Queers

QUEERS

By: Moore

Chapter One

The older I get the younger I like them and the harder they are to attract. I never thought much about getting old when I was a 13 year old kid in junior high school. Thirteen years old, hard to believe it looking back so many years but that's how old I was, 13, when I sucked my first cock and turned queer. The taste of that first dick, sucking it, and the rush I got from the semen ejaculating into my mouth...I loved it from the outset. With a little help from a few more boys who let me get on my knees and give them blow jobs, I came to realize and accept the fact that I was different from other boys, accept the fact that I was queer.

Queer and faggot, cocksucker too, that's what boys like me were called in the 1940's, decades before the politically correct term gay came into fashion. Homo, sometimes, if the boy I was blowing was a friend who didn't want to hurt my feelings. And I did have a few real friends in junior high, other than the boys I serviced from my knees in the locker room. A warm prick between my lips, stiffening and thrusting, spurting a load of sticky sperm into my mouth was worth all the whispered, "Steven is a fag" and "Steven is queer" and "Steven is a cocksucker," that followed in my wake.

I never thought about getting old in high school either, where I continued to go down on any boy who wanted head, or as a freshman in college where I gave up my virgin ass to my roommate. It was in college, in the dorms, that I came to realize two more important things about my queer self. Firstly, long term relationships meant nothing to me. One night stands, the excitement of different guys using me for sex was what I preferred. Secondly, I was strictly a bottom, a submissive bottom. I got off from being used, sometimes abused by any man, straight or otherwise, who picked me up in the cruising spots on and off campus. No non-life-threatening request, albeit humiliating or degrading, was refused and no reciprocation was required.

Somewhere along the way I crossed the line from want to need. Sex, a dick in my mouth, semen; like drugs for some of my generation, became an addiction. I want to suck your cock became I need to suck your cock.

I never thought about getting old when I took a job as a broker with a conservative Wall Street firm in Manhattan. I worked hard during the day, made a lot of money in the market for my clients and myself, and played hard after work with the good looking studs, the hot guys I'd meet at bars and bath houses. I attracted young men easily and delivered far more than they hoped for when they took me aside for a sample blow job in the men's room before taking me home to their beds. My mouth and ass were open and available, I put out for any young man and I honestly thought that the good times would never end.

I never thought about getting old until I turned 40 and suddenly, without warning, the young men I desired no longer desired me. I went to the gym more often, restyled my hair to cover the bald spot, bought new clothes to hide the extra weight...all to no avail. The 18-24 year olds passed me by for younger men. For the first time ever I was going home alone at night or, if I was really desperate, going with some middle aged out of towner back to his cheap hotel room. The sex was usually bland; a blow job, maybe a quick fuck if he could get it up again and I'd be back on the street in an hour. I missed the outrageous sexcapades of my youth and the imaginative college studs who knew how to use a submissive queer like me.

Times Square bustled with gorgeous young men and boys, hustlers for the most part who sold their bodies cheaply; and older men like me, hopeless, desperate queers willing to give it away for free. The sex in Times Square was raunchy and exciting; blow jobs behind a dumpster, a fast fuck in a dark alley littered with used condoms, gang bangs in cheap hotels that rented by the hour...and the sex was dangerous. Police round-ups were frequent and I didn't want to put my job at risk.

Central Park was equally exciting and dangerous as well. Not so much from the police, but from the fag bashing gangs that preyed on weak, helpless queers. Limping home half naked in the middle of the night, reeking of semen and urine was a bad end to an otherwise fun evening for a queer.

I tried the daddy role during my fifties. Keeping a young fellow, waiting on him hand and foot, giving him my mouth and ass whenever he wanted and paying for everything. Each of my young princes, five in all, enjoyed my slavish devotion and submissive nature, to say nothing of my money. They were all wonderful boys with gorgeous bodies and the sexual energy to keep me satisfied...for a while. I grew tired of the relationship when the sex became routine.

Approaching my sixtieth birthday, I still wanted...needed more than in my younger days, the excitement of one night stands, the thrill of submitting, humbling myself, servicing a different young man every night.

Chapter Two

Approprietly enough, I heard about Queers with a cock in my mouth. A black cock, as chance would have it, which had just finished pissing and was now hardening its way into my throat. The young man straddling my head, my first young man in nearly six months, was about to get the blow job of his life. I promised him as much when he came into the adult book store, heading towards the glory holes in back.

"Come with me instead," I whispered in his ear, trying not to sound too desperate. "Please come with me, stud. Please. I'll do anything you want."

He looked me over, considering the offer. "Anything?"

"Anything."

My lucky day for sure because he followed me past the active glory holes to one of the small private rooms that rented by the hour. I stripped naked before the door was closed and went to my knees, praying silently that he wouldn't be turned off by my less than perfect body. That he wouldn't change his mind and leave me, an aging queer, for one of the glory hole boys. He kicked off his sandals then held his ground as I lowered my head submissively and kissed his feet to signal my servitude. He was smiling when I dared to look up at his face and reach for his zipper. Clothed he was beautiful...naked he was a god.

"You suck dick pretty good for an old white faggot," he said, not unkindly, as my tongue worked its magic on the underside of his thick shaft. "Get some lube 'n rubbers, cocksucker, we'll see if your ass works as good as your mouth."

The next several hours were fantastic, the best I had spent in many a year. He fucked me three times, drilled me hard like only a strong young man can fuck, and I blew him twice. Unsheathed after his first climax in my ass and I surprised him by emptying the semen filled condom into my mouth and going down on his cock and balls in search of more cum. Fifty years of sucking cock, guys blowing loads in my mouth, and I still get a rush from the taste and smell of cum.

"Most young fags won't swallow anymore," he said as I milked his cock and licked away a final pearl of sperm. "Cum pigs like you are almost extinct, old man."

"Old fag, old habits...both are hard to break," I joked. "You ready to poke this old cum pig again?"

He lay back on the bed, hands behind his head. "Encourage me, you old faggot cum pig."

I encouraged him with my hands, mouth, lips and tongue to within an inch of orgasm, then rolled him over to begin a second trip around the dark brown world of his body. I kissed the firm cheeks of his luscious black ass and licked all through his hairy crack to the deepest, darkest, dankest part of his body. I felt like a 14 year old kid again, eating out my very first ass on a class trip to Washington, DC.

"Gotta split soon, faggot," he said as I swallowed the last of his urine and relaxed my throat to accept his growing erection. "You do okay for an old queer...how old are you? Fifty five, six?"

"Sixty three," I voiced around his thick shaft. A useful skill I picked up over the years.

"No shit! Sixty three. You ever heard of Whitey's?"

I finished the blow job and licked my young man clean from top to bottom before answering. "What's Whitey's?"

"A cocksuckers club...up in Harlem. The locals know it as Queers. You seen my shorts."

I found his CK's under the bed and brought them over in my mouth. "Never heard of it," I said, dropping them at his feet.

"Members only club...expensive. What do you do for a living, old man? You got money?"

I stopped nipping at the hairs on his scrotal sack and crawled over to my pants. I'd had a great time and though I didn't think he was trade, it was time to pay the piper.

Paying a young man for sex, handing over a wad of bills for the use of his body, is a tawdry bit of business. I can well afford to buy or rent, as it were, all the young men I want. But the sex is tame, perfunctory, and my submissive nature rarely explored as it had been this day.

"Don't want your money, cocksucker," he said when I handed him a hundred dollar bill. "If you got money and you're willing to spend it then you should join Queers. Go see Whiteford Standish at the club. Tell him you're queer, that's very important, and tell him Dean Wilson sent you."

Chapter Three

Whiteford Standish was black, late twenties, and expensively dressed, like I was, in an Armani suit and Hermes tie. His office was beautifully furnished in rich leathers and gleaming woods, a Cuban cigar burned in a crystal ashtray on top of an otherwise immaculate desk. French doors provided light and access to a garden. The room and Standish shouted money, quite a contrast to the Harlem streets and do ragged black boys I'd passed through to get here.

He eased into the throne-like chair behind the mahogany desk which was situated on a raised platform, while I tried to get comfortable in a most uncomfortable straight backed chair.

I cleared my throat nervously, intimidated and unsure how to broach the topic...the purpose of my visit. "My name is Steven Greenburg, Mr. Standish, Dean Wilson sent me," I said looking down at my feet.

"Yes, Steven," he said through clouds of fragrant smoke wafting down from his lofty perch. "And?"

In the sixth grade I got called to the principal's office to explain why I was arriving late to school in the morning. I lied that day to protect a high school boy who let me play with his penis. I didn't lie on this day. "Ah, Mr. Standish, I'm queer."

My father slapped me, my mother cried, when after five years of sneaking boys up to my room for blow jobs, I decided to tell them what I was on the day I left for college. I had a dick in my mouth, approprietly enough, when I made the decision to tell them I was queer. I didn't actually use the word queer, which they wouldn't have understood, or gay, a word which had a whole different meaning in the 60's, but rambled on until my father got the picture.

"A fehgelah, Sarah, our boychick is a fehgelah," he said in Yiddish as I picked up my suitcase and closed the front door behind me. Those were last words I ever heard him speak. He died of a heart attack one month later.

I had my roommates dick in my mouth when my mother called to tell me he had died. I finished that blow job while she rambled on about the ambulance and the trip to the hospital, two more hot guys from the room across the hall dropped their loads in my mouth while she told me about the funeral arrangements.

"I'll catch the first flight in the morning, mamma," I said into the phone as a good looking black guy with a towel around his waist appeared at the door of my room.

"You the cocksucker?" He asked, speaking softly when he saw that I was on the phone.

I nodded and waved him in. "Yes, mamma. Okay, mamma. No, mamma, daddy was wrong. I'm not a fehgelah."

"Your mother?" My visitor asked when I was finally able to get her off the phone.

"Yeah," I said, snatching away his towel. "Nice cock, stud, what'll it be? Blow job, cum in my mouth, or you wanna fuck my queer ass?"

Queer is, well, it's a queer word that can be used to describe any number of human behaviors that have nothing to do with sex. I'm a homosexual says it better, I'm a fag says it best...words I've used countless times, but never had I sat alone with a stranger and told him I was queer.

Standish rose from his chair and stated matter of factly. "All of our members are queer, white queers like yourself, Steven, and share common though somewhat, shall we say unconventional predispositions. A tour first of the club before we discuss the details and determine if you meet all of the requirements, financial and otherwise, for membership."

The main floor was a nightclub, no different from any one of the hundreds of other clubs in the city. A bar along one wall, a stage along another. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer predominated, but didn't mask the unmistakable odors of sweat and semen. The second and third floors contained sparsely furnished bedrooms.

"Nothing fancy, Steven, but our members like it well enough when requested to spend a private moment by one of our many guests."

I'd seen enough and frankly I was disappointed, disinclined to join a club whose members were all aging fags, queers like myself. New York City had an over abundance of horny old fags, but it was young men I desired...men like Dean Wilson. Queers was a bust.

"Thanks for the tour, but I really must be..."

"Wait, Steven," Standish interrupted, "You must see the health club and spa before you leave."

I heard the clanging sounds before I saw the powerfully built young man working out in the well appointed health club. "A member?" I asked with renewed interest and a stiffening penis.

"A guest. Come, Steven, I'll introduce you and then leave you two alone to get acquainted."

Jamaal was 20 or so, a light skinned black with a body from the pages of All-Boy magazine.

"You finished looking yet?"

"Sorry," I muttered, tearing my eyes away from his crotch.

"Sorry for what, Steven? Looking at my body or sorry for being an old queer? You are queer, a faggot...isn't that why you came to Queers, to look at young guys? Maybe suck some young dick?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Hey, it's cool, old man. Queers' got what you need. Do what I tell you and we'll both have some fun, cocksucker."

I sank to my knees as Jamaal took off his shirt and closed the distance between us. I breathed deeply when he pressed the damp cotton to my face, sighed when he pushed it into my mouth. He did the same with his shorts and sweat socks, and finally his musky jock strap took its turn at my nose and in my mouth.

"How's the taste, faggot?"

The taste and the smell was intoxicating. "Wonderful."

"Hand it back a sec. I'll spice it up some while you strip. You do want to get naked, right?"

Jamaal used the wet jock under his hairy arms and to wipe his ass vigorously as I happily shed my clothes. "You sure you want to suck on this filthy disgusting jock that I just used to wipe my sweaty pits and ass?"

"Oh, god, yes," I said, scrambling back to my hands and knees. "Give it to me, Jamaal. Please let me suck it."

"Lick it clean, pig. Sucking is for dicks and assholes."

Jamaal hawked up a wad of phlegm which he spat into the pouch before dropping the jock at his feet. He was still laughing a short while later when I presented the jock strap, wet with spit but spotlessly clean, for inspection.

I hadn't done anything quite so gross or degrading since the all night cum rag party I attended in college. It took me over an hour to clean that sodden piece of cloth after 50 fraternity boys had jerked off on it. The sperm was so thick I ate some of it with a spoon. Most of them fucked me when the cum rag was clean. Nobody wanted anything to do with my mouth although I begged for a cock to suck. I hoped Jamaal would do both.

"Not bad for an old queer pig. I might even let you beg to suck my cock once you become a member. Maybe even screw that faggot ass if you behave and ask me real nice. Sound good, old man, humiliating enough or have you got other queer fantasies, other queer dreams you want to make come true?"

Jamaal danced away when, desperate for physical contact with this hot young man I leaned in to kiss his penis. "Members only, faggot," he said as I crawled after him.

"One tiny kiss, Jamaal, please. I won't suck, I promise."

"It's alright, Jamaal." Standish had return. "We can bend the club rules a bit and allow the queer to fulfill his wish. Perhaps slake his thirst with a spot of the special tea our members like so well."

I left Queers with a hardon, a bellyful of Jamaal's urine and a packet of membership information, and quickly hailed a passing cab. I needed a boy...a dick in my mouth...a load of cum and a short-stay hotel.

"Where to, mac?"

"Times Square, driver, and please hurry."

I hadn't been there in years, but where better to find what I badly needed. I lay back and closed my eyes as the cab headed downtown. A large pothole jarred me out of my day dream.

"What happened to Times Square?" I said out loud in surprise when the cab stopped at a light in the middle of what looked like Disney Land. The movie houses and topless bars, the girls and of far more importance to me, the boys, were gone. The driver, a grizzly old timer, turned around and chuckled.

"Not like the old days, huh, mac?"

"You can say that again."

"You looking for a companion?"

Nicely put, I thought. "Yes. Do you know where I can find one?"

"A woman?"

"Ah, no. Not a woman."

"A boy? S'okay with me, mac, if you want a boy. You ain't the first old queer to be sitting where you are and you won't be the last.

"Yes, a boy," I said as the light changed and the cab began to move. "Do you know where I can find a boy and a hotel room?"

"Been pushing a hack around this city for thirty eight years, mac, I know all the places. White, black, yellow or brown, you got a preference?"

"Doesn't matter. Just hurry, please."

"Keep your jock on, Mac, I'll have you there in no time."

The driver, like all old time cab drivers couldn't just drive. He had to talk.

"Got a grandson who's a fag," the driver volunteered as we inched along in heavy traffic. "I don't mind telling you since you're a fag too. My daughter's youngest boy, sixteen and queer as a three dollar bill. Marlene, that's my daughter, she says he's gay. Gay, shmay, the kid's a queer. Boys who like boys, they were queers when I was a kid and they're still queers today."

I leaned back and closed my eyes in frustration. "Can't you drive any faster?"

"Not unless you can blow away the traffic, mac. Oops, sorry."

"That's okay," I said with a laugh. "No offense taken."

The driver turned around when we came to a dead stop. "I got a blow job from a guy one time," he said, a sheepish grin on his wrinkled face. "Korean boy actually, during the war. Me and my buddy Max went to a whore house he heard about from another soldier, just outside of Seoul. Max must have heard wrong because the whore that climbed into bed with me turned out to be a young boy. Not more than ten, maybe eleven years old and naked as a blue jay."

"How was the blow job?" I shouted over the wailing siren of a police car rushing past the stalled traffic.

"Hey, lookit, mac. Traffic's breaking up. I'll have you at your destination in two minutes."

I leaned forward slightly, "How was the blow job?"

Silence from the front seat until we got close to the river and the cab stopped in front of the Majestic Hotel, which was anything but majestic. "The boys hang out in the rear lobby, mac. Here's my card, call my cell phone when you're done and I'll pick you up."

I paid the fare, added a generous tip, and bolted out of the cab.

"Oh, mac," he called out as my foot hit the first broken step of the seedy hotel. "The blow job was terrific. That Korean boy was a great cocksucker."

"Thirty bucks an hour, including one towel," the elderly clerk said politely when I asked for a room. "You want to check any valuables, sir?"

"How much are the boys?" I asked impatiently.

"Boys? Are you a police officer?"

"What? No. I'm queer...a fag, and I need a boy."

"Please step behind the counter and drop your pants, sir. Underwear too if you're wearing any."

"Why? What for?"

"House rules, sir," he said with a toothless smile. "A test to see if you are what you say you are."

I passed the unscientific perhaps, yet effective test with flying colors. Ten seconds watching gay porn on a TV screen behind the counter and my penis went from slightly stiff to firmly erect. The clerk's attitude towards me stiffened as well.

"Godamn fuckin' queers," he muttered under his breath. "Pull up your pants, faggot, and listen closely. The boys are fifty an hour, two for seventy five. Two hours minimum and twenty bucks an hour for overtime. The boys'll use rubbers or not, whatever you want. You must use a rubber at all times, don't want my boys getting sick from an old fag like you."

"Two boys," I said quickly, excited by his tone and counted out the cash with trembling hands. I had ten dollars left. "Young ones, please, but with experience. I don't care about color. Oh, and the boys won't be needing any condoms."

"All my boys are young and experienced. Well trained to make old queers very happy."

I got two Hispanic teenage boys, snot nosed kids with little imagination and far less experience than the clerk had lead me to believe. Their cocks were hard though, and they double dicked me for a good long while before I felt gushers of hot cum explode into my bowels and squirt off the roof of my mouth. I taught them a few things about submissive old queers and really got their attention when I climbed into the bathtub, closed the drain and asked them to piss on my face.

Two forceful yellow streams of warm urine quickly soaked my head and found their way into my open mouth. I drank deeply and stroked my engorged dick, enjoying their laughter and the humiliation which was bringing me close to a long delayed climax.

"Watch this, Hector," one fellow said as he hung his ass over the tub and farted loudly in my face.

"Fuckin' queer's gonna love this," Hector shouted back, and promptly deposited a long smelly turd on my chest. "This is way cool, man, ain't never crapped on no faggot before."

I lay in the tub when they left, blissfully soaking in an inch of tepid urine, mounds of steamy shit on my chest, humiliated and degraded by a couple of kids...and slowly masturbated to a mind shattering orgasm.

Chapter Four

Queers was expensive and restricted, much like the country clubs in the affluent suburbs that surround New York City. Memberships were $25,000 a year in addition to a one time initiation fee of $25,000 and a security deposit of $150,000, all payable in advance... and in cash. The cost alone, which I could well afford, served to further restrict membership which was limited to white males over the age of 60.

It took me ten days and a trip to the Cayman Islands, where the banking laws are less restrictive, to accumulate $200,000 in cash. Whiteford Standish took the suitcase stuffed with hundred dollar bills and my completed, but unsigned application. "Have you read and do you understand all of the rules, all of your rights as a member, Steven?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Standish," I said quickly in accordance with the rule that required members to address management and guests as Mister or Sir. The club's rule book was short, just a few rules, and as for my rights, well, as a member I had no rights other than to do as I was told.

"We presently have 126 members at Queers," Standish said as he perused my application. "Old queer men like yourself with jobs to protect, families, reputations, and an insatiable appetite for...I see here that you had your first queer experience when you were 13."

"Yes sir, Mr. Standish. I went down on a classmate in the seventh grade, my best friend."

I touched the back of my neck where 50 years ago Larry Fabiano's fingers had pressed my head down into his crotch. A lifetime ago, yet the memory was so vivid that it could have happened yesterday.

We'd been horsing around in my bedroom after school, talking about baseball...who was the better player, Mays or Mantle? A friendly argument we'd been having for years only now our language was peppered with the school yard obscenities that made us feel cool.

"Mays sucks," I said, laughing as Larry smacked my arm and put his hand on the back of my head. "You like him so much, I bet you jerk off looking at his baseball card."

"Fuck you," Larry shot back. "Least I can jerk off and if that's how you feel about Mays, well, you can blow me."

He pushed my face towards his crotch like he'd done many times before. I kept laughing as Larry forced my head between his legs until my cheek was pressed against his jeans. All of a sudden, like a bolt of lightening, I felt a surge of sensations: the roughness of the denim, the silkiness of the hairs on his bare stomach, the heat from his skin where it touched my cheek, the steady pressure of his fingers on my neck. Above all was the feeling of Larry's cock against my face.

I didn't try to pull away, instead, gently moved my mouth around the growing bulge in Larry's pants. Neither did he push me away, but kept his fingers on my neck as his cock grew thicker and longer. I moved my mouth up to taste the bare skin above his waistband and breathing in his scent I felt his muscles tense as his own breath quickened.

Part of me couldn't believe this was happening or that my fingers on their own had moved to the zipper of Larry's jeans. Moments later, Larry's prick sprang up before me, stiff, the round head moist and shiny with a trace of his excitement. I looked at it, wondering how far this game would go before he pushed me away, laughing, and we'd go back to being ourselves. The answer came with an upward thrust of Larry's hips, my mouth parted and I allowed Larry's erect cock to slide between my lips. It was difficult to breathe around his thickness, but I didn't want Larry to pull his cock away from my mouth.

When I got used to the taste and thickness of my best friend cock, I bobbed my head up and down the shaft, taking more each time, and then all the way down until I felt it in my throat and felt my nose against his stomach. I got my hand inside Larry's jeans, inside his underwear, and felt the softness of his smooth balls. I sucked my best friend's cock for a minute or an hour, and when all too soon he came without warning and filled my mouth with spurts of warm sticky sperm, I took his load, swallowed his salty juice without a moments hesitation.

"I didn't mean for that to happen, Steven," Larry said after I had licked his cock and his balls clean off all traces of sperm. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I liked it. I liked it a lot."

I was extra late getting to school the next day because the high school boy who let me play with his dick said yes when I got down on my knees and asked if he wanted a blow job.

For the next half hour I talked about my life, answered a few embarrassing questions, explained to Standish why I believed I should be considered for membership in Queers.

"To sum it all up, Mr. Standish, I've been a cocksucker...a faggot cum swallowing cocksucker for 50 years, sir. A pussy boy fuck toy for 45. In a word, Mr. Standish, queer."

A tiny smile creased his otherwise serious face. "You have read the rules."

"Members shall refer to themselves as queers, fags, cocksuckers, or such other demeaning term as may be appropriate under the circumstances," I said from memory. "Guests may do as they wish, members must obey all commands, or face immediate expulsion and forfeiture of their security deposit. Management alone shall determine a queer's worthiness to continue as a member."

"Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes, Mr. Standish."

"Good. You may disrobe."

Standish lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair as I took off my clothes, piece by piece, slowly, until I stood before him humbled and naked, and waited for further instructions.

"Face the french doors, Steven," he said after several minutes had passed. "The garden is quite lovely in the early spring, don't you agree? An unexpected oasis is the middle of Harlem."

"Yes sir."

"A warm weather gathering place for many of our guests. That stately elm tree is over a hundred years old."

My heart began to race when I saw him, Jamaal, emerging from behind the old elm, and Dean Wilson following close behind.

"I believe you've met both gentlemen."

"Yes sir."

"Frequent guests. Why don't you join them while I finish reviewing your application."

I followed my erection through the french doors and into the garden which was like walking onto a stage. Dozens of windows from the neighboring apartment houses overlooked the garden. Let them watch, I thought as my bare feet hit the grass.

"You a member yet, cocksucker?" Dean asked casually.

Not counting the blow job I gave to the cabin attendant on the flight to the Cayman Islands, a hurried affair in a cramped airline lavatory, I hadn't been with a young man in nearly a month. "Not yet," I replied. "But very soon I hope."

"Steven's a great fuck, Jamaal. Surprisingly tight for an old queer who's been taking dick up his ass since before we were born. Bend over and show him your pussy."

I heard a window go up as I bent over, purposefully putting my face close to Dean's crotch. More windows went up, I had an audience and I didn't give a shit. I needed a dick in me, a young man's hard dick thrusting deep inside me and I didn't care who knew it.

"Please fuck me," I said, wiggling my ass. "Please...I need it bad."

"Members only, faggot," Dean said, patting the top of my head. "No dick for you, no fucking or sucking until Standish approves your application. Might take a week."

"A week!!"

"Sooner if your record is clean. No arrests, drugs, scandals...shit like that. Standish is very careful and very discrete, not every old queer is invited to become a member."

I couldn't wait a week and I couldn't risk a return visit to the Majestic Hotel because the desk clerk had my drivers license when I checked out. He knew my name and where I lived. The boys must have gone through my pants while I was in the bathtub covered with piss and shit. I hadn't seen any cameras, but an old queer with money and a job to protect can't be too careful. I already had a box full of very explicit, very compromising and very expensive photographs of myself.

Dean and Jamaal were joined by other men as the afternoon wore on. Young men who wouldn't have given me the time of day if I had tried to pick them up at a bar were looking at me like a piece of garden statuary. A queer old man is what they saw, naked and erect, on display for their inspection. At dusk Standish sent me home, horny and frustrated, and told me he would call.

Four days passed before Standish called me at work with the good news. Four anxious days of worrying what I would do to satisfy my insatiable addiction for young men if Queers turned me down. "Come in tomorrow, cocksucker," Standish said abruptly when he called, and hung up.

Chapter Five

Queers, where nobody knew your real name...though everybody knew what you were, had a member's changing room in the basement. Behind a door marked QUEERS ONLY was a dimly lit space with a narrow bench to sit on, a nail in the wall to hang up your street clothes. The Queer Room it was called...a room to change physically from a man into a queer. To complete the transformation, a black thong, QUEERS embroidered on the pouch, dangled limply from each nail.

I hadn't worn a thong since my operation twelve years earlier. Hemorrhoids was the official diagnosis for my medical insurance, but the operation had really been to repair the wear and tear caused by decades of anal sex in general and the far more serious damage caused by a particularly nasty fisting episode. The surgeon used all of his skills in the operating room, as did his sexy young intern assistant five weeks later, at a grand re-opening party in my bedroom.

Queers provided the black thongs for its membership. Not a jock strap, which any man, gay or straight might wear, but a cotton thong, a leather dog collar too, which clearly identified the wearer as queer. Humbling attire for men who wore thousand dollar suits and hundred dollar ties, but the thong and collar was all a club member was permitted to wear. The collar I was given had a tag attached with my member number, FAG144, stamped into the metal. I undressed slowly that first night, watching to see what the other queer men did before taking off my clothes, fastening the collar around my neck and wriggling into the thong.

Conversation was minimal even though members were allowed to speak to each other in the Queer Room. There wasn't much to say, when you think about it, or much to explain. Ten members were in the Queer Room. Ten affluent like minded white men, all but naked in a garment that only a daring woman and a queer man would wear. A few, like myself, were adjusting obvious erections, others were lubing their assholes with stuff from a bucket near the door. A bottle of Viagra was passed to those who needed it. Ten old men, queers, members of a club that promised to fulfill our wildest sexual fantasies marched out of the Queer Room and anxiously awaited the evening to begin.

The guests began to drift in at eight o'clock. Young men, black and Hispanic, in groups and a few singles. "Welcome to Queers," I said to a threesome when they beckoned me to their table.

"Scotch rocks, faggot, two beers...and maybe a blow job chaser if I like the way you wiggle your queer ass."

"Yes sir," I said smartly, shaking my ass as I hurried to the bar to fill their order and hopefully, when I returned, fill my mouth with a couple of hot young cocks. The bartender, a club member who must have been at least seventy, worked slowly. He opened the beers with a bottle opener attached to a chain which was attached to a ring through his left nipple. A corkscrew was suspended from the ring in his right nipple.

"Slow night," he whispered as he rang up the drinks which would be charge to my account. "FAG144, you're new?"

"First time," I whispered back.

"Weekends are much busier. Three or four guests for every member that shows up. More dick than, well, you'll see for yourself."

I served the drinks and two more rounds after that before one of my beer drinkers, Ramon, unzipped his fly and hauled out his penis.

"Gotta take a piss, faggot," he said sharply.

The room grew quiet as I quickly went to my knees between his legs. A quick glance around the room confirmed what I suspected. Every head was turned towards me, every eye and ear about to witness one of my reasons for becoming a member of Queers. "Piss in my faggot mouth," I said quietly. "Please."

"What'd you say, faggot? Speak up, boy."

"Please piss in my mouth, sir...my faggot mouth," I said loudly enough so that everyone could hear my willingness to serve as Ramon's toilet. "I want to drink your piss."

The silence continued when I brought his dark brown penis to my lips and then, the slurping, gurgling, happy sounds of an old queer slaking his thirst on warm recycled beer. The buzz of conversation resumed as I drank the acrid liquid, swallowing quickly as my mouth filled up again and again with a steady flow of Ramon's urine.

I stayed on his cock when the pissing stopped. Sucking gently as it hardened between my ovaled lips, savoring the warm flesh expanding in my mouth. The taste of his cock and the musky smell of Ramon's crotch made me feel young again. I sighed once with unconcealed joy when the head of his dick entered my throat and sighed again when I felt his wiry pubic hair on my lips. I had his entire length, six or seven inches of hard pulsing cock inside me. Cum in me, I prayed silently, increasing the speed and intensity of the blow job.

"Back off, cocksucker. I ain't ready to cum in your faggot mouth yet. I wanna watch the show."

I watched too, from my knees, as a member ascended the stage and proceeded to insert an incredibly large dildo into his ass. He fucked himself furiously, staring out at the audience until a guest joined him on stage.

"On your knees, faggot, got a big nigger dick for that cocksucker mouth...if I like the way you beg, white boy."

The dildo stayed in place as the grey haired member, who hadn't been a boy in sixty odd years, went to his knees and begged, pleaded in a slow drawl that evidenced his southern heritage.

"Please, master, I'm queer, please let me suck your big black dick. I'm queer, a faggot cocksucking queer slave boy. Please let me suck, master. Please let me suck your cock."

The member's thong, already stretched to the limit, broke when the young black man opened his fly. The pouch literally shredded away exposing the member's rigid member to the amused audience.

"Make the queer kiss it, Reggie, and lick your nuts and asshole," Ramon shouted above the laughter, "Before you feed the cocksucker's mouth."

I did just that in reverse order when Ramon spread his legs and said to me. "You too, faggot."

I bathed his balls and inner thighs, wonderfully hairy, rank with accumulated sweat and licked up and down the rigid shaft several times before planting a kiss on the very tip of his penis. Ramon, whose father probably wasn't born when I turned queer in junior high school, smoked a cigarette while I worshiped his cock. He blew smoke in my face while I sucked, shuddered once, and blew a huge spurt of rich creamy sperm into the back of my mouth.

"Don't swallow my jizz yet, cocksucker," Ramon said between spurts as my mouth filled with his warm cum. "Hold my cum it in your faggot mouth."

Queers closed at midnight during the week. I was still on my knees, still had most of Ramon's cum load in my mouth when last call was announced.

"See ya 'round, scumbag," he said, draining his beer. "You old queers is somethin' else."

Chapter Six

The weather turned warmer as March gave way to April and then it was May. Time flies when you're having fun was never more true. My bank account was lighter by about $24,500, $2,000 a month for guest bar bills and $500 for the sterling silver nipple rings a guest suggested I get while sucking his cock one quiet Sunday afternoon at Queers. The small tattoo, QUEER, on the inside of my thigh was a gift from Mr. Standish signifying the end of my probationary year. I was now a full fledged member of QUEERS. Happy, content and more satisfied than I'd been in thirty years.

According to club records, during the year I'd been a member of Queers no less than two hundred and ninety five different guests had used my body for sex. Two hundred and ninety five different cocks in assorted colors, from light brown to jet black, had passed between and through my lips and on into the wet warmth of my welcoming mouth. A slightly smaller number had speared through my accommodating anus and penetrated deeply into my bowel. I can't even begin to guess at the number of nipples and armpits I'd licked or assholes I'd eaten, or the quantity of semen and urine that had been shot, sprayed or otherwise deposited inside or on my body. Two hundred and ninety five wonderful young men had made me their queer...and one dog. A great dane named Salsa.

I'd done a friend's beagle once in high school and a bull dog in college. Blow jobs only since neither animal seemed eager to mount my naked butt and not one of the boys watching my attempt to couple with a dog could stop laughing long enough to help. Two guests fucked me first, slicked up my ass with sperm, before Salsa was brought up on the stage at Queers to mate with his bitch.

Salsa's reddish dog cock, long and pencil thin, emerged from the sheath when I licked his low hanging scrotal sack. He growled when I took his marble sized balls into my mouth and whelped when I ran a finger along the length of his shiny cock and pulled it towards my mouth. The beagle and the bull dog had unloosed powerful streams of urine so I wasn't surprised...I was ready with my mouth wide open and in position when the great dane did the same.

"Enough with the foreplay," someone shouted over the laughter. "Time to breed the faggot."

Salsa mounted me and, with a little help from my friends at Queers, the slobbering dog found his mark, penetrated me and made me his bitch in front of a packed house. Salsa, instinctively, fucked me like an animal; hard and fast like he'd fuck any bitch dog in heat. Fucked like a dog so I barked like a dog...rather than grunt like a queer being fucked by a hot young man. My barking drew a cheer from the crowd.

I was staring at Dean Wilson, sitting alone at a ringside table when I felt it begin. He saw it too, I could see from the look in his eyes. I was going to cum. A dog's dick powerfucking my queer ass and I was going to cum. The threadbare pouch of my thong shredded first, a frequent occurrence at Queers, which drew another cheer from the attentive crowd.

"The fag's gonna cum," someone shouted over the noise. "Ten bucks says the dog'll make the old queer cum."

Man's best friend, in this case a queer man's best friend and I came together. Salsa's load of dog sperm, liquid heat, exploded into my bowels. My dick, no longer confined by the thong, sent one line drive shot of cum out into the audience. The other spurts fell short and I felt the stickiness on my chest when I collapse to the stage, totally spent from the dog induced orgasm.

My sixty four year old heart was still beating madly in my chest when Salsa dismounted. He licked my swollen, well fucked asshole and then, with his empty balls swinging, trotted off the stage. I was too exhausted to move, let alone raise my head up high enough to service the guests who wanted, demanded to be sucked off by the co-star of the show.

An icy fear gripped my over worked heart. A member of Queers refusing to suck a guest's cock? I could be suspended or worse, expelled from the club.

"Wait," I said weakly, heart beating madly, drawing upon my last ounce of strength just to utter the word. My ass was on fire but an old faggot, a frightened old faggot like I was right then had no choice. "Fuck me, please fuck my queer ass."

It took me a week to fully recover from Saturday night's gang bang, but I had saved my all important membership in Queers. I hobbled around my apartment for a couple of days, leaking sperm until the swelling subsided on Wednesday. By Sunday, Mother's Day, I was my old queer self again.

Chapter Seven

Mother's Day was ladies day at Queers. The one day of the year that a guest could bring a female to the club. His mother if he wanted to, no one did, or a young woman. They came to see the queers cavorting like, well, like queers in our thongs and collars; like a day at the nearby Bronx Zoo to watch the monkeys or the circus at Madison Square Garden to watch the trained animals perform for their masters.

Turning queer as I did at such a young age my experience with women was minimal. With few exceptions, my parents for one, and at work, I've rarely pretended to be anything other than what I am. In college, two girls, lesbian friends of mine, had teamed me up with another queer boy and sold our show, if you will, to sororities in the five boroughs. The coeds paid five dollars to watch us strip and then dance in our jock straps which got tossed to the cheering coeds at the end of the number. We'd dance naked for a while, showing off our hardons, then I'd get on my knees, wink at the girls, grab hold of my partner's cock and guide it towards my face.

"Oh my god...he's a homosexual, a queer!" Usually followed the long moment of stunned silence from the shocked group of girls when I ran his dick around my mouth and loudly kissed the tip. Then nervous laughter as they watched head and shaft pass slowly between my lips and I'd begin to suck. All the young women who came to Queers on Mother's Day reacted much the same way as we old queers serviced their boyfriends. Jamaal's girl got a math lesson in long division watching me with her boyfriend; how many times and how many ways 24 can go into 64.

No one under 21 was permitted in Queers, except on Father's Day when the bar was closed and the guests could bring their underage brothers, nephews and friends. Dean Wilson brought Kareem, his 8 year old son. He, like many of the preteens boys who came to Queers that morning, asked the same question and received the same answer:

"Why are the old white men dressed like that?"

"They're not men, son, they're queers."

Kareem enjoyed his first blow job, sharing my mouth with his dad's cock and pissing in me while his dad pumped a load of sperm down my throat. He giggled when I licked his little brown toes, stiffened when I licked his baby balls, and laughed out loud when my tongue danced around his pink anus. Dean then saddled me up for pony rides in the garden, shoving his dick up my ass when Kareem wanted me to go faster.

"Queers are fun to play with," Kareem said, hopping off my back after three exhausting trips around the garden. "Can't we stay longer?"

"The queers have to rest now, son. Before the older boys come to use the queers."

There weren't enough queers at Queers to individually service each of the black and Hispanic teens that came to the club on Father's Day. Six boys shared me in one of the upstairs bedrooms, six cocks that kept my mouth and ass busy for a glorious afternoon of non stop sucking and fucking. My thong was in shreds when I joined the other cum covered queers in the garden for a golden shower.

Chapter 8

The years flew by and there came a time when I was the oldest living member of Queers. Heart attacks claimed most of our members, my first one came shortly before my 73rd birthday. I had a dick in my mouth when the pain gripped my heart and cum in my mouth when the ambulance came to take me to the hospital. Happily, I survived. Sadly, Queers did not.

Dean Wilson brought the bad news when he came to visit while I was recuperating at home.

"Queers is closing," he said as I unzipped his pants.

I kissed his cock. "Queers closing? Why? What happened?"

"Should you be doing that?"

"The day comes when this old queer can't suck a dick will be my last day on earth. Why is Queers closing? Young guys don't want blow jobs from old queers anymore?"

Dean's laugh turned into a grunt when I squeezed his balls and took him deep into my throat. "That'll be the day. No, the guests keep coming and Standish...oh, fuck I'm close...Standish has a waiting list of old queers who want to become members."

Dean climaxed with an explosive rush. I savored the taste of his semen, the lushness of his softening cock on my tongue...with Queers closing this might very well be the last young man's cock I ever got to suck.

"Gotta go, cocksucker. I'll stop in next week."

"Dean, wait. Why is Queers closing?"

"Urban renewal. The whole block's being razed to build a park and housing for seniors."

Epilogue

My room at the Martin Luther King Senior Residence, Queer House as I prefer to call it, overlooks the park. The stately old elm tree that once stood in the garden outside of Standish's office is still there, a reminder of days long past. I moved to Queer House after my second heart attack left me unable to care for myself.

Most days I sit by the window wearing my collar and an old thong salvaged from Queers before the building was torn down. I like watching the kids at play while watching the clock. Shandar, a lovely Indian fellow comes on duty at noon...and cums in my queer mouth an hour later.