One Night in San Francisco

All of those had come into my current life so smoothly. The ease with which men were taking an interest in me made me realize I was still desirable to men—and that I seemed to be exhibiting some signals of willingness myself.

While I was thinking, I took my cock in hand, and I masturbated, for the first time in a long time with images from my real life to beat off to. I was wavering in my resolve to permanently change my chosen lifestyle. The long-dormant urges were coming back, and I was weakening to their power.

* * * *

I had to laugh at what Pete had pulled on me. When the hotel car dropped me off at Eros on Market Street, in the Castro area, I found that it did have a workout room, but it was miniscule compared to the rest of the operation. Eros was a no-holds-barred, clothing-optional gay male sex club. It was going full blown when I arrived in the dark. I should have known from the name, but I'd already been dumb about so much that Pete was feeling and showing that there's no reason, I guess, that I should have been clued in to the Eros name. Eros was Greek god of sexual attraction.

I signed up for the massage Pete had paid for at the front desk, before I'd gotten the full picture concerning what Eros was and what it had to offer. It was there that I got my biggest surprise of the evening.

"You have paid for two massages, Mr. Parnell," the reception desk attendant said. "For you and a Mr. Griffin."

"I'm Griffin," I said, "and Mr. Parnell won't be coming."

"The fees here aren't refundable, I'm sorry to say." I thought the regretful frown on the attendant's face was a bit rehearsed. But maybe it was genuine; there wouldn't be a prospect of two sources of gratuities.

"I could take the massage for Mr. Parnell," a voice from off to the side said. I turned and did a doubletake.

"Ryan?" I said. "How did you get here? Have you been following me?" It was the hunk from the airplane, and he was hunkier than ever, wearing nothing but a low-slung towel—low slung enough that I knew the black, curly hair on his head could be found much further south as well—and a sexy smile. His body was beautiful. He was dark, either tanned or Mediterranean sun skinned, and his curly black hair swirled on his chest as well as on his head—and down below. He'd developed a bit of five o'clock shadow since the plane ride, which looked really good on him. He unknotted the towel and let it drop and then he looked even better. He was hung, thick and long, and his pubes were trimmed, but, as already hinted at, black and curly. Most significantly, he revealed his total nakedness without an ounce of embarrassment. Another guy in a towel padded through the reception area and gave him a whistle, but Ryan didn't take his eyes off me. He maintained an amused smile on his face.

"I took your Pete's airplane seat. Perhaps I can take his massage too. It's not refundable, the attendant says."

"Yes. Yes, of course," I stammered. "But what? Has Pete put you up to this? Did he bring you in to wear me down on going into a relationship with him?"

"Not at all. The idea of seducing you is all my own. And I hope I'm succeeding." He gave me a smile and ran a hand down his hard-bodied side and across his hip to continue down the length of his cock. "You weren't being quiet—or discreet—in your phone call with your boss in the O'hare departure lounge. You mentioned that you were coming here to Eros. I knew what Eros was and what could be gotten here. I'm ever in hopes that you can be gotten here."

"I'm trying my best to be good," I said.

"I think you'll find that I'm very good," Ryan said, with a smile.

"I don't think I have the courage to find out," I said. "But it would be a shame to put an expensive massage to waste, so, by all means take Pete's slot."

"We'll both be in the room. It's a massage for two," Ryan said, giving me a provocative look.

"I'll survive it somehow," I said.

"I hope so," he answered.

I turned to the attendant and made the reservation for an hour hence. "I want to work out first, assuming there's a real gym in here someplace. Are you going to work out too, Ryan?"

"I'm hoping I will get a rigorous workout later," he said, with a low laugh. "I'm saving myself." And then he turned and wafted off. I watched the shimmy of his perfectly rounded butt cheeks as he walked, my resolve chipping away.

We lay side by side, maybe four feet between the tables for what was paid for as a full body massage. I was still fighting the urge. When my body-beautiful masseur leaned down and asked me with a whisper in my ear if I wanted more servicing than he was giving, his hand jacking my cock as I lay on my back on the table, I gritted my teeth and said that no more than the hand job was required. I was watching the other table, though, where another body-beautiful masseur was riding Ryan's shaft in a vigorous cowboy. As he did so, Ryan turned his head to me, flashed a smile, and said, "I'd be happy to hold off if you want exchange places with Claude here," he said.

"I wouldn't want to deprive Claude of his reward," I said, and turned my head in the other direction. This wasn't getting any easier. I came in a flood of cum. It was the first time in two years I'd let another man get me off. I could pretend that a hand job was enough, but Ryan had me so worked up that it wasn't.

Claude was still riding Ryan's cock when I was finished and, gripping my towel around my middle, went, first, to the showers and then to the sauna. The sauna was where my resolve started seriously to unravel. My resolve, indeed my whole world, had started to unravel early that day in the Chicago airport, of course. But, up to the sauna at Eros, I hadn't let myself go with full-on man-on-man sex. The hand job on the massage table didn't count. That easily went with a full-body massage and I had turned down so much more—like what I'd endured watching Ryan getting beside me and had been saintly enough to turn down an offer of the same.

I offered little resistance at all in the sauna at Eros, where an orgy was going on when I arrived. It was a big room, and there were only four or five pairings when I got there, so the full effect of what was happening and that everyone was supposed to participate didn't wash across me until I was in the arms of a big, black, muscle-bound bull, handsome as sin, big as Goliath, and he was cradling me in his arms and kissing me on the mouth and cheeks and throat. He laid me stretched out on the bench above the one he was sitting on, and continued kissing, and licking, and nipping down my body as he moved up onto my bench, stretched out over me. He kissed and licked and nipped down my belly and into my groin, his kisses on my inner thighs causing them to spread to give access for his penetrating finger. I was in high heat, a heat that had progressively developed over the day, starting from when the hunk, Ryan, plopped down in the airplane seat beside me that morning.

This was like it had been back in college, where my fraternity, which attracted gay me, engaged in orgies like this. I had put that all behind me, but this was so familiar and this was so much what I needed right now.

Ryan had come into the sauna and sat on the other side of the room, watching us, watching the big, black bull hovering over my body. I jerked, and groaned, and arched my back as his mouth opened up over my engorged cock and his lips slid down the shaft. I turned my head to the side to see that Ryan was stroking his cock and watching me. I couldn't withstand much more of his teasing. I turned my head again to find that the black bull's monster of a cock was dangling above my face. With a sigh of resignation, I took it in, almost unhinging my jaw in the process, and let it slide into my throat. It had been two years since I'd done anything like this, but it's not something a man forgets how to do.

We sixty-nined, with others around us doing that and more—and Ryan sitting across the sauna, watching us and slowly masturbating himself. I came first, which the black bull took as a signal to reposition our bodies and to fuck me. I hadn't completely unraveled, though. With a surge of intent and determination, I broke away from him, and, grabbing my towel in hand, although it covered nothing except the last shred of my resolve, I rolled off the bench tier and scrambled down to the floor and out of the sauna, passing Ryan, who smiled at me and gave a little laugh.

We dressed, Ryan and I, side by side in the locker room, saying nothing to each other while we did so. I felt the heat—it only was rising; I hadn't dissipated it with the mutual blow job with the black bull, the farthest I'd gone with a man in two years. As I was fastening the cuff buttons on my dress shirt, he said, "There's a popular bar near here. The LookOut. The night in the city belongs to the brave. I thought that maybe we could—"

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Show me the way." I wasn't going to fight it anymore.

* * * *

I woke up, groggy, remembering nothing clearly beyond the first two drinks in the bar, to the rhythmic flashing of a neon light coming through the hotel window in what I later learned was a gay-friendly dive, the Twin Peaks, two blocks from Eros, on Market Street. It was listed as a deluxe room, which only meant it had its own en suite bathroom, which wasn't the norm in this hotel. It had a queen-sized bed, though, and I was on it. It was still dark outside the window, so it wasn't morning yet. I tried to remember something—anything—from the evening with Ryan at The LookOut and only was able to think of it not being just Ryan. There had been a swirl of men of all ages and builds and color and I felt I had danced with them all—and then maybe something about dancing all by myself on a table. There was the vague notion I'd done more with some of them.

When I woke, it was to a snort from the man lying next to me. We were both naked. The sheets were tussled. It was obvious that we had tussled as well. I was on my back, legs parted, butt raised on a couple of pillows, the feeling of moistness on my inner thighs. Although it had been a couple of years, I remembered the feeling of having been fucked—and by a big one. Probably more than once—and maybe by more than one. My channel felt like it was gaping open. Snippets of my hedonist college days floated through my brain, and damned if I didn't have a feeling of satiation as I hadn't felt since those college days.

Surprisingly I felt like purring. I had a guilty feeling of having been satisfied repeatedly. I wouldn't be needing to have anyone tell me I'd been fucked.

My surprise was that it wasn't Ryan lying next to me. The guy was some mix of Caucasian and Asian origin, which had resulted in tall and hunky, muscular and hung, but with slightly Asian features and a yellowish-tan cast to his hard-bodied skin. The eyes of us both were open, our heads turned to each other, and we lay there for a couple of minutes, gazing into each other's eyes, as his hand glided over my body. He didn't ask me for permission to touch me, and I felt a low moan coming up from inside me when he fondled me intimately. He seemed to know me—biblically—but I didn't know who the hell he was. He was a hunk, though. I intuitively knew he had fucked me, and I felt a twinge of regret that I had no memory of the experience.

I knew that the expression on my face reflected the "Who the hell are you?" question tempered with "But it doesn't really matter; you give great fuck." I could only guess that his eyes expressed the "Are you going to let me fuck you again?" question.

The answer to that must have been "Yes," and it was clear that we'd already fucked at least once in the night, because when his hand glided down to my legs, inserted itself between my thighs, and coaxed my legs to open, I whispered, "Yes, yes, yes," spread them for him, and gave a little moan as he stroked my inner thighs.

When he moved his body over mine, hovering above me, looking down into my eyes, capturing them with his determined gaze, I wrapped my legs around his, placing my heels on his calves, and I wrapped my arms around his broad chest, pressing my fingertips into his shoulder blades. I rolled my pelvis up to receive him as a good angle and he slid inside me, slowly, deeply, strongly, and immediately set a steady rhythm that I quickly matched in the rocking of my pelvis. As big as he was, he glided in easily. We'd obviously been here before in the night, probably more than once. We were already familiar lovers. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

My surrender to the inevitable after two years of denying it and fighting it off was complete.

I tensed and shuddered and came and then I felt him—whoever he was—jerk and come, once, twice, three times. He wasn't sheathed. Both of us were panting hard from the exertion. I let my head loll over to the side, the bathroom door coming into my vision. Ryan was standing in doorway, leaning into the frame, magnificently naked, smiling at me.

"Good morning, Logan," he said. "You want to see what Delta dragged in for you?"

Before I could answer, before I could ask him what the hell he meant, another figure emerged from behind him in the bathroom.

Pete Parnell. Also naked. In erection. Smiling.

The exotic Caucasian-Asian was still on top of me, inside me. Neither Pete nor Ryan seemed to notice or care.

"I think he's ready for you again, Mr. Parnell," Ryan said. "I think you were right—that it was just a matter of getting back on the bicycle again."

Again?

"So, are you ready to take another spin, Logan?" Pete said. "With me?" It must have been a rhetorical question, as I didn't answer. I didn't say no, though.

And as the Asian lover pulled out of me, patted me on the bare rump, and rolled away to the other side of the bed, Pete walked to the bed and turned me on my belly, me giving no resistance at all, finally fully surrendering, as he climbed up on the bed. He wrapped an arm around my belly, bringing me up on all fours, crouched over me, mounted me, penetrated me . . . and fucked whatever resistance and indecision were left out of me.

Pete and Ryan obviously knew each other, which meant this, in fact, and contrary to what Ryan had told me, had all been a setup. I didn't really give a fuck that it had been, though.

I was ready to go back to Chicago with Pete.