Tangled Sheets Read online

  They drink in silence for a quarter of an hour, the sidewalk sitter’s cigarette glowing hotly as he inhales and blows clouds of smoke like an offering skyward. I feel strangely guilty watching them, as if I am some intruding spirit spying on them from the heavens. But the scene is oddly entrancing, both because it is unexpected and because it is out of place here on my empty street so late at night, and I stay where I am. I am surprised to find that my cock is still hard, and I stroke it idly while I watch the two men sit in the stillness. Then the man inside the car speaks.

  “It’s too fucking hot,” he says. “I’m sweating like a bitch here.” He pulls his shirt over his head in one quick movement and tosses it into the backseat of the car. Framed by the doorway, his chest is broad and powerfully muscled, his nipples large and his torso tapered at the waist. It is the body of a man who has spent many hours at the gym. His pecs are two fleshy mountains, and his abdomen is striped with lines of muscle. There is no hair anywhere on him, and his smooth flesh shines warmly.

  “That’s better,” he says, stretching back on the seat so that all I can see is his flat stomach and what is below it, the large soft bulge in his jeans. He runs his beer bottle over his skin, leaving a wet trail, and lets it rest between his legs.

  “It’s too bad we didn’t meet up with those two,” he says, grabbing teasingly at his crotch. “My cock could use a little action right about now.”

  His friend takes a long swallow of beer, emptying his second bottle. “Use your hand when you get home,” he says, standing up and unzipping his pants. “It’ll do the job just fine and you don’t have to buy it a drink or pretend you like its perfume.” He moves away into the shadows and I hear the gentle pounding of piss hitting the ground.

  “Can’t wait that long,” the man says. He sits up and fumbles at the fly of his pants, his fingers awkwardly pulling the buttons apart. When they are undone, he pushes his pants down until they are just above his knees. His half-hard cock, long and fat, lies across his thigh. I can see the clipped bush around its base and the heavy sac that rests on the seat between his legs.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” his friend says when he turns and sees what is happening. “Someone’s gonna see you.”

  The man laughs. “They’re all asleep. Besides, what do you care?”

  He grips his prick lightly in his fist and begins to stroke it slowly. After a minute it stiffens in his fingers and stretches out to its full length, the wide head resting on his stomach somewhere an inch or two above his navel. He pushes his pants down farther so that he can spread his legs wider and starts to jerk off in earnest, his hand sliding along the shaft in easy rhythm.

  The man on the street, perhaps made more bold by the alcohol he has been drinking steadily, laughs nervously as he watches. “You are one crazy fucker,” he says.

  The man in the car continues to play with his cock, stroking it harder now and holding it in his fist so that it stands straight up from his groin. “Why don’t you give me a hand here,” he says. “Feels pretty hot.”

  “Fuck you,” comes the answer. “I ain’t playing with no guy’s dick.”

  “Why not?” the man taunts. “Bet you’d be pretty good at it seeing all the practice you get with your own.”

  The man on the street starts to protest, then stops suddenly. Putting down his beer, he crosses the few feet to the car, stopping when he is in front of the door. He kneels between his friend’s legs, one large booted foot on either side of him. Trying not to look his friend in the face, he puts a hand on each knee, his hands gripping them lightly.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” the man growls. “Help me out a little bit like a good buddy.”

  A hand moves up to touch one bare thigh, hesitating momentarily as the fingers move from the rough blue jeans to the smooth feeling of flesh on flesh. He continues on until he reaches the base of the cock, his fingers closing around the thick shaft. As he does, the man stops playing with himself and lets his friend take over, putting his hands behind his head as the other man begins to stroke him in hesitant movements, fisting the unfamiliar prick.

  “Just like playing with yourself,” the man in the car says. “Do it just like you was doing your own dick.”

  With this new turn of events, I want to get a closer look. Climbing onto the windowsill, I crawl out onto my fire escape, making as little noise as possible. The night air surrounds my naked, sweating body as I sit on the stairs going up to the next floor and position myself so that I can see what is going on below me. The metal of the stairs is warm and presses roughly against my ass and the bottoms of my feet. The two men have not heard or seen me, and I have a perfect view of the car and what is happening in it. I look into the black face of the windows across the street and pray that no one turns on a light.

  The man on the ground is stroking the big cock in his hand more smoothly now, running from the base to the heavy crown and wrapping his fingers around the head. His other hand is exploring the man’s stomach and chest, feeling the hardness of the muscles. When the man puts a hand on his head and pushes him down, he stops his hand motions and begins to lick the fat balls that sit in front of his face. I see the back of his head move in slow circles as he runs his tongue over the warm folds of skin that hold the ripe fruit. I imagine what it must be like for him, tasting his friend’s balls for the first time, so solid against his tongue, so warm in his mouth. I rub my own nuts as I watch him, stretching them out in my fingers and letting them fall back and swing below me.

  The man inside the car jerks on the head of his tool as his nuts are sucked, every so often gripping his cock tightly and slapping it against his belly, the soft thuds barely audible four stories above. Louder are his groans, which roll from his throat like raw silk and fill my ears with their sound. After a few minutes he puts one huge hand on the other man’s neck, his wide fingers pale against the dark hair, and draws him up. Pressing his lips against the solid shaft he says, “Suck my big cock.”

  The kneeling man’s head rises up momentarily as he takes the other’s dick between his lips. He slides down the fat tool slowly; it is obviously his first time with another man’s prick in his mouth. His movements are awkward at first as he learns quickly how to breathe with so much flesh in his throat. But soon he is sucking on the big crank, his back and shoulders moving in rhythmic waves as he moves up and down, his hand following behind his lips as he works more and more of the thick shaft into his mouth.

  Watching him blow his hunky friend, I stroke my own cock in much the same way, my fingers miming the motions of his mouth. Now I am even hornier than when I woke up, and every touch of my fingers on my dick brings aching tendrils shooting up from deep inside me. My skin is rivered with sweat from the heat, and I can feel it rolling down my sides in tiny drops, dried by the occasional breath of wind on my body. I feel myself getting closer and closer, but I don’t want to come yet, not before I see what the studs below me are going to do, how it will all end. I have a feeling it isn’t over yet and hold off my own need as I wait to see what comes next in their after-hours scenario.

  The man in the car is gripping the other one’s neck firmly with both hands, pushing him down and then releasing him. I can tell he is going to come by the way his hips rise off of the seat as he drives his cock into the teasing lips. When the man on the ground tries to pull away, I know that he is shooting deep in his throat. He holds the man’s head in place until he is spent, only letting him go when his climax has ended. The man on the ground turns his head to the side. He has not been able to swallow all of the man’s load, and a string of cum slides from his mouth to the street. It hangs from his lips in a thick thread, swaying slightly before falling away. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

  He stands up and steps away from the car, reaching for a bottle of beer to wash away the taste in his mouth. The man inside slides out, following him, and for the first time I see his face. He is very handsome. Not pretty like the men I see in the bars or in the fashion
able parts of town, but rugged and somehow more real, more alive. His neck is thick, his jaw wide, and his whole body moves with masculine strength. His nose is slightly crooked, as though it has been broken in a long-ago game of football or during a brawl with another man over a lost bet in some dark bar. His hair is shaved so close to the skin that it forms a halo around his head under the streetlight.

  Bending down, he unties his boots and pulls them off, following them with his pants. He stands barefoot and naked on the sidewalk beside the car. His body is bathed in light, and his still-erect cock stands out as he raises his hands and stretches them over his head. He reminds me of an animal, confident in both his power and in his complete control over his surroundings. I freeze, afraid that he will look up and see me watching him. But although he pauses for a moment, he does not turn around.

  “Now you,” he says to the other man, who is leaning against the car watching him. “Strip.” It is a command, not a request.

  When the other man does not move quickly enough, he steps in to help, tugging his shirt from his pants and pulling it over his head. Not as muscular as that of his friend, the dark-haired man’s body is still remarkable. As his T-shirt slips over his head, I see two patches of hair beneath his arms, the only dark spots on his otherwise smooth body. His jeans are the next to go, dropping to the ground to reveal a short, fat cock already hard. His crotch looks as though it has been shaved clean, as do his balls.

  The bigger man grabs the prick before him and begins to jerk on it roughly. “Nice piece you got here,” he says, fingering the hairless balls.

  Dropping to his knees, he starts to suck the other man’s dick while playing with his own cock, which throws a long shadow over the pale surface of the sidewalk. He works expertly, moving his mouth from the shaft to the balls beneath, his face buried between the spread legs. After a minute, the standing man places his hands on the wide shoulders below him, his fingers kneading the thick muscles, his prick slipping in and out of the man’s mouth smoothly and evenly as he gets serviced.

  I no longer care if anyone is watching me or not. My hand glides rapidly along my dick, squeezing thin strands of precum from the head as I take in the scene below. My arm aches from the repeated motions, and I can feel the skin on my cock turning raw, but I don’t stop. I spit into my hand and use this to grease my shaft, cooling the searing heat somewhat. My back is pressed so tightly against the stairs that the metal has started to bite into the skin.

  The big man stands up and takes his buddy by the arm, maneuvering him so that he is standing in the ring of light. He pushes the other man against the front of the car so that he is lying with his arms splayed out over the hood, his legs spread behind him. He pushes the waiting ass cheeks apart with his big hands and plunges one long finger straight into the hole at their center. The man on the car bucks slightly as the finger tears into him, pushing back against his invader, who shoves him roughly down until he is still. Sliding his finger in and out, he loosens the tight ring of muscle until the man beneath him is rocking back and forth on his hand easily.

  Pulling his finger out, he positions the head of his cock between the man’s cheeks and pushes forward, driving into him in one swift thrust. I can see the man’s face grimace in pain as his chute is filled with his buddy’s prick. Then the lines of his mouth slide slowly into relaxation as pleasure wraps its shining arms about him. As the man behind him starts to fuck him in slow strokes, he rubs his hands over the smooth metal of the car’s hood as though it were the skin of his lover’s back.

  The man pumps the ass beneath him in ever-increasing movements, the shadows cast on his naked skin from the surrounding buildings trembling like leaves in the wind as they stretch and tense with his motions. I can see clearly his long cock as it pistons rapidly in and out of the smooth mounds as he enters and retreats. His hands grip his friend’s waist tightly and the muscles of his ass dimple and fill in again as he thrusts harder and harder.

  My hand moves over my prick swiftly as I watch them fuck. Spreading my legs, I slide my finger into my hole as far as it will go, massaging the opening as I imagine the man’s cock pounding my chute. Bringing it to my lips, I smell the musky scent of my ass and pretend that it is his. I slip the finger into my mouth and suck slowly and hungrily as I continue to pound my tool in time with the men who have made me so excited. I am getting very close and hope I can hold out until the end.

  The man getting fucked is running his face over the car’s surface, his tongue licking at the metal. He puts his hands under him and tries to push away, to reach his own dick and give it some relief, but he can’t. His hands reach up and grasp at the glass of the windshield as he writhes against the hood, pinned there by the weight of the larger man and the force of his hammering cock. Finally the man pulls back, allowing his captive to stand while still driving his prong into the tight ass. The dark-haired man’s cock bobs free as his body is rocked by the motion. He grabs hold of it and fists it wildly, his balls slapping madly beneath his hand as he rushes to bring the action to its conclusion.

  Leaning back, he rests his head on the other man’s shoulder as he comes. A long arc of white blasts from his prick and scatters over the hood. His arm continues its pumping motions as wave after wave spurts into the air. Then he is pushed forward and collapses on top of the car as the other man pulls out and jerks himself the rest of the way. Standing with his legs spread, he thrusts his hips forward and cranks his meat in short, quick strokes until he too sends a gush of jism into the night. The thick spray flashes momentarily in the lights before raining down on the prostrate form of the man on the hood.

  Having lasted to the end, I finally allow myself the release I have craved since waking. My balls tighten as I finish the last few strokes and blow my load. As my body shakes with the crash of my coming I have to bite my lips to keep from crying out. The cum shoots from my prick in four long volleys, and I watch glassy eyed and exhausted as it falls through the air to the street below, landing only feet away from the car but unnoticed by the two men. A final shot coats the steel bars of the fire escape with a sticky stain as I fall back against the stairs. When I open my eyes, I see that the two men have picked up their clothes and gotten back into the car. As I sit above them wrapped in the heat and darkness, the cum drying on my skin and my cock hanging spent between my thighs, I watch as the headlights shine on and the car moves slowly down the street away from me, leaving me alone with the quiet.

  Becoming Al

  I like stories about transformation. I also enjoy the way sexual desire can bring about incredible changes in people. That’s what this story is about. I like to think of it as an X-rated Flannery O’Connor story.

  Albert Grant sat in the balcony of the Showtime All-Male Theater wondering if he was expected to jerk off. Just in case, he had stuffed several tissues into the pocket of his jacket as he left the house, and they made a small lump against his side that rustled lightly when he moved his arm. Also in his pocket was a crumpled advertisement that he had found three days earlier while walking from the grocer’s back to his apartment. The ad, printed on a small square of blue paper, was twisted around one of the iron rail posts of his steps, and he had nearly stepped on it as he was ascending to his door. He’d picked it up not because he was interested in what it said, but because it annoyed him to have his freshly swept stoop dirtied.

  He hadn’t actually read it until he’d unpacked the groceries and put them away, the cans marshaled in neat rows behind the glass of the cabinet doors, the milk tucked neatly into the refrigerator. Then he’d taken the piece of paper from the counter where he’d dropped it and started to throw it away, stopping when he noticed that there was a picture of a nude man on it. The man had an unusually large penis, and Albert found himself staring at it helplessly, amazed at the way it hung between the man’s legs demanding to be noticed. The ad had been very well printed, and Albert could see every curve of the man’s big cock clearly, his eyes following it down from the man’s neatly
clipped bush to the point at which it flared into a fat, inviting head.

  He’d looked at the prick for several minutes before moving his eyes up to scan the rest of the man’s body. He appeared to be Italian, with a muscular body that had not been overworked and a chest covered in short, dark hair. Too rugged to be considered pretty, the man’s face was what Albert thought of as handsome. His dark eyes looked out from under sleepy lids, the brows over them thick and arched. The shadow drifting over his cheeks suggested that his beard would be heavy.

  He looked like any one of the construction workers Albert often saw standing around roadwork sites, their hands resting confidently on their waists and their deeply tanned torsos filmed with sweat as they gazed down manholes or off into the distance at something he himself could never quite see. He was both attracted to and afraid of them, and if one of them chanced to look in his direction it took him several hours to forget his face.

  Apart from his big cock, what interested Albert most about the man was the easy way in which he stood in the picture, as if he’d just stepped out of his dusty work clothes and was headed for the shower or on his way to bed after a long day. There was nothing self-conscious about either his stance or his expression, and Albert wondered if the man was thinking at all about the many men who would see his picture and want to make love with him. He could not imagine exposing himself like that before a camera, and the idea that someone might look at his picture the way he was looking at the man’s made him distinctly uneasy.

  According to the ad, the man’s name was Tony Gioconda, and he was going to be appearing live on stage at the Showtime three times a day for one week starting the next Tuesday. Albert had no intention of going anywhere near the Showtime. It was in a section of town frequented more by drunks and prostitutes who crawled out of the city’s smaller cracks when dusk settled in than by architects who lived in brownstones. But he kept the ad anyway, folding it carefully and tucking it into his wallet behind his American Express gold card.