This is the 26th chapter of the sexy story Thirty One Days, a challenge that involves sex, thirty-one women, and will take 31 days.
No use delaying this any longer. I hop out of the car, shut the door and lock it up. Cross the busy street, my head down, my cowering instincts have taken over. I absolutely don't want to be seen or identified anywhere near this place. I pull open the door and enter the dim hallway. I shiver, despite the fact I have made it in unscathed. My twenty is ready, and I slap it down on the counter. A hand shoots out of the slot, grabs the money. I wait for the buzzing of the door.
My hand is on the doorknob as the buzz comes. I am quick, clear headed and sharp tonight. I push into the bar. I stop. My towel and room key are waiting on the bar. I hesitate to pick them up. The towel and the key mean nakedness and a room in the bowels of this building.
A room with a bed.
In a building full of queers.
Without the fortification of alcohol, I don't feel quite as brave. Not quite as determined. Not quite so full of purpose. The big screens are ablaze with college ball. The false comfort of normal behavior. Most of the tables are full. Of course, men only. Clothed and toweled, equal numbers of both. I shiver again. It is definitely not the same without the liquid courage in my veins. The bar is busy. I wait for the bartender. It is the same guy as night one, and night two.
Does he ever take a day off?
The bartender sees me. He holds up five fingers. This guy is good. I haven't been here in how many weeks and he remembers? I shake my head no. The bartender comes closer.
"Orange juice," I order up.
The barkeep looks confused. I bet he was. He looked me up and down. No leathers. No slurring of speech. No boozy bravado. No signs of drug use. A customer, straight up and clear eyed. The bartender saw few of these in this place. Mostly, everyone here was fucked up on something. Booze. Pot. Cocaine. Meth. Or fucked up in the brain, mis-wired for perversion and man sex.
The barkeep shrugs and preps my o.j. on the rocks. He does the tong thing with the orange slice, and this time, adds a lemon slice. Both slices are packed with powder. He stirs the drink and slides it across the bar to me. I notice his fingernails are extra-long. Girl fingernails. They are pointed, sharp and painted red. What a tired old faggot. Pathetic, buddy. Funny, what you notice when you are dead sober. I hold out a ten dollar bill to pay for the juice. He shakes his head no.
"This one is definitely on the house," he smiles.
Mischief is oozing out of his eyes.
What gives, I wonder?
Indeed, what gives in this House of God? This house of nasty surprises.
I feel a tapping on my shoulder. I turn around.
With a beer in his hand. No. Two beers. One in each hand. He seems to be unsteady on his feet. His eyes are swimming.
Same skin tight black leather pants. Stomping boots. Button up white shirt, this time. Shaggy hair. Big lips. Girly face. Smiling. What an asshole. My instinct is to punch him square in the face. As hard as I can.
Then get the scrawny bitch into a back room, make sure the music is cranked, then turn his lights out. I don't care about the stupid seven up' blow job, or the stupider seven up' ass fuck. My bad, on both accounts. I could accept my wrongs. Instead, I was going for the punch in the mouth and the information.
Stevie drank from one bottle, then the next. He went back and emptied the first bottle, setting it in on the bar. I took a sip of my juice. Tasted damn good. My free, non-alcoholic, no tip drink. I feel a slight numbness on my tongue and lips. Must be the chemical sugar coating on the fruit slices.
The shivers of anxiety running through me are getting stronger. I can smell the pot and drugs and incense and poppers in the club. The air is heavy with these scents of illicitness. Scents of voyeurism. Scents of things about to happen. Abnormal things. To folks who shouldn't be doing them. In the daytime world, anyway.
Not for me though. There is no way I am going to open that door.
Door to what?
Kissing, and touching, and hugging and sucking, and fucking?
Unnatural, and disgusting.
Insidiously, the tingle of anxiety makes its way down to my balls. I sense a stirring down there. Stevie is leaning on the bar, ass in my direction, as he calls for more beer. I can see the tight girlie rear end encased in the snug black material. The stirring moves deeper, back into my ass. I swear I can feel my prostate coming to life.
Stevie has two new beers, one in each hand. He turns back to me. Catches me staring at him.
"Let's talk," he says. Follow me."
Stevie is making his way through the bar area, heading to the hallway maze. I follow, orange drink in hand. I left the towel and key on the bar. I don't want the fucking things. I don't need the fucking things.
We step into the maze. The music is pounding. The maze is steady with man traffic. I feel the usual contact from the towel clad faggots. Exceedingly gross when you have no booze in your system.
What am I talking about?
It is exceedingly gross when you do.
I need to punch somebody.
In the depths of the maze, Stevie stops, takes both beers in one hand, and with the other hand, keys a door. He enters the room and I follow. He toggles up the light, then reaches to another switch to kill the pounding music. I didn't know these rooms came with their own volume control. I certainly know why they do. Turn down the music when filming. This allows the sounds of sex to come through loud and clear.
I look up at the ceiling. The red light is glowing. I know the device is not a smoke detector. Or is it? It might be legitimate. Perhaps room one twenty-nine is the performance room. Where they take the rookies. To make brand new memories. And DVD's. I am getting pissed. Pissed is good. Pissed is better than conforming and floating and surrendering and being a worthless faggot.
The walls in this room are mirrored as well. I can see the holes of various diameters cut and buffed in the glass. Holes to stick cameras and dirty cocks through. How pathetic. Same shitty cot in this room. Same locker. Same night table. Same collar and leash hanging on the wall. Same bullshit in every room. How tiring, how stale, this would become.
Stevie throws himself on the cot, back against the wall, stretching his long limbs out. I sit on the cot, my back against the opposite wall. I sip my juice. He slugs his beer. He finishes one of his bottles, and starts on another. Stevie boy is getting hammered.
More than interesting.
It is steaming hot in the room. I peel off my jacket and fold it, placing it on the cot. Stevie subconsciously rubs at his crotch. I can see the full bulge of his pants. I look away, but my stupid eyes sneak back. I almost wish I had my leathers on. My leathers were better than his. His dirty, worn boots were inches from my thighs. My nearly new sparkling black boots were also better than his. Most important, my bulge was better than his. I was better than him, in every way imaginable.
"You came here to talk. So talk."
"Okay you fucking asshole. What the fuck did you do to me? The punching shit? Why? What is with the movie? And what the fuck is with the tattoo?"
Stevie cringed against the wall. He wasn't expecting a display of force from good old me. The me Stevie knew was laid back, a floater, always in surrender. Weak. A dirty little begging bottom.
He sucked on his beer bottle, a small baby boy.
"Easy. Easy," he started.
He unbuttoned his shirt. Took it off and tossed it on the night table.
Why the hell is he stripping?
I could see his ridiculous nipple rings. Glinting in the light of the mirrored room. Glinting off the mirror surfaces from side to side to the ceiling and on into infinity. Too bizarre, this mirror thing.
If you stared long enough, you might get lost in the mirror labyrinth, forever.
Damn, it was hot in here.
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About: The author of "Thirty One Days - Chapter 26" is Ronan Jackson Jefferson - You can contact the writer at Rojackjeff@hotmail.com. You can print this erotic tale for your own personal pleasure, or read more naughty stories like this in our Erotic Stories section.
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