Missing Him
A Weekly Rendezvous Gone Askew
He's not coming! I can't believe he's not coming!
Micah's buzz - that anxious, nervous, over-horny, undersexed feeling of well,
everything,
quickly began to give way to reality.
He's not here!
It slowly began to dawn on Micah. There he was, standing deep inside a seedy, dimly lit Manhattan gay bar... the smell of spilled beer, sex, and, yeah that was shit - beginning to act like smelling salts. Snapping him out of his heat.
I wonder where he is? Did something happen to him? Is he okay?
A man walked by Micah, slowing down to look straight at him, look into his eyes. Micah wasn't interested, quickly breaking contact and pretending to scan the room.
It's like three Fridays in a row now... I guess this might be over.
Just then a loud groan caught Micah's attention. He peered through the darkness across the room, to an alcove cut into the brick wall across what passed for a dance floor. A young man wearing nothing but a jock strap was kneeling on the brick as a larger man in a chest harness began to saw into him.
Micah smiled, sharing the boy's bliss.
That should be me right now. Where is he? Has he found someone else?
Sighing, Micah began to slowly pull up the back of his jeans. He had let them drape, as he always did, down below the orbs of his ass - revealing the back of the jock he wore underneath, and his smooth, eager bottom below it. He put his jar of poppers into the fanny pack he wore on his chest next to his still-warm silicone buttplug, the bag slung around one shoulder, and took out his vape to sneak a puff.
What am I even doing here? How desperate am I? This is my Friday night? My Friday NIGHTS?
Micah began to wonder, and something of an old high school-style math word problem began to form in his mind. Well, his kind of high school math problem.
He had first begun coming here to The Rooster, about 3-and-a-half years ago - only on Fridays. And not every Friday. His next thought brought both a sigh - and a smile.
First time he fucked me was... maybe my fourth time here. After that, it's been let's say three times a month on average for three years... Three times a month is 36 times a year... times three years... that's 98? No, shit - didn't carry the one - 108 times? 108 times! Maybe more!
Well, maybe less since it's been so long now...
Micah's self-doubt returned. Over those 3-plus years, he'd tried to invest in a "more normal" social life. He'd been out on some dates, and he knew some of the men and woman, trans and cis, were interested in him. He just hadn't felt the same way.
I wonder if this is why. I keep coming here to give away a cheap fuck, and it drains me of the drive to do what normal people do - only fuck the people they date!
But it wasn't Micah's sex drive that was the problem. He got a reminder of that a moment later when a haggard looking man in his sixties - hell, he could have been anywhere from forty to eighty, but with that much fat and that little hair, who could tell? - walked past Micah, making sure to brush his ass against Micah's groin as he did.
Idiot. He's even smiling. He thinks I'm packing!
Micah nearly strained his eyes rolling them at the thought. No, what Barney (why not give him a 'Simpsons' inspired name?) thought was Micah's hard dick was actually his one-inch nano Holy Trainer underneath the stretchy denim.
But...
Micah paused as the realization hit him.
The cage
proved
it wasn't a sex drive issue. Micah was always horny with the cage on, and he had been self-caging more often than not these past years, even before, during, and after those dates. Of course, he was wearing it tonight, and reached down to readjust it, when he heard actual voices.
"Heads Up!" "Time Out!" "Hall Monitor!"
Micah laughed knowing he was fully covered up. He loved the attitude at The Rooster. Public sex is, of course, illegal in New York City, and bars could lose their liquor licenses with repeated offenses. So, places like this one hire security, and from time to time, they "check" to see if anyone is breaking that rule (if they do, they politely ask them to stop - it seems like you have to either put on a show directly in front of them - or try to fuck them - before they'd kick anyone out).
But The Rooster being The Rooster, that prison-movie whispered warning system seems to do the trick, and the second the guard walked back upstairs, Micah could swear he heard 4 or 5 guys moaning from being penetrated at the same time.
He began to scan the room in search of
his
man, then stopped dead in his tracks.
What the fuck am I doing? Who the fuck am I looking for? I don't... I don't have any idea what this guy looks like!!
It was true. Even after 100-plus fucks at The Rooster, Micah couldn't pick his stud out of a lineup.
Oh, sure, Micah had some general ideas after all this time. His man was taller than his own 6'3", had a strong upper torso and strong arms - he could keep Micah pinned on his cock when he'd occasionally try to squirm off the fuck.
And he's white. Or maybe he's white. He sounded white in his groans, Micah guessed?
And he knew he had a huge fucking cock. Was it ten inches? It felt like ten inches.
Unnnnnhhhhhhh,
Micah groaned thinking back to their first time.
Fuck it was big! It was like being fucked by a highway lamppost! Even after popping out my plug just before, and breathing in more poppers than air, it felt like it was gonna split me in half!
Micah turned red remembering how he had pulled off the cock, and run out of the bar in embarrassment after that first fuck. Or, first almost fuck.
He got redder still remembering when he later pledging to stretch his ass further, more diligently, to make that man fit next time. If there was a next time.
He would do what it took to take that cock.
And hopefully, to take it again - and again - and again.
I wonder if that's him over there?
He heard the man he was thinking of shouting at someone else. Is that what his man's voice sounded like?
He didn't know, because the two had never spoken a word to each other.
It had been the same almost every Friday. Micah would stand in that spot, his back maybe four feet from the wall, facing the rest of the room. He'd shift the contents of his pockets into his pack, then ease down the back of his jeans down, and pop out the plug, adding it to the bag. He'd take a hit of the poppers. And wait.
His man would walk up behind him, and firmly squeeze one of Micah's cheeks, then the other. A finger would graze his bud, usually met with a moan from Micah. And then...
Ohh, fuck me...
Micah cooed to his memory.
The fucks at first had been awkward, down and dirty. Just his stud making sure he could finish without getting caught, Micah guessed. But as the weeks passed, they got comfortable. Sometimes Micah would be on his rod for an hour or more, until closing time at a quarter-to-four. They'd dance/fuck to the music, his man's hands caressing Micah's chest or neck or cage - he always groaned when he felt the cage.
Other times it was more primal. Micah was just a bitch for the male to mount. One night, his man even lifted Micah and his 210 pounds clean off the ground, slamming him down onto his massive slab, in what Micah guessed was him making up for a missed arm day at the gym.
But Micah never, ever turned around to look at him. And the man never stopped to look at Micah. At least he couldn't remember his Friday fucker looking at his face
And each week, as Micah came to through his post-fuck haze high, his man would disappear into the crowd.
