Page 402 - Gay San Francisco_Eyewitness Drummer
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382                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
            leather jacket, cap, jeans, no shirt. We nodded. He grabbed my crotch.
            Hard. Rough.
               Men do to others what they really want done to themselves.
               I grabbed him back. Never do nothin’ nice and easy. He moaned.
            “Take care of my balls,” he said.
               I pushed him up against the empty back bar. He spread his feet. I laid
            forty, maybe fifty, kicks with my boot into his groin. Thunk of scuffed
            black leather against warm denim crotch. Balls bouncing hot in his big
            sac. He moaned out a smile. We minded our business. The crowd minded
            theirs. One last kick and I pulled his bruiser body into mine, jerking my
            knee up into his piss-soaked crotch.
               Once. Twice. Three times. He made a low pleased sound and pressed
            hard into me. A direct hit. He shot hot and slick through his torn denim
            into my hand. “Thanks,” he said.
               Don’t know his name. Don’t need to. Wouldn’t recognize him again.
            But for what it was, an honest engaging moment, we worked some mean-
            ing into the meaninglessness of what passes between people over holiday
            tea and ices. Something hot, maybe blessed, passed honest between us.
            Man to man.
               I do remember he was a tourist, because he surprised me. He did
            what a tourist would do: he hugged me, shook my hand, and wished me
            a Merry Christmas.


            Being men who prefer men has never been our problem. Society’s prob-
            lem, maybe. We never set ourselves apart. Society did. We are who we are.
               We are worthy, worth something.
               We can touch men or be touched by men in ways most people go
            their whole lives-long untouched by anyone. We are worth much. And we
            don’t live our lifestyle out of show, sham, or shame. We live for ourselves.
            Honestly. At least most of the time. So here’s to some kind of special merry
            little Christmas to us!

            Thumper held on to my chest. I to his. But then began that hypnotized
            look in his eyes, falling back, down, and away from the Top position he
            projected in his macho bar pose. Grab a dude’s tits and down he goes.
            That old black magic: I saw it happening. The way it usually does. Fuck.
            In sex or out of it, almost always stuck playing Top. Not that I am only a

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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