Dark Mouth




By Perry Brass


(Perry writes per introduction: This is one of my favorites of the “Smoky George” stories that appeared in what I and other writers have called “The Golden Age of Gay Porn.” There is something about it that is both smoking hot and poignant at the same time. When I first started writing gay stories, some editors actually rejected this idea completely—that you could have both in a story: it could be both overtly sexual and deeply emotionally felt. John Devere, a gay editor at an early  magazine called, of all things, “Dilettante” that was a forerunner of “Honcho,” rejected a story of mine because it combined he said, “Victorian feelings and sex.” He told me, “You can’t do those kind of things. I know, I have a PhD in literature from Yale.” I guess that nailed it. But Lou Thomas, one of my favorite editors, at “FirstHand” magazine, loved doing this, and he thought “Dark Mouth” was one of his favorite stories for that reason. He used to joke with me, “Write me another ‘Dark Mouth,’  I want to see another story like it.” So of course I did do it again, and he continued to love them.)




    I know it was a strange situation: I'd meet Leeland every second Wednesday, around seven, at the baths. He'd come in from New Jersey, where he lived in Summit with his wife, whose name I'd never learned—or for that matter ever wanted to—and his kids, Jeff and Sally. He'd talk about the kids, but never about his wife. He was a strapping, fairly big guy, going just slightly—the kind of slightly I frankly like—to seed. That is, his stomach, which had been tight as a hardball, was getting a slight amount of gut to it; but the rest was hard. Even his hair was hard. It was hard, blond-orangy hair, kind of like the fur certain calico cats have, and it sprouted thick on top of his thirty-five-year-old head, and then covered his chest in thick, swirling patterns, the very memory of which makes me horny enough to want to start everything all over again.
    The orangy hair tapered down in a regular "V" from his hard, almost pointy tits (that my teeth had gnawed to rawness during several Wednesdays), then pointed directly to his hard "outy" navel. The hair spread out again around his thick uncut wang, then brushed out from his large balls, and followed the deep orange crack of his ass, until it delta-ed out all over his ass-cheeks. His ass-cheeks were furry with cat-orange hair. His back had almost none on it, and his shoulders had a slight dusting on them.


    He was the kind of man that queens would not find pretty. That is, to be more precise, I could not imagine Leeland's face and fanny in some spread in one of those Condé Naste magazines where the models have washboard stomachs and washboard faces to match. Leeland was real looking. His bottom lip was hard and still stuck out. His nose had a large bump on it, and he had a scar on his forehead from jumping into the ocean at Asbury Park and hitting some concrete that shouldn't have been there. This would not have happened on Fire Island or at Canne. But at Asbury Park, you couldn't always tell where the concrete was. His face and body had stories in them. He reminded me of a mountain that I wanted to climb. Once I got up there, I'd want to stick my dick in between certain warm rocks.

A kind of heat you can't get with a boyfriend.

    I did manage to stick my dick into him as much as possible. He liked to get fucked—an attraction he could not get from his wife—and that was part of the reason for our Wednesdays. He felt it was safer just to see one guy and the baths were a fairly safe place to do it. He did not want to come to my place. He did not want to get that involved with me, although I would have liked it—I think I would have liked it. Maybe a little bird tells me that it would have been smarter not to. My place, and I know I would have started making demands. Demands he couldn't have met. I'd met him at the baths, and we'd had one of those explosive, no-holds-barred sex scenes that make "promiscuity" its own reward. A kind of heat you can't get with a boyfriend. But any fool would get the idea that he did want to repeat it. So, afterwards, I offered him my phone number. He took it and called me a few days later. He said he could never see me at my house, so we set the Wednesdays evenings when he must have made some excuse to his wife about something to do in the City.
    At first, I wondered why he couldn't come to my place. I was living in Hell's Kitchen, in the West 50's, and he worked—so he told me—at least several times a week in the Broadway area, a couple of blocks away, in a new office building, when his company sent him into Manhattan. He made enough money to afford a hotel room, but to tell you the truth, I knew nothing about sneaking around. Wives have a way of going over your bills, so that might have shown up. But on the other hand, I think part of the come-on was keeping it at the baths—with all the sex going on around him. No hotel could compete with that. The sounds, the smells—even the air itself steamy and full of sex smells, like male asshole, shower soap, spray Lysol, poppers. For many men, that's a turn-on in itself. If you ever want to make a million dollars, just bottle a cologne called—well, you can call it whatever you want, but put in it the smell of male asshole, spray Lysol, shower soap, and stale poppers. I know I'll buy it and probably half of New Jersey will, too.
    The first Wednesday we got together was kind of a tryout. We tried almost everything out. I must have rimmed him for about an hour. He loved it. He loved to talk dirty, while I worked my tongue through his gorgeous asshole. Sometimes I'd bite on the chunks of orange hair down there, then I'd suck on them, lick them, get them in my teeth, and then start all over again, just bearing my tongue down on in there.
    He'd play with his own tits, twist them and pull them a bit, but he'd try not to beat his meat. The idea was that this was just a preliminary. Of course he got his fire engine hot, and after a while I'd get up and feel his nuts and the length of his shaft. They were all fever warm, trigger hot. Finally, I'd stick on a rubber and fuck him, while he called me "Fuckhead" and his "Asshole Eater." He told me these were two of his favorite words, but he couldn't use them in Summit. I think there were traffic rules against them: maybe they'd stop traffic.
    The next couple of Wednesdays ran the same way. We'd meet at the baths. We'd get off on the idea that we'd actually planned to meet there. In effect, we were doing something "private," while everybody else outside the room—so we wanted to believe—was fucking and sucking more or less publicly.
    Leeland was extremely hot, and frankly I think that almost anything I did to get him off would have worked. He had a real effect on me though. It made me bypass my usual reserve with guys and go directly into action. Maybe it was just his animal quality: the low, grunt noises he made; the words he used. I wondered how I'd been fortunate enough to find him, just by accident, and then was fortunate to get him back every other week.
    Sometimes—I guess this is inevitable—I wondered if he ever "cheated" on me. It seems hard even to think about possessiveness in a situation like this, but possessiveness seems to be a human characteristic, so I know I had it, too. You can seriously try, but like sex, possessiveness is hard to get out of your system. So I wondered if he ever arrived early, just to trick around before the main event happened. (I did know that he left about 8:30 to get back to Summit and whatever her name was.) But I did wonder if he was that hot for other guys as well. I mean, it seemed hard to believe that he was just saving it up for me, twice a month. His wife might have been getting something, but we never, ever talked about that. I was curious though, and I wondered if he had a similar arrangement with some one else, maybe on a different day, maybe even at a different bath.
    My curiosity finally got the better of me. That was about three months after we met, and I'd been thinking about Leeland a lot. I was starting to look forward more and more to those Wednesdays when we'd meet. So—let me just say out of sheer curiosity—our next Wednesday, I arrived earlier at the baths. I dashed for the steam room, hoping to see his orangy ass there, hoping to see it cutting through the hot vapors filled with guys on their knees and elbows, getting blown or fucked right after work. For some reason, 5:30 was always Get-Down-And-Do-It time in the steam room. I guess after being good all day, life must reserve some rewards.
    I didn't see Leeland at all. Not a single orange hair of him. Instead, a slim, dark-headed, very Latino trick started coming on to me. His skin was silk smooth. He was shorter than me, but had a very hard chest and hard dick to go with it. His mouth though was a real miracle. It rolled all over my body, like a lubricated rubber ball, working its way into my sweat-soaked armpits, down my sides, and then around to my hard cock, which was panting and jerking with a force of its own, like my dick itself was breathing. My cock kept jerking up and down. There was no way I could hide that. I know much of this was because I was excited with the idea of seeing Leeland, here, in this sweat-soaked atmosphere. If I had caught Leeland in the steam room, red-handed, with a cock up his ass, I decided that I was going to suck his brains out right there.
    Finally, "Ricardo" (my name for him) took my full meat in his mouth. I let him have it for a few hot seconds, but I knew that if I didn't get the hell out of there, in a minute I'd be drained and I didn't want to be that way for Leeland.

"You asshole shithead!"

    I shook myself loose of him. He was very attractive, dark, romantic. Alright, I admit sometimes I go south of all borders myself, but I knew then that I had to shower off and go back to my room, the room number that Leeland and I always arranged to meet in.
    About ten minutes later, I was in the room, when I heard two knocks on the door. That was our signal. Two knocks, then two more. I got out of bed—with my pecker stuck out like a flag pole—and met him.
    "Looks like you're ready," he said to me, with a broad, very approving smile on his face. Suddenly I felt—just looking at Leeland in the hazy, greenish light from the opened door of the room—that there was something almost mystical about him. He was so hot, so exciting to me, with his coarse, blond-orange hair and his rough looks. I think I could have just touched his body any place and gotten off. Maybe I was just primed too much from those few hot moments in the steam. But I felt like all my wires were out, and the electricity in the room when Leeland walked in could singe the hair off an orange cat.
    "I'm ready," I told him. I took him into my arms and snapped the towel he wore—which just made it around his gut—off. He shut the door. For a moment, we were in total darkness while his hands scrambled all over me, and I could tell how hot he was, too. It was the kind of heat men who want men but have to wait for it feel. He suddenly tripped me with a quick, but not viscious, knee to my balls, and I flipped back on the bed, and he dove into me, biting and eating me, rutting like a pig at my tits, navel, and arm pits.
    His mouth slurped all over me. I loved it. While he buried his face in my left pit, he kept saying, "You asshole shithead, you asshole shithead." I grabbed his thick, orangy hair and ran my fingers through it. Then I grabbed a handful of it, close to his scalp, and pushed his head down to my crotch so that I could stick my dick into his hair. The orange hairs prickled the head of my cock, like pure electrical sparks. His tongue took one of my balls and licked at it.
    "Fuck you, shithead," he started saying. "Don't stick your dick in my hair. Stick it in my mouth, or up my ass."
    I laughed and told him not yet. I knew I wasn't going to last more than a second if I tried to fuck him right then. I was too hot, too hot for my own good, maybe. My eyes were getting adjusted to the light, and frankly, I was getting more adjusted to just being hot there with him. It was a steady, ball-burning heat, and I didn't want to—I didn't even think I could, I was that hot—just get off right then, and go into the showers and start soaping what was left from his dick off me. I was hot and I wanted to coast on it. I wanted to fly around on it for a while more.
    I wouldn't let him have my pecker, so he started rimming out my navel, which I love. There's a certain place, just above and then slightly below my bellybutton, that gets extremely excited, and his tongue and teeth started working on both places. I wouldn't let him get to my cock though. I held it back every time he grabbed for it. He swore at me, and started spanking my ass hard. Everytime he spanked me, I felt the light in the small cubicle flash in a different way. It was as if different, faint colors were coming out of it. I could also hear noises come in from outside; voices, but sometimes I thought I was hearing my own voice. It was like my brain, after heating up so much, was going into another channel. Perhaps it was just opening up to a new dimension that I had never experienced before. My body started to react, my muscles started jerking, while he found my tits again with his mouth, and rubbed his five o' clock orange shadow over my nipples and chest.
    I knew I had to do something. I grabbed his hair again by his scalp, and pulled him up to me and pushed my mouth all the way into his mouth, like I was feeding him my whole head and face. I wanted him to swallow all of my teeth, my tongue, and lips. We rolled around on the narrow bed, and ended up on the floor. I knew we were on the floor because my head hit it with a hard bounce. The pain suddenly felt almost good. It brought me back—slightly at least—to some reality. I kept wondering why this Wednesday was so different from the others, why Leeland was so hot, so urgent.
    He sat up for a moment, and leaned, dazed, against the mattress. I threw my head back and looked up at the ceiling, which seemed so far up above me as to be the sky. Usually, I didn't allow myself to think much when I was with a trick. It made things stickier. Leeland's life was his own business. But suddenly—maybe it was just the breather that I needed—I started to wonder what Leeland did the rest of the week. I knew that there was a certain button somewhere inside of me that allowed me to surrender most—if not all—of myself. Some men knew where that button was. I think every man has one; although some men keep it so hidden that no one can ever get to it and they complain the rest of their lives about that. Well, Leeland was pressing mine today.
    "You really are a piece of shit," he said and smiled at me.
    "Thanks," I said. "I think the same of you." I had no idea what he was saying. He had that way of talking to me, and I liked it. He got up and then lowered his cock, which was swollen and very fat, in front of me; aimed it right at me. "If I can't have your dick, you're going to have mine," he said. I wasn't going to fight that. His foreskin was heavy, with a lot of overhang. The head of his dick rarely poked through. Sometimes he'd skin the overflap back, and sometimes not. This time he didn't.
    He squatted down and fed it to me, into my face. My tongue went out to his foreskin, then my mouth took in a good part of the first four or five inches of his meat. Soon I relaxed my throat, and he pushed his plug all the way down. I loved the way it filled my mouth up and I wanted to get it so far down into my throat that I could run my lips up his balls while he was down in me. He started fucking my face, and then grabbed my dick and started playing with it. He licked his hands slowly and rubbed the smouldering head of my dick against the spit in his palms.
    He mouth-fucked me until I started gagging. I realized I might choke from his dick, which was now a lot thicker and fatter, but I couldn't stop either him or myself. I managed to take some air in. My eyes started tearing, and he pulled out for a moment, dragging with his cock a whole column of air, as if he was pulling it right out of my stomach. His meat had swollen a good bit, and the veins stood thick on it, like the veins on a man's arm after a workout.
    "Dark mouth," he said. "Dark mouth. My dark mouth."
    I nodded my head. "I want the rest," I told him. He told me not to worry. I'd get it. He stood up for a second and then shook his dick over me. I was still lying on the floor of the cubicle. I wondered what he was doing, till I felt a warm stream of piss on my sweaty stomach.
    "You shitass," I said. I didn't want to be pissed on. I was not into piss. Then he put his large, rough foot on my chest and started to rub the piss into me with the palm of his heel. Suddenly, like the electricity was turned back on, I got turned on again, and started to take his foot into my mouth.

Jesus, if I fell in love with this guy.

    I was working over his foot, then I looked up. He had pinched off the tip of his foreskin. It was filling up with piss like a balloon. It started to look transparent, and I could see a network of purple and silver veins through it. It made his dick look tremendous, and transformed him in my mind into another, alien animal presence. I lost control of myself. I pulled him down to my mouth level and started to gobble his whole cock into my mouth. He dumped about a pint of hot piss down my throat and I continued sucking him, so that he kept his hard-on. He fucked me in the head some more, and I met each of his strokes, while he began to beat my meat. A few strokes later, he shot his thick egg-juice down me. I sucked it, swirling it around my mouth, down into my throat, and deeper into me. I came at the same time, exploding all over the floor of the room.
    It took me a while to regain any form of balance. I felt like I'd been swimming out to sea with Leeland, and we finally hit land. Leeland got up and lay on the bed, and then lit one of my cigarettes. There were a lot of things I wanted to say to him, but I felt funny about saying any of them. I felt like I'd just been on a journey through several large but unexplored rooms in my own house: rooms I'd never gone into before. I hadn't let go like that in a long time; perhaps ever. While I knew that Leeland could tell just how much he turned me on, I thought to myself: Jesus, if I fell in love with this guy, it would be different. It would be, in fact, too difficult for me to deal with. It scared the hell out of me. But I knew this wasn't love; this was something I couldn't even name. The only thing I could say was that ... it was different.
    "I'm going to have to go," he said. I tried to smile.
    "A week from Wednesday?" I asked.
    "No," he said. He closed his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not going to get to see you anymore. My company is transferring me to the Midwest. Indiana. Can you believe? What rotten shit luck. It'll make the kids happy though. We told them they'll get a big house with a great big yard now."
    I swallowed for a second. I realized I should look at him, because I wouldn't get to see him again. I looked at his eyes, that I could barely see in the dim light; his craggy face. "Good luck," I said.
    He smiled and then knelt down next to me. He put his big hand through my hair. "Goodbye," he whispered. "Goodbye, dark mouth."



Perry Brass’s 19 books include fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and short stories. His work often deals with the intense, heartfelt feelings of men and women that came from his radical roots in New York’s Gay Liberation Front directly after the Stonewall Uprising. He is a founding coordinator of the Rainbow Book Fair. More info: www.perrybrass.com

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