Drunk tanks in New York were never nice. Not since the installation of such places have breeding grounds of homoerotic thought and action needed so much bleaching. The beds are infested with minuscule creatures that, on the whole, it's best not to think about. The walls ooze the opposing rank charm of peeling paint and indiscretionary pain. The pisser is nothing more than a glorified hole in the ground, if you're lucky, or a white bucket turned grimy gray by age.
I found myself in one of these places one night ducking my responsibilities as a delivery boy for whichever mob was paying most for the delivery, Irish in this case. Warm meals were not a recurring luxury in my line of work and even an infested bed with itchy cotton blankets from the Army surplus can't be taken for granted. My body used to be tan, but grows pale in the city of drenching shadows with the years that pass. Momma, God rest her soul, has been dead for nearly five years but I'm assured by one of my uncles that she still rolls steadily in her grave. He has a warped sense of humour. He put me in this fucking cell for the night to keep me off the streets.
That's when Christopher Keller gets shoved into my cell, nearly headfirst. He does a nice little tripping act, but recovers. He looks a little older than most of the ruffians they stick me with but obviously he's not dangerous enough. My uncle's got connections but he knows me just as well. This uncle of mine ain't stupid.
The first thing you can smell is that defining whiskey piss that seems to pervade through the entire place. It's humid and a sheen of sweat covers everything but you still wear every layer of clothing you own. Not Chris Keller, oh no. Chris Keller decides to strip off his white button down, covered with slight layer of oily grease. His dark blue tank top is sopped with sweat. The city's humid during summer and these places don't have that new-fangled air conditioning. Don't let anyone fool you. This cell's an oven waiting to bake us all. That's the fortune of men from my Burrow. You're lucky to die here.
"What are you staring at?" Chris tries his best to snarl, even slightly pumping him arm in a show of manly strength.
I am unmoved. "You. Why?"
"Don't."
I just nod. "Graceful entrance."
"Yeah, well, I pay them extra to shoot me in like that."
Chris smiles wickedly and heads over for our piss hole. I told you my uncle's got connections in this place. That harsh whiskey smell that needs more than a bit of disinfectant intesifies. Chris lets a sound like air escaping a tire as he frees his one-eyed monster from his navy pants. I look, comparing his hot cock to the one currently stirring in my pants. He's very masculine, definently appetizing in profile. It doesn't hurt that his face is unfazed by my frank analysis of his daddy-like looks. He's definently a prize bull in a city full of milking cows.
He finishes up and I realize that the reek of whiskey is his more than the walls. I've always been more of a rum man myself. "Name's Chris Keller. Found pissing on the side of a building." He extends his piss hand and I take it, passing whatever test he's giving.
"Charmed. I'm....more anonymous. Just bunking for the night." Chris grunts in delighted satisfaction.
"I see you don't mind the heat." His tongue darts out a bit from his mouth to give his lips a slight lick, followed by a bite on his thumbnail. Chris Keller stands nearly at my knees. The sexiest thing is that he's in control only by lack of a bulge in his pants. And trust me, I know quick-draw bulges. I also know the guards tend to turn a blind eye to the sort of things I tend to enjoy with the right men in the cells. "You're quite bundled up."
I shrug, folding my hands across my chest. "Can't complain. This is only the second hottest I've been in one of these cells. Actually, the yelling assholes a couple of doors down provide a nice cross breeze when the guards come through."
Chris' eyebrow goes up slightly. "Return tenant? What do you give the hotel?"
"One for the food, three for the ambience." I hold up fingers in the air on cue and Chris seems quite pleased with the response. In fact, possibly a little too pleased. A bit of leftover piss soaks right into the pant. Either I've misjudged his penis potential or the man's not wearing any briefs. Either way, complaints are not abounding.
There's something about that crinkle in his nose and the way his jaw crooks down into a sexy gargoyle fang when he's clearly drunk that makes me really want to not be clothed around him, or at least to have him not be clothed around me. Once again, who's gonna complain about that?
"How drunk were you?"
Chris cocks his head, holding up several fingers. "That many guinness times two?"
"You didn't keep track."
Mr. Keller sighs happily. "Only amateurs count."
"Yeah, and only amateurs don't hold their shirt so the guard doesn't take it when they collapse from drunk exhaustion."
"They can have the shirt." Chris flexes his shoulder when he shrugs.
"Wish I could afford to lose a shirt like that. Deliveries don't pay much."
"Yeah? Pizza guy's not an easy job either."
"The Guido in my neighborhood doin' pizza doesn't look like you."
"Probably doesn't cook like me either."
"What does your wife think about your carroussing?"
Chris squints at me, brow slightly furrowed. He hunches forward just a bit, even then with some form of rippling ab, and crosses his arms. "You mean, drinking, getting thrown in the tank and not comin' home? She could take it or leave it."
"Must be a keeper."
"Must have been talkin' to the wrong sort of people. She was found one morning at the pier in a less than savory position, the whore."
"Nice."
"Mind if I sit?" Chris gestures to the one bed.
I shrug and move away from the leaning position. "Free country."
Chris reclines on the bed and turns to me. "I've got friends who would disagree."
It's my turn to lick the sweat from my lips. "Those must be some lucky friends."
Chris chuckles and then leans in. "I'm gonna fuck you." He only says it as a whispher from habit. This is definently not his first time, and, this is the last time I'm gonna say it, no complaints.
"I might just have to let you."
Chris descends on me, grabbing my wrists. His body is over mine, heaving and sweating in heat. He wears a crucifix around his neck, the fake silver cutting across my collar bone. "That's a shame. I like a boy who puts up a fight."
"Keep calling me boy and I'll oblige you in that." Genuis Keller had bound my hands but he's forgotten about my legs. That was his second mistake, the first assuming that I was just going to roll over and take it like a, well, man. I shift the weight from my left leg just enough to reach center and send my right leg swinging up, bringing my ankle hard down upon the back of his knee just enough to bring our bulges sandwiched together with the hot stench of man meat in the air. We wrestle for just a moment before he grins.
"Seems I underestimated you kid."
"I get that alot." It's a battle now to see who'll get hard first, who can lose the most concentration in the primal grind of two isolated men in a cell desperately needing a dousing of bleach. We meet, our lips so close to touching, our tongues inches from fire. Then Chris will move his chin or his cheek in a certain way and I'll come out grazing against his neck.
I push my weight from center again, sending him toppling to the floor. I catch his head with one arm to serve as a pillow, partly because I don't want the back of his head to have all that gross floor crap on it. My hand reaches down as I hover above him, lightly rubbing his crotch at first and then really feeling the outline of a cock that can't resist an expert touch.
Our tongues finally meet and he only speaks as he comes up for air just briefly. "You don't play fair."
"I play to win, baby." His lungs surge with air as I grab inside of his pants and find his member writhing againts my touch, a vine tangling within my fingers. Part of his sexiness is within his ability to be one of the factory men, bathed in steam and drenched with this carnality that can only be quenched by the right man once in a millenia.
The air stands still as I stroke. His arms hang at his side on the floor, enjoying the feel of my palm lubing his cock with mansweat. Every once in awhile, the pumps of my hand will be followed with a writhe of his hips. Chris tries to hold the groans back, failing miserably half the time. He's not close, I won't allow it, but he's on a losing end of the battle. Truth is, so am I. Damn, this man's not average sexy. He's in a caliber you only get a chance with once or twice in a less than cautious youth.
The weight of the floor rolls under me as I go from lying to crouching and then to standing. My arm extends itself automatically and Chris reaches out gratefully. Momentarily, my heartbeat stops as we're standing face to face, heaving sweat and grime in the heat surging through the place. I find my hand without his cock just briefly as we both strip, flinging garments to the floor in a wicked haste.
He whistles low and I notice the feeling of his seasoned hand against my muscled back. He's apparently impressed even though my build isn't in six-pack territory. For that matter, neither is his. Ours is the stature and breadth of the working class, cut skin by virtue of tangling with machinery or cleaning supplies more than either would care to recount.
"You ain't seen nothing yet."
"Show me." The lighntning flashes in his intense blue eyes, eagerly bearing down on my skin in a way that could make any sane person shiver. I don't shiver, but I can feel the goosebumps sliding throughout my poors. "Feeling cold?"
"Something like that."
"Here. Let me help." Chris Keller behind your body is one of the most magnificent things that human touch has produced. His alluring strength is magnetic. The power of his capable fist across your chest, knowing that he can feel the pulse of your heart would make any of the straightest man at least want to try it once. And after that be counted among the converted.
I end up leaning against the worn cot of a bed, finding myself irresistibly bent at an angle. I use the bed as leverage for my left knee. Chris groans in approval. We're both slick from the heat of the place, but I'm still tense from the anticipation of being handled by Chris Keller. Thankfully, this is something that even in a drunk state he does understand.
He begins slowly as he pumps, using the force from his abs the way a good opera singer understands the power in their own diaphram. It hurts in an amazing way, the feeling of your very insides being split in two. As he speeds up, you realize that you've almost forgotten where you are. You forget everything except for Chris, even when the man grabs for the wall and continues a low howl in animalistic, lustful pleasure. The sensation of parts of the peeling rust on the wall brushing your neck as his fingers move and grip mean nothing, barely registering.
The feeling goes for a millenia until you realize how close you are and the fact that he's no longer thrusting, just holding himself inside and stroking you, waiting for the moment to release in tandem. The way you fall back into him and he groans into your ear as though you're in a movie theatre, low and yet so full of vibration.
Even then, he's not done. His hand carresses your stomach and member, trying the seed you've just spilt all over your stomach. Then the way he winks at you like the naughty boy he perpetually remains as neither bothers returning to a shirt, but both return to a half-clothed state only to maintain the illusion. And the fact of the matter is that I've now entered another prison. This prison, however, isn't one you escape from. It's a matter of the mind, willed by the bars of jealousy. You can't stop Chris Keller from sharing himself, but you never want anyone else to experience the thing you've just had. To feel so dirty and yet so clean must be what bliss feels like. Even when you're like a gingerbread man in the midst of the oven.