|
George's apartment was a nightmare scene of half-dressed fags. George designed porn CD-ROMs for a living, but this wasn't a shoot for his latest title. In one of the previous jobs on his long and checkered resume he'd been a mannequin designer, and it was for that reason ten gay boys had descended upon his apartment like a plague of locust before the harvest. When the mannequin company had folded, George had been left with over a hundred wigs in his possession, and while he'd lost or given away many of them over the years, he still had sixty or more left. Every year a dozen or more fags would show up on his doorstep on Wigstock morning (and also Halloween) begging to borrow a wig and be made-up. Now, I've always found partial clothing to be extremely sexy. The way a man in a vest with no shirt on underneath will wind up inadvertently giving you a flash of nipple every now and then, and soon you find yourself waiting for it, watching for it, because it's so unexpected when the drape of fabric will suddenly fall back to reveal that pert brown circle. Or your lover in silk boxers, walking unabashedly about the apartment you share, and your eyes keep falling to the fly as it gapes and yawns and gives you a flash of the dark hair beneath and--what you're really hungering for--a glimpse of cock, momentary, like a flashbulb on a camera, and like that brilliant light it lingers on your vision even after it's faded away. And there's something about men who are partially dressed in women's clothing (especially butch men like the Chelsea gym queens now before me) that's even more attractive, because it accentuates their masculinity. For instance, Bernie (short for Bernardo) was one of those deceptive Italian studs; all muscle and meat on the outside, but such a soft and nelly voice the moment he opened his mouth, seemingly so out of character with the rest of him. But right now he had his mouth quite closed as he puckered his lipsticked lips and, shirtless, postured in front of the full-body mirror on the closet door in a pair of silver elbow-length gloves. He put his hands on his hips and pouted into the mirror, trying on different expressions. I marveled at the intense musculature of his back, the way his shoulders and biceps faded into those slender-seeming gloves, the way his top-heavy torso faded into his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, which poked out from beneath his practically non-existent cut-offs. He had a firm, round ass, and his legs were undeniably male: thick columns of muscle. I imagined them wrapping around me and squeezing tightly, being unable to move, pinned by their strength and bulk. Bernie caught my eye in the mirror and said, "Honey, you're going to need to tuck that thing." He stepped aside and I got a look at myself in the mirror and blushed. I was wearing an orange and yellow dress that looked like it had once been the wallpaper on Continental Airlines back in the 70s, and I had an erection tenting it out in front of me from watching him and fantasizing. I strutted forward, wobbling a bit in my heels in part for effect and in part because I didn't really know how to walk properly yet, until I stood right behind him. I rubbed my crotch against his ass. "You want me to tuck it in here, did you say?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------
|