Stories : Dancin’

Just a few years ago, before the gay clubs were bulldozed on Peachtree Street and made way for condo skyscrapers to house well-appointed Yuppies and Guppies, I loved to go dance my ass off all night at Backstreet.  This club had a special 24/7 liquor license and never closed their doors, always serving up drinks and house music for the local gay boys and visitor’s to stumble out at daybreak into the sunny haze of  HotLanta.  It was in a prime location where Midtown boasted high-rise hotels, the Fox Theatre, great restaurants, all within walking distance of just a few blocks.  You never knew who might show up at Backstreet to get drunk or dance with hot boys or move upstairs to watch Charlie Brown’s cabaret style drag shows.

On a blazing hot summer Saturday night, I was dancing and sweating off too many shots of Jose Cuervo 1800 when a group of hot, totally well-built, shirtless, African-American gents slid gracefully up beside me.  They moved around in precise, professionally trained, choreographed ease on the dance floor without the usual applause.  In my drunken stupor, I did remember that the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre Troupe was performing at the Fox for a two week stay. And, I just knew these fellows had to be part of the finest American dancing professionals to grace stages all over the world. Golden tequila shots always transformed my shy personality into a radiant, rosy-cheeked, over indulgent flirt of a dancer.  I was known for backing my ass up on guys when their swagger moved me to grind into a well-endowed crotch.  Dancin’ too close was more often the way of the Backstreet gay boy’s packed-in crowd.

Stories : Nine And A Half

It was five minutes pass the six a.m. start of the Breakfast Hop morning rush and Damien Dieters had still not arrived for work.

Dale McGreavus, wrought with anger and sick with the boys continued insubordination, told his three cooks through the food window to keep up the good work and assured the host of his immediate return, charging her with the extra task of expediting the food to the servers. The old woman’s blank face left him unconvinced and he cringed as the front door of the restaurant flung open and entered a twelve top, followed by an array of other couples dressed finely for Sunday morning services. But the manager had to go, he had to call Damien or assure that another server was available to fill his spot if he was not to show up – which was likely for the seasonal worker.

“Take care of the customers, Agnes,” he pleaded. “I’ll be right back.” And with that he quickly rounded server’s wall, bore through the kitchen, and out of the back doors. On the loading dock he already had his phone and contact ready to dial.

Stories : Guido’s Faceless Profile

I’m an adventurous guy, and I’ve got stories to share that I wouldn’t even dare tell a close friend. Under an anonymous pen name, I can share details that will make you sweat. I had to re-think faceless or headless profile pics; guys without profile pics can be HOT. OhPartyBoy was in town visiting family for the holiday. He was from Jersey, and completely Guido … until his pants came off. Power bottoms love to serve, and OhPartyBoy was ready to play.

I thought faceless profiles were for either the really DL guys or maybe their face wasn’t perfectly symmetrical. The gays have a tendency to over-emphasize beauty but this is no matter for me. When I want to get off with a hookup, I the only preference I have is to be foul odor-free, doesn’t talk, and follows direction. A picture isn’t always necessary.

We chatted on A4A briefly: Fuck? I’m down, let’s meet. Downtown Starbucks, 7pm? Sure.

Stories : Tea Time: Lockout Yoga Practice – Final Episode

My face had barely been steamed by the three cups of Darjeeling tea I smelled, when the fullback stumbled down the stairs into my open loft style kitchen and living room. He looked like he was still in that in-between zone where his body had not fully come back from his tantric sex meditation. Trying to decide where to go, as if a child lost after a long nap, he headed toward the bathroom to put on his clothes. I stopped him and told him to get his tea while it was still hot.

“I’m still nude and like to stay that way as long as I can. So, unless you just need clothes on come over to the bar and fix your tea. I have sugar, honey, some lemon and cream. Doctor it up the way you like it. Where’s your teammate?”
“I think he went from meditation to sleep. I spoke to him when I left but he did not respond.”
“That’s cool, I can check on him in a few minutes. It will give us time to chat.”

Stories : The Soccer Coach

(photo: facebook)

Coach Jaime Diesel was the assistant soccer coach and health and wellness teacher when I was in high school. He was a young guy, mid to late twenties, blue eyes, brown hair, thin bulged lips from years of dipping tobacco which gave his mouth a stern set as if he was never likely to smile. But when he did smile – which was often because he was sweeter than that stern look gave off – he lit up the room. I would swoon amongst a school of high school girls as he taught health class in his slow and slurred country accent behind those pearly whites, whisking the scent of his country musk cologne as he paced the classroom. It was so hard to focus on schoolwork between fantasizing him fucking on his daddy’s ranch, in a barn, on a throw blanket cast over loose bales of hay, and the obstruction of my senses his beautiful body, luring cologne, and seductive voice did to my sight, scent, and ears. I always left fourth period with a wet dick from the thought of being used by him and pre-cum.

He was jacked too. In second period I could watch him, among the other boys in my class, lifting weights in the weight room. The guys my age were always dressed out appropriately in the classic royal blue shorts and gray t-shirt. But Coach Diesel always wore quarter gym shorts in bright colors that cut off at mid-thigh. I can still remember the rock hard tone of his legs and his tan lines just above the end seam of those gym shorts. He also always wore one of those lacey workout tanks that barely covered his torso. The tank top was always sure to expose his solid shoulders and bulging chest as he lifted. I might as well had been drooling for a little nipple play, and his were perfect. Not too small, not too big, but perfect pink circles with a tiny perk of nipple perfect for tonguing. And he always wore a jockstrap under all of that. I made sure to sit somewhat in front of him as he worked out his thighs, fantasizing the day I’d be able to undress his cock from under those tiny gym shorts and tight jock and soak his fat head with my wet lips. At 18, a junior in high school, I couldn’t imagine being so lucky . . . but luck was a curious thing then.