Polish Sausage

The two bedroom apartment across the hall changed tenants every few months, each more objectionable than the last. They all escaped in the middle of the night, their tattered sofas galumphing down the hall stairs, sticking it to our rotund, patrician landlady, Mrs. Ponderview. It was a stylish, pre-war building, white brick, three stories, with six roomy apartments and a laundry room in the basement.

Then the Polish men moved in; there were two of them, then four, then it looked like twenty. The hall smelled of boiled potatoes, cigarettes, cabbage, old socks and testosterone. Every morning at dawn, they piled onto the back of a dusty pickup truck, dressed in khaki coveralls and work boots. The same truck dropped them off after 6 p.m. Sometimes I caught glimpses of them through their briefly opened door, stripped down to their underwear, padding around in bare feet, holding bottles of vodka and smoking cigarettes. Some of them were lean, some beefy and they all had sad, jittery eyes. On weekend nights, they had a few dumpy women guests and they would all share boiled kielbasa and cabbage dinners and drink bottle after bottle of vodka. Somebody would take out a guitar and eventually, they would begin to sing boisterous and sad Polish songs, their booming voices laced with melancholy and longing for home.

I was coming home from a boring party one Saturday night after midnight. It was a bunch of male couples being domestic and bitchy to each other and it wasn’t for me. I’d split up with my last boyfriend a few months before and I was trying to get back in action. My squeeze and I parted agreeably enough after five years. He was a nice guy who taught modern dance at a local college. His magnificent ass kept our relationship going: I loved to eat it and fuck it. And his joyous squeaking when I pounded him made me wonder if some top could make me feel the same way. The relationship just ran out of steam. I think he had the hots for one of his students and I was, if I may be honest, bored, and just couldn’t see a future with him. Now I was forty and looking for new ways to get laid. I was waiting for the right door to open.

That Saturday night I heard the Polish men singing as I walked up the street. The noise never bothered me, instead, I found it touching. As I walked up the stairs to my apartment, I saw one of them, the tallest, best-looking one, dancing on the landing. He wore only briefs and had a lampshade on his head. He was in his thirties, lean, wiry and muscular. He reminded me of a statue I saw in Greece of Antinuous, the beautiful lad who had been Emperor Hadrian’s lover. Except this guy had arms and a bulge in his white briefs. The sound of Louis Armstrong singing “Hello Dolly” blasted from the apartment. I stopped and watched him dance and sing along, drunkenly, clumsily, the lampshade blocking his view of me. He vamped playing the trumpet and was cheered on by his friends through the apartment’s open door. He did a spin and the lampshade fell off.

Stooping to retrieve it, he spotted me on the landing. I looked into his long, haunted face with its delicate snout, like a Borzoi. He had soft, crooked lips and moist, glazed, hazel eyes. He gave me a little smile and a shrug and went back into the apartment. I watched him walk toward his cheering, half-naked friends and admired his muscled back and firm, round ass before he closed the door.

I listened to them laugh and sing through the walls. Back in their little towns in Poland, they grew up listening to American pop music and Louis’ recording of “Hello Dolly” swept over the world. I’m sure it seeped into their Carpathian Mountain villages where working stiffs with limited prospects heard his exuberance and dreamed that America was just like the spirit in Louis’ voice. What a shock for them to discover that not only was he long dead, but the America he sang about went with him. Stranded from the familiar discomforts of their old world and struggling with the unfamiliar harshness of this new world, they were shaky but plucky and I admired their nerve. I decided that I wanted to know them or at least their ringleader.

I got my chance the next morning. I heard the flat, Waspy voice of Mrs. Ponderview, her clanging monotone filling up the hall. Her voice was met by a small chorus of hushed male voices. I opened my door and saw her wide rear end filling the doorway of the Polish apartment. The rent was two weeks late, she said and what were they going to do about it?

Three of the Poles were trying to understand what she was saying and answer her. The dancing one seemed to be the leader. The men looked rumpled and hung over, wincing at the sight and sound of Mrs. Ponderview. I understood that the leader’s name was Casimir.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Ponderview liked me. I’d lived there for five years and always paid my rent on time.

“They’re behind in their rent and I want to know what they are going to do about it!” she huffed.

Casmir’s moist hazel eyes sought mine for help. I smiled and shrugged, which made him smile.

“Let me see what I can do,” I said. “Why don’t we settle at my place instead of doing this in public?”

I opened my door and invited Casimir and Ponderview in. I made coffee, trying to show them both that there was a civilized, friendly, All-American way to do things. Somehow, with a combination of broken English and Polish with a detour through Spanish, we established that the check had gone out last week. Casimir was able to produce a checkbook with the rent check entered. Ponderview sniffed and waddled out, appeased. I offered Casimir more coffee and asked him to sit on the couch. He apologized for his appearance, a worn tee shirt, grubby jeans and bare feet. I smiled appreciatively and said he looked fine, just fine.

We sat side by side on the couch, sipping coffee and tried to make conversation. We hit a roadblock but our eyes were on the same frequency. I took a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, showed it to him, his face brightened and we laced our coffees with it. I was brazenly admiring him and he knew it. He liked it and began to spread out on the couch, propping one big, bare, eloquent foot on the coffee table, spreading his legs so that I could make out the long, stirring curve of his cock in his worn jeans.

“We noise too much make?” he asked, scratching his big balls.

“Doesn’t bother me. I like it when you sing.”

“Ah, yes!” he laughed, “Wodka makes our voices big!”

“Do you like America?”

“Is very difficult thus far,” he said. He was thinking about something he couldn’t make clear. He took the bottle of vodka and poured more into his empty cup.

I was trying to think of something else to say. This was the point when I should put my hand on his knee or kiss his foot or something. Our eyes met and his were no longer moist and sad, they were darker and focused and seemed to say, “Well?”

I took in the rest of him, his craggy, wind burnt face and long, strong neck. My eyes trailed down the length of him, the outline of muscles against his tee shirt, his sinewy arms and large callused hands. I noticed that the button was undone at the top of his jeans. His cock had gotten hard and was shifting inside them. I was expecting to make long, slow romantic overtures over the course of time, eventually seducing this straight laborer against his will. Now I was stumped.

“What do you want, hug and kisses?” he asked in a new, steely voice. “I want you to suck me.”

I fell onto him, kissing his neck, pulling at his shirt. He pulled it off in one stroke and I ran my hand across the articulated stone of his chest and started kissing his salty nipples. He pushed my head down into his lap and commanded, “You suck!”

His cock felt like titanium through the denim and I ran my hungry lips across its hot, pulsing outline. I started to pull down his crusty jeans but he lifted his ass and yanked them off. His pink, uncut tool was standing at attention, all eight inches, challenging me to do something about it.

I was on my knees with my head at his sizzling center. He grabbed my ears and pulled me toward his cock and then up over it. He pushed my head down hard so that his fat piece of salty kielbasa hit the back of my throat. I gagged.

“Do good!” he commanded. Yes sir!

I smelled the history of his work day in his steaming crotch, sweat, piss, ass, funk, all swampy and delicious. I cupped his full tight balls and started slowly, rhythmically sucking him, letting him know that I was no cheap five dollar hooker but a seasoned and hungry gay man who was worshipping his magnificent, ripe piece. I tasted a tangy blurt of jizz.

He grabbed my ears again and yanked my head up. Ow! He pressed my face against his stiff cock and full balls. Up close his pubic hair was reddish blond and silky. I closed my eyes and felt the steady thrum of his savory tool as he guided it along my face, over my eyebrows and then across my lips, leaving a string of pre cum. I licked up his juice and imagined the hundreds of Polish babies stored there, all boys.

My tongue made one salty pass around his big balls, then another…and another. He groaned and I took his clenched balls into my mouth. I heard grunting and couldn’t tell if it was him or me. It was both of us. He took my ears again and yanked my head back. I opened my mouth, my tongue hanging out. He slowed everything down and we were now in the in the same rhythm. He poised his meat on the tip of my tongue, its steady pulse oozing sweet cream. My hands reach out and cupped his granite haunches. I pull him toward me, my lips working his thick, uncut cock head, drawing it deeper into my mouth until it was stuffed with all of his musky man essence. My nose was buried deep in his pungent, rosy pubes. I closed my eyes and imagined staying like this for a very long time. I felt the man juice rumble in his balls.

“Fuck!” Casimir shouted. I thought it was just the heat of the moment but he pulled me up and turned me around. I tried to follow his lead but I didn’t know what he wanted. He pushed aside the coffee table and pushed me back down on my knees. He turned me around and pulled my pants down over my ass in one fierce move. The band of my briefs got stuck on my rigid cock, then sprang free. He grabbed it with a callused hand and gave it one painful squeeze, then he grabbed my scrunched nuts and squeezed them. His firm hands cupped my ass cheeks and one rough finger found my fuckhole. It pried its way in and rooted around. I saw stars and then more stars when he yanked it out. His big, scratchy paws separated my butt cheeks and then he leaned forward and spit on my hole. It sizzled. I felt his stiff rod poke at my exposed fuckhole.

Take it slow, I wanted to say, but before I did he shoved his meat deep into me and started pumping.

I had to learn how to take it—quick. I whimpered quietly and concentrated on this new, painful sensation. Hmmm. Not all pain is bad.

My ass was wrapped tight around him. There didn't seem to be much further he could go. Wrong. He put his hand on the small of my back and pushed my body down on the floor and shoved his hefty cock all the way inside me. My ears started to ring and little lights twinkled around my eyes.

He mounted me like I was a rodeo bull. And with my pants wrapped around my ankles I was lassoed too.

My tool was pressed against the Persian rug, leaving new jizz patterns on it. With Casimir’s big stone prick pulsing inside me, I felt the exhilarating squeak of skin on skin as he burrowed his way into my steamy center.

“Tak! Tak! Tak!” he shouted. Huh? I hoped it was a good thing.

Ow! Ow! Ow! I wanted to say but could only groan.

I felt pinned and helpless and it wasn’t a bad feeling. My ass was getting thoroughly and magnificently pounded by a hot man who oozed testosterone from every pore. He pulled my hips up so he could dig in deeper and bring his hot kielbasa all the way home. I figured he was aiming for my tonsils. My ass opened and rose to meet his thrusts while my own cock drooled continuously in one oozing, continuous orgasm.

“Tak! Tak! Tak!”

I was making sounds too, grunting and squealing like the happy, stuck pig I was.

I couldn’t take much more. I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t remember what he looked like or if he even had a head. All I cared about was the stiff, rosy Polish pole plunged deep inside of me.

He pulled my shirt up and spit on my back. I don’t know why but it turned me on even more and from deep inside my ass, I felt a twitching, sputtering sensation, like I was going to explode. My cock arced and shot big glops of jizz into the air that plopped onto the carpet. Who cares? I’ll get a new one.

He felt my ass tense up and I felt his meat swell as it spurt hot juice deep into my ass.

“Tak! Tak! Tak!” he shouted. So it was a good thing.

I was in a dreamy, cum-drenched trance. I dreamed that I would raise our son, little Casimir, Junior, as a single dad.

Casimir Senior plopped on top of me and we both collapsed onto the carpet. We lay like that for awhile as his sausage softened and eased out of me. Now it felt wrong NOT to have him inside of me.

I fell asleep and he did too. His handsome head rested on my back, drooling and snorting. The sun had set and the living room was dark, with only street light seeping in. After a while I felt him stir. He kissed the back of my head, patted my ass and then stood up. I heard his big, bare feet pad to the door. I looked up and saw his lean frame silhouetted against the door as he stepped out into the hall. I struggled to stand but my pants around my ankles stopped me.

Goodbye, Come Back or I Love You! I wanted to shout but I lay back down again and fell happily asleep on my jizz-soaked rug.