dick in me again."

"Yes, I just want to get my rocks off again," and then, more seriously, "we're quite a pair, but we're going to make it, you and I."

I sighed as his tongue started fucking my ear in the same rhythm as his cock was slow pumping my ass deep, sliding freely in the cum he'd deposited there earlier. I clamped my passage as tight as I could, my channel muscles undulating over his pumping cock, eliciting a moan from him that I harmonized with an octave higher.

"Fuck me, Zane. Fuck me hard."

"With pleasure."

I groaned as the cock picked up plowing speed.

* * * *

It was uncanny. Every time I looked out into the audience, he was looking at me. This despite having two young men hanging off him. And I knew that look. He wanted me. With all the young men at the Chelsea Bathhouse who were available to him, he wanted me.

Cole Temple was a legend at the bathhouse. He was even a bigger legend than just in the New York bathhouse scene. He was one of the foremost political novelists of our age. A lion of a man, the body of a Zeus into his forties and movie-star good looks, he famously was perhaps the most openly narcissistic and egotistical public figure in America in the current era. He was bigger than life, flamboyantly homosexual in an Oscar Wilde way before that became any sort of fashion and able to bring it off while still being acceptable in the halls of power and entertainment. His was the only opinion that mattered when he was holding court at a gathering. He sucked all of the air out of the room and still everyone there willingly laid down and opened their legs to him—emotionally, certainly, but also physically when he demanded it.

And he demanded servicing daily—often nearly hourly.

His father had been a major baseball player, his mother a raving beauty, whose father, a U.S. senator, had been the head of a political dynasty. Cole was related to a first lady on this side of the pond, and multiple royal houses on the other side. He was the last person leading families wanted to invite to gatherings, but he was the first one they wanted to hear give a acid-tongue riff on other members of the family. Therefore, he never was left off the guest list.

His homosexual affairs with novelists and actors and more than one royal when he was barely legal were legendary. And he had become a major novelist and political commentator and book reviewer in his own right.

He had shown up at the Chelsea Bathhouse from the day it had opened, and was reputed to have fucked at least one young man at the bathhouse and taken another one home each night. He was both insatiable and ever hard. A joke was making the rounds that a molding of his cock was going to be marketed as a dildo.

And now he was sitting at a table in the first row as, I, wearing only a gold lamé G-string, wrapped myself around a pole on the stage in front of the Phil Gauteau Band and sang my little heart out.