Friday, January 25, 2013
Work jeans and steel-toed boots. A soiled wife beater. A tool belt. A big-ass truck with a ladder in the back. An industrial van full of power tools. And, of course, one specific power tool that will always have a certain segment of the gay male population drooling. Blue Collar men.; this is the stuff of vintage gay porn. And if they’re a little sweaty? A little soiled? A little ripe?
They’re all the hotter for it.
In our little homo dreams, these are hard -working men working (we wish) hard. That tent in those well-worn Levis remains the focus of many of our wildest fantasies and desires.
These are the men who in real life haunt the aisles of hardware stores. The denizens of lumber stores. You see them in Menards and Home Depot. You see them sweating in the summer months on the sides of our most traveled roadways. Some of us can only imagine what their lives are like, while others are brave enough, strong enough and man enough to live that life. The masculine, frequently hyper-macho world that they occupy and navigate through is filled with under-educated, bigoted, ignorant mother fuckers… but those with a lick of sense see through such bravado and stupidity, lending their ilk a kind of grace and quiet, rugged civility that makes gay men moan and salivate just to be in their presence.
They are iconic; the stuff of many a gay pulp novel, and immortalized in idealized drawings by the likes of Tom Finland. Joe Gage exposed this dominion’s fantastic, dirty gay underbelly in three revolutionary gay films: Kansas City Trucking Co. (1976), El Paso Wrecking Corp. (1978), and L.A. Tool & Die (1979), fueling the masturbatory imaginations of generations to… cum (I love a good pun).
The allure of the Blue Collar man is obvious to anyone who appreciates real men and is not afraid of a little sweat or getting their hands dirty. They are not for the shallow, designer-label queens – the two universes rarely mesh well.
All right, men, let’s strip away their ripped, grime-stained 501’s and toss aside those sweat-filled tees. But tell them to leave on their thick woolen socks, well-worn jocks, and ripe, broken-in work boots (the better to fuck us in) and venture a peek beneath those perspiration soaked pits, get down to brass tacks, take a tug on their eraser size nips, plug in their power tool, and see just what it is that makes us lust for…
Blue Collar Men
Scope of Activity:
A sexual appreciation by gay men for Blue Collar workers and those gay men who are sexually stimulated by being part of a Blue Collar workforce. This does not include those who have a fetish for the clothing (work jeans, steel toe boots, wife-beaters, etc.) or the trappings (hard hats, work gloves, tool belts, etc.) of such.
Does not include: Cowboys, Ranch Hands, Farmers, or Service Industry Personnel (Delivery Men, Garbage Men, etc.), Truckers, or Mechanics (all of whom will probably be the subject of some future Acquired taste entries)
Does include: Construction Workers, Plumbers, Electricians, Carpenters, Landscapers, Road Crew Members, Cable Installers, Warehouse Personnel, Factory Workers, House Painters, Contractors, Rehab Crews, House Builders, Roofers, Coal Miners, Steel Workers, Dock Workers, Moving Men
The Official Line:
A blue-collar worker is a member of the working class who performs manual labor. Blue-collar work may involve skilled or unskilled, manufacturing, mining, construction, mechanical, maintenance, technical installation and many other types of physical work. Often something is physically being built or maintained.
In contrast, the white-collar worker typically performs work in an office environment and may involve sitting at a computer or desk. A third type of work is a service worker (pink collar) whose labor is related to customer interaction, entertainment, sales or other service oriented work. Many occupations blend blue, white and/or pink (service) industry categorizations.
Blue-collar work is often paid hourly wage-labor, although some professionals may be paid by the project or salaried. There is a wide range of pay-scales for such work depending upon field of specialty and experience.
Industrial and manual workers often wear durable canvas or cotton clothing that may be soiled during the course of their work. Navy and light blue colors conceal potential dirt or grease on the worker's clothing, helping him or her to appear cleaner. For the same reason, blue is a popular color for coveralls which protect a worker's clothing. Some blue collar workers have uniforms with the name of the business and/or the individual's name embroidered or printed on it.
Historically the popularity of the color blue among manual laborers contrasts with the popularity of white dress shirts worn by men in office environments. The blue collar/white collar color scheme has socio-economic class connotations. However, this distinction has become blurred with the increasing importance of skilled labor, and the relative increase in low-paying, white-collar jobs.
The term blue collar was first used in reference to trades jobs in 1924, in an Alden, Iowa newspaper.
I failed to find a specific term for the fetishism of the blue collar worker. Perhaps, because it has been so prevalent in the gay community for so long, its existence is simply assumed and such definition is not warranted. Japan has a genre of art called Bara that touches upon this fetish. In America, the Blue Collar worker has traditionally been the subject of both gay pulp novels, pictorials, and porn. In San Francisco, the garb of the construction worker was such a part of scene, it even managed its way into the consciousness of mainstream society via Mark Mussler in The Village People. He was not my ideal of a construction worker, but hey, it was the 1970’s and I think Jacques Morali was lucky to sneak the leather dude past Midwest America. In light of this, I think a construction worker with more mojo would have been simply too much.
Power: masculine power, muscle power, macho man, bull-balls, power.
They built America. The build the world. So we bestow upon them a well-earned place in our collective psyches. For gay men, that has a sexual component. It takes muscles to do hard work. Muscles are sexy; we imagine them flexing and bending our physical selves. Muscles equal power.
Then there is the sweat and grime. This lack of fear of getting their hands dirty, of sweating it out, of powering through it… reinforces their relationship to their work and cements our appreciation for their efforts. Writers may put words to painters. Artists, paint to canvas. But these motherfuckers? They really build things. They move America and the world. They do work that matters.
The fact that they do this and, typically, do so with a lack of pretension and little need for recognition beyond a beer at the end of the day and a paycheck at the end of the week places them in a rare, coveted category of men… they are REAL MEN. They can be the biggest bottom, the nelliest of queens – but as long as they meet their deadlines, haul ass, and use their brute force to transform our physical world into the world we need to function via infrastructure, housing, and the like? Then they are real men.
And we want to have sex with them.
Never assume your Blue Collar man is an idiot, has no knowledge of art, has never read a book, or can’t whip up a nice evening gown or three-layer cake when the occasion demands it. Sure, there is a possibility that a majority of these real men have no interest in any of those things, but one should never assume a superior knowledge of cultural endeavors. Just as a real woman can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan… the same goes for a real man.
Unless you ARE a Blue Collar man, don’t try to dress like one. As with Mark Mussler of the Village People, those of who appreciate them can spot a poser a mile away.
Getting sweaty and dirty at work does not mean your Blue Collar man doesn’t like to smell good. Always check that armpit for deodorant before running your tongue through his arm bush.
Just because your Blue Collar man is all muscled up and butch, don’t assume that he doesn’t take it up the ass. Macho-fucking power bottoms are hot.
Unless you ARE a Blue Collar man, don’t visit your Blue Collar man at his job site. Dude has to deal with enough bullshit from his fat-necked, ignorant co-workers. Don’t make your man suffer more.
Just because you hire a bunch of roofers, or landscapers, or a hot plumber or electrician, do not oogle them to obviously. Eye candy is great, but they are there to perform their job for you, so be classy and only sneak the occasional peek (like when that plumber has his head under your kitchen sink with his bod sprawled out on your floor). And NEVER hit on them. If they want a little something, something - let them be the ones to ask (or demand).
I have that white collar thing going on… and that is because I like having health insurance, access to technology, daily access to a kick ass gym, and a 401k with stock options. Also I don’t mind parking my lazy ass behind a desk for up to eight hours a day (it gives me time to write and surf the net).
But… there is this other side to me… and I am sure I am not unique in this – but I have my Blue Collar side, too. Okay, so I may not be everyone’s idea of Blue Collar, but I do rehab houses. I am part of a four member LLC. We have seven rental properties. We bought them when the housing market went to hell, dirt cheap, fixed them up, installed security systems, fenced the yards (we actively encourage dog ownership and the adoption of dogs in need of rescue), and brought them all up to code. I do all the painting. And the cleaning. And the landscaping. I will help out with installing new windows, doors, replacing floors, and the like. I even learned how to install lighting fixtures – which, with my healthy fear of electricity – was a major undertaking.
Therefore, I got to hang out in these bombed out houses for hours and hours and hours. Usually on the weekends. Usually alone. Or… maybe not so alone.
I missed out on it with my first rehab, but by the second house, I was internet savvy enough to get dudes to come meet me and then meat me! It has made for some hot encounters. By my third house, I was running tricks through like cars at a car wash. Sure, it didn’t always work. Not everybody is into that kind of scene – too messy, too anonymous, too skanky. But those that were into it (and those are the only ones that have ever mattered); we had us some butt-fucking good times.
Typically I would invite them over and have them walk in on me, naked with my ass up in the air. I thought it would be like walking into an abandoned house and finding some stupid whore hole waiting for sperm. Did I feel like a slut? Oh, yeah. And that was part of its appeal. For those coming to fuck me, I think the appeal had to do with the setting and the idea of shoving their tool into someone who might be considered Blue Collar. Sometimes I would leave on my painter pants – a pair of ripped up, dirty, sloppy 501’s. This would add to the illusion. I was almost always sweaty and dirty.
By my fifth house, one-on-one action still cut it, but I began adding into the mix multiples. The most I ever got to come to a house at one time, as in, a tag teaming event, was four. It was late at night, in the summer, so we were sweating up a stream. Of the guys: one was not hot… so much so I was rude and kind of left him on his own, one was this dude who has fucked me before – he tends to like to dom, cum, and leave, and on this occasion it was no different, one dude was this sweet versatile guy that I have played around with before (but no more – he always has a dirty ass) and I think he was there primarily to watch, and one hot dude who actually was there for a tag team event and left minus his nut, but disappointed none the less. I left disappointed too, but hey, they can’t all be the Indy 500.
Setting up a Blue Collar scene does not guarantee a hot time. By my sixth house? I was going through the motions. I tried different scenes, even set up a temporary glory hole, but it all left me wanting. If I ever rehab another house at this point? I have a feeling that I’ll just be hiring other people to take care of shit for me. Sure, I might have sex in the empty house, but I’m through thinking I’m somebody I’m not. The LLC is successful enough that we can now afford to hire people to do stuff, and my dick is just not into it – namely all the work - anymore.
When I worked downtown, I managed a presentation space that put me in direct contact with all sorts of contractors, painters, dry wall guys, electricians, etc. It was fun, and it gave me a glimpse into their world. Some were hot as hell, and others were just sweet. I never had a bad experience with any of them and I assumed they all knew I was gay as hell. If they minded, they never said anything or sneered at me. Sometimes they made me feel like one of the crew. Nothing of a sexual nature ever happened there (with them) – it would have jeopardized my relationship with them and been too unprofessional (yes, I do have SOME standards).
When I was in theatre, I built a lot of sets with a lot of hunks. I was too shy and sexually inexperienced at the time – and maybe in a bit of denial – and never initiated any kind of sex on the set. I did get hit on by this SUPER cute little bearded dude once, but didn't realize he was hitting on me until many years later. Damn, I would have done him, too – I saw his dick once in the dressing room and it was SO FUCKING PRETTY. Probably would have married his ass and be living in Texas now. Such is life.
Okay, confession time – and I’m gonna be honest with you here. Main reason I wanted to write this entry? So I could post these pictures! Oh, yeah. I said that! I love me some dirty, sweaty, construction sited, jock strap wearing gay men! And yes, I am delusional in thinking my rehabbing houses puts me anywhere near the same category as some of these men… but I really find dudes that lay tar and build garages damn sexy. They do the work that makes our lives function, and if I had the opportunity, I would gladly let them spray the inside of my unworthy anal canal with their spirited foam.
But in the end, I realize that pictures like the ones I am posting here, and the occasional vid showing a construction crew getting down and dirty on the job site, are as close as I’ll every truly come to getting sweaty with some Blue Collar men. And I have a feeling that may be true for many of those of us who admire these men.
Well, at least we have the internet!
I think only Military men can rival the sexual mystique of Blue Collar men. They are both in a class of their own. It’s about muscle and might. It’s about being of service and doing one’s duty. It’s about a kind of strength that comes through hard, back-breaking labor.
And… it all sounds like sex, to me.
Those of us that admire them do so in appreciation for the world that they build. We recognize their talents, their knowledge, dedication, and hard work.
We are also able to recognize a hottie in a pair of well-filled-out work pants and some well-worn Dickies.
And their arm pits.
Did I mention their arm pits?
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Wearing a suit and tie? Love it, hate it… lust after it? Madison Avenue has done a remarkable job selling us the image of the sharply dressed man and the fashion industry has reaped the subsequent benefits. What passes for a business suit usually reflects its times: remember Leisure Suits? Traditional three-pieces? Single Breasted? Double Breasted? Ready-made? Made to Measure? Tailored? Wool, Wool-Blend, Silk, Flannel, Tweed? Morning jackets, sports jackets, and blazers?
It took the industrial revolution to forever divide our work force into White Collar and Blue Collar. There was a time when Blue Collar fathers wanted nothing more than for their sons to become White Collar ad execs. But that’s not so true anymore. The Blue Collar worker has his own mojo going on, and there has certainly always been a segment of the gay male population who has recognized and iconized it. But what of the White Collar worker? Yep, they, too, have their admirers. For some in the gay community, the sight of a gold toe sock, sock garter, silk tie, or pressed dress shirt can send them reaching for their own trouser snake. Add an Armani suit to that look and you have a full-fledged fountain of praise.
So, let’s leave off our best skivvies, loosen the knot on our silken sheath, pop those pearly buttons, and take a look at what lies beneath our love of…
Suits and Ties
Scope of Activity:
A sexual appreciation by gay men for White Collar workers; men wearing dress clothes, specifically a suit and tie. Also, those gay men who are sexually turned on by wearing such clothing.
We’ll save gold toe socks and sock garters for another Acquired Taste entry. For this post we will focus on suits, pressed shirts, and silken ties.
The Official Line:
A suit and tie fetish describes a fetishistic attraction towards men who wear suits and ties or men who get aroused when they themselves dress in a suit and tie. Generally, the fetish and sexual arousal first appears in adolescence. But many men report having arousal from seeing other males in a suit and necktie (or from wearing one themselves) from the age of twelve years.
Some men get aroused by the act of putting on a suit and tie; this can lead to the typical physical manifestations of arousal, including accelerated heart rate and involuntary erections.
This usually begins in adolescence, when a boy wears a suit infrequently. However, once he enters the business world and is required to dress formally most days of the week it can escalate from a mild annoyance to a real problem when each morning his dress for work routine is interrupted by a need for the release of sexual tension.
The tie is usually the main reason why men feel sexual arousal by wearing suits and ties or seeing other men dressed in suits and ties. Sexual stimuli by wearing a suit and tie often come from the correct wear of a tie, that is, with the top button of the shirt fastened, and also from seeing oneself smart and attractive to himself and to others; this can be classified within the spectrum of narcissism.
The neck is an erogenous zone. When this erogenous zone is stimulated by an object, for example, a fastened shirt collar provokes sexual arousal and unwanted erections in the person who wears it. The neck is stimulated by a tight collar and by the pressure of the collar on the neck of the person. When the neck is imprisoned by the shirt collar and the tie, with the consequent rubbing and friction that the shirt collar exerts on the neck of the person, this will lead to unwanted erections, and sexual arousal. The tighter the collar, the greater the sexual arousal.
As with most fetishes, this one is all about power; namely the power ascribed by the viewer to someone wearing a suit and tie or the power assumed by the wearer of a suit and tie. The physical sensation of certain fabrics or the prestige assigned certain designer brands or specific cuts of suits may also play an important part.
Childhood homes where the major bread winner was a Blue Collar worker, or in homes with less-than-ideal financial circumstances may well produce boys who grow up revering the White Collar worker or business executive. Sometimes this is reinforced by the parents, or may be a reaction to the father of the household being a Blue Collar worker and, due to other negative dynamics present in the father/son relationship, the child rejects the world of Blue Collar work and becomes fixated on the White Collar world as a means of escape or creating distance/separation. Because the suit and tie is seen as integral to entry into this world, such reverence may become sexually fetishized via a kind of transference during adolescence. When this occurs, the wearing of a suit and tie or being in the presence of a male wearing such garb can be enough for one to become sexually aroused due to the power associated with the suit and tie in the mind of the beholder.
- Don’t shoot your load on an Armani suit. This may not do damage to the actual suit, but may negatively impact your relationship with the wearer. Dry cleaning is expensive.
- Cum on a nice pair of leather boots or tennis shoes? Hot. It will put a special shine on both. Cum on a nice pair of Bruno Magli’s? Probably not. Unless the person is extremely crazy and wealthy. Though doing so may get the toe of at least one of those Bruno Magli’s up your ass!
- Don’t play in mens rooms if you’re wearing a really nice suit. Silky pants tend to fall all the way to the floor quite easily, and… well, I don’t have to tell you what some of those floors are like.
- When unbuttoning that Ermenegildo Zegna shirt, take your time. Popping or ripping a button off? Will surely put a damper on both your boners.
- The same goes for those silk ties. You pull something too hard, too fast, and the only way to unknot it will be to take a scissors to it (been there, done that).
- It’s all right to love your suit. Just don’t LOVE your suit. Unless you get off on wearing dress clothing featuring strange stains or you are currently fucking someone who owns a dry cleaners franchise refrain from dry humping your three piece on the bed.
I’m not sure, but I think my sudden interest in writing about this is due to the release of Justin Timberlake’s new single, Suit and Tie - which, even this early in the year, I am ready to declare the premium single of 2013! It’s a great song, even with Jay Z squirting his usual mustard all over it. Just thought I’d throw that out there. It may be a great song to slip into a sharp three-piece and fuck to.
I love suits and ties. And I am one of those little boys whose father toiled away doing dirty, physically challenging work all his life, Subsequently, I viewed the White Collar world as something unattainable – you know, like entrance into an Ivy League school. I don’t know that I ever truly sexualized the wearing of a suit and tie in the same way as I have, say, the jock strap, but I feel and respect their inherent power all the same.
For my eyes, it has always been the mystery of what lay beneath that forbidden woolen tent; for it's the crotch of the dress pants that I have always found most intriguing… the way they puff up, obscuring whatever may actually lie underneath, leaving my imagination to fill in the details. I can spend hours sitting in meetings to this day speculating. It’s a preoccupation that has kept me awake during many a boring meeting.
Teachers, instructors, professors – those were probably the first men I was exposed to on a regular basis who wore, if not a suit, then at least a tie. I had the opportunity to see many of my male high school teachers nude, due to coaching duties that they would undertake after school. I would steal into the locker room while they were busy elsewhere and peruse their clothing, paying special attention to their underwear and ties - those I found sexually interesting, anyway. I had a real thing for my sixth grade teacher, who would come to the high school and serve as an assistant coach for the senior football team. He was tall and athletic. He reminded me of what a teacher, according to the high standards of ABC Television programs, was supposed to look like, right down to his handsome dimples, large sexy nose, strong chin, wide smile, and curly blonde hair. My sexual attraction to him may also have to do with a conversation he had with me once regarding my need to shower with the other boys after phys ed class. The humiliation I felt sort of stayed with me, and, to this day, just thinking about him makes me melt a little.
Then I saw him naked. Whew… whatta fire! His dick was huge and even his ass had dimples. He was gorgeous, in a late-1970’s-underwear-ad kind of way. Needless to say, I used to slip into the locker room while he was out in the field, strip completely naked , try on his underwear (the same kind worn by Jim Palmer!), knot his tie around my neck, and crank out a long stream or eight, delighting in the sound of my jizz hitting the polished concrete locker room floor.
There were also two basketball coaches I had a yen for. One was a dark-haired, Polish math teacher, who was the crankiest, unhappiest dude I ever met. His grouchiness never made any sense to me, as he had been blessed with the biggest dick I had ever seen on an adult male (up to that point). I mean, had I been similarly blessed, I would have been smiling all the time. The other was another curly-haired blonde with an odd spittle problem, but he was blessed with Grecian good-looks and an absence of body fat, so I sort of turned that whole spit-in-the-corners-of-his-mouth thing into something sexy. He had gorgeous lips and resembled that actor, Simon Baker. Anyway, they both coaxed their fair share of loads out of my adolescent dick.
Surprisingly, I did not develop a desire to join their ranks and become a teacher. This was probably due to the fact that there were very few educators that I came in contact who were not emotionally abusive or damaged in some way. In other words, they weren't happy people (and if they were, they were that kind of happy that makes you uncomfortable, like they were a brainwashed member of some bizarre cult). And I figured that if I became a teacher, I wasn't going to be happy either. In particular, the Polish dude with the big dick seemed to take perverse pleasure in verbally assaulting his students. He wore his tie loose, with the top button unbuttoned and I always got a sense that he was one rant away from committing some form of physical assault.
Instead, I wanted to be an actor, where, on occasion, I at least got to wear a suit and tie. Did I find this sexually stimulating? No. The only costumes I ever got a jolly wearing was a rather sheer sheath I wore as Demetrius in an outdoor production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream (all I had on underneath it was this little pair of flesh-colored bikini underwear, so it was an exhibitionists wet dream) and a flesh-colored thong I had to wear for a sex scene in a ridiculous anti-nuke satire. I was in great shape at the time. The girl I had simulated sex with was a beautiful blonde whose mother hit on me over drinks after opening night. But I digress…
After stints in the service industry (waiter, sporting goods salesman, video store clerk, convenience store cashier), I saw the sign posted at the end of that road and decided to muscle my way into the White Collar world via temp work. I picked up computer skills quickly, enough so that I managed to become a graphic designer at a small-town newspaper, and then, one for a medical device company in Los Angeles. Currently, I’m in a slightly different kind of position in a White Collar office, where, when I am not suffering from seasonal depression or summer elation, I wear, if not a suit, then a shirt and tie. I also come in contact with those bright young things that seem to believe that if you dress like an executive you will become an executive. I no longer harbor such delusions and take delight in wearing black Levis and biker shirts in a fuck-you gesture to management. But enough about that…
I think on my long and winding White Collar career road-to-nowhere, I have come in contact with a number of powerful men sporting designer suits. The ones that stick out in my mind, and subsequently had me, on occasion, sticking out of my fly in front of the office urinal whipping up a batch of baby batter, are the ones that were total assholes; unrepentant, miserable, conniving, back-stabbing, rape-your-mother-for-a-seat-on-the bus assholes. Of note; my boss in L.A.; a kayaker with beautiful black hair, the body of a God, and the looks of Dylan McDermott, who belittled my work daily, stole and took credit for my ideas, and was horribly ruthless and myopic in his need to succeed. To this day, I hate him too much to find him sperm-worthy. But he looked good in those damn suits of his. And, yes, I would fuck his suits. Not him. Just his suits. His suits deserve my stains.
It was during this time that I began to cruise restrooms – usually at public parks in Santa Monica, whenever I could steal away from work or in the hours before or after. Sometimes I would be invited to someone’s place nearby, and it is then that I discovered the true meaning of ‘a hot lunch’. I was a dom top back then, and kind of got a kick out of leaving my shirt and tie on while fucking some strange ass. This was especially true if the dude was young, hairless, and Hispanic. Those boys seemed to be used to this kind of treatment and I was just angry and fucked up enough to go full force on their pristine, tight little fuck holes.
Since those heady days in L.A., I have remained in the White Collar world. My days in downtown Minneapolis? I began wearing shirt and tie and the occasional suit… but then morphed into something more Blue Collar: because there is a part of me that truly appreciates that type of work, and that job actually put me in almost daily contact with all sorts of construction workers and contractors, whose steel-toed boots and work jeans never ceased to bring spittle to the corners of my mouth. But I was still in constant contact with the suits and on occasion had to dress up for presentations.
It is on those days that I had to dress up that I learned about what happens when dress pants hit the floor of public mens rooms. Still, this never prevented me from sitting sentinel in the far stall or sidling up to a chicly dressed executive-type at the urinal before getting on my knees and demonstrating my appreciation for their apparent position in the community as indicated by the fine dress clothes they happened to be wearing.
My all-time favorite episode occurred mid-week in the mensroom of a certain downtown hotel:
The place is crowded and all stalls are occupied. I park myself in front of the middle urinal, the only one not currently in use. Within seconds I make eye contact with the devious little dude to my right. He is a mid-level executive type, short, with a strong jaw, and steely blue eyes. A few years my senior, he is a fair blonde on the cusp of being cursed with thinning hair. He steps back from the urinal and reveals a cock that seems to support the old adage, what God doth not bestow upon you one way (in his case, height), he will maketh up to you in other ways (that would be his dick).
Dude is blessed with a big fat nine incher. I fall on my knees and go to town. Mr. Suit and Tie turns out to be a verbal little Napoleon type, commenting on my performance while making suggestions for all to hear. Needless to say, the men all pause; they come out of their stalls (or at least open up the stall doors), abandon their urinals, and begin to crowd around, stroking their dicks and taking in the show.
Now, on this instance, I happen to be wearing dress clothes. And, as it had become my habit, I undid my belt and unbuttoned my pants before unzipping to use the urinal. This is a little awkward to do with dress pants (so slippery and shapeless), but it allows my balls the freedom they desire when at a urinal. So, of course my pants hit the ground before my knees did. My ass, still encased in my underwear, is out there, on view.
A few dudes step forward and want part of the action, but my little dom is having none of it. Apparently, I’m his bitch, so everybody else better back-the-fuck-off. As I am busy doing my best to work his lovely cut member down my needy whore throat, Mr. Suit and Tie removes his jacket and hands it to someone to hold. He then removes his tie. Getting comfortable? Risky, given our environment, but so sexy. Stripping down to his undershirt, he could still manage a quick recovery should someone new walk in, but he has no intention of unbuttoning a single pearly white disc of his pressed shirt.
He has other plans for that tie. Taking his dick out of my mouth, tie draped over his shoulder, he smacks my face with that sweet fuck stick of his and asks me. “Your ass clean, bitch?” I nod. This is at the beginning of my career of as a bottom, but even then I knew never to go looking if your house ain’t clean.
After that nod, things begin to happen rather quickly. He yanks me up to my feet and throws me against the far wall. Forcing my hands behind my back, he binds them with the tie. He snaps his fingers at the dude holding his jacket, who immediately offers it back up. Mr. Suit and Tie retrieves a Magnum condom and a tiny tube of lube before shoving the jacket back at the slack jaw watching the action. As he rips open the condom, he presses his dick into the crack of my ass and, subsequently, pushes me flat against the wall. He’s on his tippy toes, but still managing it all quite masterfully. Obviously, he’s had a lot of practice, domming dudes who are taller than he is.
Once he steps back to roll on the condom, I adjust my ass, and place it at ramming level. Now, my face is the only thing pressed against the wall, but with my arms tied behind my back, I still feel fucking awkward, a tad uncomfortable, and more than a bit humiliated. He moves to my right, turns my head to face him and makes me and the dude holding his suit jacket watch as he lubes up his wrapped beauty. “You ready to get fucked, bitch?”
Like I need to answer?
Moving behind me, he slops any lube left on his fingers on my waiting pucker. He enters slowly (the only suggestion I make during this whole scene – and thankfully, he must have been used to such a request, because he complies). Mercifully, another dude, older, and really, not my type-at-all, steps forward and places a bottle of poppers under my nose. He reaches over and holds my left nostril closed with the fingers of his other hand while holding the bottle tight under my nose for the rest of the scene. Now, everybody is crowded behind Mr. Suit and Tie, living vicariously through his thrusting pelvis.
He starts slow, but then suddenly goes ape shit on my ass, pounding it like a jack hammer. From time to time, he pushes down on the small of my back as hard as he can to keep my ass at his level. It’s hard to keep your hole relaxed the entire time your body is tensing in order withstand this kind of assault (to say nothing of trying to keep your nostril on the end of a bottle of poppers while doing those things). Thank God for those poppers and the kindly gentleman who is providing them. They do the trick. I am kind of in heaven: I love being watched. I love being a total whore. I love mensroom sex. I love being force-fed poppers. And, need I say it? I love being fucked by a big, fat dick.
Unfortunately, condoms tend to keep a top from cumming in a short period of time – the only kind of time one has in a public mens room in the middle of downtown Minneapolis. Mr. Suit and Tie changes up his attack a bit and starts pulling his dick all the way out and then ramming it in, trying to cause as much pain as possible. This inspires one dude to actually lie on the floor and watch from below. Mr. Suit and Tie seems inspired by this interest and returns to jack hammer mode.
So you think this has a hot ending, right? Think it ends with Mr. Suit and Tie ramming my ass to the point of no return before withdrawing, ripping off that condom, and shooting his massive load all over my back end? Then I bet you then think that all those dirty motherfuckers that have been watching my ass take this magnificent piece of meat also reach their peak and deposit their hot loads all over my half-naked, thoroughly fucked body?
But, no. The door opens. Someone says “Heads up.” Everyone scrambles. Men disappear quickly behind closing stall doors. Others move in nice and tight to the urinal nearest them. Poppers are recapped. Flies are zipped. Hasty exits are made. Mr. Suit and Tie, withdraws, grabs his jacket, hikes up his pants and returns to the urinal where was originally standing. I hobble back to the urinal beside him, my pants and underwear still at my ankles, lube dripping from my gaping hole, and my hands STILL TIED BEHIND MY BACK!
Mr. Suit and Tie shoots me an annoyed look before reaching over and undoing my hands in plain sight of our new guest, whose facial expression I can only imagine, as I was too mortified to actually steal a peek. I crouch in place and retrieve my underwear and slacks. Now… a reasonable person would put himself back together and exit as quickly as possible. But me? Oh, no. I stand there playing with my dick, feeling my face flush with the residual high of the poppers and my supposed humiliation, thinking that once the new arrival takes a hint or shows signs of being there for what everybody else is there for, play will resume. Nope. Mr. Suit and Tie is done. He rolls that condom off his still hard dick and doesn't even give me the conciliation prize of watching him unload his smoking gun into the sanctity of his urinal. Instead, he zips up, puts back on his jacket and tie, and then, as a parting gesture, reaches over, grabs my jaw, opens my mouth and shoves the unfilled condom into my mouth. “Spend some money and get yourself a decent suit, faggot.” He then yanks on the handle, flushing his urinal, turns on his well-appointed heels and strides off.
The remaining members of our little sex circus soon follow suit and, in the blink of an eye, the place is deserted, save the old dude with the poppers, who has quickly moved into the spot vacated by Mr. Suit and Tie. He looks to me expectantly, but I’m not that into him and know that all he’s really interested in doing is sucking my cock. I pull my shit together, wash my hands, and leave, feeling empty and unfulfilled.
Total play time? Under 15 minutes. Loads received? None.
I see Mr. Suit and Tie again, many times in the same restroom. He never gives me a second look or chance. His eyes are always cruising someone younger, prettier, more corruptible.
I had my shot. And I failed to make him shoot.
Power. It’s the power we as a society have handed over to those men wearing the suits and ties. We revere them and place them in such high esteem because, perhaps, we not-so-secretly wish to be them. And some of us also not-so-secretly want to be fucked by them.
Sure, sometimes it’s the feel of a certain fabric. Sometimes it’s the name on that designer label or maybe the distinct tailoring of a well-made suit. Maybe it is indeed just how tightly the collar of that dress shirt fits. But we are the ones that bestow this special kind of sexual power to the men who inhabit many an office in many a blue glass tower.
If you fuck them, you’re demeaning their status. If you get fucked by them, you’re feeding their stature. Either way, sometimes it’s not the man wearing the suit that trips our triggers…
…but the suit wearing the man.