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|“That was a long time ago.”
My eyes rolled. Please, dear God, no self-pity speeches tonight.
“You know as well as I that museum attendance is down. I’m sorry, Melendez, but we can’t pay you any more than we already are. I understand your situation…wish there was something I could do.”
The stuffy old man turned the lock for the front door of the museum and let himself out. “Don’t forget to lock up when you’re done sweeping the floors.”
‘Don’t-forget-to-lock-up-when-you’re-done-sleeping-the-floors’, he says. Pompuos, overstuffed, downtalking…
“Yes sir, I’ll…I’ll lock up, sir.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow at six.”
Ladies and gentleman, the slave driver has left the building. I went up to the front door and locked it behind him, and watched as he climbs into his freshly detailed Jaguar and speeds down the boulevard. Where was I? Pompous, overstuffed, downtalking, officious, ignorant, hasn’t-had-sex-since-the-Carter-administration, son-of-a-jackalope!
Now that I had gotten that out of my system (well, not really), I went back to my primary task of “janitorizing’ this wonderful repository of historical relics. A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Shit wasn’t supposed to be this way. Shit didn’t used to be this way.
Where do I begin?
Once upon a time, I was Christopher Melendez (but for Christ’s sake, please call me Chris), resident web design specialist at an up-and-coming ** company. I was that sexy Puerto Rican guy that all the ladies in the place swore was “their husband.” Not to say I blame them: at five foot eleven and a hundred and eighty pounds of well-toned, curly-haired, dark-eyed, pouty-lipped twenty-two-year-old fineness, I’d want to be married to someone like me, too. Which, I guess you could say, is sort of the problem.
My homosexuality literally snuck up on me: it crept up from behind and wrestled me into surrender, even though I don’t recall putting up much of a fight. It was almost like that chick in that movie “But I’m a Cheerleader”: people had to tell me that the constant fussing over my hair, the cuddling up with my best buddy Melvin while watching TV, being a vegetarian, and the whole “Madonna fan” thing weren’t quite things that regular dudes did.
Once I realized that I wanted to play for the “other” team, I decided to try going up to bat once, to see how much I liked it. There was a fine, *fine* guy over in the public relations department named Tony Robinson who caught my fancy. Tall, maybe about six foot six, with an impressive body full of well-trained muscle, green eyes, auburn hair, and the sexiest smile that you’ve ever seen across a guy’s lips. Tony usually had lunch with the rest of the guys on the east wing of the building, so one day I made the trek over there from the west wing and introduced myself. From our first conversation, it was obvious that we had, shall we say, a common interest. Before lunch was over, Tony lured me into the restroom, promising that he was going to show me how wonderful being gay could actually be.
What happened next assured me that liking dudes wasn’t exactly going to be a bad thing. Tony backed me up against the door to the biggest stall and, pulling me up on my tip-toes so I could reach, opened my lips and let his tongue slide in. Within a minute, our hands were roaming all over each other, and within another two minutes, we were undressed. Tony’s kisses were frantic and passionate, and lit a small spark that grew into a raging fire inside of me. Without even realizing what I was doing, my mind clicked out and my body clicked in, and I found my lips traveling down Tony’s chin and suckling at the tender flesh that covered his neck. Then I went for his chest, flicking my tongue through the curling brown hairs that sprinkled across it. My tongue slid all the way down the middle of his four-pack and followed his hairy trail to the waistband of his boxer briefs. Gently tucking my fingers into the waistband, I slid Tony’s underwear down, and - after pausing for a minute to realize that, yes, I was actually doing this (and, if Tony’s moans were evident of my skill level, that I was doing a damn good job) – I took Tony’s smooth, hard, thick, and uncut seven-inch cock into my mouth and began to bob up and down the shaft.
The pleasure went from burning to boiling over. My dick began to swell with my juices, and I felt Tony’s tool do the same as I suckled at it. It all felt so good. So good that I never wanted to stop. Well, as fate would have it, neither I nor Tony should have worried about ending our fellatio session: it was ended for us.
George Robinson, who just happened to be both the CEO of the company and Tony’s father, came into the bathroom looking for his missing son and found him - and me - just after we’d both shot our loads all over one another. Of course, “none of this horrible ordeal could be Tony’s fault,” so I was fired on the spot. I was living at home at the time, primarily because Mama wanted me around, but after she found out I was gay (courtesy of Mr. Robinson), her strict Roman Catholicism took hold and she tossed me out on my ear. A loving gesture, I’m sure.
So that’s my fucked-up story. I haven’t found a new full-time job yet, because (a) no one appreciates a designer, and (b) no one wants to pay a designer. As of late, I’ve been working part-time and temporary jobs to try and pay for a shitty apartment downtown that has periodic running water, no heat, and a disgusting mildew smell. Right now, I work in retail at Best Buy during the daytime, I wait tables on the weekends, and I do janitor work at the city museum after-hours.
Out of all three of those jobs, this museum one is the shittiest. I’ve gotta sweep up and vacuum the floors, clean the bathrooms, clean the dust off the pictures on the wall…that kind of crap. Our museum isn’t very big, but I’m the only guy they’ve got cleaning it after hours; my relief doesn’t come in until three in the morning. And, as you already know by now, the curator isn’t exactly Santa Claus when it comes to the payroll…more like the Grinch.
Shitty as it is, there are some good things about this job. It’s quiet here after-hours since the night watchman is usually sound asleep in his office (heaven forbid if someone actually attempted to break in and steal something, they’d never get caught), so that gives me free reign to practice my Usher dancing imitations, wax philosophical about the meaning (meanings?) of life, and, of course, sneak around the closed-off areas and see what kinds of things the museum is hiding from the impressionable public.
I’ve learned that museums get all sorts of odd donations from people who ought to know better than to donate what they’re donating: wildly erotic paintings from the eighteenth century, antique sex toys, and all sorts of other things that would make old ladies faint on sight. Since all of this stuff actually has historical value, the museum graciously accepts the donations, keeps them in a storeroom closed off to everyone but the curator (so he can – allegedly - catalog it) and the janitor (so I can - also allegedly - clean it), and then lists them on eBay under false names so they can make money off of them. You’d think they’d put the profits from the sales of this stuff back into the museum (and – ahem - the museum employees’ paychecks), but alas, the curator desperately needs all of that money for the payments on his Jaguar, so the employees never see a dime of it. Pompous, overstuffed…yeah, you know the rest.
As I ventured into this hidden treasure trove of kinky artifacts tonight, I noticed that most of the items were gone. I guess you really can sell all sorts of things on eBay. All that was left were some of those ancient Greek vases painted with images of dudes fucking, an African phallic statue or two, and some other assorted odds and ends. “Nothing new to see here tonight”, I sighed disappointedly to myself. After cursorily moving my push broom back and forth a bit, I turned to leave and attend to sweeping around the Native American exhibit when something caught the corner of my eye.
Hidden all the way in the back of the room was a statue, silhouetted by the soft blue moonlight creeping through the small store room windows. I crept over to get a closer look at the statue, careful not to touch anything I didn’t have the money to pay for if it ended up broken. By the time I’d made it over to the pedestal on which the statue stood, I’d realized it was a statue of a man. But, man, what a man it was!
The statue, nearly eight feet high and standing on a pedestal about three feet high, depicted what had to be the most beautiful man ever to have walked the face of the earth. There was no engraving on the pedestal to serve to identify this behemoth, and the art style was so…almost exactly true to life…that it was impossible to date it just by looking at it. So much for all those Art History prerequisites in college. There was a rolling safety ladder over against the other wall, which I promptly brought over and ascended so as to get a better look at this work of art.
The figure’s head was the size of my own, signifying that the statue was meant to be life size, but no man, dead or alive, could have ever possessed the body on this guy. Even as he stretched towards the sky vertically, his impossibly wide pecs and lateral muscles made him just as extraordinarily wide as he was tall. Smoothly sculpted abs jutted forth from his abdomen, forming the most incredibly eight pack I’d ever seen. His shoulders and arms were loaded with so much muscle that he very easily could have flattened mountains with a single double-fisted pound: biceps and triceps fought for room on an arm that was as big as you average bodybuilder’s leg. Keeping this powerful torso elevated off the ground were a pair of incredibly muscled legs, with powerful-looking quads and calves that could very easily propel him over a large building or three in a single bound, and large feet that could just as easily form a good-sized crater upon landing.
Best of all, he was completely stark naked, and his deck at least twelve inches long and thick as a soda can, protruded from between his legs, hard as a rock. The attention to detail was ridiculous: every curling hair in his crotch was depicted with pinpoint accuracy, as were the light hairs speckled across his chest and legs.
The figure stood atop the pedestal, frozen in the throws of sexual pleasure, his head back, his large hands roaming his body, and his mouth open and cupped in a shape so convincing I swear I could hear him moan. His face was nothing short of beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips, and longish eyelashes that gently brushed the stone skin under his eyelids. A thin beard line framed his chin and mouth area, heightening his overwhelming sexiness. His hair fell in long, luxuriant curls down across his shoulders, save for one curling strand that fell across his face.
It was almost a crime that this incredible piece of artwork was cooped up in this dusty storeroom so that it could be hawked on some Internet auction site, but I supposed the reasoning was somewhat justified by the fact that the guy was sitting here with a hard dick and a body that would make a man with a flawless record of heterosexuality cum gallons. Truth be told, I was already harder than hard and quickly developing a wet spot on my khakis from all the pre-cum pumping into my boxers. Good God, this statue was incredible. Hmmm…maybe that’s it, I thought. Perhaps it’s a depiction of some sort of ancient god or something. “The god of masculine sexual power, who makes men of all types orgasm from the very site of him!” Yeah, I know; I’ve got a wild imagination, but hey, it helps fuel my sexual fantasies.
I was nearing the peak of what had to be the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, and as I got closer and closer to busting my load, I unwittingly got closer and closer to the statue. Before I realized it, I was leaning all the way over the rail of the ladder, pressing my warm lips against the (surprisingly) warmer stone. As I kissed the stone figure, my orgasm peaked and I unloaded a stream of hot cream into my pants. All of a sudden, my head seemed to go light. I reached up and imagined that I could sweep away that one twisting lock of hair from the giant’s face, and roam my fingers across his smooth, supple skin. A feeling of intense heat and light seemed to pour all over my frame.
My imagination went into serious overdrive. I swear I felt hands lift me off of the ladder and envelope my body. I pictured myself taking my tongue, over his neck, across his huge pecs, following a trail of soft curly pubes to the root of the world’s biggest dick. I immediately placed the monster between my lips and began sucking on it. The heat and light intensified. My hold body was tingling like mad. I was still cumming, and was nowhere near stopping. Thunder cracked. Lightening flashed. Wind whipped around me. The light and heat engulfed me, devoured my flesh, and made me feel like I was exploding from the inside.
And then all went black…
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