The Madison

He moved in the direction the doorman indicated and found himself standing in a just-vacated space at the bar. The men on both sides of where he had landed turned and smiled to him. Both offered to buy him a drink. As nervous as he was, he suddenly felt freer than he’d felt in years. At least here maybe he could be unguarded and honest with himself. He didn’t have to do more than just talk. He didn’t have to do anything about his desires. One of the men, younger than he was, quite good looking, slender, and a bit limp wristed, placed a hand on his forearm, letting his fingers ruffle up the matting of hair there, and gave Philip a brilliant smile.

Philip felt a chill go up from his spine and his cock begin to harden.

Less than fifteen minutes later and after a beer, a whiskey chaser, and some very explicit talk from the young blond, who lisped a name of Chad, no doubt a false name, but receiving a false name and profession in response, Philip was in a back corridor of the club. His shoulder blades were pressed into a black-painted rock wall, his hips were angled out from the wall, his trousers and underdrawers were down around his ankles, his fingers were buried in blond curls, and he was receiving a divine blow job. It was the first such attention he had received since Ron had gone down on him in France the night before Ron was blown out of the trenches by a hand grenade.

Philip was left in the dark corridor, trousers still around his ankles, pelvis still jutting out, and now going soft after he’d ejaculated and the blond, having gotten what he’d come for, having evaporated. Mixed emotions were coursing through Philip’s mind—disappointment in his resolve and weakness, euphoria of experiencing a long-denied pleasure, resignation that he was what he was, railing against what he was, frustration that it hadn’t gone beyond a blow job. He didn’t plan to fall into this ever again, and there was a disappointment that, if it was his last, he didn’t get more.