The Outrage

From: Mario Mangiacazzo

Picture: Arthur Tress

Published in: Honcho, Jan. 1984

DAVE

Let me get one thing straight with you. I ain't no faggot. I live in New York, see, and all the time I watch these screamers in their little outfits and funny haircuts sashaying around. Calling each other "Miss this" and "Miss that" and talking in that faggy way of theirs. You know what I mean, right? Sometimes, I swear to Christ it embarrasses the shit outta me. And now, there's these diseases that'll kill you if you take too many sick dicks down your throat or up your ass. No sir, I ain't a fag. No way, Jose.

But something happened to me last summer that kinda freaks me out. I've been busting my brain trying to make sense of it and I'm still confused as hell. I figure if I lay it all out for you, with all the details, then maybe you'll be able to tell me what it all means. But one thing you gotta remember: I ain't no faggot. So here goes. My name is Dave and I'm 42 years old.

Half-Polish, half-Italian, and the Italian side won out. I'm five-foot-nine inches and a hundred and seventy five pounds of guinea soul; thick, curly black hair and deep-set brown eyes with little crinkles at the corners. I grew a beard a coupla years ago, and I kept it because it looks great on me. My wife says so, too. In fact, when I was thinking of shaving it off last year, she said, "Don't do it, hon, the beard looks great!" She says she really likes the patch of gray, which made me feel good because the gray hairs was the reason why I almost shaved it off.

What else? Oh yeah, I'm a little overweight from so many years of eating too much pasta (my mother's and my wife Angie's) and drinking beer. But I been working construction for some 20 years now, and I'm strong as a motherfucker. I may be a little bulky, but nobody would ever call me a fat slob. And if they did I'd bust their fuckin' teeth. Anyway, Angie likes me a little on the hefty side. She never dug skinny guys much. She says she likes to have something to grab on to, and I guess my "love handles" fill the bill. Now, I know you want me to get to the point of all this, but I think I ought to "digress," like my buddy Nick says whenever he starts rambling on about some bullshit that has nothing to do with the business at hand. Me and Angie have a good life together. We been married eight years, no kids. I'm glad I waited until I was 34 to get married because by then I did all my youthful screwing around and was ready to get settled. A lot of my buddies who got married young thought I was a little weird to wait so long, but fuck 'em. Why get tied down when you're young and restless? And some people also wonder why me and Angie don't have any kids. It's none of their fuckin' business, I say. We'll have some when we're ready. Angie's only 37, so she's got a few years to go before her ovaries go into permanent retirement. So enough about that.

Now let's get back to the point of all this what happened last summer. I was working construction out at Jones Beach. We were working on one of the pavilions at the east end of the beach, expanding the refreshment area and doing some repairs. The place was in pretty bad shape, let me tell you. If we didn't get in there and fix the joint up, some poor bozo probably would've ended up with a steel beam in his skull. So there we were working our asses off in this heat. You remember how fuckin' hot it was last summer, right? I was sweating like a goddamn pig, and the salty sweat kept getting in my eyes and making me blind. Around noon Joey the foreman says we could knock off for a while, get some lunch and fuck off. I ate my sandwich pretty damn fast, and threw down a coupla beers. That took me about 15 minutes. What was gonna do for the next 45 minutes or so? I felt like kicking myself in the ass for not bringing my bathing suit to work. But I figured, if I can't take a swim I can at least rent a towel and take a shower at the bath house.

So I got myself a towel and headed for the changing rooms. The place was pretty empty because it was a weekday. Just a few kids and some old farts. I took off my shirt and went into an empty cubicle when I noticed this young guy standing against the wall outside the last cubicle. The guy had on only a pair of gym shorts, running shoes, and sweat-socks, and a sun visor on his head. No shirt. Looked like some college jock or runner-type. Pretty good physique on him, all muscle and no fat that I could see. I nod at him, he nods at me, and all of a sudden I realize the kid's staring at me. Checking me out! What the fuck, I say to myself. I stare back at him, and you know what the fucker does? He starts rubbing his crotch! Holy shit, I think, the kid's a fag, and he's coming on to me. Now, I could've done two things: ignore him or punch his fuckin' face. But instead I just stare back. He's standing there working his dick up, and I'm staring at him like some bug-eyed kid in a candy store.

This heavy-duty eyeballing goes on for a little while, and then the dude reaches inside the leg of his shorts and pulls his fuckin' dick out! I swear to Christ, he just pulls the thing out and starts rubbing the head. The fucker's got a big sazeech, and when he gets it hard there's almost a foot of cock sticking out of his shorts and pointing down his leg. He stands there playing with himself for a while, staring at me. I know damn well what he wants me to do, and I know damn well I ain't gonna do it, but for some goddamn reason I can't look away. What the fuck am I gonna do? I ask myself. He's still at it, playing with his big sazeech and staring at me. Then he looks down, and I realize he's checking out my crotch. So I look down to see what he's looking at, and when I do I get the shock of my life. I got a hard-on, too, and it's poking straight out in my pants. I'm standing there with a goddamn pup tent in my pants!

I look up at him, and he's smiling at me. Then he licks his lips and motions me to follow him. By now I feel like I'm losing control of the situation, and it's a scary feeling. My heart is beating fast and I'm sweating, but it ain't from the heat. I'm standing there with a big bone, this dude is winking and signalling to me, and I'm having flashbacks to when I was a little kid and I used to screw around with other kids. You know, looking at each other's pee-pees and shit like that. And like most guys I circle-jerked with my buddies when I was in my early teens. Then later on in high school I used to check out guys' equipment when we were showering up after gym. But everybody does that, no? All this shit is speeding through my mind real herky-jerky, like the action in those old silent flicks, while this guy is staring me down, licking his lips and pulling on his meat. I take a quick look around and I can't see anybody except us two. And then I say to myself, what's the big deal about getting a head-job from some hungry faggot? A lotta guys do that when they're horny and there's no pussy to plow. It don't mean you're less a man or anything. So I walk over to where the guy's standing and I grab my dick through my pants. "Get down on it man," I say to him, and he pulls me into the cubicle.

TOM

Like most guys, I discovered that "gay pride" is something you have to work at. Marching in parades and chanting slogans is fine, but building pride in one's gayness is a long-term process. It doesn't come easy. Believe me, I know from first-hand experience. After I came out I figured all the self-doubt and ambivalence would disappear, but I was kidding myself. Do you know how I came to realize that I hadn't quite cast off all the oppressive cultural baggage society burdens us gays with? Through sex. Even after I came out I preferred straight men, or at least men who appeared to be straight. Despite all the right-on noise I made about "breeders" and "homophobes," I eroticized only straight men and regarded visibly gay men as somehow less attractive. For example, I began a two-year affair with a married man about six months after I came out. I met him when I was working as a house painter during the summer before my senior year at college. He and his wife had an infant son, and he was also working a part-time job to help make ends meet until his wife was able to return to work.

The guy's name was Jimmie Ray, and he was six feet of big-boned and hairy Georgia good ole boy. Rowdy, but not obnoxiously so. He had a ready and very bawdy sense of humor and I loved it when he'd regale me with stories about life down South, stories that rivalled and sometimes surpassed Flannery O'Connor for sheer deadpan weirdness. But of course we didn't spend all our time together telling and listening to tall tales. After I'd known him for about a month, he suggested we get together at his place one evening. His wife and the baby were away visiting her parents in Pennsylvania, so we were free to "soak up some suds, smoke some dope, and blast the tunes," as he put it. We got good and smashed on the booze and pot and goofed around a lot, singing along to old Stones records at the top of our drunken voices. Luckily he had his own house, a small, two- story affair that used to be the quarters for the servants who worked in the much larger but now dilapidated mansion nearby. After we'd gotten good and smashed we started getting a bit maudlin, as guys often do when they're shit-faced. Pretty soon he had his arm around me and was telling me what a great guy I was and what a good buddy I'd been to him.

I started babbling back that he was a real pal, too, and a pleasure to work with. I said that I was so glad we were getting the chance to know each other better, and he blurted out that we could get to know each other real well, if I knew what he meant. And of course I did. I'd been interested in him since the first day I saw him stripped to the waist and standing atop a ladder with a paintbrush in his hand, and he'd evidently picked up on my interest. In a matter of seconds I was pulling down his zipper and extricating his fat cock from his pants. I jacked it in my fist a few times, and it swelled up into a full erection. He gently pushed me to my knees and slid his juicy piece into my open mouth. I sucked him for a while, my arms wrapped around the backs of his legs. Then he raised me up and led me to the bedroom. "Here?" I asked tremulously. I guess I was shocked that he wanted to get it on in the conjugal bed, the bed in which he and his wife had conceived their kid. "Right here," he replied. He sat me down on the edge of the bed and grabbed my t-shirt at the waist. He pulled it up and over my head, and tossed it on a chair near the bed. He pulled and pinched my nipples and then he unbuckled my belt.

I won't give you all the details of our first tryst. Suffice it to say that he stripped me, sucked my tits and dick before he slipped a couple of fingers up my ass. I was totally wild, and even though I was drunk I felt super-aware of every sensation he was evoking from my heated-up body. Then he laid me down flat on my stomach and rubbed me all over. The massage was fantastic and I was about to drift off to sleep when I felt the fat, spongy head of his thick dick pushing at my asshole. Normally I'm skittish about getting fucked, but for him the portals opened wide. He was a genius at fucking, and he made my asshole sing.

After that night we got together for sex at least once a week for two years. But towards the end of our affair I had gotten sick of the whole business. He had no intention of leaving his wife and kid, and I guess I had little right to expect him to do so. But all the sneaking around and the dates broken because of his familial duties finally wore me down. I told him the affair was kaput. He'd never be the lover I wanted and needed, even though I did love him and the sex was great. He tried like hell to get me to change my mind, but I was adamant. And I must admit that it was relatively easy for me to bail out of the situation because I had met, and was in the process of falling for, a terrific guy who was proudly gay, and not a closeted "bisexual" who couldn't, or wouldn't, give up his sexual fence-sitting. Meeting Eric, my new lover, set in motion a lengthy, sometimes frustrating, often wonderful, process of self-discovery and emotional growth. I stopped pursuing straight men and found myself responding sexually only to men who were easily identifiable as gay. And that's how it stayed for me. Until last summer.

It was close to the end of the season when I made my first trip of the summer out to Jones Beach. I had a few vacation days coming to me at work, so I decided to take a four-day weekend. I arrived at the beach early Friday afternoon dressed in my jock drag: sleeveless t-shirt, gym shorts, running shoes and tube socks, and as soon as I got off the bus I headed for the bath house to change into my swimsuit. I went into the last cubicle in a row of changing booths and pulled off my t-shirt. I suddenly became aware of someone's eyes on me, and I looked up. I saw a burly, almost fat, bare-chested guy staring at me. He was wearing a hard hat, filthy work pants, and heavy work boots, so I assumed he was a construction worker. After all, this was hardly uniform night at the Mineshaft! I could see thick black curls spilling out from under his hardhat, and he had a full black beard flecked with gray. Jesus, the sonofabitch was hot! He just kept standing there, a few yards away, staring hard but not making any move towards me. I figured right away that he must be an uptight closet case I'd certainly had enough experience to recognize one when I saw one so I decided that if anything was going to happen I'd have to initiate it. The question was: did I want to? I knew that to do so would be a kind of regression. I hadn't touched straight trade in several years, but this dude was so fucking hot! His coal-black eyes bore into me, and I got so turned-on when he started grabbing his crotch. I stared back at him and began groping myself. My cock stood up hard right away. We continued to stare each other down while we rubbed our crotches. And still he came no closer. Well, fuck this, I said to myself.

I decided that if I wanted this chunk of beefcake I'd have to be brazen about it. So I pulled my dick out from my jock and pushed it down and out the, leg of my shorts. I just rubbed my big hard-on against the furry skin of my leg, the curled brown hairs getting wet with the pre-cum spilling out of my dickhead. That did it, all right. He hustled his ass right over to where I was standing. He looked down at the hard-on poking at the front of his pants and gave it a rub. Then he reached out and wrapped one of his huge ham-hands around my tool. "I wanna get down on it, man," he said, surprising the hell out of me. I appreciated the offer, but more than anything I wanted to taste his meat.

DAVE

So there I was, standing in this cubicle, with this hungry fag just dying to chow down on my fat sazeech when he looks down at his dick, which is still hanging outta his shorts. He looks down at it, and then up at me with this look in his eyes like he expects me to do him. I wasn't about to do any such thing, but by now I was real hot for a dynamite blow-job and I didn't want to make him change his mind. So just to be friendly, I reach down and give his dick a little squeeze. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but forget it. That's as far as I was gonna go with the dude. I figure, get him a little hot and he'll be begging for it. And the next thing I know, he's pulling my zipper down and reaching inside for the goodies. I unbuckle my belt just to be helpful, and he grabs a hold of my pants and yanks 'em down past my knees. My bone is poking through the fly of my jockeys. He looks at it and goes, "Oh, wow!" Fuckin' A. Right, I says to myself. He drops down to his knees, hanging on to the band of my shorts like they was a lifesaver or something. He pulls my jockeys down, and my bone swings up and slaps against my belly. Some juice spills outta the head of my dick and onto my belly, so he just laps it up like mama's milk.

Then he moves down to my crotch, dragging his wet tongue across my hairy skin. He pushes his face in my bush and snorts on it. Guess he likes the aroma. Christ knows it musta smelled pretty strong, what with me working up a heavy sweat on the job. He moves his face down under my balls, and starts licking up from the bottom of my sack. I'm really digging the tongue-bath when I feel a finger poking at my asshole. "Whoaaa!" I says. "Keep your fuckin' finger outta there," I tell him. "Just do the dick!" He looks up at me with this pissy expression, but he does like I say. He starts drawing wet circles around the root of my cock with his tongue, then he licks up from the root to the tip.

"Suck it, man," I tell him. By now I'm practically nuts with horniness. He finally pops my meat in his mouth and starts sucking like a champ. Oh man, could this fag give head! He has me rocking back and forth on my heels and moaning like my old lady Angie does when I shove it to her. And I'm thinking to myself, why doesn't she suck dick like this? Shit, most of the time when I push her head down there she whines, "Oh, not now, Dave, I don't wanna."

This guy has a mouth like a satin pump, that's the only way I can describe it. So he's sucking away and I'm loving it, when all of a sudden I feel his hands on my bare ass. "What the fuck?' I says. Then he takes my dick outta his mouth and tells me, "Turn around." "What the fuck for?" I says. He says, "Your ass, I wanna get at your ass." "Whaaaaat?" I cry out. (Thank Jesus there was nobody else around to hear.) "You're fuckin' nuts if you think I'm gonna let you fuck me," I tell him. Then he says, "No man, I wanna eat your ass, not fuck it." "Holy shit!" I says. "You really wanna do that?" He nods, so I turn around and spread my legs. He pushes at my cheeks and then he jams his face between 'em. His hot, wet tongue starts wiggling around in my asshole like a goddamn snake, and it's driving me wild. "Deeper, man!" I says to him, and he dives way into my asshole, so deep I feel like the next thing I know he'll be tonguing my fuckin' kidneys. But after a while all this ass-eating is making me hot to come. So I push his face outta my ass and onto my dick. He gobbles it down and I start fucking his face hard and fast. I can feel the cum boiling in my nuts, so I says, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come!" I start to unload in the guy's mouth, and he backs off of my dick and lets the cum spray all over his face. It's running down his cheeks, all over his chin and lips, and he's loving it. I reach down with my hand and smear the stuff into his skin, and he loves that, too. Like a middle-aged broad getting a Porcelana treatment, I think.

Now I ain't sure if I recall this next part exactly the way it happened. You gotta remember, I just had a wild b-j, and my knees are kinda weak. I'm feeling high, too, like I just smoked a joint or had a few beers. My mind was a little fuzzy, so maybe some of the details are mixed-up. Now, I just finished unloading in the dude's mouth. We're quiet for a few minutes, trying to recover. Then he gets up off his knees and stands next to me. He's smiling at me, but something about that smile is making me nervous. I feel something hot rubbing against my bare leg, and I look down and see it's his hard-on. "Whaddya doing?" I ask, and he says, "Now it's my turn," and he puts his hands on my shoulders and tries to push me down. "Wait a fuckin' minute," I says. He says, "C'mon man, I did you, now you do me."

All of a sudden I realize the guy's taller than me by a coupla inches, and he's strong, too. He's got a good grip on my shoulders and he's pushing hard, trying to make me get down on my knees. I'm saying, "Fuck off, cut the shit, I ain't gonna do it," but the motherfucker must know karate or some such shit, because he twists my shoulder and upper arm until it hurts like hell, and I can't seem to break his grip. So I says, "OK, OK, just quit twisting my fuckin' shoulder!" I sit my ass down on the bench inside the cubicle and grab his boner. I start jerking him off. He throws his head back and starts moaning and saying shit like, "Oh yeah, do it man, work my big dick, c'mon stud, bring me off." I pump him for a little while, then his big piece swells up so thick I can hardly get my fist around it, and I got big hands. Then he gasps like he can't breathe, and the next thing I know I got gism all over my fingers. Soon as he stops coming, I get out my hanky, wipe the stuff off my hand, pull my pants up and get the fuck outta there, pronto.

TOM

I had assumed that this bull of a construction worker was straight, and I had my assumption proved correct while I had his dick in my mouth. I was giving him primo head when he moaned, "Oh man, you're so good, better than my old lady." I could tell he was getting a rare treat, so I thought, why not pull out all the stops and really give him an afternoon to remember? He was a little wary when I asked him to turn around for a rim job, but I guess the novelty of it appealed to him. I usually don't rim anyone except lovers and fuck-buddies who I know are healthy, but I figured that a guy like this, a closeted, married piece of trade was unlikely to have any nasty parasites teeming in his shit-chute. So I jammed my talented tongue in there and rooted around for a while. After a few minutes of this he was on the verge of screaming. So I turned him around it's amazing how easily a gifted cocksucker can control a straight guy and resumed sucking him off. As he humped my mouth, I reached behind him and stuck two fingers up the asshole I'd just lubed with my tongue. Well, that did it. The guy yelled, "Madonne!" I thought he was probably Italian and then he started splashing my tonsils with a steady stream of his sweet 'n salty cream.

After he came, he did something that startled the hell out of me. He noticed that I was still hard as granite, and he whispered, "Let me take care of that for you, man." Though taken aback, I certainly wasn't about to argue. I let him pull my shorts down. He marvelled at my rod and it is pretty formidable, if I do say so myself and then he scarfed it down. Oh, he gagged a few times and I saw his eyes water, but he really wasn't a bad cocksucker, not at all. While he was down on his knees, I took his hard hat off his head and sat it down on the bench. He had beautiful, thick, black hair, and I let my fingers crawl through it as his head bobbed up and down on my dick. In a matter of minutes he had my big balls seething with cum-urge, and it usually takes me quite some time to unload when I'm being blown. As I felt the jizz rising, I gently fucked his mouth. That inspired him to suck harder, and in a flash he brought me off. I shuddered and groaned as the cum spurted out of my rod, some of it seeping out of the corners of his mouth but most of it going right down his gulping gullet. But as soon as I stopped shooting and my dick went soft in his mouth, he let it slip out of his lips. He hurriedly got up, pulled a hanky out of his pocket and wiped the stray gobs of cum from his beard and moustache. Then, looking as guilty as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he furtively glanced around, pulled up his pants and split. Just like that! Not one fucking word! My pleasant, dreamy, post-orgasm glow faded, leaving me feeling confused and angry. The guy had just given me fantastic pleasure, yet when it was over he ran off as if he'd just done the most despicable act imaginable. Goddamn it, I said to myself, that's definitely it! THE LAST FUCKING TIME! Never again, no how, no way. No more trade, no matter how hot!

DAVE

That night I gave Angie a wild fuck.

I really stuck it to her, let me tell you. But a funny thing happened. I was humping away, and I had my eyes closed, like I always do when I fuck. And what should pop into my brain but that scene with the fag in the bath house at the beach. So I'd fuck harder, to get the picture outta my mind. It would work for a few seconds, then right when I let my guard down, the picture pops back into my brain, like a bad T.V. show you can't turn off. So I fuck harder and harder, and Angie starts yelling, "Easy, easy, Dave, fer Chrissakes! My insides ain't made of steel!" But I keep fucking hard anyway, like my life depends on it. I get this idea in my head that if I can't come with Angie, it must mean I really am a fag. So she's yelling, and I'm fucking like a demon, and then she starts screaming, so I slap her face to shut her the fuck up. She starts crying, but I try to ignore it and keep my mind on getting my rocks off. I'm throwing my hips like crazy, bucking and plowing away like a power drill, and her crying seems far away. I can still hear it, and damn if I can't feel her nails digging into my back. I give three short, hard pumps, and I unload. Thank Christ, I sigh to myself. I finish coming and I pull out when I go soft. Angie runs to the bathroom and locks the door. I can hear her crying, but I'm cool. I lay back and light up a cigarette. I'm not a fag, I just proved it, I tell myself. And I feel a whole lot better.