Watchers

What's wrong?

"Your Cat".

"Huh?"

"Your cat, he's watching us."

"So what."

"Well, isn't that kinda, you know, creepy?"

"No, he watches when I take a shit, add oil to the car, mow the lawn....this is just one more thing and he's probably bored as he's seen me do this before."

Mercifully there was a silence while I worked at getting an oversize dildo up his butt while easily stroking his cock. I was getting no where simply because my cat was lounging on a bed side table taking a moderate interest in what his lord and master was up to this time.
I popped out the dildo. "I can't compete with my own cat. Look at him or look  at me but not both. Am I clear on that point?"
To fine tune what I'd just said, I stuck the dildo and my nicely stiff cock in at the same time. He was diverted.

"Uhm....feels good. Wish we had a real other person for a real double fuck."
My hard on went soft on me.
"Sorry, next time I'll have another guy, maybe three and we can double even triple fuck you. Think you could take that?"
He squirmed with anticipated pleasure at the thought.
I always like to keep things I may need handy so I quietly fumbled in a drawer, under the cat, and swiftly he found himself handcuffed and gagged, the sort that's made like a cock. Also the cuffs were custom made, six inches wide and had holes all about them in which your could screw sharp pointed items. Or just screws that go  down until the bones in the wrist almost break. 

Somewhere hundreds, maybe thousands of men and, who knew, women were watching me and my recalcitrant partner. Finding ordinary work well, ordinary, I found out how to become an online porn star. As it turned out, I was good at it and rather more quickly than I supposed might happen, I had what I'd loosely call a "following"; I'd done everything to cultivate this. Just good looking enough, I was a faithful gym attendee but not to the point that I looked like animated muscles, but rather like the guy you see and envy who's in "really good shape". I was working on a tattoo sleeve on my left arm and encouraged my viewers to make comments or suggestions as to what they'd like to see. Keeping a sort of correspondence with them made them feel closer to me and allowed them to imagine that they were me. I was no kid, rather about 33 which was the median age of my viewers. Hair cut the way they'd cut their hair if they dropped into the neighbor barber shop, pierced ears and something about me made others think I'd won more than one street fight. Not true but who cares? I had it set up to cater, or perhaps pander is a better word, to their imaginations increasing their pleasure as viewers and one off "buddies".

Finding guys to fuck, really do to them whatever I felt like doing, was easy, just a matter of hanging around places where you were likely to meet men who wanted a good fuck. Not the bars, but looking as I did, and dressed as I was, it didn't take much to attract a potential partner. This was no casual "hi, lets go get naked and fuck each other", meeting them was step one. Step two through four or five was a form of dating but with no intention of anything permanent. Also, I needed to know a few things about them, things I wanted to know in advance to avoid any sort of surprise when we were on the air.  Just as I'd developed a biography about them, I had one of my own, completely false but had verisimilitude all over it. 

Here's part of it.

For the consumer, I was born in Casper, Wyoming, one parent deceased, the other an  attorney. Went to University of Wyoming, played varsity foot ball there. Out of college got a job in the oil fields. Broke my leg and that ended being a rough neck in the oil business-which paid far better than any job I could get with a degree in computer science. Yeah, everyone thinks that's a magic bullet but, in Wyoming, it wasn't. Does this all sound believable? No one ever challenged it. 

I had actually been to Casper and played football at the University in Laramie but for another school. Part of my wardrobe were a pair of Wyoming T shirts and another Tank top both featuring the Cowboys plus a sleeveless hoodie with the cowboy emblem on the back. Go! Cowboys! It was in actuality a very fine school that I'd considered but....Laramie offered everything and less than I wanted  I stuck with the PAC12. 

It never occurred to me that I was anything but gay and, from early on, was approached by men all the time. It didn't take much thinking, and spending a few hours on the computer reviewing gay sites, to realize there was money to be made. My actual degree was in Psychology and I did put it to good use figuring out how to sell myself and appeal to other men. I was non-threatening, a good guy with a good build and reasonably good looks. Nothing overstressed, just like them, or the them they hoped they were. Between the gym and being on the air plus my recruiting, my days were full. The cameras were always on and if I happened to be home and in that room plus my bathroom, I was on the air. The place was stuffed with cameras and  microphones so all I had to do was talk and they could hear and see me clearly. Sometimes in just a jock I'd do stretching exercises and calisthenics inviting whoever was watching to join me. 

I was very careful not to reveal in any way where I was or any real information about me. No phone numbers, it was all done on a computer. If, say, they wanted to drop out, there as a button to push and then certify. You would be notified that if you were less than ten days from the next billing cycle, you  would receive one last deduction. It was all on auto pay from a bank or a credit card. There was a place where you could make comments about the site but an even larger one devoted to my guys to write in their questions or comments and, as often as possible, I'd answer as many as I could, particularly those that were vulgar or represented an often asked question. It was also a good place to begin to notice if someone was getting too interested in a way that could lead to problems. Their membership was quietly dropped with no explanation.

My "studio" was my own bedroom. King size bed, always with fresh sheets-which my viewers got to watch me change. The audience knew where certain toys, tie downs and hooks were and occasionally I'd look at a camera and wink when I was going to something my partner for the evening wasn't expecting. 

I'd taken the time and the courses to learn Shibari, the Japanese rope tying art and used it on occasion. Knowing how to tie guys up was helpful even if I didn't bother with the elegance that is the essence of Shibari. It was a large room, for the big bed, and looked like a guys room. Some posters, closets, bureaus, the stuff we all have in our rooms. A stack of magazines, whatever drifted in and out as the days went on. And, of course, my cat. He had a door in the bedroom door so when the grunts and groans grew annoying, he was out the door and to a quieter place.

The beauty of it was I had to do nothing much more than live my life. My audience didn't seem to notice, much like audiences in the 50's and 60's television, that I didn't seem to have any sort of gainful employment, just lived life for them on the air in their secret places where they watched me and wished they could live like that. And, vicariously, they did.

My site was different in that whatever I was doing, they were involved. Did I clean a closet? They watched. Vacuuming? Same. Sleeping-the room was carefully lit so I was completely visible at night; If I popped a woody and, in my sleep, my hands worked on it, they saw it all. To add a modest viewer interest, some nights I wore boxers other nights a jock and, of course, nothing.

 Ditto in the bathroom. Standing there, a jock pulled down, taking a piss, there it was in glorious color. Shaving, shitting, showering (there was a clear glass door)-also with cameras and microphones-they were with me. In short, what seemed like my whole life was on the internet 24/7. That's what they thought.

In fact, I  lived in a very nice two story house, big rooms, comfortably decorated, pool and half basketball court outside next to the three car garage. I had friends who came by for a meal, poker, swim, whatever and they never knew that when they went to my room to use the bathroom, they did so in public. In some cases, they became minor characters in that I'd get requests for the guy with red hair, or the very tall one or....you see what I mean. What that told me was that although the most ordinary of activities, or no activities at all save my cat sleeping on my bed, were occurring, they watched. Certainly I slept with some of the men with whom I did all the other things. Some because they were curious and some because they were far from curious and well acquainted with me, my body and what it could do. Did they know? Uhm uhm. Few did save me, the genius who hooked all this up-and received a very small percentage of the revenues,  my accountant.....who I sport fucked in his office  plus about five men, total exhibitionists who joined me for whatever on some sort of semi-regular schedule. No one was forced to do what they didn't want to do, fine with me. We could always find something else. It wasn't just the sex the men were watching, it was the  interaction between men. And, of course, the sex.

There's one other character who gets at least second billing, my cat Poushka. Somebody told me that meant "cat" in Russian and it may have, When I got him from the rescue shelter, he was the product of a family who locked up and moved away not bothering to do much more than to leave some water in a partially broken clay bowl outside. Some good neighbors almost immediately recognized what had happened and brought him to the shelter where I found him. Perhaps unfairly, considering my line of word, I had him neutered. It took a few days for him to realize that he wasn't going back "home" but that this was his new home. I knew I was accepted when, in the middle of the night-fortunately I was alone-he hopped up on me and licked my eyelids. If you're asleep this can be diverting to the point where you wake up and put 'em up not realizing what had happened. A friend from India said this was significant good luck although just how he was uncertain.

Poushka should have gotten a part of the take at the gate for the viewers saw as much of him as they did of me. Well behaved, about the only thing he did was worry a pillow so that it was more comfortable for him to lay on. Nutty as it sounds, he was a star in his own right. Some even wanted one of his kittens not realizing, or noticing, that wasn't possible. I always suggested that a visit to a rescue shelter could produce just what they wanted, it just wouldn't be a kitten fathered by Poushka.

Back to recruiting. I never quite knew where I'd meet my next fuckmate. Out of uniform, I didn't recognize my postal carrier until he laughed and told me that the last time he'd seen me was at my own front door clad in a jock. He was really a good fuck and, beyond that, one of those with whom I could go a lot further than someone I'd only known casually. He and I experimented with electricity, bondage, S and M, water sports.....not only did I enjoy it and him, but having someone to practice with made it not only interesting for my audience, really our audience, but I learned new things to use with other guys. Comments about him were many and positive, always wondering when he'd be back. Second on their favorites list was a red headed accountant who bore an unusual resemblance to Prince Harry-did to me as well. My well tanned hide against his almost fragile whiteness approached art in terms of color. He had long hair, usually worn in a pony tail so when I took it down and it fell on and below his waist, it excited the guys out there as well as me: Sometimes when he was tied down, I'd start a pair of clippers, put a guard on it and lay them near his head. Obviously I would never remove that cascade of beautiful red hair but.....on several occasions he went away with a shaved chest or no fur on his balls. My audience loved it and, I found, had a casual betting pool as to when I would go all the way and give him a butch cut.

It was the credit card company who first alerted me to someone they felt was making too many enquiries about me. I only accepted one card which cut down on the paperwork but also narrowed just this sort of question. However, their security department and I understood each other, they had to know what I was doing, and so when they called, although it startled me, I wasn't worried. Men had tried to track me down in all sorts of ways-I could tell because they'd ask about the years I played football at Wyoming. Following, that I called Wyoming and asked if they had any photos of the game in which I really played at Wyoming. I could, of course, name the team and the date. The nice lady at the other end laughed and said she was relieved for occasionally they'd get calls for group photos of their team from years X, Y and Z. For money, they supplied them but they'd wondered why. No one specific player was asked for, just the team. It should come as no surprise that my "stage name", Tony Jones, was not my real name. But I knew there was a small but dedicated group out there who were looking for me.

One accidental partner was a cop who worked my part of town. They had to know so that if someone was loitering-I didn't live in the sort of neighborhood in which many people who weren't known just showed up. A car going down my street too often and too slowly. Driving at night with the lights off....I first told the guy in the squad car I saw most often. Whether he was shocked or not, whether he thought I was the whore of Babylon or not, he thanked me, saying they'd keep an eye out. It was his partner, in uniform, who subsequently knocked at my door. He asked if he might come in and there no reason not to let him. Rather shyly, he said that he was a "Tony Jones" man and wondered if, he stuttered, he and I, someplace else, could.....he lost his nerve....have a cup of coffee. 

I looked at him, his shy face, the closely cropped hair, the stupid  smile and said sure then took him to my kitchen. As a fan, he knew my kitchen was never seen and therefore safe. I don't usually have coffee made-too often I and millions like me had forgotten it was in the pot on low and gradually getting rank and smelling like the ready room in an old time police movie. And, for all I knew, a contemporary police ready room. I was wearing shorts and a nondescript T shirt so it was impossible to say I was dressed to thrill. I also needed a shave and a shower. This was intentional, later, for my men, I'd do all that plus jerk off and add it to the shaving foam that I worked up in a shaving mug. Using a straight razor was another thing that rang their chimes as, occasionally, I'd casually reach down and shave my nuts. 

His name was Anton Kojweginski-I had to write that down-and he, too, was called Tony. In my real life my name was Phil so no confusion there. I almost had to put my hands on his-boulder-shoulders to make him sit down. What I could do for his nerves, I didn't know but at the rate we were going, he wasn't even going to get to pet Poushka much less me. As sometimes happens in these situations, his nerves put him on a fever pitch and he verbally vomited his reasons for being their, his adulation for Tony Jones, the nice things he did, like the animal shelter, the way he didn't disregard viewers.....and ran out of air if not more to say. I went behind him, put my hand over his mouth pressed on his neck in places which would diminish blood flow to his brain-only briefly-but it gentled him down. 

He sat there, panting and without meaning to put one hand on my crotch. To return the favor, I put one hand on his gun and another popped his cuffs and then applied them to him. While he wondered how this had gotten away from him, I poured out a mug of coffee, offering sugar and/or cream, put a glass straw in it and put it where he could drink it.
"You, I mean, I can't...be....I'm an officer." He was more startled than annoyed and I knew that. Carefully I unhooked them but, significantly left them on the table as, perhaps, a suggestion as to what the future might hold.
"Now, from the top, you're a Tony Man, you know me and you're here for a purpose. It cannot be to appear on camera; For one, I wouldn't let you and for another it could get you in all manner of trouble.

Forgetting his hands were free, he sucked his coffee through the straw. "I'm so fucking sorry, Sir, I did this all wrong and...."
"....and now what? I assume you're off duty, having a cup of coffee with a friend, you've done nothing wrong. Just ask yourself, one question, do you want to sleep with me or Tony Jones?"

He couldn't know it but he caught me at a moment of vulnerability that had been building for years. Some time earlier on the football team and then a few years after, I'd had an affair with another player that turned to love, for a while, until I got turned down; He was entering a profession where I would have been an embarrassment. End of that. In an odd way, Tony's vulnerability got to me in a way that few men had. I'd never consciously sought or wanted a replacement but......now and again a man would drift through my life who had....possibilities. 

Tony finally realized he had the use of both hands so had picked up the mug and was drinking it just like a real man. "You make good coffee....." at least it was calmly said if not the most stimulating conversation.
I nodded, smiled, folded my arms on the table and looked at him. "A question officer, for your detecting skills, are you here to meet Tony Jones upstairs or Phil here in my kitchen?"
His head sank a bit, wobbled...."I thought one thing when I arrived but now I think another. You're real, Tony isn't."
I smirked, "Well, lets not throw old Tony out with the bath water .To, I know not how many, he's very real. Would you be here if you hadn't thought, tho you'd been told, that Tony might just possibly be a little like Phil".

It was a tough question and, almost to get him out of it, Poushka appeared, jumped in his lap and put his paws on Tony's shoulder.
"Old friend of yours?"
"We know almost all the pets in the neighborhood. They know we have a treat for them, they can ride with us for a few minutes and then it's back home. The up side to this is we know where the animals are that will lick our hands and those what will rip off our pants.
There was a comment there but I resisted it.
"You know, they say if your animal likes someone, that's a good sign that you will. Ever heard that one?"
He blushed, said he hadn't and almost automatically positioned the cat in his lap and began stroking him.
"Uh, he's not going to feel his midsection raised by a wooden plank is he?"
"Oh..." and looked at me...."I mean I never...."
"I was just funnin' you. More coffee?"
I didn't wait for an answer and filled his cup.

" Loosen your tie, unbutton your shirt. You're not on duty. Want me to put on a 'Tony' jock?"
That's when it hit him, he wasn't sitting with Tony, he was sitting with me, Phil. Petting his cat, in his kitchen, just as if he were an old friend who'd dropped by. Wherever Tony was, he wasn't here. My Tony, the one in front of me, was going through a transition, did he want the man in front of him or were his imaginings too strong to cut away. "He'll always be right there, on your screen just as I'll always be here, even when I'm Tony, I'm still Phil, doing his job, you just can't be with him then anymore than I can hop in the squad car and be with you."

He was wrestling with the fantasy even as it faded into a very real person in front of him.
"I do all the things Tony does but just not on camera." I reached over, pulled his shirt from his pants and unbuttoned all his buttons including the ones on his cuffs. Quietly, "Take it off."
Almost reluctantly, he stood up, one arm at a time pulled it off and let it drop to the floor.

Holy mothufuckinshit! he was inked all the way up both arms and, there was a suggestion the rest of him might be similarly decorated. It was impossible not to stare, up and down, across his front-he was wearing a tank top undershirt-there was a mélange of color and things, some a little off putting, some wonderful but all of it beautiful done and, I could tell, carefully maintain. Without being asked, he turned and his back, what I could see of it, was equally tattooed. He pulled off his shirt. The only parts of him without color were a bit of his wrists, his hands, neck and face. 

He didn't seem ashamed, there was real pride in all this which was proper. It was a terrific job, the sort that wins awards and, oddly, once you got past the initial shock, it almost flattered him. You didn't notice the great body, the biceps, the washboard abdomen, just Tony in his ink. 

I finally gasped out, "There has to be a story."
Without saying anything he removed his shoes, socks, pants and underwear. Then I got the full glory. You hear about men who have body suits, well, here was one in my kitchen.
"Jesus"
He smiled, "Want to hear about them...?"
I just nodded my head almost as if I were a puppet having a string pulled.

But there was more. From a pocket in his pants he took a zippered bag, opened it and, one at a time, took out metal that went through him. Starting with his nose, a bull ring that went almost to his upper lip, both nipples, a chain that connected them, a large Prince Albert and underneath starting at the base of his cock, perhaps sixteen, eighteen bars that went up his dong stopping only where the Prince Albert entered his stalk.

Gracefully and in a very masculine manner, he turned to show everything. I was rapt both by what I could see and the implied story behind it.
"Could I have a beer or something."
I almost tripped over myself retrieving two of them from the fridge. He opened it, sat down, took a swig, as did I and told me.

His Dad had been one of the most respected tattoo artists, not just in Philadelphia or Pennsylvania or the United States but the whole fucking world. He had clients that came to him from Singapore to Montevideo. All of them on referral and only if the referral came from someone he knew, respected and with whom he had reciprocity. His studio was in his home, no walk ins, no signs advertising his presence, just a doorbell to be rung at a predetermined time. Dad appreciated being on time and often quoted Edward the Sixth who said, "Punctuality is the courtesy of kings." Once a client was there, the first task was to determine what they really wanted not what they thought the wanted. After that, placement. He considered biceps passe and would direct his client first to a new design, if that were needed and then to a new position. He did not do small pieces, no shamrocks, horse shoes or flowers but major things along the line of David's massive picture of Napoleon crossing the Alps.

From what I heard in his voice and saw in his face, his Dad must have been a helluva Dad. Forget what he did, Tony was well educated and in more than just school. The people his father worked on were an education in and of themselves. Had to ask, was his father as extensively covered as was he?
"Eventually, as fellow artists came to town, they'd offer to do a 'piece' and eventually he looked about like I do. He didn't have the connections but you didn't notice that. Last place he had done, same with me, were his cock and balls."
"I'd put that off, too."

For whatever reason I stood up, made him stand up and kissed him while giving him a hug. "Do you believe in suddenly things just happen?"
"Are you fucking nuts? In my business everything happens suddenly and we never know what it will be."
He had a point.
"How would you like to take a "Tony" shower with me, Phil?"
"Yeah but the bathroom....."
"You've driven by here, this is a fairly large home, there are more than one bathrooms. In fact I think there are five. The one I have in mind is set up for me and company. Like you."

I wondered if I'd pushed it and him too far. I'd cut him off in the middle of his telling me about his tats but I hoped I could offers something a bit more diverting. After all, he knew the story but this was something that fit in with his image of "Tony".

"Could I have one with Phil? I think I'd prefer that.....I'm really sorry about "Tony" and what I thought I wanted...."
One of my arms went around his nicely formed shoulders. "Couldn't be helped, the good thing, you found out the difference." And we started down the hall. 

Water was started, he was already undressed, so was I in about fifteen seconds; Pulling off a T shirt and dropping your pants when there's nothing under them doesn't take long. While I gave the water a moment to warm up I decided to warm him up. I sat on the toilet lid, grabbed his cock and brought it to my mouth where I sucked it in and started on a blow job being careful not to break a tooth on the steel Prince Albert. Just a simple, glad-you're-here one, not something involved. He was stunned. He was also stiff in a very short period of time. I reached under him, found his perineum and gave him just the slightest prostate massage. Nicely hot, so was he water and I led him into the large shower by his dick, got us both wet, turned him to me, held him in my arms and kissed him, full tongue. 

I could feel his cockhead knocking on my balls which was just what I wanted. Not releasing him, I grabbed a bottle of all purpose shower and shampoo wash and dumped some on his head. That's when I turned loose, put his head on my shoulder and began to massage his scalp. I added more shampoo to his shoulder and as it ran down, followed it with my hands getting him nice and soapy. On my knees, and back to his cock, I worked the wash into his very strong calves and thighs going up to his ass where several fingers loaded with soap went in to get him good and clean. 

He didn't know what to do. I wondered how many men he'd had sex with, showered with, done much of anything with; His partner was not even a possibility.

I added more liquid soap so that his tats were almost covered with white foam. Pulling him to me, I used my chest to wash his chest and was surprised to find considerable stubble. He clearly needed his chest shaved and.....what else?
"May I, I mean, could I wash you?"
I stepped back just a bit to give him full access.

Maybe my idea but.....he was very good at this. At the station or wherever, maybe there was a shower room where everybody washed everybody but that seemed somewhat unlikely. Also, how much of his body did he expose? Surely the men he worked with knew, had to but that doesn't mean a reluctance on his part. Maybe just stand at a sink, in a T shirt and pants, and shave.....

"Not many showers like this at the station, I'll bet."
"Don't know, never use 'em. After the first few times, the Captain asked if I wouldn't mind showering else where. I was tempted to ask if he'd like if I shit on the lawn but understood. So, bloody, sweaty, wet, cold, peed on, I go home to my own private shower and enjoy it. They are too upset by these, well, fuck 'em."
"Your partner?"
"He'd sell his balls to have half of these so we get along, probably why we've been partnered so long. A good pairing is very hard to get, can take months or years and sometimes it doesn't take at all. That's when things get real bad. I've known of former partners who elected to 'take it outside' and did. Both were thrown off the force and when they tried to sue each other for grievous bodily harm the department and about ten guys who were there proved to be no help as witnesses....."Gee you're good looking man would be glad to be your man....or boy."

"Yeah, well, that's not actually how it worked out, why I took up my, uh, craft. No one around so my time was my own." I had a thought.
"Bet you get your share of down time yourself. Probably aren't many places you can go...."
"Every pool in town, from the Y on down has either asked me, politely, or told me I wasn't welcome. Funny thing, I swam in college and I miss access to a pool."
"Your partner like to swim?"
"I guess.....I know he goes to some private club just for that."

"Come with me." I led him by his multicolored dick until we hit some French Doors and, beyond it, a pool just over half the size of an Olympic one. One diving board, one diving platform....."Anytime you want, you and your partner, I'll give you the code to get through the security gate and....dive in. Night or day. You get lonely, it's hot at night, there it is." While I'd said this I'd been moving him closer to the edge then pushed him in. He laughed and immediately let out a yell of happiness. Not many Otters or Dolphins look like Tony but I could see he was enjoying it and would continue doing so. Swimmers have enormous stamina and can go for hours at a slow stroke. 

Time for me to trot upstairs and begin my 'show'. Always, as I came through the door I'd say, "Hey, guys, jeez am I tired." Strip, lay on the bed, give my cock a tease of what was to come and that's how it begins. Laying there slowly jacking myself, sometimes I talked about whatever, sometimes not. Today I talked about Tony and his full body tattoo. But very carefully. Nothing about him, obviously no information such as his being a cop. That information alone would make it very easy to find him; Not a doubt in my mind that there'd been articles about the tattooed officer. 

I scooted around on my bed, one hand on my crotch the other on my head. "Ya know, you have to admire a man who goes after what he wants and gets it knowing what the cost will be. Not might be, will be. It's kinda like being gay in some places, they don't want us and make that very clear. Okay, as with my guy and his ink, you just walk away and go on with your lives."

"Which brings me to my sleeve. Having just seen about as much encouragement....." and wandered on. I'd brought a stack of mail with me which I opened, said obscene things about  the trash and aimed them at a trash basket, missing most times. It was now easy for me to keep talking or, more accurately, run a stream of conscience that translated to my viewers and listeners as something intimate, directed at them. 

At some point I would always go through my email inbox and acknowledge some of the men who'd written in, read their comments, talk about them, talk to the guys directly, whether they were there of not. At one point I'd thought about having an 800 number where questions and comments, as well as their number could be left and I'd call them back. In one sense, it was a primo idea, a la Dan Patrick but he was a public figure and calling him didn't lead to problems. His calls were largely pre-screened so he wasn't flying blind.

Of all the things I did by myself, reading what they had on their minds, wanted to tell me, ask about, was the most interesting part. This was the unvarnished public who thought they were communicating directly with me. We could parse this one saying, they really weren't. but I would argue that, yep, it was me inside Tony that took whatever was on their mind and responded. The hardest parts, and the ones not read on the air, were those from people who had serious problems, be they mental, medical or love. As often as I could and being careful to not seem to be a toady to anything, I'd write back making suggestions that I knew to be helpful, try to point them to those who could help them. Then there were the tragedies. I had a few military men who had suffered calamitous injuries and were having great trouble adjusting to now being without a leg or arm or both a leg and an arm as well as blind in one eye. Quietly, and out of my bedroom, I'd call them-as Tony-and ask pointed questions. Some of them were gay, some weren't but it mattered not to me. Those who weren't had found a group of me who had already fought for acceptance and were a sort of queer-ish  team for them. They sent pictures and I uniformly said as both me and Tony, "Buddy, you think no one will fuck you, suck you, shuck you down? You just found a dude who'd be more than happy to."

On one occasion I got a letter-on line-from what he described as the buddy of his buddy-thanking me for giving him a kick in the ass. After we'd talked, he'd, for the first time in a long time, got himself cleaned up and went to the tattoo parlor where on the leg opposite the one that was missing he had inked, "I'm With Stumpy". The 'T' in stumpy was the one finger salute.

What I wanted just then was to find a way to leave the room/studio without puncturing anyone's heart. I feigned reading an email then, smiling, said, "Hey, Gil, here, wants to know if I'll do the number where I showed guys how to get dressed and then.....undressed. Make a deal with you, I have that on video and it's probably better than I could do it right now so.....hang onto your cocks, get ready to put on your clothes and I'll see you when I'm naked!". The video rolled and I shot out of the room and down the stairs. Fortunately, Tony was about where I'd left him, at the pool watching me get dressed. So to speak.

"Okay, climb out, there's more to the story and you're the only one who knows it. There's an icebox out here, get us a beer or....something stronger?... and you can tell me more."

I got the beers and some heavy bath sheets. As he came up from the water I grabbed him and dried him carefully; I felt as if I pressed too much, his color would come off. Along with that, I gave him a couple of genuine hugs, a kiss on his cheek then sat him on a comfortably padded lounge. I almost got the whole can down at once. "Okay, we're back in Philly....."

He leaned his head back, took a deep slurp and launched into whatever would happen next. "I guess being around Dad and all these great talented men, it was just logical that I'd want my own ink. Problem was that Dad, who was perfectly willing, did not want a hassle with the school or whatever do gooding authorities, his words, that would meddle. In all states, least the ones I know about, you have to be 18 to get inked. With a parent's permission, that age drops but it's largely a matter of the guy doing the work and the kid in front of him.  Dad hated the public school system, felt he could do a better job if I was home schooled so, when I was 15, that's what he did."

He stopped to take a sip and look around. "Really? anytime I want?"
"Yep, you're 15...."
"It was great being at home with Dad, he should have been a teacher and whenever someone showed up to have some work done, he'd have them tell me about whatever they did. That's how I got into weight lifting and body building. Dad had a client who was at least Mr. Somebody famous at body building and he casually said I should try it, right proportions, right height, combine it with exercise, swim, would be good for me. No reason not to so he took me to a private gym where he knew the trainer and set me up."
"Weren't you just a little young? I mean, men's bodies, a field in which I'm an expert, don't always fully develop until, sometimes, they're in their 20's"

He finished off that one and I got him another. I'd already decided he was going to spend the night, if not with me then in a guest room. Poor guy, lived alone, wouldn't hurt him to have a night out. Also, another decision, he'd get righteously fucked before the sun rose. After all, that was the underlying reason for his being here whether he'd said it or not.

"I guess that was a big day for me. Pablo, the guy who owned the gym, apparently agreed and we got started right away.  Three days a week I'd go there for two or three hours and Pablo would work me out. What it cost my Dad I found out later when Pablo showed up at our house getting a back piece that, I knew, usually went for several thousand dollars. A year or so later, it was easy to see that whatever he'd had me do was working." He laughed. "In Philly, around then, in a tight T shirt and slim jeans, I looked like a street thug who only lacked a gang. I said that to Dad and boxing was added to my list of extra-curricular activities."

It was riveting but I knew there was a video playing upstairs, Andy, my red head with the long hair, would show up and I'd be nailed to the cross in terms of availability. 

"I notice, you need your chest and maybe some other parts shaved. Tell you what, give yourself a night out, I've got more than enough guest rooms with baths, you can graze on the groceries in the kitchen and meet Andy."
He looked puzzled.
"Yeah, you probably know him as 'Red', the guy with the very long red hair....."
Tony brightened considerably. "He's coming here?"
"Yep, it's him and me for tonight and....how would you like him to join you in the guest room for a session of your own? I can verify and you've probably seen, he's got a nice prong, good low hangers and you can get lost in his hair.....Whaddya say?"
Surprisingly, he puddled up, tears ran down his cheeks.
"What is it, something wrong....?"
"Not many people are good to me any more, since I got the suit. They just want to see it and then I can go fuck myself. Or they want to fuck me."
I slid onto the chaise, "Well, I think you're suit is spectacular, if you could go nude, it would be a great thing. Lot of work and love went into that, your Dad really cared and loved you, you can see it in every line, every bit of shading."

Now tears really flowed and he spontaneously wound himself around me. "I'm glad you're not Tony...." And then the doorbell rang.
Had to be Andy who would let himself in, the bell, which could be heard in my bedroom was a cue to me.
"Out here, Andy, I'm by the pool, come on back."

In a business suit, always a pleasure to strip him, Andy was in his own way imposing. Several inches taller than me, very good looking but the thing you could not miss was his pony tail which hung at least to the middle of his back. God knows how many years it had been growing, not even Andy was sure. His explanation was that....one day he noticed his hair was below his shoulders and he just let it grow. When? A long time ago.

But for once, it was Andy who got the shock. Seeing Tony in my arms, he couldn't quite discern what he was seeing. "Uhm, Andy, this is Tony, a friend of mine who's going to be in the guest room...."

"Fuck that, what's he wearing?"
"A full tattooed body suit, what else would it be?" Andy leaned over and his long red hair against the multi-hued man were a startling, almost shocking contrast.
He just stood there and Tony stayed in my arms. It was a sort of stand off, neither one could seem to go forward conversationally or otherwise. Breaking the spell, I smacked Andy in his nuts which made him jump....pirouette and, this wasn't meant, into the pool. Dripping wet was not his best look but stripping by the pool was certainly something worthy of watching. Wished I had my camera. He fished his billfold, sun glasses and some keys from his pockets and walked toward me. Sensing what was coming I clung to Tony not that it mattered. In the pool my shorts fell off so that just left my T shirt which I pulled off. Diving to reclaim my shorts, the one thing I didn't want was their clogging the drain.

That much red hair, or any color, doesn't dry quickly and we were supposed to be upstairs getting ready to do all sorts of nasty things-I was leaning toward some serious bondage combined with cock and ball play. BUT we had to get his fucking hair dry. Frankly, I don't know when he had the time to do it and still have time in the day to work or even just go to the market. I'd never seen him with it up and he said the only other way was  one long, tight braid. But doing that while he was wet? 

I was acutely conscious that upstairs I was easily into the taking off, or stripping if you prefer, of all the clothes I'd just put on. Spotting an outdoor clock, used mainly to prevent sunburns, then realized I had to step on it. Pressing Tony into service, I asked him to help Andy dry off and then haul ass upstairs.
"What am I going to wear? My clothes are there, on the cement."
"Shit." I was standing and moving toward the stair case. "Go through my dryer, any closet you can find, I don't think everything I own is in the bedroom."
"What if it doesn't fit?"
"We'll take it off." I yelled back and zipped into the bedroom/studio with about three minutes to spare. Time enough to grab a towel, get somewhat dry, wrap it around me and tell my viewers I'd been swimming. It was the truth. Sort of.