Page 15 of A Long Con

Hobie said, “But your images aren’t realistic. Your faces merge into other faces. Your corridors look like accordions. Swirls of textures and colors . . . “

I hadn’t seen Berkeley since I’d gulped his jizz in his mother’s house, but he’d intruded into my thoughts pretty much every five minutes. I didn’t want to see him. I wasn’t gay, so why would I want to repeat a one-off? I’d just fallen to my knees and taken his heavy, pulsing cock into my hand for the fun of it. To do something different. To try and experience what it was like for the Bent Zealots. And yes, it was nice to pleasure someone. Anyone.

But I’d purposefully stayed away from Berkeley. He represented the sort of power I didn’t want another man to have over me. He made me want more. I spent days driving flakka around in my saddlebags, fantasizing about licking that long, thick dong. Diving into that silken bush of hair at the root of his dick. Chewing on his pubic mound. Sliding my finger up his slick ass and tickling his gland. And yes, maybe even getting on all fours and letting him mount me.

He’d grunt, and twitch inside me, and jack my prick until I spilled onto the floor. He’d bounce me with his strong hips, slap my ass, growl indecipherable things into my ear. I wasn’t sure yet what he’d say, but they were domineering, controlling things. Things that would make me shoot my load without even being touched.

I was feeling that way now, just watching him teach.

He said, “Well, if it’s realism you want, it’s best that you start with a model. Like how about your comrade here, The Samoan Slammer?”

Every last man jack turned around in his chair, Rover snarling, “Yeah!”

Then they started clapping, applause for me like I hadn’t seen since the ring! Lock started the chant, “Samoan Slammer! Samoan Slammer!” and everyone picked it up, every last man down to Dipstick, Dr. Moog, and Fredericka, the trans Navajo teen. Some, like Twinkletoes and Harte, even got to their feet and clapped in time to the chant. Anson made the shaka hand sign high in the air, like he was actually at a wrestling match.

Kokami. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I already had a half-mast hard-on from thinking about Berkeley’s crotch. What would I do if forced to strip? I had nothing—nothing!—to hide from these mokes, as I’d maintained my fine, ripped physique even when I reluctantly left the glorious world of the WWE. But—but—what about my erection?

When they started stomping on the century-old wooden floorboards, I knew I had to go forward.

I waded into the sea of welcoming hands and stomping feet. Their cheers practically made the entire building shudder. I had to do something fast. I had to think of the most disgusting thing imaginable.

Instantly, into my head leapt an image so unbidden, it didn’t even need words to form it. I'd been tag-teaming a match once in Tulsa when someone—I think it was Till Gardener—had shoved Vince McMahon’s face into someone’s—I think it was Glute Massive’s—ass.

Yes.This tactic was working.

Even as I got close to Berkeley, even as he clapped me on my bare shoulder and bade me welcome to his class, my dick shriveled and retreated into my boxer briefs at the image of Vince McMahon’s face in that guy’s ass. Hell, Vince McMahon’s face anywhere. The wrestling promoter had that kind of sand-blasted taut look given to facelift victims or men who’d tried to have their pizza face acne scars buffed away. It was enough to give anyone pause, even when you didn’t take into account his repugnant personality, his lack of concern for wrestlers, his sheer self-aggrandizement.

It worked. I lifted my arms and elegantly stripped my tank top from my form, letting the leather and gold chains around my neck fall between my pecs. I couldn’t look at Berkeley—Vince McMahon, Vince McMahon—so I did a salacious little striptease as bikers hooted and whistled. Even the straight guys, Twinkletoes and Merwin, clamored for more. So I unzipped my boots, kicked them over the bar, and made a big deal of unbuckling my belt.

I was used to being viewed, to being on camera. Used to creating a script, a persona. It was no big deal to stick out my tongue a ’la Gene Simmons and thrust my hips forward as I snaked a hand down over my thankfully flaccid package. Some of these men, like Harte and Anson, nearly rivalled Berkeley for sheer hotness, so I had to think about the time “Stone Cold” Steve Austin attacked McMahon in a hospital bed with a bedpan, and McMahon rolled off the bed, displaying his tighty-whities.

That did the trick. As Pothole raced over with a tall barstool, I perched back on it nearly naked holding coyly onto one knee. I tried “The Thinker” pose, but most people roared for the Marilyn, as if a steam grate blew up my skirts. And that way I didn’t have to look at Berkeley. He taught from behind me.

“Don’t be afraid to be creative,” he said, although everyone had already grabbed their pencils and were scribbling madly. “I might be thinking of a human body, but what will come out is a tunnel or bridge. We only have a short life—minutes, weeks, years—to accomplish all we want. Think about it! Do you really want to render this stunning hunk of man in all his visual accuracy?”

“Hell to the yeah,” vowed Turk, the Prez. A few other men chimed in their affirmation.

Berkeley laughed. “Well, you know what I mean. When I paint, I go through a journey to hell, to a place we’ve all been before. Standing on a cliff, looking over, seeing the glory of the universe, my own face reflected back.”

“Your own face looks like that?” goofed Twinkletoes, indicating the black board and chalk drawing of Berkeley’s.

“Sometimes, yeah. I call it ‘split-minded’ thinking. Memories are jigsaw patterns. I feel like I’m standing on a cliff with the rock under my feet giving way.”

I dared glance over my shoulder. Berkeley had flipped the cover on a standing easel pad and was sketching away. I wanted to watch, but Lock yelled at me, “Face forward! I was just doing your nose!”

Berkeley talked while he drew. “It’s like an exploding volcano. Bubbles of awareness pop all around me and I try to grab one and paint it before it drifts off.”

I muttered over my shoulder, “I’ve got an idea I want to talk to you about.” I hadn’t been certain I wanted to discuss my idea with Berkeley because it involved working together, and I didn’t think I could tolerate that.

“Okay,” he whispered. “After they’re done drawing your stunning body.”

Now I couldn’t even think about Vince McMahon, just Berkeley calling me “stunning.” Did he really think that, or was he only flattering the model? And yeah, my dick did begin to stiffen, and once again I was glad I’d kept on my briefs. I had to bring my “split brain” back to the present place and time. Bikers drawing me. Some of them hadn’t showered all week. Especially Rover.

Berkeley’s breath fanned my shoulder. “Move your hair. I need to draw your trapezius.”

Vince McMahon! Rikishi! Kane, the mayor of Knoxville Tennessee!I thought of repulsive men as I rearranged my hair in the scrunchie.

“Did your personality change when you fell off the roof?” asked Dr. Moog, apparently sketching my unseen balls.