THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #38: COCKSMOKE

[If you’ve known me long enough, you know that I practically worship GUNSMOKE, the western TV show that ran from 1955 to 1975. This story is proof that no subject is too sacred for me to write about. This was the final pornographic story that I sold. I tried my hand a few more times at it, considering how I’d made $200 dollars for my smut, but I gave up after a while. My heart just wasn’t into it. This was published in Indulge for Men #85. I must have learned quite a bit from Bobby Yandell, because this time they ran it without any major edits. I was proud of that. Also, in this issue there was a picture of a dude sucking his own dick. It was the first time I’d actually seen anything like that, so naturally I photocopied it and hid them in my friends’ apartments whenever I got the chance. Nothing makes me smile quite like seeing a guy who considers himself very masculine, to the point where they are slightly homophobic, finding this picture in one of his drawers or hidden in a coffee table book.]

I stepped off the boardwalk and started across the muddy street, headed for Miss Pussycat’s saloon. A tumbleweed rolled past, and I stepped up to the batwing doors. On his way out was old Doc Mal, one of the meanest bastards I’ve ever known. We used to have something going. I wouldn’t exactly say we were going out with each other, but we used to do things together.

I’d gone in for a check-up, and he told me to strip down naked so he could examine me. He watched, biting his lower lip, as I removed my trousers and slid them down to my ankles. His eyes settled on my thick, long cock. I could tell he wanted to touch it, and I really wanted him to. I’d never had a relationship with an older man before, and he had been about forty at the time. He’s sixty now, but I still think often about what he said back then.

“That’s a mighty fine specimen right there,” he said, voice crackling. “Never seen one so . . . so . . .”

My cock knew when it was being talked about. It started to plump up, and soon it was reaching out for Doc Mal’s touch. I took his hand and wrapped it around my member.

He looked into my eyes and smiled. “Feels so . . . firm.” He squeezed my cock, and I groaned, growing harder against his palm. He moved his hand back and forth, stretching my skin taut, causing my dick to spasm pleasurably every once in a while.

“Faster,” I whispered, and his hand went quicker. I moved closer to him, brushing my glans against his leg, and I reached to his crotch and began to knead his flesh through his pants. I didn’t even need to mold his cock into a hard-on; he was ready to go.

I freed him from his pants and clutched at his dick. It wasn’t as thick as mine, but it was nice and long. It gave me a lot of room to move.

He groaned and said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Is this your first time?” I asked him.

“With a man, yes. I just, I mean, your cock is just so perfect, and I want it so bad.” His body suddenly stiffened, and my had was warm and sticky with his come. I looked down to see him still spurting away, his satisfaction running down my flesh and onto the floor.

When he caught his breath, he said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I just had to.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “It’s your first time.”

Doc Mal went to his knees and said, “I want to make you feel good.” He popped me into his mouth and started moving his lips so hard I could feel the back of his teeth on my glans. His mustache brushed against my flesh, and I groaned. “Don’t stop, Doc,” I whispered. “Good Lord, don’t stop.”

His hand gently squeezed my scrotum, and I drew my breath in sharply. I saw him smile around my shaft, and he fondled my balls with professional expertise. It made me feel like a lightweight.

It wasn’t long before I convulsed in his mouth. He didn’t stop moving his lips as he took every inch and sucked out every drop within me.

From that moment on, Doc Mal and I had a very sexual relationship. We weren’t actually going out with each other—no one would allow a U.S. Marshal to know what cock tastes like, and who would go to a doctor with extensive knowledge of anal probing?—but whenever we had the urge, we got together. That is, until recently. Ol’ Doc Mal’s been getting old, and he quickly became embarrassed. We haven’t been with each other in a long time.

As I stepped up to the batwing doors, Doc Mal greeted me. “If it isn’t Mort Dalton, U.S. Marshal. Goin’ in to see Miss Pussycat?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling my hat off, arming a sheen of sweat away from my forehead. “It’s pretty hot out there. I’m in the mood for a beer.”

“The Johnsons are expecting, so I’m off to give them a visit. You should talk to Miss Pussycat. She’s very interested in you, you know.”

“Doc, you know I could never. Besides, I’ve known her for twenty years. I think I’d know her feelings toward me.” I leaned in close to him and whispered, “Besides, you’re the one that interests me.”

“Mort, you can’t wait around on me,” Doc Mal said. “I’m an old man now. You’ve still got some good years left in ya. Find some young thing. Or maybe give Miss Pussycat a try. You never know.”

I grinned. “Not a chance. See ya’ later, Doc.”

He grunted. “Damn youngsters.”

I watched his short form hobble away a bit drunkenly, then I turned to walk into the saloon. Miss Pussycat stood by the bar, talking to the bartender. She owned the saloon, and like Doc Mal had said, she’d wanted me for many years. Sure, I’d been tempted a couple of times, just to see what it would be like, but honestly, I’m more into people like Doc Mal. Still, maybe the old buzzard was right. Maybe it was time to move on.

“Hi, Mort,” Miss Pussycat said as she walked toward me, swaying her hips and showing some cleavage.

I maintained eye contact. “Hello, Miss Pussycat.”

“Care for a drink?”

“I’d love one,” I said.

As we walked toward the bar, someone yelled, “Goddam tinhorn!”

I whirled around just in time to see someone at a poker table jump up, pushing his chair back and to the floor. His hand darted down toward his gun, yanking it from his holster.

The tinhorn was quicker. In fact, he seemed rather calm about the whole situation. His hand leisurely reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a derringer, which he then fired into the cowboy’s face, dropping him like a sack of bricks.

I was there as quickly as I could, my hand hovering near my own gun. “Hold it.”

He turned toward me, and in that moment, I felt something stir within me. He was a handsome young man with a pencil-line mustache, thick dark hair, and eyes to kill for. His black jacket and frilly white shirt were the perfect complement to his effeminate appearance. “Marshal,” he said calmly. “You saw it. I killed him in self-defense.”

I nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m not arresting you. I want you out of Dodd City by sunset.”

“I committed no crime,” the tinhorn said.

“No, you didn’t. But tinhorns are trouble. I don’t like trouble in my town.”

He sighed and started collecting his money. “Very well, Marshal. I’ll be gone by sunset.”

I thought that would be the end of it, but I was wrong. That night, I was out making my rounds on my own. Usually my deputy, Chet Grote, would join me, but he was down with a cold, so I was on my own. I was heading back to my office when I noticed the light on inside. I thought maybe Chet was feeling better and wanted to help out; maybe he wanted a little something else, too.

Chet had been my deputy for five years. We met in Miss Pussycat’s bar, and I took an instant liking to him. Maybe he wasn’t the bitter old cuss Doc Mal was, but he had a lot of spark and vigor to him. Of course, in those days, I was with Doc Mal, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t still have my thoughts.

And though it pains me to admit it, I did cheat on Doc Mal. I didn’t mean to, it was just one of those things that happened. Chet and I had been drinking quite a bit. We were off duty at the time (I had a third deputy back then), and we decided to enjoy ourselves for a change. We both sat in Chet’s room at the Dodd House, passing a bottle of Miss Pussycat’s best whisky between us. The night had grown late, and the bottle was empty.

“Well,” I said, “I’d best get back to my bunk at the jail. If I can make it, that is.”

I stood, and for a moment I felt fine, but when I took my first step, the world seemed to tilt sideways. It took me a second to realize I was falling, but Chet was there, and he caught me like a pro.

“You’d better stay here the night,” Chet told me as he helped me to his bed. I flopped down on the mattress and watched as Chet wrestled my boots from my feet. Next, he helped me out of my shirt and pulled the covers out from under me. He unbuckled my belt, and that was when I couldn’t help it any more. I gave in to the stirrings in my pants and let my hard-on take shape.

“Mister Dalton!” Chet gasped. “Why you’ve got yourself a mighty fine tent there.”

I grinned. “All the better to fuck you with, my dear.” I caressed the bulge at the front of my pants and felt it leap against my palm. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t help it. I was drunk and Doc Mal was the farthest thing from my mind.

“Can I give it a touch, Mister Dalton?” Chet asked, and he said it with such a touch of innocence that I had to laugh.

“Sure thing, Chet.”

Tentatively, he eased his hand against the throbbing bulge and rubbed a couple of times, smiling at each pulse my cock gave.

“You can take it out, if you want to,” I said.

Chet nodded as he unbuttoned my pants and brought the zipper down slowly. Pushing the flaps of cloth aside, he gasped when he saw my cock extend until it was pushing at my navel. He wrapped his hands around my shaft and gave it a couple of strokes before gently kissing the tip. I drew my breath in.

“Lick it, Chet. Lick it.”

He ran his tongue up and down the length of my dick, as if he were a child with a lollypop. Finally, he took my glans into his mouth and took at least half of me into himself. He moved his head up and down slowly, and I watched as saliva glistened on my flesh, dripping like honey down into the nest of my pubic hair.

Chet began rubbing himself between the legs, and through my drunken haze, I could see he already had his cock out. Like Doc Mal’s, it was very long and skinny. He held it in his fist and rapidly masturbated, making his dick look like a strange jack in the box when he pulled back, come glistening on the tip of his cock.

I lifted my ass up and pushed my trousers down, giving my member more room to move. “Take off your pants,” I whispered, and he complied without missing a stroke. “Now I want you to sit on my chest.”

Carefully, dropping my cock from his mouth, he situated himself so his ass was pressed against my chin. He shifted himself and lifted up, dragging his cock up my chest to my face. Chet went back to sucking my cock, and I took his into my own mouth, feeling his spongy glans slip down my tongue to the back of my throat. I ran my hands across his smooth buttocks and gently eased my middle finger into his tight asshole up to the second joint. I felt him stiffen against my body and moan around my shaft. His cock pulsed against the inside of my cheek, and I pushed my finger in as far as it would go.

Chet yelped, and I felt his hot come fill my mouth. As he orgasmed, I felt his lips constrict around my shaft, and he shivered. When I could feel he was done convulsing, I swallowed with his dick still in my mouth. He moaned, and as he softened, I pulled away from him.

“Get off of me,” I said, “and bend over.”

“What are you gonna do, Mister Dalton?”

“I’m going to fuck you in that tight ass of yours,” I said, “and then I’m going to come all over your back.”

Without giving him time to reply, I pressed my cock against his asshole. He groaned, and I slowly pushed myself into Chet. His ring piece was tight around my shaft, which was a nice change from Doc Mal’s, which in his old age had become rather stretched. I moved in and out of Chet’s asshole, and each time, it tightened around me with youthful vigor.

“Faster, Mister Dalton! Faster!”

I really gave it to him. I felt the friction start to burn, so I took time out to spit in my hand  and rub it around on my cock before pushing into him once more. With the aid of my natural lubrication, it wasn’t long before I felt my balls start to tingle. I yanked myself out of Chet and jerked off as furiously as I could, blowing my wade all over Chet’s ass and back.

We then passed out in each other’s arms. When we woke up the next morning, I realized what I’d done. I explained to Chet about Doc Mal and me, and though Chet wasn’t happy, he understood that we could never have sex again.

I was thinking about that night as I walked up to the jail, hoping it was Chet in there, waiting for me. We could do all those things again, now that Doc Mal wanted me to move on. I was hard just thinking about it.

When I opened the door, I saw the tinhorn sitting at my desk, the chair back and his feet up.

“Tinhorn, what did I tell you?” I roared. “I told you to get the fuck out of Dodd!”

“Or you’ll do what, Marshal?” he asked, smiling. “I saw the way you were looking at me in that saloon.” I saw his hand was massaging his crotch.

“You’re really asking for it,” I told him.

He stood and walked to me, pressing his crotch to mine. “Then give it to me, Marshal,” he whispered. Through our pants, I could feel his cock pulsing, begging to be released from the prison of his clothing.

I whipped him around and bent him over my desk. He moaned. “That’s it, Marshal. You teach me a lesson.”

“I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,” I muttered as I reached around him and unbuttoned his pants. His dick leaped out into my hand, and I squeezed.

He groaned. “Punish me.”

I yanked down his pants and spread his buttocks apart. I probed his asshole with my middle finger. I could feel it tighten around me. “That’s right, Marshal. Put it in right there.”

I pushed my finger in farther, and he squealed. “You like that, don’t you?” I asked.

“More, Marshal. More!”

I pulled myself from my pants and ran my throbbing glans across his tight buttocks. With my cockhead gently touching his asshole, I began to masturbate slowly, rubbing my glans around on his flesh.

“Don’t tease me,” he begged. “Please, put it inside me.”

“You want it?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

“You got it.” I spit in my hand, slicked down my member, and jammed my cock home, and he yelped. At first, I thought I’d hurt him, but he turned his head and looked at me.

“Harder,” he said. “Harder, big guy.”

I pulled back and thrust deeply into him again. His body tensed against mine, and he begged for more. I gave him more and more and more until he stiffened suddenly. I peered around him and saw he’d come on my desk, his gleaming satisfaction running down the worn wood like molasses.

He turned around, come shining on his dickhead and legs, and he looked down at my cock. “My Lord, I actually had that glorious thing inside me?” I nodded as he took it into his hands. “It’s so big.,” he whispered as my flesh glided against his.

I sat down in my chair, as he got down on his knees. He ran his tongue along my shaft, spending a long time at my glans while he kept my skin taut with one hand. He squeezed my balls gently with the other.

“Kiss it,” I said.

He pressed his lips to the tip of my cock, and I pulsed in his hand. He smiled and kissed it again and again, moving down lower until he was kissing my balls. He wrapped his lips around my sack and ran his tongue around it while it was in his mouth. A groan escaped me.

He moved his mouth back up to my glans and took me between his lips down to my pubic hair. It was almost as if he had no gag reflex, he took so much of me into his mouth.

His supple lips moved up and down my shaft, shining it with his spit, bringing me closer and closer to orgasm. While he sucked on my dick, he fit his hand around the base of it and started matching his mouth with strokes. I felt myself puff up even larger.

He took me out of his mouth. “You’re gonna come. I can feel it.”

“More,” I whispered.

He smiled and pressed his lips against my glans. He furiously masturbated me, quicker and harder than ever before until I came like a cannon being fired. I watched as ropey strands of my come decorated his cheeks and ran down his chin.

And his hand still moved up and down my shaft, not letting my orgasm end. Pleasure flooded my body and made me shake with lunacy. His hands were so good they almost drove me insane. Literally. I squirmed with pleasure and I couldn’t stop coming.

At least not until his hand stopped moving. “Was that good?” he asked.

“It was great.”

He smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He pulled up his pants and buttoned them.

“You’re leaving Dodd City?” I asked.

“I have to,” he said. “I’d like to stay. Hell, I’d like to keep you around a damn long time. A cock like that is too beautiful to waste on a shitty little town like Dodd, but I’ve got to go.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said.

“I know.” He pressed his lips, still gleaming with my come, to mine, and our tongues wrestled for a while.

And then, he was gone. I haven’t seen the tinhorn since—hell, I never even caught his name—but I have great memories of him. Memories that could last me a lifetime.

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #34: BOBBY YANDELL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

[I had been writing hetero porn for quite some time, trying to sell out so I could make real money off of my writing. None of it got published, but then I discovered that gay porn sold for more money. The way I figured it, sex was sex. What do I like? And how can I apply it to a man instead of a woman? Boy, was I fucking stupid. I thought I was brilliant when I came up with the idea of a gay private investigator. There were no gay detectives in fiction, so why not make one? Also, I would like to point out that there are no gay action stars. I think there would be a big market for that. Anyway, I sent in my version of this story, but the editor must have sensed that I didn’t know much about gay sex. He changed a lot of things in this story. Up to this point in my life, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as ass orgasms. He also made the sex way rougher than I wrote it. But I am jealous over one thing: the pull quote. “I jerked my meat, fast and hard, feeling guilty for being such a pig.” I wish more than anything in my writing career that I had written that line. Nope. It was the editor. I should also note that this was published under my porn name, Anthony Haversham. This is from Indulge for Men #71. I’m fairly certain they went out of business. They were a skin magazine much in the way of Playboy. No sexual acts are depicted; just a whole bunch of dudes showing off their dicks. They had about three stories an issue. I thought that I might make a series detective out of Bobby Yandell, but when I sent the sequel, it was rejected. I published that one in issue 1 of Tabard Inn, also under Haversham. Someday I might even write a third one. The first is in the vein of Chandler, the second in the vein of Spillane. Maybe the third would be more of an Adrian Monk?]

It all started when he walked into my office. I noticed his legs first, two pillars of muscle encased in tight jeans. There was a pleasant bulge between his legs, and his torso, covered with a t-shirt, looked like a washboard. There was a light beard on his cheeks, and his hair was short and combed down over his forehead. His eyes were bright blue, and I felt a tingle below my belt when he looked at me.

“Mr. Yandell?” he asked. I could detect an accent, but at that point, I couldn’t tell what kind it was.

“That’s what it says on the door,” I said. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I pointed to the chair in front of my desk. He sat down.

“I was wondering if you could help me.”

Aussie, I thought. Mmmmmm. “First of all, I’d like to know who referred you to me. For my files, you know.”

“Mark Redmore,” he said.

Ah, Mark. The ex-love of my life. It was kind of strange that he would send business my way, considering how pissed off he was at me. “Your name?” I asked.

“Eric Tankersley.”

I made note of his name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tankersley?”

“It’s about my boyfriend,” he said. “I don’t know where he is. One day, he just up and disappeared, and he didn’t tell me where he went.”

“How long has he been missing?” I asked.

“About a week, now.”

“Have you called the police?” I asked.

“Yeah, but they haven’t been doing much,” he said. “I don’t think they care much for . . . our type, you know?”

I nodded. “When and where was the last time you saw him? And what’s his name?”

“His name is Harold Jackson, and the last time I saw him was last Saturday, in the morning. He was at my place. After he took a shower, he told me he had to go out, and he’d see me later that evening.”

“And he never showed?”

“No.”

“Does he have a job?” I asked.

“Of course. I don’t sleep with loafers.”

“Where did he work?”

“At a strip club,” he said. “It’s a terrible place for him to work, but he makes more money than I do. That’s the only reason I tolerated him working there.”

“Which strip club?”

“The Full Moon,” he said. “An utterly stupid name for a strip club, but like I said, he makes more than I do.”

“Any relatives?” I asked.

“Just a mother in New England,” he said, then gave me his boyfriend’s mother’s phone number. “He also mentioned having a brother somewhere, or a cousin, but I don’t know anything about that.”

“Friends?” I asked.

“Just at the strip club,” he said.

“Do you have his Social Security number?” I asked.

He did, and he gave it to me.

“One more question, Mr. Tankersley, and it’s a tough one. You ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think he just left you? That he doesn’t want to be with you anymore?”

“No,” he said, and he held up his hand. There was a ring on his finger. “He gave that to me a couple of days before he left.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do. As for now, fill out this contract, and sign it down here.”

I gave him the contract and waited as he filled it out. It was a shame he was taken. I could look at that scant beard and blue eyes all day long. Not only that, he looked like he had a nice piece of dick meat on him.

I knew it wasn’t right for me to be ogling him like that, but in a job like mine, you get your kicks when and where you can. You never know when you’re going to come in contact with the wrong person. You never know when the person that ends up missing is you.

After he finished reading the contract and signed it, I signed it and sent him on his way. He left me a picture of Jackson, which I put in my jacket. Once the contract was filed, I decided I’d start as soon as I had a talk with Mark.

I stopped at Mark’s office (he’s an accountant), and he seemed pretty pleased to see me. I know I was happy to see him. Out of all my lovers, he was definitely my favorite. When he sucked my dick, he had this nice trick he did with his tongue that could make me come quicker than a bullet leaving a barrel. He’d just slip his tongue up under my glans, and it would make me blow my load.

I can still remember the last time we’d had full on sex. We both knew it was over, and the sex was incredible. I was determined to give him a fuck he’d never forget, and he must have been doing the same thing. He had come over to pick up the last few things he’d had at our apartment. He thought I wasn’t home, but I was just about to jump in the shower. He walked in the bedroom just as I’d slipped off my boxers.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember?”

For some reason I grabbed him.

“What are you gonna do, hit me?”

“Yeah, I’ll hit you all right.”

I pushed him down onto his knees and swung my cock at him. It slapped him on the face, and he groaned.

“Is that all you got?”

“You want more?”

I cock-slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. My dick was getting hard, then I crammed it in his mouth. He choked, then took it in his mouth. He took me do the pubes and held his mouth there until I was fully hard. He finally pulled off his head and gasped for air. He spat on it, grabbed it with a tight fist to make the mushroom head flare, and said, “If that’s your best, you got problems.”

He was pissing me off. I picked him up off his knees, and we struggled. We fell on the bed, wrestling one another. He was fighting me like a wildcat, grabbing my cock and squeezing it, calling me names even I’d blush at in normal circumstances. I knew what he wanted. I knew he was craving my dick. I may not be much of a boyfriend, but I know how to fuck. I finally spat on his hole and shoved a finger in there with full force. He yelped.

I grabbed a rubber from the nightstand while holding him down with one of my knees.

“You’re not getting away from me now. For the next hour, you’re mine.”

I rolled down the condom over my cock with lightning speed and squeezed a huge amount of lube on it and Mark’s hole. I smacked his ass, grabbed his hips and brought him up to me. He was writhing around.

“You haven’t got the guts to fuck me like a man?”

“Oh yeah, baby? You think so? How’s this?”

I plunged into him. The full length of my cock ripped its way into him. He cried out, paralyzed from the pleasure for a moment, but he wasn’t about to give up.

“Come on, you gonna fuck me or just stick it in there? Maybe that’s why I left!”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”

I started pounding the hell out of him. The headboard was slamming against the wall, chipping the paint and denting the drywall. I got off my knees to get in him deeper. Mark wasn’t calling me a faggot fuck anymore, his body was just shaking, fighting the urge to give into the pleasure. He started moaning, and I could feel his ass spasm on my cock. He was coming. Four more hard thrusts, and I shot my load, my entire body convulsing with the power of it. I loved him, but it was over.

I snapped out of my daydream to keep my dick from getting hard in front of him. I sat at his desk and shook his hand.

“Good to see you, Bobby,” he said. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“Eric Tankersley,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’d like to know why you sent business my way. I thought you were pissed at me.”

“I am, but Eric’s a good friend of mine.”

I wondered how close they were. I know Tankersley had a boyfriend, but it wasn’t out of the question that he had a side dish to go with his Jackson.

“He was really distraught over Harold’s disappearance, and I thought that everything would go much smoother if he hired someone like you.”

“Like me, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah. A dick.”

I’ve heard that stupid joke many times, but it was the first time it ever hurt me. Still, I was sitting across from the man who enjoyed sucking my dick at one time. I had him when he was relatively unsure of his own sexuality. Not that he was still a virgin, anal-wise, but he was still pretty tight back then. The first time I sucked his dick was the first time he’d ever gotten a blow job, and I knew as I gazed up into his eyes, his member in my mouth, that he loved me. I don’t know if he did now, but I knew that at one point, he did. Once a lover, always a lover, right?

I asked him more questions about Tankersley and Jackson, but I didn’t learn much. I went back to my office where I had to go through the mess of papers before I found Jackson’s mother’s phone number.

The phone rang five times, and I was certain she wasn’t home when the phone clicked and a feminine, elder voice said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Jackson?” I asked.

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“I’m Bobby Yandell. I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been hired to find your son. I was wondering—”

“Who hired you?” she interrupted.

“That’s confidential,” I said. “As I was saying—”

“This is about my son. Tell me who hired you. Was it his . . . his boyfriend?”

What the hell? I thought. She already guessed, and maybe she would talk more freely if I admitted she was right. “Yes, Mr. Tankersley hired me. Now, could you tell—”

“I didn’t even know he was missing,” she said. “Don’t really care, either, if he was still . . . funny at the time.”

I mentally sighed. “Do you know where he would be? Did he have any favorite places to go?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he’s with that foolish brother of his.”

“So, he does have a brother?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s funny, too.”

“Do you know where I can find his brother?”

“No,” she said. “He moves around a lot. Stays with a lot of incorrigible reprobates.”

I could tell I was going to get nowhere with her. She was too ignorant to care. I asked her what her other son’s name was (Henry), and then I thanked her. She couldn’t help but spout some more ignorant bullshit about telling her son to wise up, he’s hurting his father, etc., etc., etc. When she got it out of her system, I hung up. It was time to visit a strip club.

The Full Moon wasn’t much. In fact, it looked pretty sleazy. When I walked in, there was cheap porn music being played (you know the type: just about every ‘Seventies porno used the same soundtrack) while a well-hung black man danced around the stage, flapping his dong so much it looked like a swinging hammer. There weren’t many people in the audience.

I stopped at the bar and lit a cigarette. The bartender wore tight jeans and a net shirt, showing off his perfect physique. I thought he would make a pretty good dancer.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Bourbon,” I said. “Straight.”

“You sure?” he asked. “It’s only four o’clock.”

“I’m sure,” I said. When he laid the drink on the bar and took my money, I asked, “Do you know Harold Jackson?”

“Of course,” the bartender said. “He used to work here.”

“Used to?” I asked.

“Yeah. He stopped coming in about a week ago, so the boss fired him. If you see him, tell him that, would you?”

“Well, that might be quite a feat,” I said. “His boyfriend told me he hasn’t been seen in a week.”

“Are you a cop?” the bartender asked.

“No,” I said. “Private investigator.”

“Do you know what might have happened to him?”

“Not yet. How well do you know Mr. Jackson?”

“Well, enough to know that he’s the type to run out on a boyfriend.” He explained to me that he’d had a fling with Jackson, but after a few days, Jackson was seeing kissing another man, presumably Tankersley.

“Who was the closest to him here?” I asked.

“That would be Frank,” he said, pointing to the black man on stage. I thanked him and headed for the stage. There were a few dollar bills near his dancing feet, not much, but I’m sure that when night fell, he would be considerably richer. I waited until his song ended, and he walked off the stage, picking up his greenbacks.

“How much for a lap dance with you?” I asked him.

He turned his head to me, and even though his lips were closed, I could tell he was running his tongue over his teeth. When he walked, his dick bounced. “How much action you want?” his deep voice boomed.

“Whatever you got,” I said.

“A hundred and fifty.”

I wondered if I could chalk it up to expenses. Probably not, but just one look at that dick of his made me want to wrap my hands around it. I nodded and handed over some of the retainer fee that Tankersley left with me.

He guided me to another room with large cushioned booths and dim red lights. I sat down and he turned on the radio. He squeezed his dick to make it plump and smacked his ass.

“Remember. I can touch you, but you can’t touch me. Got it?”

“Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

He grinned, and the next thing I knew, he was in my lap, his buttocks working madly against the bulge in my pants. It had been a long time since I’d been touched down there by someone other than myself, and I felt myself straining instantly at my zipper. His ass felt warm against me, and I started breathing heavily. I wanted to fuck him and make those ass cheeks of his shiver with delight.

Then, he turned and started shaking his dick in front of my face close enough for me to smell his sex. I resisted the urge to grab it, which was fine; a second later, his cock was rubbing up against my coat collar, and that was enough for me. I could see every pore on his glans as it moved up and down my chest.

“You want it, don’t you?” he asked.

Yes, I definitely wanted him, but I remembered why I was getting the lap dance in the first place. “Oh yes, but I was . . . uh, wondering if I could . . . ask you a few questions.”

His dick fell away from me. “You a cop?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Harold Jackson.”

“Harry, huh?” he asked, and he turned to grind my knob with his ass some more. “I liked him a lot. Had a dick almost as big as mine.”

“Yeah?” I asked, and I knew that I was going to come soon.

“Yeah,” he said. “What do you want to know about him?”

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He flexed his buttocks, and I felt a tingle in my groin.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He came down here last Saturday,” Frank said, and he turned yet again, this time letting his member rest over my throbbing unit. He started rubbing against the lump in my pants. “He wanted to borrow money from me.”

“Money?” I asked, and that alone took a lot of energy. I was on the verge of orgasm. “What for?”

“He said he had to go away for a while,” Frank said, looking into my eyes as his hips gyrated, rolling that enormous thing of his around my lap. “Loester, I think the town’s name is.”

He was breathing hard, and so was I. He was working his body to make me come. He was into it as much as I was, grinding and grunting like a pig. I couldn’t take it anymore. My buttocks tightened, and I bucked my hips, lifting us off the booth. I felt the satisfaction jet out of me, making my head light, darkening the front of my pants. I shook with each convulsion, but not enough to miss Frank’s eyebrow go up and a smile crack his face.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

I tried to think of something else, but nothing came to mind. All I knew was that I was extremely content. “If I come up with something else, I’ll call you,” I said.

Frank winked and left the room to go back on stage, swing that huge dong of his. Before going any further, I realized I would need to change my pants and take a shower. I tied my trench coat up and then downed the rest of my bourbon and headed for home.

After that, I called some hotels in Loester and found out a Holiday Inn had a visitor named Harold Jackson staying there. I donned my trench coat and a fresh pair of pants and drove out to Loester. I went up to his room. The manager told me Mr. Jackson was in, but when I knocked, there was no answer. I decided that I’d have to break in somehow. Luckily, this Holiday Inn hadn’t started using the card keys yet, so I was able to pull out my lock pick tools. It took a while (the lock was a pretty decent one), but I managed to open the door without being noticed.

When I saw what waited for me in that room, I quickly eased inside and shut the door. The closet was open, and what I saw within was the man I was looking for. There was Harold Jackson, his throat encircled with an electrical wire, his face purple and his tongue sticking out like a cereal box tab. He was naked, and I could see Frank was right about his size. Under any other circumstances, seeing a dick that big would’ve made me hard. Seeing it attached to a dead man just made me sick.

There was a note under his hanging knees. There were only seven words: I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS MY BROTHER. Near the note was a video cassette, and I realized that I didn’t want to watch it, but I had to.

I took the tape and went to the VCR, where I plugged it in and watched the scene before me. There was Jackson, getting out of his pants, and another man I didn’t recognize, but I knew who it was. Jackson was blindfolded, but his brother could see perfectly well. I could see their mouths moving, but there was no sound. Why would his brother do something like this to him? I wondered. Why?

Jackson laid back on the bed as his brother took Jackson’s flaccid member and stuck it in his mouth. After a while, the limp flesh firmed into a long staff. Henry’s hand moved rapidly between his own legs, molding his own soft flap into a rod.

Jackson turned around, offering his asshole to his brother, who slid right in. They rocked like that, Henry giving Jackson a reach-around. It looked very strange, as if Henry’s dick was going right through Jackson’s body. After a while, Henry stiffened, and when he pulled out, his helmet was greased.

Jackson took a turn fucking his brother in the ass, and no matter how much I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. I knew that this video had driven Harold Jackson to suicide, but I couldn’t help being turned on by it. I plucked at the front of my pants to straighten out the growing hard-on. It wasn’t long before I was rubbing myself. I unzipped my pants and pulled my dick out. I jacked my meat, fast and hard, feeling guilty for being such a pig. Jackson pulled out of Henry and turned him around so he could stuff his dick down his sibling’s throat. I watched him come all over his brother’s face in gooey strands, and Henry’s tongue darted out, hungry for more. That brought me over the edge, and I blew my load into my hand.

My dick softened, and even though there was still some action going on, I turned off the video and rewound it. As the VCR hummed, I looked to Jackson’s corpse. Why would his brother want to do such a thing? Was it a joke? Or was it downright meanness?

I washed my hands, then pulled the tape out and wiped my fingerprints from both it and the VCR before planting it back where I found it. Only then did I call the police and the front desk.

It turned out to be a long night. The cops ended up cleaning up Jackson before arresting Henry, who insisted that he’d done it out of experimentation. I didn’t care much to talk to him about it.

The worst part was telling Tankersley about what happened. I didn’t tell him much, just that Jackson killed himself in a Holiday Inn in Loester over incestual sex. Tankersley cried a lot, and no matter how much I love a blue-eyed hunk of an Aussie, I restrained myself from taking advantage of him.

When I was finally alone, I lit a cigarette, drank some bourbon, and pulled out my dick, thinking of Frank and his moby of a dick. Maybe there could be something good to come out of this whole ugly mess. I unbuttoned my shirt, getting ready to blow a load all over my chest. I spit on my dick and started to stroke it, nice and slow. It’s the best tension reliever, next to liquor. I bet Frank liked the smell of come, the way he liked making my dick explode with cream in that booth. I pinched my nipple and gave myself one final yank, shooting all over my body. I decided to become a Full Moon regular.