Mardi Gras

By Max E. Verga

And maybe it was because Owen Wrenfeld knew that he would be asked to reveal himself and receive beads in return that he had chosen to leave his apartment sans beads, his shirt open low and the bare skin exposed enough for any hand to push its way into his chest and to let anyone know that more of him could be had for just a row of beads. Owen knew that only by losing himself in the crowds would he stop thinking about the boy, the boy whose memory he could not shake but for no reason that really made sense to him except for the fact that it was Hopping John who had foretold his fate, Hopping John, who may or may not be real, and Hopping John who had given his almighty penis the blessing of the sacred nut and planted in its ample length the fever that now reclaimed his body and the part of his mind that he kept secret, even to himself. It was the same Hopping John who had told him about a woman, a woman who he had loved in another lifetime and who had loved him but who he had declined to marry, knowing that no man could ever marry an octoroon, only keep her as his mistress, in a style far greater than her actual birth, but in a style that obviously had not been enough, as few women had ever seemed to be able to get enough of Owen Wrenfeld, which he understood was perfectly understandable, just as anyone who was watching him walk up Royal Street could attest to. And maybe it was the sense that if Hopping John was right, that people were doomed to repeat the past, which meant that the tap dance boy might be killed again and again in many lifetimes, that had made Owen Wrenfeld want to shut reality out.

But that was before Mardi Gras. Now, his body told him that he was back, that whatever cloud it was that had come over him at the loss of the boy was gone now, that even if he was that man who had once loved a woman one eighth black and denied her anything but a home and creature comforts until she had set herself upon a roof and vowed never to come back down until he married her, which he had never done and so she had died up there, a life as wasted as, well as wasted as a boy tap dancing on Bourbon Street because there was nothing else he could do with his evenings, which was at least better than selling drugs. But all that stopped mattering the moment he was dragged into an alleyway and raped and left dead and bleeding, which is how the Times Picayune had described it. And somehow Owen knew that there was a connection somewhere, between him and the boy and between him and the woman whose ghost story he had told a thousand times to the tourists, but who only Hopping John had said was more than just a twice-told tale. And as he watched people walk by him, a man dressed up like Carol Burnett dressed up like Scarlett O'Hara, only with a curtain rod stuck through the shoulders that held the dark green draperies that had hung in her parlor only one week before, a Pope opening up his robe to reveal a rubber dick that had a sign reading "Property of the Vatican Boy's Choir," a Wizard who sprinkled glitter on anyone who walked past him, a bevy of nurses wearing bedpans instead of nurse's caps and carrying enema bags instead of purses, he knew that in some sense, everything going on around him was a part of his past and present and was somehow connected to his future and he couldn't quite figure out how or why that connection mattered, if indeed, it mattered at all, which he was sure it did. But the moment was fleeting, as was the name "Fleet" on the small box one of the "nurses" had handed him. And he took it as a sign to purge any further thoughts of the inter-connectedness of all mankind and move on to a more familiar thought, the bulge deep inside the pants that barely concealed his pleasure at once more being part of the world gone mad around him.

And once or twice Owen had been tempted to show just how much he had to offer to a woman. But it was not the bloated tourists or the burned-out boozers who had left their trailers to see some dick their husbands couldn't offer them that appealed to him. Owen knew exactly the kind of woman he would show his dick to, the kind that could appreciate its extra-thickness of the head that lay hidden beneath a tube of skin that could be coaxed out only if held in his or someone else's hand and made to reveal itself snake-like, slowly, as if every new erect inch meant one more bead upon the strand that would be offered him in return for what he had to display, which was more than most women ever got to play with in their entire lives. And as he moved onto Toulouse Street, he knew that his feet would take him into the heart of the madness, into the very pandemonium that was the living frenzy of Carnival and into a place where his mind could come to rest upon rocky shores and blot out every thought of past mistresses and tap dancing boys and focus in the here and now, which was the essence of what it meant to be on Bourbon Street, in midday, on Mardi Gras day, with enough steamy looks and enough of a packed crotch to make his body come away festooned and rewarded for nothing else than being him, being male, and being able to give the crowds exactly what they wanted and needed.

"Hey, Mister, bet I can guess where you got your shoes from?" He had known the voice and it had hit him like a clump of beads from a Mardi Gras float. "Got 'em from the back of that closet of yours. Got 'em bright and polished and sized eleven which tells anyone more than they need to know about what else you got that's up there in inches. And I know that ain't no sock you got there between your legs 'cause I seen you dangle it outside your fly many a night on Chartres Street for all to see, which was just me and that guy with the video camera. And ain't there gonna be some cameras aimed at it this very afternoon? Ain't you gonna come away with a neck full of beads and maybe something to put that pod into besides your underwear? All foreseen and all foretold and you know something else? You gonna get even luckier than you ever thought a man could be. You gonna get what you been needing all along and by the time it's over, you gonna be the one they be singing about, talking how you used that thing of yours to make magic, just like I told you it would be, many months ago. And you know something else? You gonna be famous. Yeah, you. People gonna know your name someday and know what you can do which is what you been doing best all along. And let me tell you one more thing, son….by the time Ash Wednesday rolls around, there'll be smiles on faces of a couple more people in this here town and all because of you. You, Owen, yup, you the man."

He knew he was the man. Skin tight pants told anyone with a pair of eyeballs screwed in tight enough that he was the man. His bare chest told anyone not using a seeing eye dog that he was the man. And even dressed up like he was, the voodoo man himself, even Hopping John could tell that Owen Wrenfled was, indeed, the man. "So, what I got here son is all you need to really be the man, to really do the town up red, to make the man the legend of manhood in all its glory. It's not a nut, not some chanted words, not something I can even sell you, though everybody knows I could sure use some extra cash this Mardi Gras season. But some things you can sell and some things you can give and this is something I can only give. Only before I give it to you I got to know direct from your mouth, Mr. Owen Wrenfeld. Are you the man? Are you truly the man?"

Owen stared at him, his staff full of black and gold feathers raised up, with Zulu coconuts dangling from where the feathers were taped with Duct Tape onto the broomstick, also painted black and gold with glitter thrown on as if it was a last minute thought, which is what the entire get-up seemed to Owen to be. And from inside the coat made out of fabric that looked like it had been bought in Wall Mart and most likely was, he drew out what looked like a used snot rag with some lumpy stuff inside that was tied together with a rope from a package someone had unwrapped and discarded weeks before. And he held it out to Owen who stepped back because it looked about as nasty as an eighty-year-old woman's snatch. But the man grabbed his hand and pressed it into it, which almost made Owen vomit, which would have ruined his clothing, so he tightened his throat and tried not to let his nostrils flare up and accept the smell of the man and his offering.

"But you can't open it up. You can never open it up. All you can do is stuff it in your pocket and let it work its magic inside your crotch, just like all my other magic worked its way up through you. And before the night is over you'll have the kind of sex that will make you think that if you was to die before the night was over you would never have to give a single thought to any regrets, 'cause you would have died with a smile on your face and an erection that even the funeral director would be telling his children about till his own dying day, which, by the way, will be sometime in the year 2030. So, what is it going to be? Are you going to be the man?"

Owen pushed the packet into his pocket, his hand not wanting to touch it another second. It seemed to burn up against his thigh, but Owen knew that was crazy, just as seeing Hopping John then and there before him, dressed like some homeless voodoo priest, was nothing short of ready to be carted of to the loony bin crazy. But the man remained in front of him, smiling though rotten teeth as Owen took the package and hid it in his pants, not knowing if he should even thank him for it or if he should just say what he seemed to want him to say, which was "I am the man," which made the apparition or whatever he was continue smiling until he got up on one leg, turned around, and disappeared into the crowd just as quickly as he had appeared in the first place.

"Cool costume," he heard someone say, close enough by for him to know that he was the one they were talking about. It was a male voice, with enough softness in its syllables for him to know that it was a gay man speaking, which only made him mutter a barely polite thanks, then move on to where he had wanted to be in the first place, which was in the center of all the chaos, which was Bourbon Street itself. Only getting there was not as easy as it sounded. Bodies were packed almost into the gutter and that was only a side street. People pushed by, each one propped up against the other for fear of falling over and losing their drinks. He made his way slowly though the crush of bodies, his own by far the best there was to be seen, until he finally came to the corner of Bourbon Street. He could look from north to south and see nothing but a sea of people, almost all dressed in costumes, some amazingly beautiful while others seemed to be cobbled together from whatever old attic trunks could bring forth. From above his head, men and women stood on balconies in every possible state of dress and undress. Beads rained down on the crowd, so packed that there was barely room to move an arm to raise up a blouse or pull down a zipper and display a dick. But everywhere around him, men and women tried, and as Owen stood there, a lone still figure in an ever-moving sea, he knew that all he had to do was claim a spot and let the plastic jewels come to him.

"I'll give you some beads if you show your dick," the same voice he had heard halfway down the block was now saying. Owen looked into the face of the man, a face almost as handsome as his but clearly far too pretty for its own good. Owen understood how far from the gay area the man was, how much he was risking by asking a straight man to show off his cock. And he had to smile at just how sacrificial he could be if he had asked the wrong man, which Owen Wrenfeld definitely was. But he was not prepared to bloody a far too pretty face like some redneck who didn't know the difference between a faggot and a bundle of sticks. It was, after all, Mardi Gras Day, and men wore their wives' panties and wives smoked their husbands' cigars and men with diaper fetishes paraded around in plastic panties because they knew it was the one day they could do it when it was costume, not kink. And Owen knew that sooner or later he would have to start collecting some beads. So he pulled his zipper down and reached inside his fly to pull his dick out, which was more than enough for the man who had asked him to do it to smile back and place his first strand of well earned beads around his neck. "Thanks, man," the stranger said, grateful for the sight of so much uncut meat even at the price of one string of beads he had won by also showing off his manhood, only several blocks further down on Bourbon Street. "And I gotta say, that is one great looking dick. You ever decided to bring it down to the Burgundy Pub, you got a built in vacuum cleaner throat waiting for you any time any day." And then he disappeared, leaving Owen with the beginning of his personal treasure trove and the look on his face of a man willing to do whatever it took to win some more beads, of which pulling down his zipper and showing off his dick was just the least of it.

"That was very generous of you," a female voice said. "He will go back home telling everyone that he got a straight man to show his cock off for him and every one of his friends will think he's got some pair of balls on him, which, by the way, I see you also have." And she was certainly right, he did have a nice set of nuts and he was not the least bit embarrassed because she had seen them and was paying them a sort of compliment, to say nothing of being impressed that he had let the faggot see them and his prize prick too, which she had to know was not just your standard piece of flashed cock that was rarely anything more than six inches. And as he stared at her, his cock slowly but surely rising, he realized that what looked like an elaborately printed halter top covering her body from the waist up was nothing more that a jumble of closely packed tattoos made to look they were a piece of clothing when in fact nothing stood between her bare breasts and his line of vision than the breezes blowing from the gulf. Owen liked what he saw. He liked it a lot. He liked the illusion of something being there when nothing was actually there, which is how some people had actually described him but only behind his back. He liked the fact that she was petite, possibly Chinese or Japanese but more likely Filipino, because he had known a Filipino woman once and the woman in front of him seemed similar, almost familiar, which was also good because, up to the present time, she had been the one woman who had given him the best damn blow job he had ever experienced, which covered a lot of territory.

So, when the woman let him look at her breasts, which were as perfect as any he had ever seen, only completely covered in tattoos that almost made even the nipples disappear, Owen became fully erect, which she also noticed because she wasn't the least bit shy about watching his crotch. And when he told her that he would give her his beads if she would let him see her boobs up close, she smiled back again because she knew that he was not a smart man, just a man with a very dire need and a very good looking face and a dick almost twice as big as the one her boyfriend had. But since he was still doing police work and would be doing it until well after twelve o'clock, Owen's was probably the only dick she would likely be getting for a couple of hours. So she moved closer to him and took the beads off from around his neck and placed them on her own as she let his crotch brush up against hers and she knew that she could have it that way for as long as she wanted, which was for several hours at least. And she was not the least bit reluctant to tell him that, which is why he secretly blessed and cursed Hopping John once more and wondered just what all this good luck would be costing him because it seemed that he was getting more than his share of it with just this one woman whose breasts were on top of his chest as he hoped they would be for as long as it took him to get out at last three loads of his man juices, which is why he understood that yes, he truly was the man.

"I'm staying about one block away," she said. "It's amazingly quiet there," she added, as if noise would interfere with what Owen Wrenfeld did best and did often. And so Owen grabbed her hand and held it as she pushed her way through the crowd and lead him towards the hotel she was staying at, which was halfway down the block between Bourbon Street and Dauphine Street. And once inside what had most likely once been the home of a single rich family, he had to admit that it was amazingly quiet and he also had to admit that he was turned on by the way she waved to the hotel clerk as if it were perfectly natural to be walking into the hotel lobby with her tattooed breasts exposed while she walked hand in hand with a man who the clerk knew was going to get the ride of his lifetime because everybody knew how Asian women were and especially this one, who had said goodbye to her policeman boyfriend hours earlier after getting almost a full night of solid ramming, which didn't stop her from wanting more, which was what Mardi Gras was all about.

Owen had a brief moment of panic, though, when he walked past the hotel's pool to the small free-standing structure that was her guest room and saw the spare police uniform hanging in the closet, whose door was left open. But she told him that she had known the man for almost five years and every year he had paid her hotel room and travel expenses and he would work most days but spend the entire night with her, which left her free to do whatever she wanted to do during the days. And that also included letting other men visit her in the room, something that her police lover seemed at least to be okay with, which was not a surprise, since he was apparently also okay with her chest full of tattoos, which Owen had to admit were making him amazingly horny.

"You want a beer?" she asked as he sat down in the only arm chair that wasn't strewn with some of her clothing. He nodded his head, still taking in the scene around him: the huge canopy bed, the double glass doors that gave you a view of the pool, which was not completely empty, as it would have been expected to be on Mardi Gras Day when almost everyone was outside, except for Owen and the woman who said, yes, she was Filipino and how clever he was to figure that out and she bet that he was clever at so many things because she could tell that he was smart enough to show off his best assets to their best advantage. And that gave her the perfect opportunity to reach down and place her hand on his crotch, which is exactly what he had hoped she would do.

She also told him that she had more tattoos, that it was up to him to find them and that if he liked them she would tell him where she had gotten them so that he could get some as well. She said it as she handed him his beer and moved her hand into his open shirt and remarked about the smoothness of his chest, how it was a perfect canvas that she knew so many fine artists would be more than happy to fill with images just as hers was. That lead Owen to ask if she was some kind of tattooed lady in a circus, which only made her laugh, because, no, she owned a boutique where she designed all the clothing and women came from very far away to buy her dresses, many of which, like her chest, were hand painted.

All that was said as she rubbed her hands across his nipples, making them swell just as hers were swelling as Owen reached out for them. And as they moved in towards each other and deep kissed, Owen felt the wrapped package in his pants that Hopping John had given to him and silently thanked the man or ghost or voodoo priest or whatever he was for doing him the favor. And when he finally stood up, the woman, whose name was Sylvie, undid his belt buckle and opened up the button, then pulled down on the zipper that held the pants together and finally pulled the pants down to the floor, which left Owen totally exposed from the waist on down, which he fully understood was as much a pleasure for her as it was for him. And he didn't even ask her to draw the drapes or pull the curtains pinned back onto the canopy bed, because if she could bear to be stark naked in bed with him with the double doors open and in full access from anywhere near the pool area, he could certainly stand it too. And he secretly hoped that whoever it was that had been taping his jerk-off sessions on Chartres Street was standing somewhere close by, camera in hand, recording him as he slowly found all those other tattoos and one by one let his tongue move over them as if each one were a journey into the mind of whoever it was who had inked them on her body.

The clerk in the lobby had laughed to himself. "Wonder if the fucker ever read The Illustrated Man or saw the movie with Rod Steiger. That'd make him think twice before he pushed his dick into the dragon hole between her legs. And if you ask me, I'd take that cop boyfriend over the man in black any day. You just can't compare hot bare assed blonde meat to some grease ball whose last name probably ends in a vowel or two." And if Owen had the literary skills to draw conclusions between printed fantasy and reality, he would have also chuckled to himself as Sylvie took him on one journey after another, perhaps not through the psychedelics of her skin, but at least through many of the chapters of the Kama Sutra, which she was no doubt familiar with, if not intending to write a couple of new pages of her own. It was not just his cock that she had latched onto and held in every possible opening it could fit into and some that he never believed it could ever be in contact with. She had left no inch untasted, even his feet, which was the first time a woman had sucked on his toes instead of him doing it to a woman. But then, Sylvie was like no woman he had ever met before. She seemed to know exactly what his body wanted, what his brain needed, and what it took to make the connection to one from the other so that he felt the fucking not just between his legs, but deep into the contours and curves of his brain. She had seen the perfect ripeness of his ass cheeks and had planted her tongue deep inside them, filling his own mouth with his musk as she made him want to taste the lips, even though they had tasted his butt hole just seconds before. And his tongue had returned the favor, also only seconds before he had reared up inside that ass to give yet another hole the kind of dick it seemed to be crying out for.

Sylvie made Owen cry out in release over and over again until he could see the light outside the double patio doors taking on an orange tinge, then slowly turning the palest of blue without any sign of their rutting ending. The moment his load was spent, Sylvie would peel off the condom and tie it, then hang it from the bedstead as if it were a trophy, which it was. They would hold each other tightly together, laughing as the rubbers mounted up and Owen swore that he would never come for at least another month, but still managed to give up yet one more load as she rode his dick with her pussy or her ass or her mouth until he was once again drained, once again lying prone on the bed, and once again staring up at the ceiling while she managed to find yet another inch of his body to obsess over until he was once again hard and she was once again asking him for one more screwing, which he was more than happy to give even if it did seem that he was leaving inch after inch of his cock inside her with each new round of love-making. But of course, he knew that he had inches to spare and so did she. So, only when the sun was well down, as Sylvie had been many, many times on his cock, did he finally close his eyes as she too seemed to be appeased for the first time in hours. And when his blurry eyes could no longer count the condoms thrown around the mattress as testament to his truly being the one and only man, he finally managed to sleep, the soundest sleep he had since he had first learned about the death of the tap dancing boy.

And as Owen woke up, his cock feeling as if it had been put through a paper shredder, he could see the woman who had done most of the shredding sitting across from him in the armchair he had sat in hours earlier. She was naked except for a pair of silk slippers on her feet. She smiled back at him, all of her tattoos, at least the ones on the front of her body, fully exposed. He was still not sure what all of the patterns were, but it did not matter. Together, they formed an illusion of clothing and he had been amazed to find her bottom half tattooed with a pair of panties that, together with the tattoo halter top, gave the illusion of clothing where none existed. And that thought, together with the realization that they had been fucking nonstop for hours, made his dick hard again. And he smiled back her as he saw that she had seen it and that the awareness of its erect state had seemed to turn an "on" switch inside her head, which made Owen think that there were probably many more hours of fucking left before he would be heading home to really sleep.

But Owen had forgotten that she was only borrowed. With his dick still ruling his head, he thought nothing of the sound of footsteps on the outside patio. He had actually hoped a stranger passing by would see him there, prone and fully hard and still, indeed, "the man". But when he saw the figure behind the footsteps, his brain froze and for the first time in a very long time he really, really regretted the insinuation of his hard-on. Sylvie had shot up once the man in the full police uniform had appeared before the patio doors. Owen could see that, like himself, the man was handsome, only more conventionally so, with the kind of looks that told him that he had most likely been born near an Iowa cornfield. But instead of raising his gun and using it as Owen thought most men in the same situation would do, the man walked over to him and held his hand out to him, leaving Owen unsure if he was supposed to shake it or use it as leverage to haul his ass up out of the bed and room that he had paid for.

"His name is Owen," Sylvie said to the policeman. "Sorry, Owen, I forgot the last name."

The man in uniform stared back at him. "I'm Jessie. Jessie Armstrong," he said. "So, you been talking care of my Sylvie while I was out? I figured she would have somebody back here. I know my girl. Ain't she something? You could fill that pussy of hers for twenty four hours and she'd still be trying to get in one more hour of Daylight Savings Time. I see that you've been doing a real bang-up job of keeping her happy. Damn, I can't come nearly so many times in one night."

Jessie reached for one of the tied-off condoms. For a second Owen thought that he would pull it to the max and wrap it slowly but decidedly around his neck. Instead, he bit into the top part where the knot was and pulled the resulting hole open as he dipped a finger into the pool of cum at the bottom, then held it up to his lips and began to lick it off. "Sweet," he declared as Owen lay on the bed open-mouthed. "My girl sure can pick 'em. Nothing like a man who tastes good inside and out. If you ask me, this here stuff is the best tasting juice there is in the whole wide fucking world. And yours is about the best I ever sucked up second hand. Damn, looks like me and Sylvie are gonna have us a real good time tonight with you . . . What did you say your name was . . . Oren?"

Owen knew he was in trouble when the cop stood there, thinking that his girl Sylvie had brought him home as a surprise plaything. And so the cop started to strip out of his uniform, revealing first a chest as pumped up as any that could be seen on a wrestling show, which only made Sylvie smile at the fact that she had managed to find a man who was as big as she was small, except for her boobs which were not entirely her own. Owen watched as more and more skin came into view, skin as perfectly white as his was dark, with not the slightest trace of hair, even around the nipples, which were perhaps a bit bigger than what you usually saw on a guy, which of course, could have been genetics, or could have been the results of those massive pecs pushed into a mouth that was made to suck on it. And with the uniform pants revealing just a pair of white jockey shorts and thighs that could hold any head locked into place while the mouth was made to stay forced between the spot where the crotch began, Owen knew he was in deeper doodoo than he had anticipated. He understood that the cop had figured him for a good way to get his rocks off inside what he couldn't have possibly believed was a virgin ass, maybe the only one left in the entire town of New Orleans. And as Sylvie sat smoking, her lover lowered his shorts over his boots, revealing an organ that was a whole lot smaller than the one Owen had spurted from for about the sixth time in one evening. But it was also very fat and with the kind of cock head that looked like it should be cut up in a mushroom stew before it had a chance to work its way into a virgin butt hole and maybe leave a lasting reminder with a colostomy bag that meant that the insides of those butt cheeks had been ripped to pieces.

It was Sylvie, though, who claimed first dibs, taking the thick cock into her mouth and giving her cop lover the kind of blow job that Own Wrenfeld had been given over and over until his entire reservoir of sperm seemed to be as empty as if it had been in a three year drought. And for a second Owen thought about quickly dressing or at least sprinting bare-assed out of the room to save his hole. But the cop was watching him, not ashamed to show off a prick that looked like it had been placed between his legs once it was decided that the rest of his body would get the bulk of the flesh. But if he was small by Owen's standards, he didn't act like he knew it or even cared one way or another, which wasn't too surprising, since the man didn't give off the kind of glow that said that he was the brightest bulb in the package. "Bitch gives the best damn blow jobs," he said as if it was the most profound intellectual revelation of the century and not just a statement of fact that Owen had already come to. "You suck dick too?" he added as his eyes narrowed to slits while he gave in to the pleasure of getting head.

"No," Owen responded, which was the truth, but not one he thought the cop was about to accept, since he had enough swagger to expect that with his body and looks, his cock deserved to be taken care of like it was an eight-incher, which it sure as hell wasn't by any stretch of the imagination. "That's cool," the man said, adding to the dim-bulb theory. "Time was when I didn't neither. But Sylvie got me to change that. Taught me how she does it, which is about the best a man could hope for. I also like to fuck, though. You want to see me fuck her?" Owen wasn't sure, but he knew that with her snatch getting the banging, his own ass would probably not wind up four or five inches away from getting used doggie-style. So he nodded his head and watched as Sylvie automatically stopped sucking and let the cop move next to Owen onto the bed, which made him almost jump up except for the fact that cop had wrapped one of his huge arms around his neck and kept him pinned to the spot. The gesture didn't appear intended to just trap him, only make him feel all warm and fuzzy like it was natural for him to have a naked cop lying next to him while his Filipino girlfriend straddled his legs and took his cock up inside her ass, which left her pussy available for fingering with the cop's free hand. And he had to admit that watching her hole being fucked, even by a dick that couldn't even begin to match his for size and power, was kind of hot and so he started relaxing, hoping that he would be able to show the cop how a real man-dick could work a butt hole or a pussy. This appeared to be what he wanted 'cause he kept of saying things like, "Want to see you riding that hole too, buddy," which Owen had to admit was getting his cock rock-hard, something the cop seemed to notice and pay plenty of attention to.

And once he had made certain that he had helped Sylvie reach her orgasm with the aid of his fingers, the cop had slipped his dick out of her ass and pulled off the rubber that had kept it safe inside her ass hole, tied the end off just as Sylvie had done to Owen's, placed it on the headboard, then walked to the bathroom where he soaped his meat while Sylvie stood up and walked to the dresser on the other side of the room. When the cop came back he was still hard, which was not the solid hardness Owen was showing off, but which was still hot enough to make Sylvie grab for it as he told Owen to lie in the center of the bed, 'cause he was about to get his dick sucked, which the cop had wanted to do once he saw what Sylvie had drug home for him by way of a midnight snack. Owen was too scared to say no. The cop had that look on his face that told him that even though he looked like he was popped out of the womb onto some corn field in Kansas, he wasn't someone to fuck with, especially when he wanted some cock to suck on, which wasn't surprising since Owen had a pretty impressive cock that anyone would want for a nibble or a late night nosh.

But things got twisted when Sylvie removed her hand from the dresser drawer and pulled out a dildo that made Owen's dick look like a miniature. Once again, the thought of his ass sewn shut while he had to crap from a side bag made Owen cringe. It also made Sylvie laugh as she realized that the man lying in the center of the bed thought that maybe it was going up his hole. "You so silly," she said in mock Pidgin English, as she lay the dildo down on the dresser and reached in for the harness that would attach it to her own crotch with a series of elastic straps that could be tightened for most any body shape. The cop smiled back at her as he walked towards the bed, reaching for the tube of lube Sylvie had rubbed on Owen's cock each time she had decided to milk it into her one more time. The cop pushed out a long tube of lube juice, then moved it towards his butt hole as he pushed as much of it as he could inside. He left the remainder on his hand and slowly placed it on his cock, giving Owen yet another reason to panic, for he thought that the man might want to fuck him while he was getting some rubber dick up between his own butt cheeks. It was almost a relief when the man leaned onto the bed and instead of raising Owen's legs up to slide his own dick inside his virgin hole, poised his mouth barely one inch from Owen's cock as he turned around and watched Sylive move towards him with her strap-on poised to claim his anal pucker.

Owen cringed as he watched the man spread his butt-cheeks and swallow up the dildo as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be happening. The cop's face took on an almost beatific smile as his knees rested on the mattress and he let his tongue dart out over the foreskin that covered Owen's cock head, making it a prize that could be claimed only after the shaft had been sucked enough to make the loose skin retract. Owen closed his eyes as the man stuck his tongue inside the foreskin and moved it over the tender cock-head. He heard the man moaning as the rubber dick was pushed all the way inside his ass, the rubber balls at the bottom of the dildo now crashing against his own. Owen felt the heat of the man as he took the dick strapped onto his girlfriend while he claimed a real cock that could never match his own for size, which is just the way he liked his man-meat to look. For a second Owen opened up his eyes as yet another masterful mouth lapped between his legs and gave him the kind of blow-job that was sure to result in a record number of wads shot in one evening. It didn't matter that the patio door was wide open and that anyone who wandered back to the hotel drunk could have seen the three of them, one a woman with a dildo attached to her clit, another a cop whose discarded uniform gave no clue about his willingness to take a rubber dick up one hole and a cock up the other, and the third, a man as straight as they came, who had given in to getting his dick sucked on a male cop out of fear for what might happen if he didn't give it up. Only he wasn't so sure now, because he had to admit that he was enjoying every second of what was probably the twenty-fifth suck job he had gotten that night and even feeling the thrusts of the rubber dick into the cop's ass, which only made him swallow Owen's cock even harder down to the base was getting his brain all worked up; something he never thought getting sucked on by another guy could do.

But that reverie was soon to end as the man moved his hands down from Owen's nipples, which was giving him yet another first-time sensation from another man, and slowly those powerfully muscled arms came down towards his legs and Owen could sense what the man wanted, which was to have those legs up in the air, which only meant one thing, and Owen cried out "No." But the man's arms were much stronger than his and as the cop told him to get used to the idea that he was going to get fucked, Owen said to himself, "No, man, get raped you mean." But part of him knew that was not the absolute truth because if he really wanted to, he could have pushed the man backwards at least hard enough to send that dildo up into his hole harder and quicker than he expected. That could have given Owen enough time to jump up and out of bed and maybe even grab for the cop's gun, which sounded almost laughably like something from Law and Order. But considering the circumstances, it was better to get a belly laugh out of the situation than a belly full of cop cock, which, ironically, any self-respecting faggot would have given his soul to get 'cause it was such a hot porno concept, except when it was happening to you in real life and you were straight and screwing the cop's girlfriend only minutes before. Even if he didn't reach for the gun, he could still bolt out of the place, butt naked, which might have pleased the limp-wristed hotel clerk, and it was well past midnight, so he could possibly make it back home without anyone being the wiser. But his keys were still in his pants and even if he could get to Esplanade without being seen, he could not exactly pound on his neighbors' doors and tell them he was locked out of his apartment and I know you're staring down at my dick because it's so big but right now I've got more important things to think about, which is getting into my apartment.

So, instead, Owen closed his eyes, screaming to himself as the man took some of the same lube he had spread into his own fuck hole and pushed into Owen's hole, which hurt like all hell because the fucker was moving his finger around like that was about to get him to give up his cherry. And the man told him to relax, 'cause if he could take a ten-inch dildo up his bung hole, Owen could take his five hard inches, which is the first time the cop had acknowledged that his cock was short-stuff, but for which Owen was now grateful, since it was obvious that it was going to go up inside his ass whether he gave his permission or not but not until the cop got him to relax so his muscles would go slack enough to make it the kind of pleasure the cop had been talking since he was old enough to call his ass something besides "tushie." And as the cop continued to finger him, Owen decided that it was better to at least act like he wanted it, since for some men, getting resistance would only spur them on to make it even more painful than it was sure to be. But he didn't know who he was dealing with here or just how much the cop had known from one look that Owen was not someone who had ever planned to get in a three-way with another guy and a woman. But the cop could not take the man's cherry thinking that he had forced it from him, which is why he slowly moved down on the bed, his butt still filled with ten rubber inches, as he moved his head towards Owen's face and whispered into his ear so that even Sylvie couldn't hear him.

"I want to make that hole of yours love it just like I love it, man. And if you take it from me the way I know you really want it, you can have anything you want from me and Sylvie as your reward. I'll suck your feet, man, eat your ass out and let you piss on me while I'm in my uniform. You want to do that to a cop? Piss on him and make him call you Sir while he begs to let you lick your boots off? You can have that from me, man, anything . . . anything you want or need."

Owen moved his face towards where the voice was coming from, the breath of the man up against his cheeks as he felt his hole being slowly stretched to the point where pain was almost giving way to pleasure. And the man darted his tongue out onto Owen's neck, licking it, making Owen's mouth open as his breath came in deep spurts. And even when the man moved his tongue to Owen's mouth and let it slip inside so that there was no question that he was French-kissing another man and almost liking it, Owen thought about what he could have from him, his feet bathed by the very same tongue he was accepting, his ass also tongued once the cock was withdrawn from it and the mushroom head had spilt its juices into the rubber that Owen knew the man would suck out once it was over, beer piss staining the uniform as if he was actually degrading the muscle cop inside it and not giving him the kind of pleasure that he knew would only come from being brought so low that sniffing the stink between the toes of the man doing the pissing was a step upward on the social ladder. And Owen knew that if push came to shove, he could even take the dildo, even let a woman fuck him which was, in fact, what so many women, from his mother up until Sylvie, had actually been doing to him for all those years. So why not give it up to a man? Why not feel what the faggots felt? After all, he was still not sucking on a dick, which was something he was still not prepared to do.

So Owen opened up his fuck-hole and let the man slide yet another finger down deep inside. And he told Sylvie to fill that cop's hole with that rubber cock just like he was going to fill it with his own once the man had felt what it was like to be inside his own ass. And he knew that he had enough piss in him to make the man sit by the side of the pool, where anyone could watch, and get his starched uniform drenched with man juices so he would have to parade downtown smelling like a urinal, which is what he would also make the man's mouth into. Owen Wrenfeld would not give up his ass without making the man who took it pay for it, which would be even sweeter because the man could have arrested him at any moment, and it would be a squeaky clean cop's word against his that the man had taken a ten-inch rubber dildo up the ass or sucked on Owen's eight hard inches or said anything about being pissed on, 'cause who would ever believe Owen Wrenfeld? Not even Owen Wrenfeld was believing Owen Wrenfeld as he sucked face with another man, then allowed the man's muscular arms to lift his legs up in the air as he first tongued out his cherry hole, then slid his stiff five-inch cock with the scary mushroom head up into Owen's ass so that he had to scream out as he realized that taking a cock, even a fairly small one, was nothing compared to just getting a finger or even two up there. And he thought about begging the man to push out, but he knew that doing that might hurt worse than getting something pushed in. And all Owen could do was stare up at the ceiling and let the man change that pain to pleasure as he tried to relax like he was being told but only managed to do when Sylvie withdrew the rubber dick from her lover's hole and came around to the side of the bed and gave Owen a tattooed tit to suck on while he tried to be a man and take the cop's cock like it didn't feel like he was being ripped a brand new asshole.

And when it did finally come time to give as good as he got, Owen rammed his dick up inside the man without giving it some lube first and without preparing him for all those extra inches his own now soft and shriveled-back cock could give. And when he did shoot his load and fill up the rubber deep inside the man's fuck hole, he didn't wait to ask the man if he wanted the jizz inside. He just grabbed the head in a neck-lock and forced the fucker to suck out the cum from the rubber and to thank him for feeding him his spunk, which he was more than happy to do. And once he had soaked the man with his recycled beer piss and made him swallow some as well, he made the cop suck on his own piss-soaked boots while Sylvie watched her lover be degraded, which only made her put her carefully manicured fingers up inside her hole and achieve orgasm as she watched Owen make mincemeat out of her small-dicked lover. Seeing him being abused like that was a major rush for her. She knew that she didn't really love her once-a-year policeman lover, just his body and his small cock and how he let her realize all her fantasies, including fucking him with a dildo.

And even once Owen was dressed and was ready to head home, 'cause there was no way that he was going to sleep with the two of them as if it were the most normal thing to wake up in the morning with your ass hurting because a cop had gotten his dick up inside it, there was still something that needed to be said to him. That was when the cop had told him how he had met Sylvie five years ago when she was still a man and how he had given her the money that was needed for the surgery to turn her into a woman and how it was him who had first gotten the idea of how hot she would look with all those tattoos on her tits and newly created snatch while his body remained as blank a canvas as when it first appeared into the world.

But by then Owen was too numb to take in the fact that he had been fucking a woman who used to be a man. And for all he knew the cop might actually be a man who used to be a woman, which would explain why he had such a small dick. And somehow, none of that was all that important, because what had happened in that room was something he would have to quickly place into perspective in his own mind if he was to understand who he really was beneath the obviously well honed exterior. He would have to ask himself just how much of it had been done out of fear of Sylvie's policeman lover, how much of it was done out of drunkenness, and how much of it had been done because when you got right down to it, sex was sex, no matter who it was being performed with? And as Owen thought back on the day's events, one other thought came into his head. How much of what had happened had been precipitated by his meeting up with Hopping John? Was the foul smelling packet still stuck in his pants pocket some kind of a love-potion that was the cause of his being there in that hotel room with two people not even the fortune tellers along Jackson Square could have imagined him having sex with?

Part of Owen did not really want an answer. It was not only faded Southern belles who sought out self-delusion. He too could think about things like his sexuality tomorrow. And so he said goodbye politely to Sylvie, almost scared to add an expected kiss now that he knew that her cheek once grew stubble like his own. He held his hand out to Sylvie's policeman lover, but instead of returning the offer to shake it, the cop wrapped his arms around Owen in a crushing bear-hug, then plunged his tongue back into Owen's mouth. And Owen had to admit that it had felt good, and for a second he had thought that he would ask them if it was all right if he stayed the night which was really the next day. But he knew that the cop also lived in New Orleans and there was always the possibility that they could meet again, which made Owen want to laugh because a couple of hours earlier he could never have imagined himself wanting to meet, let alone meet up again, with another man to have sex with. And as he separated from the man and walked out of the hotel room, past the pool and past the lobby with its still-grinning concierge, Owen figured that what had happened back there in the room was just one more Mardi Gras experience he might have to keep to himself, maybe even for the rest of his life. But he wasn't completely sure.

And later that day the cop would also get to wear the strap-on, not the least bit ashamed that it was the only way Sylvie would get more than five inches inside her with him on top. He knew just how hot he was, just as Owen knew it of himself as well, and that for some seeing all that muscular bulk with so little dick meat was a kind of turn-on unto itself. Knowing that suited him just fine 'cause now and then he needed to be told how puny it was and that a man like him had no other choice but to make his butt the center of attention instead. That made his choosing that course of action seem like the most logical thing in the world to do, just like choosing to fuck only once a year with a man turned woman made complete sense when he considered that even he, now turned she, had a bigger dick then he did, well, not now, but certainly when he had met her . . . him.

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A New Orleans State of Mind. By Max E. Verga. The introduction to The City That Care Forgot.