The Pepsi Challenge
On Friday night we go to Eastern Bloc for what is billed as an after party for the opening of the new Peter Berlin bio-pic; overriding concerns about the value of viewing a man aged 63 who was, in one’s youth, an erotic fantasy. Do I really want to see the over-ripeness of the fruit? Even if that fruit is now a jar of tasty preserves, do I really want to adjust the memory of that perfectly curved page boy hair, the rack and pinion shoulders, the startling bulges, and those thighs? My God, those perfectly turned and ultra-lean thighs coated with extract of white denim.
Trudging from subway to bar reminds me that my DNA represents centuries of breeding that must have had an objective different from that of the Peter Berlin precursors. Somewhere in southern Italy, several thousand years ago, someone must have decided that the survival of my people would be best served by thick thighs. Sensible in density, thunderous in transit and intimidating-slash-suffocating in sex. Men with skinny legs celebrate thighs like mine, but we who own them, doomed to racks of jeans labeled “loose-cut” or “relaxed” or, that despised word of childhood: “husky”, worship the thighs of Peter Berlin.
After two well-prepared Manhattans, we decide to leave before he arrives, but I should add in passing that the crowd and the music of Eastern Bloc were delectable. I’ll never know if the years burnished or tarnished Mr. Berlin. I hope he has aged as well as Jeff Stryker whom we have viewed in his still doable dotage on more than one occasion.
Off to a favorite turnstile venue and into a choice booth (good light/high traffic/not much sporcezza on the floor), I appraise the passersby while leaning against the doorframe (Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8). I admire a classic Chelsea boy in a red Abercrombie tee shirt, with gorgeous eyes that imported moonlight from San Juan. He is dazzling. Combine Ricky-Martin-smile with statue-of-David-body. He makes several passes before entering my booth, and, before closing the door, he motions the nerd standing on the other side of the aisle to join us. He does not bother to consult me about this, and I am left to wonder, are they partners? Friends? Recent tricks? I am at that difficult juncture in which one weighs the attraction of the RickyDavid against the repulsion of the dumpy addition. I grant access, and hope for the best.
A word about the nerd. He is about 6’2” of elongated Bartlett pear. The withered shoulders are weighted down by a pillish cranberry sweater that is sacked out and ballooning about his Venusian hips. Pleated brown wool trousers break atop standard cap-toed footware polished to satisfy the workplace. His black framed glasses slide down to the end of a long peevish nose built for inspecting and sniffing at other peoples’ lives. He has been staring at me for quite awhile from across the aisle while scratching at his salt and peppered scalp. Thrilled to have been offered this dance, he latches the door carefully behind him and turns to face us with the wide and cold smile of a deepsea creature, softly clapping his hands together. “Hi there”, he says as chipper as daylight, and I am a house of regrets saved only by my zen-like ability to focus exclusively on the Pretty.
Pretty RickyDavid has an agenda. He wants to get fucked by both of us; first me and then the nerd (whose dick he must have already inspected in another sector of the premises). He takes off his tee shirt and jeans, revealing a complete buffet of flawlessly prepared parts, except for his dick which, although plum-colored to match his fat nipples, seems to have been bonsai-ed. Only a fool would complain about this, in the face of so much else to appreciate.
Since I don’t have a condom with me and since I was really quite involved with his front side, I motioned to the nerd who was already standing behind him with his dick arching up out of the pleats to go first.
“After you”, he countered with an upturned palm indicating RickyDavid’s butt.
“Nope. He wants you first”, I lied, thinking that because it is afterall my booth, I ought to be able to have things go my way or the highway.
“I don’t have a condom”, says the nerd.
“I guess you’re out of luck”, I say to RickyDavid.
“I will go get some. You stay here?” he answers.
I nod yes, and he is dressed and out the door, leaving me alone in the booth with the nerd who has packed his dick back into his sturdy white Hanes, zippered up, fastened his belt, and with his hands folded over his crotch, is giving me an over-the-glasses look that seems to indicate his resolve to wait in my booth all night for the return of RD. He has the stance of someone waiting for the office copier to print and collate twenty copies of something. He smiles at me to convey what he assumes to be our shared patience and good fortune. I am not having it.
“You know”, I begin, “He might not return”.
“Oh I know. We’ll just see what happens, won’t we?”
“Well yes, but rather than waste time, why don’t you go have a walk about and check back in with me in a while.”
“I think I’ll just wait here.”
“But he might not come back. People get distracted, you know.”
“You want me to leave, is that it?”
I cast about for some gentle way to say “Bingo!”, but not finding any, I looked up at him sweetly and said “Yes.”
He left without a word, and I shut the door to take a private swig of mouthwash and reapply my Chapstick. Seconds after I had re-opened the door, RD returned, having purchased a startlingly large box of condoms and a can of Pepsi. Right on his heels was our nerd who directed a smile at me that said “See? He’s back, and so am I. Won’t this be swell!”
RD hands us each accordions of conjoined condom packages which are of a particular variety called XL, for extra-long. This is odd, given that he has already seen both our dicks, which, while reasonably impressive, would never protest unnatural restraint within the confines of an ordinary condom. Then I recall his own endowment. Of course. In his eyes, we are anacondas. The nerd and I each open a package and begin to unroll endless waves of hosiery onto our dicks. That is when I realize that the XL refers not just to length, but to width. With an extra couple of inches of latex drooping down off our erections, our dicks look like two turkeys’ heads caucusing in front of an upturned butt.
I am not exactly sure about the correct way to stuff the extra yardage into the target, and I am skeptical about the condom’s ability to stay with me should I withdraw to give the nerd another up at bat. I consider the fact that we have an ample supply of the monstrous things, so I could conceivably keep applying a fresh one until RD’s butt was quite stuffed with them.
Rather than elaborate on the mechanics of what transpired, suffice to say that everything worked as designed, and, to my great satisfaction. The only misstep was the upsetting and spillage of the open and full can of Pepsi that RD had placed on the floor. The brackish liquid oozed out under the door and into the aisle, eliciting two comments from the men standing near our booth: “What the hell is that?”, and, “What the fuck are they doing in there?”
Trudging from subway to bar reminds me that my DNA represents centuries of breeding that must have had an objective different from that of the Peter Berlin precursors. Somewhere in southern Italy, several thousand years ago, someone must have decided that the survival of my people would be best served by thick thighs. Sensible in density, thunderous in transit and intimidating-slash-suffocating in sex. Men with skinny legs celebrate thighs like mine, but we who own them, doomed to racks of jeans labeled “loose-cut” or “relaxed” or, that despised word of childhood: “husky”, worship the thighs of Peter Berlin.
After two well-prepared Manhattans, we decide to leave before he arrives, but I should add in passing that the crowd and the music of Eastern Bloc were delectable. I’ll never know if the years burnished or tarnished Mr. Berlin. I hope he has aged as well as Jeff Stryker whom we have viewed in his still doable dotage on more than one occasion.
Off to a favorite turnstile venue and into a choice booth (good light/high traffic/not much sporcezza on the floor), I appraise the passersby while leaning against the doorframe (Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8). I admire a classic Chelsea boy in a red Abercrombie tee shirt, with gorgeous eyes that imported moonlight from San Juan. He is dazzling. Combine Ricky-Martin-smile with statue-of-David-body. He makes several passes before entering my booth, and, before closing the door, he motions the nerd standing on the other side of the aisle to join us. He does not bother to consult me about this, and I am left to wonder, are they partners? Friends? Recent tricks? I am at that difficult juncture in which one weighs the attraction of the RickyDavid against the repulsion of the dumpy addition. I grant access, and hope for the best.
A word about the nerd. He is about 6’2” of elongated Bartlett pear. The withered shoulders are weighted down by a pillish cranberry sweater that is sacked out and ballooning about his Venusian hips. Pleated brown wool trousers break atop standard cap-toed footware polished to satisfy the workplace. His black framed glasses slide down to the end of a long peevish nose built for inspecting and sniffing at other peoples’ lives. He has been staring at me for quite awhile from across the aisle while scratching at his salt and peppered scalp. Thrilled to have been offered this dance, he latches the door carefully behind him and turns to face us with the wide and cold smile of a deepsea creature, softly clapping his hands together. “Hi there”, he says as chipper as daylight, and I am a house of regrets saved only by my zen-like ability to focus exclusively on the Pretty.
Pretty RickyDavid has an agenda. He wants to get fucked by both of us; first me and then the nerd (whose dick he must have already inspected in another sector of the premises). He takes off his tee shirt and jeans, revealing a complete buffet of flawlessly prepared parts, except for his dick which, although plum-colored to match his fat nipples, seems to have been bonsai-ed. Only a fool would complain about this, in the face of so much else to appreciate.
Since I don’t have a condom with me and since I was really quite involved with his front side, I motioned to the nerd who was already standing behind him with his dick arching up out of the pleats to go first.
“After you”, he countered with an upturned palm indicating RickyDavid’s butt.
“Nope. He wants you first”, I lied, thinking that because it is afterall my booth, I ought to be able to have things go my way or the highway.
“I don’t have a condom”, says the nerd.
“I guess you’re out of luck”, I say to RickyDavid.
“I will go get some. You stay here?” he answers.
I nod yes, and he is dressed and out the door, leaving me alone in the booth with the nerd who has packed his dick back into his sturdy white Hanes, zippered up, fastened his belt, and with his hands folded over his crotch, is giving me an over-the-glasses look that seems to indicate his resolve to wait in my booth all night for the return of RD. He has the stance of someone waiting for the office copier to print and collate twenty copies of something. He smiles at me to convey what he assumes to be our shared patience and good fortune. I am not having it.
“You know”, I begin, “He might not return”.
“Oh I know. We’ll just see what happens, won’t we?”
“Well yes, but rather than waste time, why don’t you go have a walk about and check back in with me in a while.”
“I think I’ll just wait here.”
“But he might not come back. People get distracted, you know.”
“You want me to leave, is that it?”
I cast about for some gentle way to say “Bingo!”, but not finding any, I looked up at him sweetly and said “Yes.”
He left without a word, and I shut the door to take a private swig of mouthwash and reapply my Chapstick. Seconds after I had re-opened the door, RD returned, having purchased a startlingly large box of condoms and a can of Pepsi. Right on his heels was our nerd who directed a smile at me that said “See? He’s back, and so am I. Won’t this be swell!”
RD hands us each accordions of conjoined condom packages which are of a particular variety called XL, for extra-long. This is odd, given that he has already seen both our dicks, which, while reasonably impressive, would never protest unnatural restraint within the confines of an ordinary condom. Then I recall his own endowment. Of course. In his eyes, we are anacondas. The nerd and I each open a package and begin to unroll endless waves of hosiery onto our dicks. That is when I realize that the XL refers not just to length, but to width. With an extra couple of inches of latex drooping down off our erections, our dicks look like two turkeys’ heads caucusing in front of an upturned butt.
I am not exactly sure about the correct way to stuff the extra yardage into the target, and I am skeptical about the condom’s ability to stay with me should I withdraw to give the nerd another up at bat. I consider the fact that we have an ample supply of the monstrous things, so I could conceivably keep applying a fresh one until RD’s butt was quite stuffed with them.
Rather than elaborate on the mechanics of what transpired, suffice to say that everything worked as designed, and, to my great satisfaction. The only misstep was the upsetting and spillage of the open and full can of Pepsi that RD had placed on the floor. The brackish liquid oozed out under the door and into the aisle, eliciting two comments from the men standing near our booth: “What the hell is that?”, and, “What the fuck are they doing in there?”
posted by Father Tony of the Farmboyz at 10:08 PM
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