Chapter 2 – Rainbow Connecting

I woke with a headache, flat on my back in my bed, naked, with my forearm flung across my eyes.

"I can't find the coffee."

It took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn't alone. I'd hardly be asking myself where I kept the coffee. I might not remember where it was, but I'd then know it was useless to ask myself where it was. I opened my eyes and turned my head. He was standing in the doorway, leaning into the door frame, hand on jutted hips. He was wearing the shirt I'd worn to the center the evening before. On him the tail of the shirt came down to his knees. Even though my cock made a jerk, I hated that he was posed that way. Another swisher. I wasn't in the market for a swisher. And I'd had no intention of bringing anyone home from the center. I'd just been checking the Rainbow Connection center in downtown Richmond out, anyway.

I'd been so frustrated coming home from Northern Virginia that, after a couple of weeks of being a hermit, I'd remembered that Eddie at the bar had suggested this Rainbow Connection place. He'd said it had a gym and sports facilities. If I didn't get some more exercise in beyond lifting weights by myself, I thought I'd go mad.

I almost didn't stay when I got there. They wanted to know so much, and they kept pushing activity brochures at me. I finally said, yeah, I'd like to do an Appalachian Trail crawl sometime when the weather was better but that, for now, I'd just like a pickup game of basketball. Did they have that?

"Yes, we do."

"Now? Can I get into a game now?"

"Sure. The gym is through there. Did you bring sports gear? The locker room is down the corridor over there. See the attendant there, Travis, for a towel."

The pickup game was fine. I was both the oldest and biggest guy on the court. I also was the best basketball player. I latched on to the next-best player, a black guy in his twenties, named Jackson, and we ganged up on the rest.

I fucked him—or got a good start on it—in a tiled room just off the shower room. I was to find that the Rainbow Connection facilities included a lot of out-of-the way cubicles like this around to accommodate the needs of its clientele. It might have looked like just a meeting place for gays for healthy activities among their own kind, but it had all of the services I'd ever found in gay bathhouses around the world. It was a social service they were doing here, but not necessarily the social service they were telling the public they were serving.

Jackson was more than willing, and I started with him after we'd done some touching and fondling in the communal shower, backing him up against the tiles of the wall, with him climbing my hips with his knees, and me fucking him shallow to work up his prostate with my bulb, ready to give him all of it, which he said scared him but that he was game for it. We gathered watchers, though, including the towel attendant, Travis, and they were coming in close and touching me and showing interest in what I had. I ended up sitting on a sauna shelf, with a series of mouths covering my cock until I exploded. Jackson was gone by that point. Travis wasn't. He wanted all of the cock, but said he was afraid—and was about to go off duty.

I fucked him twice—at least twice—on my bed that night. But he was a squealer and tight, very tight. He sobbed and was pulling out from underneath me constantly when I was about to dive for the money. A platinum blond little trick with a limp wrist—not at all what I was in the mood for intellectually, but my dick had decided otherwise. Twice—or maybe it was three times—he'd squirmed so much, and given me a jerk and his cum so quickly, that I too released earlier than I wanted and finally thought—and probably said—"Fuck it," and turned over on my side and went to sleep.

"Oh, lookee. Mr. Big is living up to his name and winking at me," he lisped at me from the doorway in a Betty Boop voice, apparently forgetting all about the coffee he was trying to make. I hated that, but my cock didn't care.

Travis came to the bed, climbed up, slit a condom packet, and crowned me. He daintily lifted a shaved leg over my hips and settled on the cock—only a couple of inches, though. He moved back and forth on it, my bulb rubbing against his prostrate and him sighing and murmuring how well I was fucking him. I wasn't fucking him, though. This wasn't fucking to me.

The young man was shaved close all over, pubes and pits and all. He had a slim, boyish build, with the tattoo of a little lizard—a gecko, he said—down low and to the left of his belly. He told me it covered his G spot, and, indeed, when I touched it, he became more animated.

I grasped his waist, with my thumb rubbing that lizard and took over the movement on my cock. He gave me a frightened look as I lifted him and pulled him down harder on the cock, again and again. Forcing his channel walls to expand and take more of the cock than the night before. He writhed on the cock, shuddering and moaning, beginning to gyrate wildly in a pattern that only helped me skewer him more deeply. Relentlessly, I pulled him farther down on the staff after each lift. Slamming him down hard, as he flopped about, panting hard and making little yip, yip sounds. His eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. For all I knew he was unconscious. At that moment I didn't care a flying fuck if he was or not.

Like with the swisher on Christmas Eve, this wasn't what my emotions wanted, which made me angry. But it's what my cock had to have.

I turned him onto his back, and he went over like a rag doll, his arms flopping out at the side of his body. I slapped his trim, shaved legs apart, and he groaned and jerked as I thrust deep inside him and began to vigorously pump. It didn't take me long to ejaculate.

He lay there, in my arms, my cock going flaccid inside him but still deep inside his channel. He was panting hard and his eyes were slitted.

"Oh, god, it's gigantic," he murmured. "I won't be able to walk for a week."

"Too much?" I whispered.

"Oh, shit, no. Fuck me again, daddy. Fuck me hard. You're such a beast."

I was always good for seconds and a fast rebuild. He moaned as I set the reengorging cock in motion again, fucking him slower this time, but, if anything, deeper than before. He just lay there, legs spread, looking into my face in awe with a quarter pain, three quarters pleasure look on his face. Passive, taking what I was giving him, but giving me nothing in return except a pained expression, pants, and moans.

Afterward, I pulled out of him, sat on the side of the bed, and lit up a cigarette. I hadn't been able to get much more than seven inches of it into him.

"The coffee is in the freezer," I said.

"Who the hell puts their coffee in the freezer? And did I mention not being able to walk for a week," he murmured.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes; then a cup of coffee; and then I want you to leave." I tried not to make it sound harsh. I think it crushed him, though.

I'd gotten my rocks off, which was what my cock demanded. But he was just too swishy for me. And I had no intention of going back to the Rainbow Connection again—although, on second thought, I had some unfinished business with Jackson. I didn't really see myself with a black partner, but he was athletic, manly, and I didn't get full time with that sweet ass of his. Still, he hadn't been completely satisfying yet when I was pulled away from him. I'd been fucking him, but he hadn't been fucking me back. He'd been concentrating on taking what I was giving him—just like Travis did just now and the rent-boy had done on Christmas Eve.

As Travis hobbled out of my house, I couldn't resist taking and embracing him in the foyer. I kissed him and told him it was fine, he'd been great—that it was me; I'd recently lost a lover and was having a hard time getting back. He clearly didn't want to leave and clung to me, and we kissed.

"Give me time," he whimpered. "I can please you, I know. I can take it all. Just give me time."

"You did take it all," I said, lying; I'd had a couple more inches to give him when I decided he couldn't take any more. "It's not you; it's me. I can't control myself well enough. I didn't mean to hurt you." And it was true. My anger was getting in the way. I was looking for another Sam, and what I was getting was wanna be girls. I wanted another man—a man who could take it. I wanted a man who could and would take nine inches and buck with it like a bull with all nine super-thick inches inside him, a man who would come with me and then turn me on my back and ride it again like a bull. I wanted a Sam.

"Maybe sometime again . . ."

"Yes, maybe sometime again," I answered. I doubt either one of us thought there would be a "sometime again."

* * * *

"I think you should do the 100-mile Appalachian Trail walking trip."

I turned from where I was reading the activities board at the Rainbow Connection center and saw Jackson standing there in sweat-stained gray gym shorts and T.

"I didn't think you were here," I said. I'd come to the center for him—hoping he'd be here. I couldn't take any more hiding out in my house. I'd stayed hidden for nearly three months after the disappointment of the New Year's party and having had such an animal with the gym attendant who no longer seemed to be working here. I hadn't even gone back to Jimmy's bar, thinking I'd explode if all I found there was another swishy girly guy. Jackson was the only one since Sam died who I'd even come close to fucking who was a real man. He was black, tattooed, muscular, and athletic. He hadn't taken it all that first time, but we'd been pulled apart. I kept fantasizing doing him and getting it done—bottoming and keeping him with me, counterpunching to the end.

"You must not have checked the squash courts," he said, obviously pleased that I'd been looking for him. "I've been looking for you for months, man."

"We started but didn't finish," I said.

"That's right, we did start," he answered. "But I didn't think—"

"I didn't give it all to you. I wanted to know whether you could take it."

Jackson shuddered, started to say something and then didn't.

"You're all sweaty and smelly," I said.

"An hour on the squash court will do that to you. You're pretty ripe yourself. Beating the field in pickup basketball?"

"Thought I'd get some exercise while I was shopping."

"Find anything you want?"

"I have now. I think we should go to the showers. You want to try taking it all?"

"Best offer I've had all day," he answered.

We didn't make it to the showers. When passing one of the cubicles conveniently provided for privacy, I pulled Jackson inside and put his back against the wall.

"I'm going to fuck you right here," I hissed.

"But I'm all sweaty and smelly."

"That's what's turned me on. You're all man. "Stay here," I growled. "I'll be back in just a minute."

"Is this what you're looking for?" he asked, pulling a condom packet out of the pocket of his shorts.

"That's convenient," I said.

"I was told you were in the building. I went for this before coming for you."

* * * *

"Oh, shit, oh, fuck. Slow down, hold off for a . . . oh fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Relax. We can do this," I growled. We were both naked, sweaty slick naked, with the slap, slap, slap sound backed by his moans and my groans of me pounding his ass, trying to get in deeper. "Open to me. Give it to me. Stop tensing up."

With a sob, he went limp, the pressure of his knees against my hips letting up enough that he had to cross his ankles at the small of my back to keep his legs from sliding for the floor. He wasn't so much relaxing as collapsing, going limp.

"Do it; give me all of it," Jackson groaned through a clinched jaw. But I knew that he couldn't take all of it, at least for now. And he ejaculated up my belly, meaning his response inevitably would lose intensity. I was losing him . . . at least for now.

I relaxed myself and let my balls release my cum into the bulb of the condom. I rested my forehead against his and looked deeply into his eyes.

"Sorry, man, I wanted to take it all. I'm sure I can . . ."

"It's OK," I whispered. It wasn't really OK. Well, it was good—much better than with a small-bodied limp wrister—but it wasn't great. It wasn't Sam.

"We'll work at it—if you're willing."

"It means a lot to you, doesn't it?" Jackson whispered, "To fully possess your partner."

"Yeah, I'm afraid it does. I had my man once. I don't think I can be fully satisfied until I have his equal again."

"He must have been quite a man."

"He was."

"You were close?"

"Very. He took a bullet for me and I took a bullet for him."

"You were soldiers?"

"Private soldiers. Legal mercenaries."

"And satisfied lovers? You're a rough power top. He was tough?"

"He was tough as they come. He took nine inches without a groan. He was a man."

"With work, I can manage it, I know I can," Jackson murmured. "And you should sign up for the Appalachian Trail walk."

"Why?" I asked.

"'Cause it's essentially a couple's walk and a chance to be alone in a tent for the night. About twenty-five miles a day along the ridge of the Blue Ridge. Four days hiking and three nights in tents, two guys to a tent."

"So?"

"I'm signed up and I don't have anyone else in my tent yet. Time, under the stars on top of the world—time to get it right—for me to manage it all. I want to manage it all. I want to be that man for you. I want to be able to take your nine inches without a groan."

At least he was game for it.