Caution: This Gay Exhibitionism Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma, Gay, Fiction, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Size,
Desc: Gay Exhibitionism Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A well-hung exhibitionist joins an-all male nude dance show and the reader shares in his erotic adventures on and off stage.
Bobby was on next. He gulped air and let it out slowly three times. It was a ritual that seemed to ease his performance anxieties. The stage ones, anyway. Even after three years as a stripper, he still got the jitters before going on. He tugged the thin elastic cords of his g-string and hefted the weighty pouch, just to be sure everything was in place, on line, and A-One.
Bobby had plenty to worry about. Mainly between his legs. Primarily his balls. Since they were too large for standard pouches, special dance cups had to be custom made and fitted to contain them. His balls were billed "the largest organically grown nuts east of the Mississippi". A footnote explained organic as "unenhanced by vacuum pump or silicone/saline injections". Not for vanity, but fact. Besides, it paid to advertize.
On the placard out front (the big color one with him in gold mesh pouch and thigh-high lame boots) his full billing ran, "Bouncin' Bobby with the Bulgin' Basket". He dreamed it up early one morning in Vegas, sipping chartreuses in Caesar's lounge. Earlier that night as he peeled out off the silver tights and packed himself into the black and white striped Limbo shorts for the umpteenth time, he knew it was time to quit backing and start fronting for a change. He'd been a showboy, one of six backing Lola Falana, for nearly a year. He liked Lola alright, Vegas too for that matter, but needed something more. Just for himself. It was time to face the music and dance. Center stage.
Bulgin' Bobby was born Robert L. Greco in Madison, Wisconsin nearly twenty three years back, way back, before MTV, cocaine candy, and AIDS. From the time he could walk, he wanted to dance. His dad was a professor of french poetry at the U of W with expertise in lays and his mom was a mezzo in choir and gave solo Lieder recitals for charity twice a year. So, having a premier danseur aspirant as a son was fine with them. He got plenty of encouragement from them both. But there was a hitch.
He thought about it as he flicked the elastic band at his waist. Absent-mindedly, he rearranged his meat so his half-hard dick sat dead center between the cresting hillocks of his balls. Silhouette through the flimsy translucent yellow fabric, his outsized equipment looked cartoonish, a sketch on an obscene pack of matches, captioned, "Dream of being a professional artist? Draw These Genitals!"
But Bobby was outlandish and illusory everywhere: from his perfect face to his perfect body to his perfect dick, down to his great big perfect balls. He was, by nature, too blond, too blue-eyed, too muscular and, unnaturally, too well hung: a Tom of Finland Dolf Lundgren regenerated by a sex fiend.
He took three more breaths and sighed softly. He was nervous as usual and unusually mad. Thinking about his youth always ticked him off. He tried an Ann-Margaret trick to free the tension by shaking his limp arms at his sides while jiggling his splayed fingers. It did nothing for his nerves but plenty to his crotch. His basket quivered like an erotic jello mold.
As his tethered testicles wobbled and quaked, an old anger stirred his senses. Since "The Nutcracker" (ironic name) matinee he'd seen as a little kid of five, Robert wanted a career in classical ballet. Along with parental encouragement, he had the grace, talent and discipline to realize his dream. He was bright enough to learn the difficult technique and quick enough to catch on to the style. But from lesson one to lesson last, all he heard from every teacher and adviser was the same old shit.
The most vivid memory was of Andre Pillage, his last classical dancing coach. It was after class on a day when the steampipe burst, the studio mirrors sweated ice, and a record blizzard crippled even the main roads. Robert was just six days short of his sixteenth birthday. He thought the teacher wanted to see him after class to tell him he'd get to dance the Bluebird in recital as a birthday gift. He'd been begging for it since his fifteenth. But the private meeting wasn't about Tchaikowski.
Monsieur Pillage was a living cliche. In class he was a titan, on the street, merely a mincing old faggot with plucked eyebrows and an exaggerated french accent. But even at sixty, he could leap with the ease of a leaf on a breeze.
As he spoke to Robert, he sweated a lot and daubed his brow and upper lip with a Hermes scarf that, alternating with a dozen others, always sat draped unknotted over his shoulders. He tried to keep eye contact with the youth, but often, despite his better judgement, his gaze ran down to the massive mound and loitered there as he babbled.
"Row-bair, mon Row-bair, you are, sans doubt, a mare-velous danceur. Extraordinary vraiment. Wiz a natural, inherent feel for the grand manneur. But, well, we've 'ad say-vay-rahl objections to... Allors, that ees, surely you are aware that... Row-bair, ees extremely difficile to put zees delicately, but... eh bien, frankly, you're a little too come se dire..."well endowed" to be wearing the cos-toom of ze danceur.
"Zat ees, well, your... zhenital mound ees, how you say, deestracting at best and, at worst, frankly ees off-en-seave. Several of our young ballerinas... et, oui, zair parents too have expressed zair... Mon Dieu, le mot en anglaise... yez, re-poog-nahnce! Surely you're aware zat la petite Karen Ann, a very fine danseuse, non?, has taken to her bed and ees bass-ee-cool-ee vegetating somewhere between consciousness and catatonia since zat awe-fool day she meesed her jete an'... quite accidentally, non?... grabbed hold of your... pouch... to keep from falling on her enchanting face.
Madame Kandinsky, hair muzzair, 'as even threatened to sue my poor lee-tel school, for... come se dire..."obscene aggravation" and "permissive and blatant lewdness" on za part of ze Ecole Pierrot. J'espoir mos' sincerely she weel accep' ze... Dieu! Parole!... yes, ze "out-of-court settlement off-fair".
"Ah, mon Row-bair, I know zis condition of yours ees not your fault. I am... trust me... fool- lee aware zat your... deformity: Please, my mizair-ab-leh english!... ees hereditary and hopefully... no, no, I mean hopelessly... irreparable. I'm so... sad for you, so sad, mais vraiment, surely you can see how, excuse me., preposterous you look! How vool-gair and provocatif! How dees-grahs-foo-lee tantalizing! Much, much too scandalously lewd and... tempting! Frankly, you are ze mos' coarse and disgustingly flagrantly lee-bee-dee-noose young man I've ever seen! Zat... excuse me... lah-see-vee- ooze protrusion in your tights ees... tiens!... simply oo-tair-lee por-no-gra-feek!
"Zare! I've said eet! Believe me, Row-bair, eet breaks my hear' to be so brutal wiz you. I know you're moze sair-ee-ooze abows a career in ze dance and zair's no doubt you have fine... potential. Except for zis one... excuse me... ee-nor-moose day-fec'! To be philosophical, I believe your poet, Shock-spair would call zis your "tragic flaw".
If ze poetry mend your wounded soul, eh bien, heed 'ees words! Accep' za ray-all-ee-tay. Learn to leave wiz eet. Life goes on like a magique carousel! Up and down ze horses pump! Up and down! Up and down! Up and down! Yes... mais... where was I, Row-bair, ah oui!... we all must accept our ride on zis dee-zee whirl! We mus' accept our... handicaps. Row-bair, try to be brave! Like Marie Antoinette at ze guillotine! So brave, proud, firm... firm... firm wiz head held high! Oui, like ze cannon wiz zeh big balls aimed up and ready to go boom boom! In time, mon cher, you will aim your cannon high and shoot to ze skies. I should like to be zair watching when you do! For you weel, my big brave Row-bair!"
Absentmindedly tucking some stray pubes back in his g-string, Bobby fumed and muttered a "fuck you" under his breath. "Damn you, Pillage, I'll aim my cannon high all right! I'll shoot my big balls so you'll hear the report all the way back in Madison!" He cupped his heaving pouch and shouted, "I'll fuckin' 'deal weez eet' alright!"
Out front, Whopper Wally's music hammered out too loud for anyone to hear Bobby's oath.
The stinky little auditorium was jam packed. SRO and tighter than sardines. On Fridays, the last show was always a sellout, but with Wally and Bobby on the same bill, tickets were harder to find than roosters' balls. Scalpers quadrupled their investments. And regulars in-the-know had purchased their tickets two weeks in advance. Every horny, sticky-dicked voyeur in Big Apple Gaydom sat or stood jammed thigh to thigh in the hot, little hellhole.
In an aisle seat, stage left, a good-looking young guy named Matty writhed and squirmed as he got off on Wally's show. But it was Bobby he was there for, and Bobby for whom he saved his cream. He'd heard a lot about the dancer and his dangles secondhand. Tonight he'd judge for himself. If he could only concentrate a little better.
"I shouldn't've worn these goddamn jeans," he whimpered to himself, digging his denim ass into the tattered seat, "Too motherfuckin' tight! My meat's so mashed 'n hot it feels like it's fryin'!"
Next to him, a well-tailored man eyed the gross genital heap writhing, and unwittingly smacked his chops. He wondered whether the plump package was real or artificial, maybe a Ruby Star grapefruit. Some guys would do anything to attract attention. But second and third takes decided him that too much genital detail showed through the thick denim to be anything but the real stuff.
His sweaty palms wiped themselves on the insides of his neatly pleated blue serge pants and fell open just below the triangular tent below his belt. Back at work, in front of the terminal all day, hot and bothered, he got a half dozen hard-ons thinking about how hot it might be to strip off his underwear and go Calvinless to the Rialto. Later, he unpeeled the crusty briefs in the executive men's room and stashed them in his briefcase under the day's spreadsheets. It was a kick strolling down Madison bouncing bare-assed under his three piece suit.
But now, sitting in soppy sweat and precum juices, the thrill was gone. His fat dickhead dug hard against his rough cold fly. Oscar and Little Oscar were both starting to hurt. If he'd thought just how horny these blatant show-offs always got him, he'd have realized he needed the comforting bondage and drainage of a soft cotton sap. Had he subconsciously wanted to suffer this torment? No. Oscar was no masochist. Besides, not even the most dedicated pain-lover would wish this on himself! His lacerated headslit slid open-mouthed along the rough steel ribs and burned its tender lining. Shit, he thought, it was definitely a bad idea.
But across the aisle, stanchioned on one of the side bleachers, Old Man Maintz definitely thought otherwise.
Mainz was a regular. A major backer and nightly devotee of The Royale Rialto All Male Revue. He'd been to all the shows since they started in the early Seventies, back when male strippers and he himself were young. Well, male stripping anyway. He'd seen each change of cast so many times he knew every dancing dickhead by heart. And every set of bounding balls by his hard.
First and foremost, Mainz was a ball man. He liked 'em big. He liked 'em small. He liked 'em anyway at all. To him they were nice hairy or shaved and looked choice hanging loose and low or packed up firm and tight. So long as a set of two (or even one alone) swung suspended and on view, the old guy was happy as a pig in shit.
Since the pro balls on stage were so well known, he spent a lot of his theatre time checking out the nuts in the house. Like a cat on the prowl for a fresh mouse, Mainz enjoyed the hunt as much as the catch. Even partial views of a virgin bags got him off. The Rialto Revue got its audiences so hot they commonly played openly with themselves. Sometimes, blatantly. So Mainz seldom went home without a vivid ball recall or two to stroke himself to dreamland. Tonight alone, and this early on, he'd snagged three memorable sets.
The first hung loose in the back row. Big, black and shiny, they'd been pulled out and over some beige chinos that set them off like onyx on alabaster. They were attached to an African- American in a punk-cut, a singer in a local rap group in Bed-Stuy. He'd been christened Leander Ellington Jones, but called himself Amahl Ben-Akmar as a teen when he was a political activist. Now he preferred Jivin' Jay. He was toying with H. H. H. Hamhock for the future.
Five minutes after he'd settled in, Jivin' hauled out his heavy balls and spread them out to air. As a performer, like Bobby, he knew the value of publicity. As a seasoned exhibitionist, he knew he had the stuff to show and compete with the studs on stage.
Before Jay's sac could scarcely cool, a cute curly-haired blond yuppie or preppie, some kinda White, crawled between his splayed legs and set to feasting on his healthy meatballs. He just leaned back and grooved on the lapping. Made him feel nice. Happy enough to hum a hip-hop lappy-lap rap out loud to help the kid with his rhythm.
Now and then he opened his eyes to look back at the dirty old dude perched up on the bleachers checking him out. The old guy was cool. He stared real down 'n dirty like a wino or some other kind of bum. Bein' white didn't mean bein' right. But enough wrong ones had bucks and attitude to get Jay steamy. So the old coot was cool. Made up for the rest. Jivin' sang a "pumpity- pump hump hump hump" rap to help foster the jacking jerking the dirty trenchcoat bunched on the old dude's lap.
And Mainz bopped his dick to the beat. He played drums for Jimmy Dorsey back in the Forties and could dig a good cadence. And a good show-off even more. Especially one who knew the score, and how to play it.
Mainz glanced down the back row and, direct center, sighted and bagged nut-catch number two. An especially valuable one since the prey was quite small and just barely visible.
The two balls tight together rose like a pale quarter moon over a black polished-cotton sky. They were the only light on Sidney Longbotham, a puny, balding bank teller. Prissy even more than puny, he was agelessly middle aged, born weary and used. He wore unflattering (on him) rimless glasses on a nondescript face that passed unnoticed initially and seldom caught a second glance.
Sidney, like Oscar a couple rows ahead, had made a fatal mistake (or wise decision) before leaving work. Sidney's, however, was lots worse (much better?) than Oscar's.
He'd visited the Rialto plenty of times before, always resolved to pick up a dancer for take- home, or, if not a stripper, at least a face in the crowd. But being timid and shy, he never looked anyone in the eye long enough to make contact, never had the voice to speak even a hello, and never had the courage to act, even just to open his wallet. Sidney needed help. He knew that. Some sort of moral support. Encouragement.
Once, a few months back, he tried getting it from a bottle. But Sidney wasn't a drinker. Not even a sipper. He got totally plastered on one marguerita in the Algonquin's Blue Bar and came to a couple hours later laid out on a laundry hamper in the hotel's sub-basement. A Russian or Polish chambermaid had been seeing to him between sheet changes. He regained consciousness, rocking, pressed to her ample bosom and lulled by a Slavic Lullaby. Later, the nightmare came back: rescued by the old Gypsy woman in The Wolfman, convinced he was Larry Talbot, his hands had grown talons and dripped with blood. Her blood.
Liquor wasn't the answer for Sidney.
The Thursday before this visit, though, when the bank was closed to customers and Sidney was separating his fives, tens and twenties, he overheard two women tellers talking and giggling as they toted. About a bachelorette party one of them had given for a girlfriend the weekend before. At the words, "male stripper", Sidney lost track of the fives and had to start over.
He stopped altogether when he heard a voice say, "Ya stuck da buck in his g-string! Where'd ya get da noive? Didja see his thing? Was it stiff an' stuff? I betcha he was a fairy, huh? Was he cute? Alotta fairies ah good lookin'. Makes ya sick, like priests. Was his back hairy? I don't care whadda looka a guy is, wit a hairy back, you can keep'm. Did he take his thing off an' show his thing? Where'd ya get da noive?"
The other voice said she figured the girls might get uptight so, she said, she bought some joints on Forty-Second Street. "We all smoked like chimneys excep' Mahshah, she was a nun, ya know." By the time the stripper showed up with the engagement cake, she said, they were all so stoned they "prac'ly" ripped his clothes off--"a cop outfit yet! Real cute! Like Erik Estrada! Only shawtah teeth"--as he came in the door.
Sidney had to recount the tens four times after that. But he somehow managed to balance out. And somehow managed to muster the courage to make a lunchtime trip to the West Side for a drug dealer on Times Square. He found one without looking. Well, actually, the dealer "found" Sidney. A Puerto Rican kid in recycled Fifties peg leg pants, hawked "good smoke" beside the shattered glass cases of a shuttered movie house, right next to Sidney's favorite porno shop. The one with four cellophane wrapped magazines for ten dollars.
"You want some coke too, man? Got some nice coke." Sidney said no, he only drank Perrier. The kid said "cool" and went on to another sale.
Later, when the other tellers had left for the day, Sidney decided to smoke one of his two joints. All of it. He lit up and burned his nose in the janitor's closet and coughed with each inhale, blowing the exhale into an open carton of toilet paper.
He'd never smoked before, not even a cigarette. But he learned how by re-reading a couple descriptive passages in old porno novels. He catalogued all his books and magazines by topic, studio, and model on three by five color-coded cards. He even typed an index for each publication and glued it to the inside back flap. He also cross-referenced subjects from one book to another. There were forty-four listings for grass (see Marijuana) with two subheaded, "smoke, how to".
Fortunately all the bank officers were gone too, off for a long weekend in The Hamptons, when Sidney lit up. Only two pot-bellied guards, stoned themselves, were left in the building. They watched, delighted, as their favorite jerk staggered and weaved his way into the street. They even helped him find the door. Twice.
He made his way to the second floor theatre, more swimming than walking. Along Forty- Fifth the usual sights took on an unreal patina. A gang of construction workers scaled girders wearing hardhats and work boots as usual but, oddly, nothing else. Except for one who had on a silver jock, and another, bare, but with a red and white target painted over his ass. Sidney was so busy shooting phantom darts, he collided with a squad of college boys in sequined headbands and diaphanous wrestling singlets.
Luckily for him they were so intent on maintaining strict triangular formation as they tumbled and jumping-jacked their way, Sidney suffered little more than a stern glower as they flipped past.
As he crossed the converging rivers of Seventh and Broadway, a couple old fisherwomen boating past, shielded their eyes. He imagined they were protecting themselves from the sun's glare flashing off his metal suit. He was right. But only about the flashing.
He coasted his lilypad to the gates of the Sacred Temple and scaled the marble stairs on his knees. It was traditional. Offering fifty drachmas and the flock of sheep with him to the Druid Priestess who guarded the Sanctum Sanctorum, he bowed and entered the shrine, dabbing his lips with Ganges water in the penile font. The mosque air was thick with the effluvium of musk and myrrh. Cymbals and timbrels rang, lyres sang, and he took his customary place of honor on the Peacock Throne between the statues of Hercules and Shiva.
Then settled in the chair (Or tub perhaps? Yes, crystal basin!) Sidney perused the hall (Or theatre? Arena?) and noted the strangeness of the voyeurs around him. Were they perhaps Nubians? Yes, Nubians. Definitely! Or Vikings. More likely Cretins with axes to grind. Whichever, he noted that at times whoever they were, they were visibly there. More often, they were not.
But the altar ahead, at least, stayed constant. Still, the images upon it seemed to transmogrify periodically. The only constant seemed to be an enormous distended dick with bloated balls that swayed and darted from the mutating Idol/High Priest who danced and whirled luridly before the assembled apostles of Baal.
Old Man Mainz petted his limp, leaky shaft with deliberate strokes, as he watched as the lewd, conspicuously drugged little man stumble in his seat and unzip his fly. He leaned forward for a better look as Sidney tugged and yanked his dainty dick free and barely exposed the tight little mound of delicate balls.
As the teller slobber-licked the open palm of his right hand and transferred the slime to his stiff baby-prick, Mainz pumped harder on his own. He leered as the little man jacked his stub pencil penis with a frenzy that made the entire back row of seats reverberate in harmony.
When, after a very short while, several thick globs of cum spurted and sputtered onto the tight hillock, Sidney's frantic stroking continued unabated. Even after a good half hour, when Mainz looked a fifth time, the jack-pace kept up, if anything, wilder and sloshier. Between looks, Mainz surmised, the little guy had let fly two or three more loads as evidenced by the juices coating the revealed bow of his balls. It now, in fact, resembled the top half of a glazed doughnut protruding from a goodie bag.
Mainz was a sucker for sweets even though, to a diabetic like himself, they were a sin. Still, he was sorely tempted. He almost rose to satisfy his fatal cravings when he forced himself to turn away and, in so doing, noticed the man bleachered below, just one row down and one seat to the right.
In their full glory sat the old guy's third nut bagging of the night. Whoppers! The kind of catch fish stories are made of.
The man had been there as long as Mainz but had passed unnoticed. He'd been sitting so still, he'd done nothing to signal attention himself. Oh, Mainz had noticed the full head of thick grey hair with envy, but that was it.
But now he caught the nuts, and took in their full setting. The fellow was outfitted in an old peacoat, with a dark blue turtleneck underneath. Pretty hot get-up for such a sweltering joint. Old Man Mainz figured he'd been in the Navy maybe twenty, thirty years back and still got off on playing sea dog. No white cap though, just the bushy mane. And, from the old guy's angle, a big but decidedly masculine nose.
That was the look of the jewel box. As for the gems themselves: fifty carats, sixty maybe! Bigger than life! At first, Mainz though the guy had brought a couple apples to munch on during the show and had sat them on his lap.
They were too big, obviously, to be real. Mainz, gonad gourmet that he was, knew the look of paste. Plainly, the balls had been vacuum pumped for a few hours, or more likely, days, before this outing. Even in the dim, smokey light cast in the bleachers, they gave a telltale reddish glow typical of an artificially amplified sac.
On closer inspection they resembled tomatoes more than apples. Not plum tomatoes, or rubbery winter pinks, but real hothouses! The Israeli's. Only they looked a little too tightly packed, like they were crammed into an overstretched Baggie.
The guy called himself Dick, though his real name was David. He liked the sound of Dick. Made him feel like a dick. He wanted to call himself Balls or Nuts and even tried it out a couple times in bars when he first moved to the city. But all it got was laughs and lines like, "Funny, fellah, ya don't look bald" or "I thought you were nuts when you came through that door!". So Dave stuck with Dick as a poor second best.
He was born on a peach plantation in Georgia but joined the Navy the day he reached age. He stayed hitched for twenty-three years then figured he'd live off his hobby. Nuts.
He opened a candy shop in the Village, specializing in fresh hot roasted nuts. All kinds from peanuts to Brazils. He liked the Brazils best but loved handling and talking up all kinds. Especially with other nut fanciers who got off on his suggestive puns.
Dick, don't forget, liked booze too. Went hand in hand with nuts at most bars, after all. He got the taste for dark rum in the Philippines and never lost it. He kept a bottle next to the candied cashews and another behind the big vat of Zenobia pistachios. He'd start to down it when the Angelus tolled from the church tower down the block. He held his liquor alright, except that it made him mean, well, meaner. He was born hot-headed and an added shot of pickled anger only made him boil hotter.
He had no real friends, not even acquaintances. Just nut buddies who dropped by the shop for a hot sack on their way home. His old landlady was the only visitor his apartment got. She looked in on him once a week, for ten bucks extra. She'd always try to get the cleaning over before he'd get back from the store. He'd know she'd been there by the stack of vacuum tubes piled high in the kitchen bathtub, sparkling clean and draining dry. Mrs. Ostrevski thought were display cases to keep the roaches off his sweets. She wasn't half wrong.
Dick wore his blues every day. He wore skivvies and dogtags to bed. He used a timer to set off his stereo in the morning. It played the Navy fight song, some bells and pipes, and the hornpipe from "Ruddigore".
His blues came from Goldberg's in Philly. His own hadn't fit his waist and ass in years. And with his bigger balls, he had to have even the largest reissues retailored by the queer who sold leather around the corner. The guy really got off on fitting him. After hours. Dick always warned him to "lay off" and shoved the guy on his ass when he grabbed too high with the tape. The both got off on it. Still, if there was anything Dick hated more than a faggot, it was a faggot who copped a feel.
Dick, wore his favorite bells to the Rialto, the good old classics with the thirteen button flap. One button for each of the original colonies, sir! Whenever he undid them, he'd litanize Delaware, Virginia, and the other eleven as he'd finger each little plastic anchor. He did it religiously, even in the Rialto.
He sat now with the flap fully undone and tossed down between his legs. A wool scarf--Had all the warmth of his blood gone to his balls?--was wrapped around his prizewinners to hide the abundant harvest from poachers and gonad gophers. But from where Old Man Mainz sat, the scarf was just a cushioned border around Dick's patriotic Victory Garden.
Dick felt the sweat beading on his forehead. The old Navy blues felt hot as ever. But then, so did his dick and balls, in blues or out. He liked to feel the sweat drip down onto his spheres of accomplishment. It gave him a good feeling deep inside. It made him gloat. He felt all swelled up with a sense of accomplishment. Both of them.
After seven years of long hard work he'd finally blown his balls up to fifteen inchers. About seven and a half each. Actually, eight and a quarter on the left, six and three quarters on the right. They looked and felt great.
And so did he. Except for the constant throbbing ache that ran from the center of his nuts clear up into his jaw. Not even a completely reconstructed crotch could ease the agony he felt when even the slightest pressure bore down on The Biggest Balls in the World.
That's why it felt so damned good to sit stock still with his bullnuts out in the open, feeling pressured by the atmosphere alone. Yet, even free like this, he didn't dare move around too much. Crossing his legs too quick could crush his thigh into his sac with a force like a whack from a top grade two by four.
But that's just how Dick liked it. Wouldn't have it any other way. He ate up the ache in his bloated balls. He loved the way each nut tugged down like a rock on its slender sperm cord. The pain was a pleasure, reminding him just how massive he was. He moaned in erotic bliss each time his walloppers slapped his beefy thighs when he walked around pantsless, as he often did, behind the packed showcase. His nuts with his nuts. That's how he figured it. Sometimes he sprinkled the fine-grained salt on his own set. He savored the stinging burn.
Every morning and every night (and twice more during the day on Sundays and Mondays) he'd scream with delight as his pounding meat slammed his aching nuts into the mattress or toilet seat, or hard against the wooden kitchen chair. Yeah, beatin' off for hours, that was the best! That was Dick's idea of time well-spent. But, only at home, alone. Never in the shop. Never in a dump like this. Damned pussy faggots would really get off on seeing his big beauties bounce as he primed the pump. But, no way. Back home, that's where he liked to leak and moan and sweetly suffer. Not out in public surrounded by a bunch of baby-balled bozos.
Backstage, Bobby was being none too successful at sapping the nervous tension from his body. He shook his limp arms, futilely, as he felt his nuts rev up a couple more cycles. He knew a telltale precum spot already dotted the peak of his yellow pouch. He ran his right index finger over the pressure point, hoping he might be wrong. He wasn't. The slick nylon casing was moist to the touch, and the blotch was even more extensive than he'd figured.
"Shit, you'd think I was some motherfuckin' virgin or somethin'! Damn it all!"
Onstage, Whopper Wally from Waukeegan, Wisconsin (Two Dairy Staters on one little stage!) poised his macho build at apron's edge. In his silver reflective shades and Marine dogtags and with the snarl on his mug, he stood the very picture of an arrogant military stud. With booted feet spread wide he balanced his mighty 6'2" frame on his heels and dipped his toes down unsupported. He flicked his cigarette butt behind him with a contrived pitch. He'd done his act so many times before, he could flick his butt and Bick, and his butt and dick in his sleep.
He slid his hands down the sides of his dark, hairy chest, en route to his loins, readying them to rip the already torn and mungy jock from his loins, like always. And as usual, his enormous prick (the hard heart of his act) strained against the perverse elastic. His kiwi-sized dickhead traced a good half-inch thicker outline in the pouch than his splendid cucumber shaft.
"My fuckin' big fat head is fuckin' gettin' these assholes droolin' like hungry pigs!".
He stared out into the nebulous core of viewers from behind the protective shades.
"Fuckin' makes 'em slobber like the filthy, dirty little piggies the assholes are!"
"Oink! Oink!", he yelled out loud. Some guys laughed. Some just jacked. Nobody understood.
The steady stream of preseminal fluid leaking through the open weave of his jock glittered in strands from pouch to thigh, and from leg to leg like an intricate spiderweb. The smell of his seepage wafted well beyond the first few rows. Several men, seated at least halfway back, got dizzy from the heady aroma. The stench of their own leaking juices mingled with Wally's and saturated the dank auditorium air with an animal sexuality so strong that one particularly sensitive young man scared himself (and the guy next to him) by throbbing out a thirty second orgasm without even touching himself.
A grizzled old coot( even seedier than Old Man Mainz), seated on the guy's other flank, laughed out loud as he watched the helpless ejaculant clutch the arms of his seat and toss his head back like a condemned man strapped down and jolted to death. The old guy may have laughed but, as he did, his own wizened joint dribbled out some stale juice of its own, followed by an involuntary piss that soaked right through his Depends.
Bobby caught Wally's act from behind, through a slit cut in the back curtain. He never got bored with watching Wally's beefy butt, especially on parade, framed and lifted by the elastic straps of a jock. His eyes traced the sweat streaming from the small of the dancer's back down over the curves of the fully saturated melons below. Those beauties tasted as candy sweet as they looked.
Bobby knew. First hand. First tongue.
About a year back, he and Wally together had worked up a specialty act. They called it, "Dick 'n Balls: A Naughty Night of Song, Dance and Patter". It had a limited run, performed only at exclusive private parties, usually on the Upper East Side, but once in a loft in TriBeCa, and twice down in D.C. for a Gay Member of the House. And his wife.
Wally played Dick, and Bobby, Balls. Together, the partners staged a traditional vaudeville act with a few decidedly untraditional twists. They spent a shitload on the costumes, though the whole lot of them fit handily in a small duffle bag. The wardrobe consisted mainly of jeweled g- strings, crotchless tights, pouchless jocks, assless shorts and a matching Tarzan and Boy loincloth set, pouchless beneath.
They cracked stale jokes that they stole from old movies and books, and raunched up. They sang tasteless ditties with real gusto and grand style. And they danced. That's what the crowd came for, the dancing. So, they danced: together and apart, pouched and bare, tumescent and completely stiff. They closed with Bobby's own choreography for a duo version of "Afternoon of a Faun" with even more masturbatory action than Nijinsky could have dreamed in his wildest wet one.
The act was enormously popular. They turned down a number of very lucrative bookings during the course of the run because of scheduling conflicts. They rejected a firm offer from the coast, and even said no to a very lucrative booking on a Gay cruise.
Since their audience expected great dancing and got it, that was no surprise. Nor was the size and swell of their organs. Nor the beauty of their bodies and faces. Nor did their assured, sweet singing astonish anyone, since both had sung publicly before in their own separate acts. And very successfully.
No, the real surprise, the real reason for their phenomenal success, was their assured, perfectly measured way with filthy, dirty jokes and bawdy stories.
Wally told cock tales and Bobby bounced off ball banter, both like pros. Each anecdote was acted or mimed graphically and lewdly and included plenty of audience participation, all the way from hefting and grabbing to stroking and fondling. The elite gathered erotically invariably were stunned by the two men sporting raging, dripping hard-ons telling gags with the timing and finesse of Benny and Berle.
(Though the latter, it's said, could have staged quite an impressive Erection Extravaganza himself, if his comedic talents had taken him in that direction).
There was plenty of manual manipulation of the entertainers by the audience, but there was no "mouth on" action in the show, except between the two men themselves.
That's how Bobby got his first taste of Wally's Casabas. The sampling came at the end of Part One, during their acclaimed "Kiss My Ass" routine. It was an outrageously obscene variation on an old Abbott & Costello classic about bowling balls, or perhaps it was watermelons. Anyway, it was all pretty corny stuff but the crowd swallowed it whole anyway.
In fact, when the two naked studs got to the double barrelled punchline, the appreciative moans and thankful spatters from the fans made the reason for the scheduled break between parts one and two pretty much self-evident. And necessary to "recoup one's losses", as Bobby always announced with an arrivederci wave.
The last few minutes of the routine went something like this:
"Well fuck you, asshole!", Bobby'd yell up at Wally, as he lay spread out naked and hard with his thighs splayed wide-open to the assembled company, "if that's how you feel about the Department of Agriculture, you can fucking well sit on a corncob! And the good senator from Iowa has just the one for you!"
Then he opened his mouth wide and stuck out his long, hard tongue, which had been dyed yellow with saffron.
"Gladly, Banana Breath!", Wally'd retort with a side-splitting lisp and eye flutter, as he plunged the deep crack between his two sleek melons over Bobby's oral erection.
Blackout and a huge laugh. And groans. And splats. Lots of laughs, groans and splats. As they say in Show Biz, "It got 'em where they lived every time!"
Watching those beefy cheeks wobbling and wiggling now, Bobby tried to stare down into the dark gulf separating them. But the abyss was unfathomable. Bobby sighed and, once again, regretted the petty fight over billing that had broken up their act. Holy Shit! Who really cared whose dick came before whose balls anyway!
Bobby's scrumptious, albeit fruitless, daydream dissolved with a great communal roar that shook not just his reverie but the very unsteady foundations of the dinky building itself. The noise snapped Bobby back to reality like the mighty crack of a passing jet breaking time.
Wally had ripped off his jock.
"Holy Judas Priest!", a solo bass voice bellowed, while an attending chorus of tenor whoops and baritone grunts sang harmony and a half dozen dicks shot their loads. Still another dozen crested to ejaculation summits but were willed back down to ride lower, more manageable slopes.
Old Man Mainz lifted his eyes from the dandy tomatoes planted in the lap below and jerked his half-hard dick a couple more sticky strokes. A slavering blend of precum and cum trickled from his slit and dropped with an audible plop onto the hardwood platform floor. He'd seen Wally's Whopper perform at least a dozen times before, but the sight of that massive pole jutting out of the dancer's groomed groin like a rolling pin or a billy club held at the ready still demanded a donation from the old man's balls.
And the old guy had enough balls to give!
On the veneer, Mainz could have been any dirty old man anywhere. He thought so too. He toted the same old mangy trenchcoat over the typical worn-out but ravenous dick. He sported the same two day growth of beard, wore the same dirty clothes, scratched with the same dirty nails, and wound the same forty or fifty hairs, in swirling layers, over and around the same bald head.
But his nuts broke with type.
It wasn't just that they were large and firm, the classic Grade A Hen's Eggs, or that they came packed in a handsome pouch that was satin smooth and always free-flowing. They merited extra- special attention because of the unusual length and extension of the ballbag. The sac itself was truly awe-inspiring. Fiction often depicts low hangers that are so extraordinary long, they stretch down to their owner's knees. That's the kind of exaggerated depiction referred to as "poetic license", or "a license to lie", if you will.
But Mainz's bag didn't lie, it hung. And hung and hung. For days. And no minstrel was needed to sing embroidered lays to the old guy's nutsack. All it needs is the kind of recitation of facts found on a DA's note pad.
Since babyhood, Little Mainzie was forced to haul around a pair of scumbags that actually, literally, honestly hung down from pubis to mid-knee. His very atypical hang wasn't due to the size or weight of the gonads within the scrotum. No, the phenomenon owed itself to a simple, inherited genetic trait: the family jewels had an heirloom aspect. This hereditary factor troubled his father, who was himself unaffected by it, since the idiosyncrasy skipped generations. But at the birth of each of his three sons, the man worried himself sick one would be stricken with the affliction.
The man knew his third born bore the curse by the look of alarm on the nurse's face as she entered the expectant father's waiting room and flutteringly announced, "an eight pound, six ounce baby... ball... that is... boy... a... boy... Mr. Mainz" before she collapsed. She was carried out and relieved from duty for the remainder of her shift.
Little Mainzie's far-reaching sac mocked any acceptable sense of proportion! For it to be harmonious, the grown man would have had to have stood nine feet tall!
But well before one stands and walks, one lies and crawls. Poor Baby Mainzie shrieked in agony whenever, left unattended to play with his diapers slipping from his rump as he scooted across the carpet for his bunny, he unwittingly mashed his testicles with one knee and then the other, endlessly, unknowingly, until he was rescued from the awful self-abuse.
He got his first jockstrap at the age of three and wore a protective cup even in his trundle bed. His parents shielded him from public pools, boy scout camps, and any other places or activities where his deformity might be exposed, much like Sleeping Beauty guarded from the fatal needle. But like the fate of the child in the fairy tale, his own was predestined and unavoidable. The King and Queen's futile attempts at averting the finger's prick were mirrored in the Mainz's thwarted efforts at preventing a prick's finger from pointing with scorn at their third son's balls.
By his teen years, and mandatory high school gym class, poor Mainzie could no longer bind his balls and tuck them away as personal chimeras. With adolescence came brutal reality. The poor lad suffered unbearable ridicule. A simple walk from locker to showers sent gales of laughter resounding and rebounding off the hard tile walls. He endured one hateful slur after another, from "Hey, giraffe nuts, I think yer droppin' somethin'!" to "Keep the pendulum still, Mainzie, you've already overwound the clock!" to "Better watch out, boy, Tarzan's lookin' fer a vine!"
Often the teen would go straight home after classes, skip dinner, lock himself in his room, and cry himself to sleep. One time, undressed, he threw himself down on the mattress with such abandon his bag swung and wrapped itself around the bedpost several turns and nearly tore his nuts from his groin.
At the age of fifteen he tried teaching himself how to walk without swinging his balls. He practiced a variation with quick little steps that only made his nuts jiggle and jump even more. He then tried strutting in long, slow strides, but then the bag would sweep back and forth in wider arcs, eventually flipping behind him to slap the backs of his knees with a resounding swacks! None of his experiments did any good. No matter what his gait, his set would swipe him with the force of a medieval mace on a chain.
On top of which (literally and figuratively), his smaller than average dick looked even punier. Which caused more shame. And provoked more disparagement. For along with the ball jabs, he had to endure cock zingers like "Hey, Mainzie, there's a pimple on your nuts!" and "Whatsamatter? Got no ration coupons for meat? Yer gonna get sick stuffin' yerself on all them potatas, Mainzie!"
Seated with his finger over his pisslit, dyking his unbidden seepage, Mainz watched as Wally's pommel cuffed the air before it with vicious whooshing jabs. Mainz's free hand tugged on his smarting low hangers. They had gotten caught between the seat edge and the back of his knees when he and the rest of the crowd were lifted to Hard-on Heaven by Wally's jock shredding. The old guy hoisted the battered pair back up to the safety zone atop his thick thighs. All the while, and despite the pain, his greedy eyes never lost their grip on Wally's cracking whip.
As the performer danced, his dick waltzed on its own, stiff, promenading and parading, and leaking more of its silvery slime. The pisslit spun out a second glittering web from hairy thigh to hairy thigh.
Bobby's back view of the shimmering mesh of precum trickling from Wally's cockmouth made the precum leakage seem to be more like a random, but rigid, thin wire wrap, a batten to secure Wally's straining monster from breaking free. One series of filaments seemed to lift it slightly, while another yanked it firmly to the left, and yet another hauled it down to his knees. Each worked overtime to manage the load. Each appeared ready to break under the strain.
Bobby watched, as mesmerized as the rest, and he felt the gooey spot at the tip of his pouch spreading wider and thicker. He wished he'd have had the foresight to bring paper towels and a change of g-string with him backstage. He hated offering himself to his public in anything but pristine condition. It was the star in him. He owed his public that much. Perhaps he still had time for a quick dash back to the dressing room before Wally's act was over...