Through Man a Mighty River Flows

Hair: black, long, straight as the trajectory of sinking moon on a hot summer night. Face: young, narrow eyes, stubbled, tanned by the sun of unwholesome lusts. Chest: narrow, hard, graven like pale stone. Jeans: faded, ripped, packed full where it matters.

The smoke swirls and he looms in the door like a bone in the soup of desire. Behind him the night is black and hot as a gullet; his hair tangles with it. His eyes narrow and scan the bar. The doorman says something to him. His lips curl and he spits.

He's a hot one, this one.

No shirt. Tendrils of black hair tickle his tiny little nipples into sharp points. The black death's head tattooed on the left biceps is violent and fresh; a warning, a promise, both. A rampant stallion rears on the right. A tattooed chain encircles him along the line of his diaphragm, just below where the hard stones of his pectorals transition to the rippled plane of male abdomen.

A droplet of spit drops from my protruding tongue and shines, a pearl which oozes onto my table.

He sees me, in mid drool. The snarl turns into a smile. He gives the doorman the fuck-you finger, heads toward me. Boots thud on the concrete. Eyes turn, pair by pair, as he passes the guys at the bar. Eyes appraise him, the attributes up front, the hardness exhibited in back. His eyes glint like polished silver, his chest is armor plate.

He takes a chair across the table from me. He raises a finger, and the wait-boy scurries over and kneels beside him. He leans over and licks wait-boy's sweaty forehead. An erection surges inside the wait-boy's leather jock.

"Budweiser," he says. "Cold. Now."

The wait-boy returns within seconds.

Fingers curl around the frigid bottle. To lips glistening like an orgasmic woman's labia he brings it. Eyes dark and shiny as burnished maple dance as he drinks. In the sparse dark hairs under his arm sweat droplets scintillate.

He toasts something unseen with a slight gesture towards me. His skin is so taut over his chest I can see the muscle fibers move. "Road's dusty, dude," he says. He drinks again, long. Foam boils at the folds of his lips and trickles through the stubbled goatee. It drips in measured rhythm from square chin. "Dusty."

I've got a hard dick in my jeans. Had one since I saw him. He's that kind of man. I got so hard in my jock I busted it. My hard length like an iron drill ripped the ribbed pouch off the straps.

I hadn't jumped when it because I'd been staring at him. Which you know.

"Ya listenin'?" he asks. Fingers callused by a guitar's metal strings pinch my tit.

"Yeah," I say, jerking.

His neck shines with beer spilt on himself. His bottle's already empty. He reaches over and takes my mug. "I'll give this back later." He drains it in one gulp.

He crooks a finger at the wait-boy, who has fled to a spot beside the bar, where he yaks with the bartender about the headbanger, the beer, and the muscle jock. Wait-boy looks up, comes running. The headbanger grabs wait-boy by the jock, puts his tongue down his throat. Letting go he says, "Keep bringing me beer."

Wait-boy nods. In seconds another bottle of Budweiser sweats in front of that shirtless man. Before he drinks it he reaches over, grabs my pack of Marlboroughs, and draws one out. He lights it; the tobacco burns like a hot cock, a hot cock he's consuming.

The sulfurous smell of a freshly-ignited match fills my nostrils. I ask him, "What's your name?"

He laughs. "Tell you later."

Over his shoulder a neon Budweiser sign winks, ticking off the beers he quaffs. He inhales his beer as if he were an alien needing oceans of beer to breathe. Between each bottle he burns a cigarette. While that sign marks the passing minutes he stares at me, eyes roving. He doesn't speak, just lets his gaze do the communicating.

I never understood the phrase "feast your eyes" until I saw his crotch.

If men were horses they'd fill their 501s the way this dude does. They'd turn the faded blue denim into a mass of strings desperately trying to restrain the piece of flesh only true studs have and true whores enjoy. If men were horses they'd have to redesign jeans with a special cockpouch in the thighs, which is what this guy needs -- extra fabric for the extra meat. If men were horses they would breed with other men and produce a herd of colts with this stud's outstanding genetics.

Beer after beer goes down. His belly swells and distends. He looks more and more pregnant. While it grows, he scouts me like cavalry mapping and exploring new territory to conquer.

Then he grins at me.

A hand drops down to his jeans and my eyes follow it. Long callused fingers trail through his belly hair to the corroded button. He undoes it. The second button is already undone, masked by the fly. The fabric pops open.

One snap and already we're halfway to heaven.

The fly is open and the smoky air in the bar mingles with the upper strands of his pubic hair. Pubic hair, loosely curled, kinky version of the unruly mop on his head.

When my eyes go back to his face I see his mirth, a will o' the wisp in the swampy air.

He puts one hand behind his head, his elbow jutting out. Sweat rolls down his triceps, darkening the hair matted in his pits, moving slowly, in step with the cold sweat oozing from his beer bottle. It dangles on the sharp edge of his elbow before breaking free.

This dude stinks of a locker room. It's not a musk, nothing pansy assed -- it's a reek, sharp and overwhelming. The NFL's dirty jockstrap bin. Jerseys from both teams in the Rose Bowl. Compression shorts fresh from the Chicago Bulls. Cups from the Penguins. Black tee-shirts from Metallica concerts. Tarzan's loincloth. It kicks you hard, lets you know that it's him sitting across the beer-wet table; he's the stud and there are no others.

He takes the Bud, drains the dregs, sits the bottle on the table. Foam drips from his square jaw. A long belch erupts from his gullet and I smell barley.

He laughs, knowing I could stare at him the entire night, knowing he has me.

I pinch the head of my cock. I've not creamed my jeans since seventh grade but damn if I'm not about to.

The slap explodes against my face.

"Don't," he says with eyes slitted, eyes focused as microscopes, analyzing me, my motives, my soul. "Put your hands on the table."

I do. I do. I do. Never been a slave, never wanted to be -- till his slap.

He leans back with wary eyes, watching me and the red bloom spreading over my right cheek. Satisfied, he puts his feet on the edge of the table, pushes back, rocking his chair onto two legs. Precarious, but he knows what he does. He suspends himself there, black hair swinging free behind him. The hair spills over his forehead, rolls over his shoulder to cover his narrow chest.

Now he grins as if he knows something, everything, nothing -- doesn't care. His belly swollen from his oceans of beer presses the flaps of his fly open.

"Man," he says, "I fuckin' love beer." His eyes fix on the spot where I drooled on the table. Where the drool had pooled under my tongue. When I saw him and fell for him. "Thirsty?"

I don't move. I'm a butterfly. His eyes are pins. My lungs pump to imbibe his reek.

He nods, knowing what my silence means. He slides a hand over his belly, those hard muscles straining to contain the yellow pressure within. Down to the fly and the nest of pubic hair. The last button is undone. I hear the last tab of metal sing as it springs free of the frayed fabric.

Smell of a cock, reek of a man's balls, stench of a urinal -- my nostrils burn, flare. I moan.

He reaches in. Puts a second hand down there. Fingers move in the denim. I see one poke through the mass of strings. He grins, shyly, like a boy doing wrong. Then he pulls, hauling on his cock like a boatswain's mate handling rope. The ridge on the inside of his right thigh retracts rapidly.

All I can see of him are those denim-bound thighs. Those working hands. The stinking pits rich with sweat. I want to consume the bacteria that makes that aroma.

The rope that's his cock flops out.

I shudder.

"Pretty big," he says. "My pride. Your joy. I can tell you like."

My knuckles clamp like a vise on the table edge, and it shakes with my pounding heart. I'm the casing around Fat Man on 6 August 1945, nanoseconds after the command to fire. The heat wells within, the crystalline structure of the metal begins to shatter into shards, the neutron flux is at its greatest. The eighty-first generation of neutrons from the chain reaction is about to burst forth, a dawn that crisps flesh.

He grips his prick by the base, where the wiry hairs cluster thick as a pack of dogs around fresh meat. He angles it upward. It's too long; it flops down over his hand, long inches still hanging free just like his wild hair.

He laughs. "Bitchin', ain't it?"

The sight of his cock, held loose in his callused fingers, has dried my drool. It was as if someone had stuck a straw in my mouth and sucked out all my spit. The magnesium flare of lust has consumed all moisture. My mouth is the arid province of sandworms, melange, creosote bushes.

He circles two fingers just behind the head. Lifts the meat. Points it upright. A bight of it hangs in catenary arc between the points of suspension. It's fat as a sausage. His slit looks wide as a small pussy, wide enough to fuck with a little cock. You could sink your ring finger up his urethra.

Dark hair falls like the shade of night into his eyes. He looks at me, deadly serious. "Thirsty?"

Motionless silence, eloquent as a plea.

"Me first."

The pisshole opens.

The stream shoots into the air with the force of an ABM. It arcs high, gleams, a sparkling pillar of pee six feet high. He tilts his head back and his mouth opens. The pillar bends like a rubber rod, curves into a hook, falls. So perfectly guided it looks as if it's aimed directly down his throat. Doesn't touch his lips. Doesn't touch his tongue which he extends and which is amazingly long. It just pours directly down his throat.

I hear the hollow spattering noises as the piss ceases impacting his uvula and starts to land in the pool filling the back of his mouth. It sounds like water pouring from a faucet in a huge, tiled, reeking urinal.

Golden fluid starts to trickle from the sides of his mouth. He squeezes his pisshole shut. The effort of it alters the subtle geometry of the cockhead. The last droplets spatter his face, his hair.

Lips close, head goes upright. His cheeks are puffed. He looks like a gum-chewing boy caught in an unexpected rain shower. His cheeks shift and move as he swirls it with the expertise of a vintner tasting his own product.

One gulp. It's gone. He smacks his lips. He leans forward, putting his feet on the floor. His exhalation of "Ah!" goes directly into my face and the smell of pee freshly made and freshly consumed makes my tits go so hard I could shoot sperm-thick globs of milk from them.

"It's good," he says, "and good for you." Laughs. "Real good. Thirsty?"

I nod, once, jerky like a robot.

He walks the chair back. He holds out that piece of flesh at maybe a sixty degree angle from the horizontal. His eyes narrow like a surveyor's; he makes slight adjustments.

Behind him, in the miasma of Marlborough smoke, constellate eyes blink in time with the pink Budweiser sign.

The stream explodes against my forehead and my eyes burn as the agony of piss flows into them. It gushes over my nose. The heat advances, a slimy tide engulfing my lips. The impact point -- a warm flower -- lowers between my eyes, precisely down the bridge of my nose. A thick fog of urine sprays from my face, raising goosebumps on my arms. I can't breathe, don't care, because the power and force of this guy penetrates my epidermis with the sure precision of a scalpel.

What a mastery of ballistics he has. The arc intersects with the gaping cave of my mouth. An oily saltiness floods it. Delicious tingles explode in my mouth. My eyes water as if the smoke from a campfire is being blown into my face. Piss floods the spaces between my teeth, collect in the sacks between cheeks and gums, just where chipmunks store food.

My throat throbs into frenetic activity as I gulp.

Then it stops, and I blink rapidly. My tears start washing golden salt from my eyes. He's a tanned blur crowned with the color of night, a spitting cobra rearing from between his legs.

He stands.

"More," I croak.

"Wait."

I wipe the pee from my eye lashes and as the neon sign pulses it slowly becomes easier to see. The bar patrons have pressed close. Plenty of tongues drip plenty of drool.

He's gotten out of his chair. He crouches beside the table, like a frog, staring ahead, tableaux of concentration. His hands are on his knees and his big prong hangs from the open fly. The cockhead and several inches of meat lay on the floor. Rocking his hips back and forth he wipes his hands on his thighs. His eyes close.

He sighs. And a pool of pee begins to spread between his boots. Hot, it steams in the moist air. He waddles forward, a piss-rich duck, his shitkickers scraping on the painted concrete. He leaves on the floor a trail of pee glimmering in the pink neon. Motes of dust float on the tide. It looks like sunrise above a golden stream.

The sharp acidic smell drives away the staleness of too many cigarettes.

He circles the table, a slim long-haired stud with a belly rich with pee, dragging a cock along the floor like an elephant trunk, leaving behind him a fluid so plentiful yet precious to me as gold, frankincense, or myrrh. I'm Saturn to his golden ring. The stench of it nourishes me, enriches the air.

He stands, dripping prick dangling between the frayed edges of his fly. His jeans have slipped down a bit, so that you can see the top of his hips, bare of flesh and shimmering with sweat. He turns to face the crowd, and I see the top of his asscrack.

Ass of angelic choirboys. Ass of Stud. Ass of God.

His laugh is sharp and it comes as he wags his dick at the crowd, who like ignorant villagers in a Frankenstein flick seem intent on seizing the monster.

He spits. "Mine. Fuck off."

To me he turns on one heel. His eyes are dark and shadowed and rake me. His grin is gone but I can feel it in his soul -- it's never far gone, it's part him, always there like a heartbeat or urination, inviolate and unquenchable.

"Get up."

My chair falls into the ring of piss.

He comes over to me, long fat meat swaying. Droplets of gold flick off, left and right, with the rhythm of his male metronome. His belly throbs with life. I can't tell if his belly has shrunk any -- perhaps this is the One True Man whose fountain sprays for hours, who fills the air with his pungency and power, who slakes the thirst of the desert-weary.

His left hand unsnaps my fly. The lower buttons only, leaving the top ones secure. Steamy air floods my crotch. The cock-busted pouch of my jockstrap, stained yellow with my favorite drink (anything liquid a male can produce), bulges through. He seems amused by it; he tugs on it, plays with it. He laughs when he pulls it through, laughs when he sees the broken elastic at the bottom of it, laughs knowing I ripped my jock because I was so hot for him, laughs because it's a yellow-stained flag of surrender I waved the moment I saw him.

He grabs his swaying dick just behind the head, where the scar of his mutilation is. He stretches the meat toward me. All those inches of him: length, width, circumference, volume -- the dimensions of his cock are all constructed to please.

His tongue, long and pointed, glides between my lips. I wish it was forked so he could slip it down both halves of my trachea. He swirls it inside my mouth, tasting me. I lean forward to suck it down to the roots, but he puts a hand on my piss-slick chest.

He lays a finger alongside the bridge of my nose, fingertip touching the corner of my eye. "Be still."

He shoves himself into my fly. His fingertips pry the denim apart and he shoves it in. I sigh.

He taps my nose. "Be still." He exhales into my face.

The flood begins again. I'm Noah to his God. The hot fluid blooms in my crotch. My pubic hair goes flat, matted to my skin. Urine pours over my balls, over my throbbing rod. Swift as liquid fire it pours down the insides of my thighs, jeans darkening. It moves aft along the seam, so that the hollow of my asshole floods. My boots start filling as it courses down my shins, and I flex my toes, playing with the acidic stuff like a boy wallowing in favorite mud.

I mutter "Oh my God" but no sound comes out. His cock gushes and the level of piss rises inside my boots until my ankles are drowned.

Pee still flowing, he works a hand into my fly. He grabs his cock, flicks his cockhead upward and lunges forward so that his bulging belly is just an inch from mine. The spitting head pops out my waistband. Piss skims along my belly, breaks into foamy waves against the bottom of my heavy pecs.

He licks my parted lips. Licks me like a dog tasting liver. Hard fingers pinch my tits, and I writhe, moving his jetting gusher around, spraying his flow over us. The piss is hot on my nipples and I feel it pooling in my navel. My chest hair is matted as if I've just been fucked by a battalion of paratroopers.

Denim, hair, jockstrap, boots: soaked and dark with long-haired stud's stinking piss.

He backs away. Thick spittle bridges our lips briefly before breaking and streaking our chins. His cock pulls back, slides under my waistband like a moray sinking back into a blue coral cave. The geyser along my abdomen ceases -- he stops peeing altogether; what control this dude has over his plumbing. This talent has to extend to the motions of lips, hips, hands. How I'd like to be under him while he fucks, because I know he's a sex gourmand. He'd choose the precise moment of orgasm that'd bring him the maximum of pleasure, choose that moment out of all the others, because he'd know, because he could sense it.

This man is a sexual machine, avatar of the Rut God, sent to drive men blind with pleasure.

The wet jeans cling to my throbbing genitalia. Rivulets of piss run down my legs. His scent rises off me. My balls boil in a lake of yellow magma. I'm shaking, shaking, on the verge of splitting from the pressures of suppressed orgasm.

I stumble forward, desperate to touch him. He backs away, grinning, and down I go on my knees. I look up at him, serf to lord. I express my supplication in the obscene pulse of my cock in piss-wet 501s.

"Thirsty?"

I nod. A shower of gold explodes from my hair.

"Put your hands behind your head." A thinning of the lips turns the grin into something more serious. "Like your delts, man, I wanna see them." He picks his cock up again.

A squirt. My left pit burns with his effluvia. A squirt. Now the right pit. It burns like acid; I imagine the hair vanishing in a puff of protein-rich smoke.

I stare at his cock, at the sheen of piss on it, at the dark stains of urine on the frayed crotch of his jeans. What artistry in a man, in that place where legs join the trunk and the cock lives.

I croak, "More."

"Open," he says.

The arc of piss connects us across the distance between us. It flies across the geometry prescribe by physics into my maw gaping as prescribed by lust.

He tastes of smoked ham. I swirl it, let the sliminess so reminiscent of jism roll over my tongue. I gargle with his piss; the pungency tickles my throat. I wish I were a fish, so I could fill my lungs with the luminous secretion, live off essence of stud, have my hemoglobin carry off uric acid instead of oxygen to fuel the endless combustion of lust in my cells.

Then he stops. He wants to enjoy the show. My cheeks bulge as I strip the taste from the piss. His eyes narrow, watching my esophagus like a vampire. I show it to him, lifting my chin, show him how it bulges as I let the liqueur of beer he made in his bladder trickle into the blazing deserts inside of me.