Mahu Men Page 3

  “I’m flattered.” Gunter turned to Fred and said, “Maybe this’ll be an early night after all.”

  “Tell me about Vince Gaudenzi,” I said. “You know him?”

  He looked a little startled. “Vince? You mean yesterday’s Vince? What’s the matter? He was over twenty–one, wasn’t he?”

  “I didn’t ask his age. How long were you with him?”

  He told me the story. He’d slept late, after a busy Saturday night, and ended up at the Rod and Reel around two. He estimated he was there around an hour before Vince walked in.

  “You know how Gunter’s standards go down after the first hour,” Fred said, wiping down the bar in front of us.

  Gunter pursed his lips and blew Fred a kiss. “Love you, baby.” He told me he and Vince had made out for a while at the bar, and then they’d gone back to Gunter’s place. He started to give me explicit details but I stopped him.

  “How long were you together?”

  “A couple of hours. We had a mini–sleepover. He left just as it was getting dark. I could barely rouse myself to come back here.” Gunter suddenly put it together—I wasn’t just his friend asking about a guy, I was a cop. “He’s all right, isn’t he? He’s kind of a doll. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.”

  I told Gunter about Jimmy Fremantle. He didn’t know him, but knew about Vince’s guest appearance on The Shirley Ku Show. “So that means Vince didn’t do it, right?” he asked. “Because he was with me.”

  “I guess that’s what it means.”

  Gunter ordered himself another green apple martini, and another beer for me. “So how are things?” he asked. “The boys down at the station treating you all right?”

  He had a lot of charm, and he was a good listener. We talked for a few hours, and eventually he leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed him back. He put his hand on my crotch, and I reached up under his shirt to feel his hard chest, and then we faded into one of the darker corners of the Rod and Reel Club.

  I didn’t want to go home with him, though. After we’d made out for a long time, I pulled away. “I like you, Gunter,” I said. “And if I went off with you tonight I wouldn’t be able to hang out with you any more. And I’d miss that.”

  “You’re a sweet boy,” Gunter said. “But just so you know, we can have sex sometimes and still be friends.”

  “I’ll take your word on that.”

  We walked together for a couple of blocks under starry skies and neon signs, then parted with a long, intense kiss. As I walked the last blocks to my apartment, I thought about kissing. I had kissed two men in two days, and walked away from both of them. Only something was nagging me about one of those kisses. Maybe if I hadn’t had that third beer I’d have thought of it then.

  I slept until dawn and then rolled out of bed and into my board shorts. I grabbed my surfboard and walked down to Kuhio Beach Park just as the sun was peeking over the Ko‘olau Mountains. I wasn’t really awake, just focusing enough of my conscious mind on the waves so that I didn’t fall. I swam, and surfed, and sat on my board treading water, while my mind woke up. And when it did, I knew what I had to do at the station that afternoon.

  I removed the picture of Jimmy Fremantle and Larry Wollinsky from its frame, and sent the frame downstairs for fingerprint analysis. I found out Wollinsky had an old conviction for petty larceny, stealing a bunch of wigs from a discount store, and requested his prints. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon going to every place that sold baseball bats.

  The prints on the Juicy Fruit wrappers and the picture frame matched the file prints for Wollinsky, and I had a photo ID from the clerk who sold him the baseball bat. I presented it all to my boss.

  Lieutenant Sampson is a good guy. He hired me after all my troubles in Waikîkî, when I’d thought my police career was over. Though I’d only worked for him for a few months, I’d come to trust his judgment. “Why?” he asked.

  “I think he was jealous,” I said. “He tried dozens of times to get on The Shirley Ku Show, and then his roommate got on the first time he tried. He figured we’d either accept it as a gay bashing or pin it on Vince Gaudenzi.”

  “When do you want to pick him up?”

  “I’ve got an idea about that. The department can use some good publicity, right? And I know Shirley Ku would love to film us arresting Wollinsky.”

  Lieutenant Sampson was behind me. We bumped it up the ranks, and got the final okay just after ten o’clock that night.

  I called Larry to make sure he’d be home, and he sounded eager to see me. We arranged to meet Shirley Ku and her crew at Larry Wollinsky’s apartment. I hoped, as I knocked on his door, that he would be wearing more than his Calvins for his chance at fame on The Shirley Ku Show, but I wasn’t prepared for who opened the door.

  It was Edith Piaf, down to the artistic mole applied to the left cheek and the jaunty black beret. Wollinsky looked at the cameras and immediately launched into Piaf’s signature song, “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

  I waited until he’d finished, and said, “Larry Wollinsky, I know what you did.”

  BLOWING IT

  It all started with a POG.

  POG is the nickname for a pineapple–orange–guava juice drink, and you get one any time you fly between islands. I was returning to Honolulu from the Big Island after a police training class, and I had to hurry to make the last flight back. I didn’t get a chance to visit the men’s room at the Kailua–Kona airport, and as soon as I drank that POG I had to pee like a racehorse.

  I didn’t even slow down long enough to bolt the door behind me, just kicked it closed as I unzipped my pants. I stood, and peed, and man, it felt good. I was finishing when the door to the tiny bathroom opened and the male flight attendant, Keoni, slipped in. I shouldn’t have been surprised. My picture had just been in Honolulu Weekly in a feature on gay professionals around the island, and Keoni had made it clear he knew who I was when he served me the POG.

  He was a cute guy, and I admit I’d entertained a brief fantasy as he handed me the POG and our gaze met. I’m thirty–two, and he was about five or six years younger, but we had the same slim build. He was a few inches shorter than me, about five–nine, and we both had dark hair, tanned skin and hairless forearms. The little porno movie played in my head for just a minute, and then he moved on, and I drank the POG, and suddenly all I could think about was getting to the lavatory and emptying my bladder.

  Keoni had other things on his mind. There wasn’t much room in the tiny lavatory, but he kneeled in front of me, pushing me against the back wall, and I balanced myself, one hand against the counter and the other against the side wall.

  My dick wasn’t hard, and there were a few drops of urine still dribbling out, but Keoni didn’t seem to mind. He took me in his mouth as he unbuckled my belt and opened my pants, dropping them to my knees, then reached up through the leg of my boxers (tropical fish in neon colors, not nearly as embarrassing as some in my drawer) and fondled the underside of my balls.

  It was like he flipped a switch, and my dick responded, inflating to its full six inches. I’m a cop, after all; I don’t lie, even about the length of my dick. His finger kept working me, stroking the sensitive area between my ass and balls, as he sucked and licked, and all too quickly I felt shudders rising.

  But he pulled back, and I didn’t come. I was still hard, my mouth was dry, and my groin was roiling, but I didn’t come. Keoni said nothing, but his index finger found my asshole and started wiggling, and a minute or two later his mouth was back on my dick. He deep–throated me, then pulled back to lick me like I was an ice cream cone. The tip of his tongue penetrated my piss slit and goose bumps rose on my arms.

  I felt the pressure build—but so did Keoni, and he backed off. Three times he brought me to the point of explosion and backed off. By the fourth time, though, I was ready to beg. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but I was sure there was somebody else with a full bladder waiting outside the lavatory, and my arms had grown so weak I was having trouble keeping my balance—and I NEEDED TO COME.

  Keoni knew that, too, without my having to do anything more than utter a few inarticulate moans and whimpers, though I tried my best to be quiet and keep what we were doing in there a secret from anyone standing outside. As the pressure built inside my groin for the fourth time, Keoni didn’t let up, and it felt like every nerve ending in my body became electrified as my cum exploded down his throat.

  I don’t get as much sex as you might admit for a reasonably good–looking guy with a dick, an ass and a pair of handcuffs. Maybe it’s the long hours I work, or the fact that most of the guys I come in contact with are in the process of committing a crime or being arrested, but it had been a while since a cute guy’s mouth had come anywhere near my circumcised dick. So I was reeling and had to sit down on the toilet—fortunately after having the presence of mind to flip the lid.

  Keoni stood up. “I need your help,” he said.

  “You could have just asked,” I asked, after catching my breath. “You didn’t have to blow me first.”

  “I did that because I wanted to. Can you stay in your seat after we land, until the rest of the passengers get off?”

  I started to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to blow every one of them?”

  He gave me an evil look—which made me like him even more. “Sure,” I said.

  “Lock the door after I leave. Stay here for a minute and then come out.”

  He opened the door and stepped out. “I’m sorry, there’s a problem with this lavatory,” I heard him say, as I reached over and locked the door behind him. “Can you please use the one at the rear of the plane?”

  By the time I’d flushed the toilet—I had peed, after all—closed up my pants and washed my hands, there was no one waiting outside, and no one even seemed to notice that I’d come out of a lavatory that was supposedly broken. A sunburned tourist was ready to jump in as soon as I got out, as if he’d never heard Keoni make his announcement.

  I waited in my seat until the rest of the passengers had left. I followed an elderly couple in matching aloha shirts, and Keoni fell into step behind me as we exited the jetway. “I have a stalker,” he said. “I need you to help me get rid of him.”

  “Let me guess. You gave him one of those world–class blow jobs and he keeps coming back for more.”

  “Something like that. Listen, I need to clock out. Can you wait for me at the front of the terminal?”

  I agreed, and after a few minutes, Keoni arrived. “If you can give me a lift to Waikîkî, I’ll explain the problem,” he said.

  He waited until we were out of the terminal to say, “I don’t usually give blow jobs on the plane. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. But I do occasionally slip a napkin with my phone number on it to a cute guy. That’s what I did with Jerry, and he called me as soon as he got off the plane.”

  We crossed the street to the short–term parking lot, where I’d left my car for the day. “We met outside Lappert’s Ice Cream in the interisland terminal,” Keoni continued. “I took him into a back corridor I know, and blew him. I figured that would be it, but he called me the next day. He found out my schedule from the airline, and he looked me up on the Internet and found out where I live, and a whole bunch of other stuff about me.”

  “It was a hell of a blow job. I can see why he’d want another one.”

  “You help me get rid of Jerry, I’ll give you all the blow jobs you want,” Keoni said. “As long as you don’t turn into another stalker.”

  “Stalking’s not my style. What do you know about Jerry?”

  He gave me Jerry’s phone number, and a general description. After I dropped Keoni off at his apartment, a low–rise building in a rundown area of Waikîkî, I stuck my Bluetooth on my ear and called Jerry on my cell phone. “Hey, my name’s Kimo,” I said. Fortunately, Kimo’s a pretty common name in the islands; it’s the way the early missionaries translated the name James when they were converting the Bible into Hawaiian. “Keoni told me you’ve got a big dick and you like blow jobs.”

  Keoni actually hadn’t said anything about the size of Jerry’s dick, but I’ve never met a gay man yet who wasn’t flattered by the compliment. “Keoni’s a great guy,” Jerry said. “Nobody gives a blow job like he does.”

  “That’s because you haven’t gotten one from me yet. You want to give it a try?”

  At the time, I didn’t have any plan to go down on Jerry; I was just trying to get him to meet me. “Sure,” he said. “Where can we meet?”

  The Rod and Reel Club has a couple of rooms in the back, and if you slip Fred a ten–dollar bill (or if you’re a regular customer, like me) he’ll give you a key for one of them. It’s not like the baths; you can’t sit there with the door open and your dick waving in the wind like a rainbow flag. But if you meet somebody at the bar and you just can’t wait to get to his motel room—or, more likely, if he lives with his mother in some distant suburb—you can stroll down the hall, slip inside, and close the door behind you.

  You can’t leave used condoms on the floor, and you can’t howl like a wolf when you come, but pretty much anything else goes. I told Jerry to meet me at the Rod and Reel, and to head down the hall and knock three times on the third door. “Give me a half hour to get there,” I said.

  I parked back at my apartment building and walked over to the bar, only a few blocks away—very convenient when I’m either thirsty or horny. And despite the world–class blow job from Keoni, my accumulated sexual drought had left me still on the horny side. I was leaning against the wall, with my badge pinned to my shirt and a pair of handcuffs in my hand, when Jerry knocked.

  I opened the door, let him see only my face, and ushered him inside. He was a good–looking guy, with a chiseled face and slicked–back hair that reminded me of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was just a little on the stocky side, but that happens to be how I like my men—with some meat on their bones.

  He was wearing flip flops, a tank top and compression shorts, and his hard–on stretched against the nylon fabric. I moved behind him and locked the door. That’s when he turned and saw the badge.

  “What the fuck?” His hard–on quickly deflated.

  “Keoni says you’ve been bothering him,” I said. “That true?”

  “Dude, you gotta understand. I never had a blow job like that before.”

  “How long ago did you meet him?”

  He frowned. “About a month ago, I guess. I went over to the Big Island for a couple of days, and I was flying back when he slipped me his phone number.”

  “How often have you seen him since then?”

  The room was small, with a single bed jammed up against one wall, and a rubber sheet stretched over it. There was a drain in the center of the concrete floor, and a flip top trash can with the word “Mahalo,” thank you in Hawaiian, on the flap. I motioned him to the bed, and I leaned back against the door.

  “The first week, I saw him every day when he got off work. I knew when his last flight arrived, and I used to hang around at the airport waiting for him.”

  “And he gave you a blow job every day?”

  He nodded. “Then he started avoiding me. I guess I got a little obsessive.”

  “You know that’s stalking, don’t you?” He nodded. “And you know that’s wrong?”

  “But dude, he does stuff no guy has ever done for me.”

  “I know. He blew me in the lavatory on my flight.”

  “So you know.”

  “Yeah.” And suddenly, I understood how I could get Jerry to stop bothering Keoni. “And now that I know, I bet I can do it myself, and teach other guys to do it to me. I don’t have to keep going back to Keoni.”

  I grabbed the single pillow from the bed, threw it to the floor, and got down on my knees in front of Jerry. I jerked his compression shorts down, causing him to jump a little. His limp dick sprung free, and I reached up under his balls the way Keoni had done to me. In a moment, his dick came to life.

  It was thicker than mine, and a little shorter, but it tasted just fine to me. I tried to remember everything Keoni had done to me. I began by licking his dick from the root up to the tip, like a lollipop. Rotating my head, I got the whole thing glistening with my saliva. I wrapped my hand around the bottom of his dick and started slowly jacking him, while nibbling and sucking at the top of his dick.

  Jerry seemed to like it, and I willed myself to go slowly, and pay attention to his reaction. I deep–throated him a couple of times, relaxing my gag reflex enough to go down so far his pubic hairs tickled my nostrils, then pulled back and licked him a few more times.

  My nose was filled with the rich, earthy, locker–room smell of a dick in heat. I stroked the area behind his balls as I took each one of his goose eggs in my mouth. He groaned. As I licked and sucked, I listened for those little signs that he was losing control–– quickened breathing, slight moaning, a stiffening in the loins.

  As soon as I felt his body responding, I pulled off.

  “Dude, don’t stop,” he panted.

  I ran my index finger along the inside of his thigh, and he shivered. After a minute, when the moment of ejaculation had passed, I went back down on him. My own dick had begun straining for release, but I knew that as soon as I started touching myself, I’d forget all about monitoring Jerry’s excitement level. So I left my dick stuffed awkwardly into my pants, and focused on Jerry—on his solid, beefy thighs, his hairy, low–hanging balls, and his fat, juicy dick. Twice more I brought him nearly to the verge, then pulled back.

  He was starting to whimper, begging me, trying to hold my head in place over his dick. At that point, I abandoned my strategy. I fumbled with my pants and gave my dick the open air it had been craving. With my right hand, I pulled some saliva and precum from Jerry and used it to lubricate myself.

  Then, I began furiously jacking myself while sucking him strong and fast. It didn’t take long for us both to erupt. Jerry’s whole body shook as the semen coursed out of his dick and down my throat. Mine spurted up like an eruption from Mauna Loa, spilling onto the concrete floor.