monshanjik
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AVOID SEX, IT SLOWS YOU DOWN
By David Allen
(Honcho.Aug.1985)
It's just a job, but I do it well and my boss knows it. No matter what
it is — a pan pizza with everything on it, a gold cock ring, a contract
that should have been signed yesterday, or a box of "erotic" chocolates
— if it's got to be delivered fast the boss calls me.
I work for the "Time Is Of The Essence" messenger service, and I spend
90 percent of my 9 to 5 day zipping around the city on my beat up,
battered 10 speed bike. You might have heard that motorcyclists have
knobby balls; well, so do bikers. Knobby balls, cocks as tough as
timber, and butts firm as rocks. Messengers don't have the comfort of
those sheepskin seats the way other 10 speeders do; one sight of that
kind of luxury feature and your bike would be ripped right out from
under your legs.
Besides, I like the molesting my dick and nuts get from the rough road.
I have always thought that wheels whirling over blacktop and cement were
a powerful aphrodisiac. It doesn't matter if I'm in a car, a bus, or on
my bike — ten minutes on the road and my cock is oozing juice. With
every jounce, jar, and jolt my dick grows big and hard. As I pedal
across town, my cock rubs against my thigh and pumps the juice up to my
dickhead.
Of course, I always get looks when biking around the city; I make sure
of that. The ass of my jeans has a big tear that's just a hair's breadth
from the crack of my butt. When I hunch over the handlebars my obviously
bare ass spreads enticingly. I can't tell you how many times I've been
fucked in a line of traffic: cops sucking hard on their silver whistles;
truckers jacking off in their funky smelling underwear; junior
executives playing with themselves under cover of the very best leather
briefcases — I can feel them all fucking me with their eyes. They'd like
to nip my butt hole with sharp teeth, and probe my ass with long, full
tongues. Sometimes, if I like what I see, I move up the line of cars to
my target. I bend over the handle bars a bit further, and make sure to
shift my butt so that the black haired crack of my ass lines up with the
tear in my jeans.
Don't get me wrong; none of this ever delays me from making my delivery.
My company's motto is "Avoid Collisions. They Slow You Down." My own
motto is "Avoid Sex. It Slows You Down." Nothing would ever get
delivered if I took advantage of all the sex that's available. I have
been grabbed and groped by any number of doormen — one even managed to
slip a wet finger through the tear in my jeans and up my asshole while I
was waiting for an elevator — but when I'm on my bike I don't fool
around.
Strange as it seems, all that stored up
acts like a booster rocket. My feet and legs pump the old bicycle faster when I've got a load of
bottled up jizz. I swear it penetrates my blood and sweat so that I
taste cock and
— and probably smell like it — all the time. The bike seat between my legs feels like some dude's face eating out my asshole.
But my boss told me I would have to leave my bike behind today. He
wanted me to take a train ride to the suburbs and deliver an envelope to
some rich guy. When I tried to get more information about the job — like
why he didn't just mail the envelope — he handed me my package and a
train schedule. Then, staring at my crotch, he warned me not to stop
anywhere else. He made it clear that time was still of the essence even
if I wasn't dodging traffic.
To get the train to the suburbs I had to go through City Central
Terminal. That may not sound like a major problem to you, but for me
this meant the temptation of the terminal's men's room. I have missed an
unforgivable number of trains, dinner parties, adventurous nights, and
fabulous fucks because I couldn't resist the lure of the men's room.
Before I left the dispatch office on my mission, I pissed as much as I
could; now I'd have no excuse to go down those marble steps to the
"lounge." With my eyes cast down at the sidewalk like some kind of saint
trying to avoid the temptations of the flesh, I set off for the subway
that would take me to the terminal.
I quickly realized that this downcast eyes thing might have worked for
the saints of old, but it wasn't going to save me. I get turned on by
anything that even faintly hints of men: a knee sticking out of torn
jeans, a battered pair of running shoes, athletic socks slouching around
a guy's ankles, or, believe it or not, guys who wear penny loafers and
no socks. Guess what I kept running into this morning: knees, socks,
sneakers, and loafers; my tool was nearly ready to spit.
Though I kept my eyes lowered, I still saw quite an assortment of
crotches: long, thick dicks; the sweet swan neck of cocks arched on one
side of zippers and the bulge of balls on the other side; cockheads
silhouetted against cotton pants; and, of course, those eight inch
pieces of live meat whipping around in the folds of sweat pants.
All I did was walk and stare, walk and stare, while soothing my meat
with a kind hand in my pocket. I didn't even look up to cross the
street. I just followed the feet of the crowd.
When I got on the subway I buried my face in the newspaper, but the
first page I turned to had one of those Calvin Klein underwear ads — a
full page of Mr. Brute Force stretched out on a rumpled bed suggesting
all kinds of possibilities. I guess it was better than my usual sub-way
encounter; some gorgeous bodybuilder wearing a tight t-shirt, even
tighter jeans, standing in front of me rubbing his crotch.
Arriving at the terminal, I went to the main lobby, bought my ticket,
checked the schedule, grabbed a hot pretzel, and settled down to wait
the twenty minutes until my train was scheduled to leave. After a few
minutes of crossing and uncrossing my legs, I felt a pain I couldn't
ignore. I may be able to hold back my
, but when my bladder begs for relief I have to act quickly. I headed for the men's room.
There are only a few stalls and, somewhere along the line, somebody got
the great idea of taking the doors off. All the glory holes were sealed
off. Now the stalls are only used by the kidney shy and the terminal
bums who sleep there for hours. Occasionally, there will be some dude
sitting with his pants down around his ankles stroking his hard dick.
The strange thing is that these guys never seem to notice if anyone is
watching or not, and they don't seem to care.
The urinals are always busy and there are usually one or two men
standing behind an occupied one. Their heads block out a large, red
lettered sign that commands "No Loitering." No one, however, is in a
hurry; most men come and stay. It's as if the porcelain is magnetized
and, once you are in its grip, you can't easily get away. Guys come for
an hour or two to stare at the men next to them who, more than likely,
are big, hard and ready.
Some men stand close to the urinals and turn themselves ever so slightly
to the guy next to them, like it's some kind of private showing. Then
there are the guys who stand a foot away so that everyone, even the guys
waiting for a free spot, can see their cocks. I really admire those
exhibitionists; they are so proud, bold, and sure of themselves.
Luckily there was a free urinal because I really did have to piss. I put
the envelope in my back pocket, unzipped my jeans, and pulled out my
cock. A yellow stream coated the wall in front of me. I decided that,
since I had been so good this morning, it wouldn't hurt just to look
around. After all, my tool needed an airing just like anybody else's.
To my left was a stately middle aged man who looked as though he had
just stepped off the set of Masterpiece Theater. He was done up in a
dark blue, tailored suit, white shirt, and a red and black silk tie. He
was tall, bone thin, and certainly not someone I'd check out on the
street. But that's what I love about this place — any male who walks in
is fair game. My neighbor had his dick and his lightly fuzzed sac
hanging out of his pants. His scrotum reminded me of the suede satchel I
used for my marbles when I was a kid.
He looked me right in the eyes and, with his gaze, pulled my eyes down
to his meat. Then he slowly rubbed his slender fingers up and down his
dick and pulled on his foreskin. My cock was now as hard as the tile
floor, and my hand matched the steady milking motion of this guy's. I
reached across to jerk him off, but his arm blocked my hand. He smiled
at me and shot off gobs of white hot juice into the gaping porcelain
mouth. He didn't even move his hand; the
just exploded out of his dick.
My own tool was on fire, my balls ached, and my asshole twitched. When I
turned to check out the guy on my other side, I heard the envelope in my
pocket ripple, but I wasn't worried about my job right now. My cock and
balls wanted relief, and I wasn't going anywhere until I was satisfied.
The guy on my left may not have been my type, but the hunk on my right
was just what I was looking for: muscles bulging out of a tight t-shirt,
lots of hair peeking out of the shirt collar, and incredibly tight buns.
We turned and faced each other; his cock was as thick as a railroad tie
and topped by a pulsing, pink head. He reached over, grabbed my cock,
and started jerking it hard. My hips made fuck motions, pushing my dick
through his rough palms. He stroked faster, and I grabbed the sides of
the urinal as though it was the receptive mouth of a lover who wanted my
.This treatment was driving me crazy and I was close to my long awaited
orgasm. My nuts pulled up tight and my dick shot out streams of
. I caught a handful of cream, and was just about to spread it on my
friend's dick when I heard the ‘all aboard’ call for my train. I was
torn, but I remembered that angry look of my boss and figured I better
get moving.
I rushed upstairs, my hand still full of
, but managed to make the train. I sat back in the cushioned seat, adjusted my balls and planned
the rest of my day. If the gentleman I was bringing the envelope to
wasn't interested in my obvious talents, then I'd make another trip to
the men's room. After all, I was the best messenger my boss had and I
deserved a little special treatment.
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Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!
