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NOTE: This is the 16th Chapter of the story, You may wish to read Chapter 1 first.
Before I hit the play button, I struggle with yet another string of thought. Could my fast fading memories and uncharacteristic behavior be drug induced? Did the pissed off bartender spike my drinks? I didn’t think so. At least not the first night. He wasn’t pissed off at me until after I paid him. Twenty bucks cash for a twenty buck drink. No tip.
He might have been pissed at me when I showed up the second time. In nearly six hundred bucks worth of brand new leather and boots. Six hundred bucks for the gear and too cheap to tip. Exactly what his brain would have been telling him. I watched Mr. Bartender make my second drink, for no other reason than he was good at his job. There was nothing up the bartender’s sleeves. The glass came up empty from beneath the bar. The ice came from a bucket on top of the bar. The five shots of vodka were poured directly from the bottle. The mixer came from a quart carton of brand name juice. The orange wedge was dipped in a bowl of sugar before being dropped into the big glass. Presto.
Twenty bucks, plus a five buck tip. Twenty-five per cent tip on the drink, or twelve and a half per cent tip for this drink, and twelve and a half per cent tip for the drink two weeks ago. The problem of the angry bartender was solved.
I couldn’t have been drugged because nothing else went in my mouth. Stop it. Except for Stevie’s tongue and Stevie’s cock. Unless one of those two things was laced with drugs.
It wasn’t drugs.
Perhaps it was the ‘other’ thing. The ‘other’ thing meaning, the gay thing. A faggot. A cocksucker. A ‘bottom’, as the fag world called it. A male who gains sexual satisfaction by kissing, sucking off and being fucked by another male. A male who achieves ejaculation by engaging in any of the above mentioned acts. A true homosexual.
Wouldn’t I be excluded from such a definition?
I mean, the thirty-one chick record and the fifty plus before would totally discount the ‘I am gay’ theory. Right? Because fags did not fuck women. They couldn’t. They were hard wired not to fuck women. Or cross wired, might be a better term. Actually, mis-wired, would be the best term for the diseased ones.
How many chicks in the last year?
How many simple dates in the last year?
I can count them on one hand.
Can’t seem to get the fire going.
I am working on my problem.
Oh, are you? How? By becoming a faggot?
I take another long pull on the bottle. The heat burns all the way down my throat. I shift in my leather pants on my leather couch. The leathers crackle as they friction together. Time to stop thinking and start the show.
I hit the play button.
The movie starts. The camera is unsteady. Whoever is operating the camera is seeking a solid purchase, probably on a tripod or on the mattress top. I can see two guys close together. Only their midsections. They must be near to the camera lens. I can make out two pairs of leather pants. The pants are crushed together at the front, crotch on crotch. I breathe in. I can see the bulges in both of the actor’s pants. Because thus far, there are no faces. The two leather boys are actors. Sounds good to me.
My own pants are bulging as well. I can feel it, but don’t want to look. I am mesmerized by the extremely personal, yet anonymous porno movie playing on my TV set.
Hands flash across asses, pulling and tugging. The room is a little brighter.
I get it now, smack between the eyes.
Stevie was turning up the lights to get a better picture for his camera man. Very nice set up, Stevie. With me as the victim. Touché, you bastard.
Stevie is on his knees. In front of me. I don’t remember this at all.
Did he? Did he actually do it?
His thin, long fingers are on my zipper. He is looking up at me, wetting his lips. His fingers tug down, and then open my button. My pants are pulled off my ass. The lights brighten further. It isn’t Stevie working the lights. It must be the camera operator, with a remote control. Room one twenty-nine must be the set up room for this videotaping bullshit.
My thick cock is out, bare and throbbing.
“Holy fuck!” I say aloud.
My cock is giant. Enormous. Thick and veined. The camera zooms in. The glorious knob is full and throbbing. Taking up the whole TV screen. My shaft is twitching. Jesus Murphy. I thought the guys in porno had big dicks. I was looking at the king of all television dicks. I guzzled from the bottle. More hot poison ran down my throat.
It must have something to do with filming and camera angles. Anorexic chicks appear full bodied on the big screen, Cameron the dog Diaz comes to mind. Normal chicks appear thick on the big screen, the news and weather girls. Then there is the queen. Oprah. Oprah on the big screen. Huge. Same as my cock. Huge on the big screen.
Wow. I might have a career in porno.
The quality of this video is much better than the crap I set up in my place.
The camera blurs as Stevie the fag stands up. What a downer. He didn’t blow me after all. I never did get even. I never did get the redemption I went in for. I sure as hell didn’t parade around in my new outfit, tempt the faggots, laugh at them, and walk out the door. Both parts of the mission proved to be terrible failures.
The camera blurs again, and then backs out. The blurring was me, settling on the bed. Pants off, stomping boots off. Completely naked. Stevie pushing my knees apart. One hand holding a tube, the other hand receiving the contents. His wet hand moved to my ass, rubbing, probing.
The camera shifts to my face.
There it is.
A little blurry, then the definition kicks in. Wait a damn minute. My face. Shot from above. A camera in the ceiling. Really? Wasn’t that a smoke detector? Is this camera work not a lawsuit in the making? A breach of privacy? Yes, what a great idea. Sue the bastards in a public court of law. Have the video played to prove it was indeed me being victimized. Let the judge and jury and gallery see me in all my legal glory. I would probably win the case. Yes, I am I sure would.
What a loser.
Up until now, this was an anonymous fag getting prepped by another anonymous fag. Suddenly, my face was on the screen. Identifiable. Cleary identifiable. God damn. My eyes were wide open, probably wondering what was going on with my ass.
I see myself trying to prop up on elbows. Out of nowhere, a slap across the head, I get sent back to the cot, hard.
Jesus! Nasty, you little cunt.
The memories are snaking back. I look shocked, angry and determined in the video. I push back up onto my elbows. From out of camera range, his full fist tags my mouth. Blood splatters as my head cranks back against the mirror wall.
A full out punch. I looked stunned in the video. I fumble for the clicker and push pause. The bottle is at my mouth. I am drinking. I look at the bottle. Half of it is gone. I sense the throbbing in my pants. The leather bulge is impressive.
What the hell is going on here?
Am I getting horny watching myself being beaten up?
I hit the play button and toggle up the volume. Christ sakes, Stevie is pulling me upright by the hair! His blue bottle is in my nose. I can hear muffled dance music in the background, and I can hear the pump being activated in my nostrils.
“Suck it in deep, Davey boy,” I hear Stevie say.
Loud and clear.
We have full audio.
Davey boy? Who the fuck is Davey boy?
I hit pause, and rewind. Then push play.
“Suck it in deep, Davey boy,” I hear again.
I hit pause and rewind. I take another drink, then cap the bottle and lean it on the couch. Since I am not this Davey boy, I will role play a little here.
I take my own brown bottle which I have not touched for two weeks, remove the top, and ‘suck it in’. I inhale through both nostrils, long and deep. As per instructions, I hold it in until I can’t breathe. Slowly exhale. I recap the bottle and place it on the couch. I wait for the throbbing to start in my head and in my groin.
I hit play again.
“Suck it in, Davey boy, suck it in deep. Be a man.”
Okay, I have done it. Nice and deep. I am a man. Role playing as this Davey boy character. Experiencing whatever comes next for him. In this ultimate porno movie.
Davey boy’s eyes begin to flutter. I can see him floating into surrender. I feel the exact same sensation. I am sliding down on my green leather couch. Losing myself. My eyes want to close but I don’t want to miss the screen action.
I can’t miss the screen action.
Something in my brain knows it is me.
Visit Ronan Jackson Jefferson on Facebook.
Watch the video on YouTube, ‘TRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS’.
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