Tuesday, July 06, 2004

vignette: technique

I dance every night for a hundred pesos at a bar for women.

Before I am called, I sit in a small room with the other men. I stroke myself to hardness, imagining the smell of my fuckbuddy’s wet pussy, and apply three rubber bands tightly around the shaft of my dick, each one looped twice to keep the blood in. When I’m hard as a rock I wear my briefs, white and tight, to better show off my trapped erection. Over that, I wear a pair of swimming trunks, leaving the strings untied.

Then I smoke a cigarette and wait.

When I hear my music playing, I make my way to the darkened stage and take my position, my back to the audience, hands and legs spread apart, leaning against the wall. At the next upbeat, the lightshow begins and I start to move, grinding my ass to the thumping bass line. I turn and move around the stage, working the space to the beat, posing, strutting, slowly here, faster there. My hands touch my chest, trailing down my abs, framing my covered dick.

My face is impassive – I was taught to show nothing, to let the audience imbue my face with whatever they want – except for my eyes. I look at them, the ones closest to the stage. I catch the eye of a young woman in the company of friends. I feel the heat of her gaze, consuming every inch of my body. I decide to dance for her alone.

I time my next motion to a downbeat, suddenly kneeling so close to the woman that she involuntarily flinches. I raise my hips and fuck the air, running a hand over my groin while supporting myself with the other. She turns to her friends and laughs, letting their teasing words give her courage. She reaches over with a fifty peso bill and her smile is intoxicating. I like the way her teeth are imperfect, turned on by the smudge of lipstick on one of her front teeth.

I move towards her, shifting upright and offer myself. She pulls at my swimming trunks and cops a feel as she tucks the money in, shrieking with her friends when she’s finished. I mouth “thank you” to her, locking her gaze with mine as I stand up.

It’s time for my highlight.

I walk back to center stage and flex my arms, showing off my oiled biceps and triceps as I raise and lower my hands. Then I quickly take off my trunks, giving my bulge more leeway. My briefs are selected to offer the barest resistance to my erection, and I caress myself, outlining my dick with my hands.

I surprise them all by suddenly collapsing into a push-up position, thumping the stage floor with all my weight before commencing to raise myself to the full extension of my arms. I shift to one arm, then the other, before flipping myself over. With my back to the floor, I thrust my hips out, pulling off my last remaining article of clothing.

On cue, the music stops and a single spotlight picks out my dick, hard and engorged by the rubber band traps, flush against my flat stomach. I shift to kneeling position and show off the angle of my erection, before standing and covering myself with my hands.

The music picks up where it let off, drowning the screams of women. Some raise their beers. Others stare intently. The one I chose to dance for has her mouth open.

And they’re all mine.

This is the moment I live for, more than the hundred pesos I’ll receive from the bar manager when I’m finished.

In that moment, I am everything I need to be.

I am desire.

I am erect.

I am man.

I drape my briefs over my unflagging dick and let the light shine down on me.


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