The Pink Chair

The Pink Chair.

It was a hot summer Saturday in Georgia in 2004. I got a Brazilian wax done on my tall slender bod and went to the beach.

20 years old, my day off from waiting tables at a German restaurant. The transition on the beach was early morning Fishermen departing with empty buckets carrying groans past the surfers and sunbathers trinkling in with coolers of beer and Frisbees.

An older balding white haired man with a beer gut and sandals in his sixties or seventies approached.

"How are you?" he said.

His dark glasses hid his eyes but his smile was as bright as the Alaskan snow.

"Good," I said.

I moved my head and body evasive to show I was not so engaged for dialogue but he persisted with extraterrestrial confidence.

"What do you do?" he said.

"I am an artist but I wait tables. I mean I serve Wurst and Brezel to drunks and trophy wives," I said.

"Artists are open to all the Earth has to offer. Man, Woman, or Beast," he said.

I was not sure what he meant but I laughed and picked up an abandoned Frisbee.

"Hey throw it here you fuck-nut!" this muscled frat boy said.

"You don't need to be talking to me like that," I said.

I tossed the green Frisbee in the garbage can and proceeded to the wood steps that ascended back to town. I ignored the old man, the salty breeze that whipped my face, and at first a sucker punch that spun me to the soft sand.

"You get the fuck out of here or I will call the police," the old man said to the frat boy.

I heard commotion which was probably the frat brat overturning the garbage can to get his shitty piece of plastic. The old man helped me up.

"See that building right there, that is my condo, I have some ice and ice cream. How will that be?"

I was shaken up and agreed. My left cheek swelled up around my eye and my hands were shaking.

"I teach Chemistry at the University," the old man said. "My name is Chuck and I love the arts and artists."

"I am Sean. Thank you, Chuck," I said. "My art is not bourgeois. It is more like trashy gothic if that is a thing."

I was turned on by his profession. I wanted to be a chemist but I hated that periodic table and all that math bullshit. I just wanted to mix liquids and watch things blow up. Both my parents were mathematicians. Mathematicians and scientists get paid well. Artists are basically shunned into other professions like restaurant service, retail, and nursing.

Up some bleached white stairs. "Here we are," Chuck said.

His condo had white carpet but he did not ask me to take off my sandy green Crocs. There was Miami Vice memorabilia all over the house. A life size cut out of Don Johnson was in the corner of the living room.

"Let me guess, are we going to listen to Phil Collins in a moment?" I said.

A heavy-set bald man in his sixties or seventies came out wearing nothing. His limp long dick just patted one thigh to the next.

"Oh Jesus Chuck, I did not know there was company!"

"There is company," Chuck said. "This is Sean and some animal just attacked him on the beach."

"Oh, you poor thing," the bald man said. "I am Larry. Want me to go beat his ass for you?"

Larry was six five and did not budge an inch. He looked actually concerned to my wellbeing and I could not help glance down at his gigantic cock as he stood there motionless in the hallway threshold. Chuck led me to an obscenely soft pink sofa tossing into my lap an ice pack.

"Let's play a game to take your mind off of this unfortunate violent event you had Sean," Larry said.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Vanilla ice cream, okay?"

"What kind of game?" I said.

"Truth or dare," Larry said.

"I dare you to get dressed," I said.

Chuck blasted laughter across every corner of the condo. "Oh, Hun that was good."

"I will count that as part of the game," Larry said. He vanished into the hallway darkness and reemerged in jean shorts and a short sleeved collared shirt peppered with red parrots. "You have a thing for Phil?"

We all sat in a triangular formation on the semi-circle sofa. Their living room was as big as my shitty apartment. Larry glanced at me and texted on his blue iPhone. By the time our ice cream bowls were dinging with the sounds of spoons hitting the bottoms, three more older gentlemen came through the front door.

The sun went from heavenly white to a dying pink upon the blinds. For a few hours we played Truth or Dare in which everyone, every time picked truth. The thick glassed diamond shaped coffee table was covered in cocaine dust and empty Corona beer bottles. On my recent truth, I told the five men how my last girlfriend Sarah was a surfer with a tan bubble ass covered in tattoos of skulls and flowers. And how we fucked on the rooftop of this library on weekend nights. A custodian, an older man, watched us. Sarah was oblivious but I was turned on when I noticed he was staring at my jiggling ass and not hers. I told them that I have a very feminine body and a bubble ass too. This revelation got me stripping on webcam in gay chatrooms about a year ago.

"Truth or Dare, Chuck," I said.

"Truth," Chuck said.

"Why did you say hi to me this morning on the beach. What did you want from me?"

"I want you to know Sean. I never lie. In fact, I cannot tell a lie. I am horrified by your question because and did not expect it. I wish now that I picked dare."

My face looked like Mike Tyson practiced on it but the coke and alcohol put me in a numbed tunnel. All the men had deep slurring voices with beer breath blasted chuckles after each of their sentences. They all had thick forearms like Popeye and dark tan hairy chests in V-shapes on how they wore their shirts. I almost asked Chuck about his odd Miami Vice fetish but I guess I asked the mother of all questions and my hands started to shake again.

"Don't answer that question Chuck," I said. "I rather not know. In fact, I rather do something I have never done before because it will turn me on and it is safe. I am a stripper for gay male websites but I am bisexual and have never had gay sex and I don't want to start like this. But if you gentlemen will oblige me, I would like to move this coffee table of "Atlanta Vice" and strip dance for you all."

I prayed that all of their intoxicated brains were not fine-tuned on train fucking me and having me snort coke off their cocks before my sucking and swallowing each one. I prayed they had compassion and could curb their lust. My intuition told me this was all an elaborate set up. Even the Frisbee deal was part of it.

They all agreed to my strip dancing and we all cracked a fresh round of Coronas and moved the table to the corner. The fresh carpet of unadulterated vacuum tracks was a new standing ground for the tribe as we all passed around a single car key and a small bag of coke.

It took some effort in our drunken states to satisfy all the details of such an improvised event. A downplayed sexual escapade into a private residential strip club with house rules. I came out in a blue bathrobe, and my smooth nudeness underneath only obscured by a weathered pair of daisy dukes once bequeathed by a skinny ex of Larry. The daisy dukes rode up my ass accentuating both cheeks into firm bubbles that shimmied with each step.

I walked out. The room was cold and filled with deep slurring one liners and belly laughter. The speakers blasted Quad City DJ's "Come and Ride that Train" on a loop. The base rattled the glass table and I was gracious that the base would drown out the drunkard's wooing while transporting my booty shakes across the room.

I disrobed and the air was cold. I imagined the oppression of jury duty in a courthouse. How everyone was dressed up and tightly wound and civilized. I thought of a courthouse juxtaposed to a whorehouse and that freedom of the latter almost made my knees buckle.

All men had their hard dicks out for stroking and I changed my tune in a cocaine riddled heartbeat of lust and self-destruction. I shimmied my hips and panned the room until I found it. The pink chair. It called me with a scream of an overprotective parent. But it was the opposite of self-preservation. It was the devil himself.

I remember not seeing any men. I just watched both of my knee caps disappear in the give of the pink chair's cushion. My bird chest flattened the top of the head rest and my ass almost exploded out of those tight daisy dukes. I could feel the draft of the air condition until I couldn't. The draft was blocked by a beer belly. The music lowered and the powerful base dwindled underneath a more serious chorus of conservative slurring. I heard a multitude of deep voiced questions coming at me like hard rain drops. I just moaned through a smile and shimmied my ass as if it could talk and say "get these pesky jean shorts off me."

I was so excited when those denim rags slid away from the protection of the scarce and significant real estate of my bare ass. Those butchered Levis strangled dropped to my lower thighs.

It first sounded like the entire room was clapping which it could have been. But the clapping was my own pounded ass cheeks rattling underneath a fat old beer belly. I finally had for the first time a cock inside of me. And I could not get my ass up high enough to encourage the greatest moaning in the history of my ear drums.

Someone's cock had hijacked all of my thoughts and filled every square inch of my ass in a delicious domination of territory. "Whose cock? I don't have the sobriety to turn around." I said.

"Larry's cock," he said. "This sweet ass is Larry's?"

"Yes daddy, my sweet ass is all Larry's."

My wobbling ass cheeks were open to the public and chilled by the A/C. So much freedom as they flapped like a kite in the wind. Larry flooded his stress and repression down my thighs as he gasped in the lead of a sky line silhouette of hard stroking cocks ready to hijack my vulnerability to unknowns that delightfully surpass my offerings.