The Guy at the BarSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2015-01-14 13:03:57 EST
Rating: 1.73 on 27 ratings (36 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Me and a guy at the bar had sex. Gentle. Rough. Stuff in between--like a gradient. We had only met in the coat check area a few moments before, but it was instant chemistry. He was all over me and I was all over him--arms and hands and legs all entwining together, his touch like the first bite of a really good hoagie, delicious and pleasing (but a little too much crust).
We did it in the bathroom. The light flickered in a sexy way as we entered, making it feel all the more dirty. The handicap stall provided the backdrop for our love affair: expansive yet confining, a locked closet within, likely leading to mops and disinfectant and other sensual cleaning supplies.
We took off all our clothes and used the space to examine our bodies. We unconsciously decided to assume sumo poses, because this wasn't just a prelim to sex, this was a battle for orgasms, and in any one-night stand there are no guarantees: it's best to be the one who comes first.
"Hey, I need to get in there."
Someone was knocking on the door to the stall. Apparently the smell of sex had lured a visitor into our unseemly realm.
"I have to shit and the other toilet is broken! Find somewhere else to fuck!"
We smiled at each other our bodies glistening with our passion, my mate's penis 3/4 full (or 1/4 empty for you miserable pessimists).
"Here!" My soon to be lover, my sexual reason for being, took off his fake leg and threw it under the door. His stump waved around for air "I need this stall. Handicapped!"
Oh it was so hot.
He hopped over and we joined together. The man without was now beating the door, presumably with the fake leg.
"Fuck you and your goddamn leg. Get the fuck out."
My man grunted and lifted me against the side of the stall. I reached up and grabbed the top because, come on, one leg. The stall shook with our rhythm, a lustful creaking. The man outside tried to pry my fingertips with the toes of the fake leg. but I just kept changing grips.
Get off, you mean. We went at it like it was our last time--and it likely was. The sweat, the smells, the guy who was now hitting my hands with the leg, all combined into a orchestra of passion.
Me coming, him coming, the guy shitting himself...in that order.
We collapsed to the ground, our bodies spent. Glancing over I saw the man now. The leg dangled from one hand in a perfect metaphor for impotency. His other hand was down the back of his pants holding his shit in.
Me and my lover kissed one more time, sealing the event. We dressed, we walked / hopped out. The other man relinquished the leg without a fight and sidled into the stall. We pretended not to know each other, this other man, clearly being my dad. I decided I would pay for the appetizers to make up for it.