When the Bar Closes the Fun Starts

In the early '80s, the bar "Cuffs" in Silverlake had an after-hours. At 2am, the doors closed, the remaining beers had to be drunk, and soft drinks and coffee were served. The door closing had a peculiar effect on the crowd, and one hot, late-summer night when I was there listening to my friend John, the DJ, things got a little out of hand. Out of hand and out of pants.

The bar was rectangular, with the serving area running lengthwise in the center, a bit off-center. In the far back, there was a platform, with railing where men stood, and in the furthest corner was the DJ booth, almost like a cubbyhole. It had a pair of turntables, several tape-decks, and an enormous collection of what later became known as alternative, but then only as extreme; the kind of music popularized at another bar, the "Oneway", which reached its peak when Nina Hagen showed up with her baby at one of Jim van Tyne's Sunday "Theoreticals."

In the course of the evening, the railing would become increasingly populated with men who must struggle by each other, sliding roughly against each other, crotch-to-ass. The many beers helped to lubricate emotions during the struggles, and I as always was perched back, in the back, on top, by my friend John, the DJ. John was a strange bear.

He had ice-blue eyes, and was one of those super-hairy men. He didn't have much on his head, even at around age 25, but what was there was dirty blond, and very bleached. He had a five-o'clock shadow which you could sand mahogany with, and his arms and shoulders were covered with more of the thick blond brillo. If it wasn't short, he would look like some sort of chimpanzee.

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Around 1am, when the other bars started emptying out into Cuff's, there was a charged atmosphere in the air, of predatory lust which was almost edible. Men were wandering back and forth through the bar, the music was getting very hot, and perched on deck, I watched, feeling random hands in my crotch (just at mouth level on the platform), and enjoying the moment. Some well-known Colt models had appeared (Gunner Hyde, the Colt name of an ArtCenter Design student friend), some friends from Parsons, some extra-sleazy hustlers from Numbers whom we all knew, and the tension mounted.

John was looking very happy in his booth, and I got him a handful of beers as last call came around. He thanked me, and looked deep into my eyes with those icy blue ones of his. He waved me into the DJ booth, which surprised me, and turning, he handed me a folded slip of paper. In a minute, I was drinking hydro-electric charged Coca cola, and soon began to see why John was extra excited for the evening. I stayed back in the booth, and kept any eye on the crowd, when I saw John put on some 23-Skidoo.

The throbbing beat of heavy bass and drums lit up the rest of the crowd, getting their own last calls, and John put in the magic tape. This was a tape of heavy fistfucking & cocksucking, just the sounds, and it began at a very low level, almost subliminally. John, at that point, undid his thick leather belt buckle, and dropped his cutoff jeans, leaving only a semi-shredded teeshirt on. He wasn't powerfully built, but more like whipcord, and hairy to boot.

Like some skinny guys, he had a non-skinny cock. It looked like a torpedo, with a leather studded cockring on - bloated fat, with a small head. He grinned, and looking down at my own pants, nodded for me to get them off. In a minute I was standing there, coke in hand, and my own hardon swinging in the air, while John sat back on his leather stool, legs wide apart, hands shaking slightly as he synched "Flowerpot Men's" song "Jojo" ("Joe's so mean, to Josephine".)

He had two copies on, and were mixing them into each other rhymically, and the screaming singing of the leads mixed with the drums, and the now less-than subliminal fistfucking talk really got the crowd going. Suddenly the door shut, and the lights dimmed slightly. We were into after-hours. John whacked his fat cock a few times on the chair as we talked, and scratched his balls, which hung very, very low in an enormous sack.

He played with my cock aimlessly, while mixing, and then dropped on a "Dormannu" album. A knot of men was clustered around each other, and I watched with shining eyes the men on the deck, who had dropped pants and pretensions and were trying their best to have public sex in a small place. The view I focused on nervously was a hairy ass - fine, tight black curls on a nice round juicy ass, which wiggled as a pair of tight Levi's slid down over them. A hand patted and caressed the buns slowly, as though to tickle.

I noticed that John was also fixed on the buns - the man himself was bent over the rail, and obscured by someone standing to his side. The music reached a cresendo, and the thick knotted hand was replaced by a bearded face, deeply buried in the two cheeks. The man was Val Martin, a leather prostitute, known in LA.

He licked and slavered over the buns, his own hugely gnarled hands holding onto the legs for support, then he stood, up, and slowly poured ice-cold beer over the ass, then slowly, tantalizingly started licking it, and glancing up at the two of us, with our hardons swaying in front of us, turned the ass a little bit, and spreading the cheeks, clearly and distinctly lolled his tongue out into the little beer-wet asshole.

I felt as though I was a camera, focussing on each wet hair that he laved with his big pink muscle, then dipping in deeper and deeper into the puckered brown hole, lapping up the beer. He then took the beer bottle, shaking it roughly, popped it up against the hairy asshole, and took his thumb off. The man clearly jumped as he got an ice-cold beer enema, then Martin crouched again and lapped up the beer the man let slowly trickle out. It was unbelievable.

John put his arms around me, and I felt his slimly cock between my asscheeks, and felt his arms shaking from his own hydro-electric coca-cola. Waves of hot lust roiled over my body, feeling his slightly pudgy hairy belly against my ass, and as he pinched my nipples roughly, all my hair stood absolutely on end. I was beginning to get into absolutely cock-hungry jackoff mode, when the man who stood in front of the beer-enema crouched a bit.

He was an extremely tall bear, and after carefully removing his pants, he was letting another shorter man in front of him give a blowjob. The short guy looked like he was giving a blowjob to enter the Olympics by. He licked and sucked on the head slowly, polishing it and getting it wet, then cramming as much as possible into his mouth, you could see the cock sliding in, then stopping as it hit the back of his throat.

With a tiny jerk, it clearly plunged in his throat, and his face turned red as he started banging it too the roots, looking something like a rapid-action woodpecker, veins in his throat bulging just below his beard, and his eyes almost bulging as he tried to get every inch of the cock of the tall skinny guy in his mouth - and there were more than 10 inches to get in. The tall guy, very ugly, was one of those skinny types who had very long body hair, and an absolutely enormous cock, looking more like plumbing for under the sink than a human fleshrod.

A couple of other people turned around, and turned on by the blowjob, started to give a couple of licks to the shaft on the outswing by the short bear. It was a lurid scene out of some porno orgy going on right in front of us. John got back to mixing again, rapidly moving discs on and off, and just as the sex tape became audible, he worked into a loop of Olfield's Tubular Bells, a man intoning instruments with the music looping, and the raucous sounds of double-handed fist fucking and deep-dish sucking coming out of the tape machines.

The entire room almost exploded. I turned around, and crouching, tried to suck in as much of John's fat cock as I could, not wanting to scrape it with my teeth. He fed me deep and good, legs shaking, and my own cock was throbbing and dripping. Then John dripped some old, hot beer from another bottle on his hand, and while his cock was in my mouth, forced some of his thick, stubby, dirty fingers in, and grabbed my jaw, filling me up to overload. He had fingers in my mouth helping to hold it open while he fucked in his joint, and sent me into waves of lusty delight.

It was a sensation I've never repeated since, and almost passing out, forgetting the world, he let me go for a few seconds and returned to his job - that's why he was there after all. I stood up and climbed on the platform to relax for a moment, when I ran into an Hispanic guy I knew, a real slutpig. He had dark curly hair, which was jet black, and tonight he had a short beard. The heat, sex, and sweat made his curly hair look oiled, and he shined beautifully in the light on the platform. He put his hugely muscled arms around me, and sliding down, greased up my body, and pulled my crotch into his face.

He swallowed my curved cock in one deep stroke, holding it in for a second on bottom, then let it slide all the way out to the tip, and slam-dunked on it again. I felt fingers against my asshole, so I put one leg up on a backrail and while my hot man in front face fucked down on my 8", completely out of control, someone else played and pinched and wetted up my assshole.

I heard more of the fistfucking groans, against the bells and general groaning mayhem of the room, and felt the slow sliding opening of someone forcing more than a couple of fingers in my asshole and roughly jam-fucking them against my prostate. The lucky licker had a hard, fast rhythm now, and I could feel each time the head of my cock got close to the end of his throat, as he tightened up, and then pushed down further, and I popped in, the squeezing kneading travelling up my cockshaft to the root, meeting my asshole somehow inbetween, and up my spine to the top of my head.

I was in fuckheaven ecstasy as shivers of goospimples went over my body, and a loud deep groan came from somewhere deep inside. The tall ugly bear dropped his gargantuan joint in my hand, and bending over somehow acrobatically, I was able to get more than a bit in my mouth, and I sucked in on it like a a starved calf on a sugar-tit.

I could look up and see John, grinning, and whacking off his cock, pinching his nipples under his shirt. His hand barely made it around that bloated torpedo, and as I watched his balls tighten up, he started shooting a stream of cum. First it was in dribs and drabs, but then the heat of the evening and playing we had done the whole time clicked in, and stream after stream of the white ropy cum flew all over the men in front of him.

He leaned forward and crammed a couple of knuckles in the ugly giant, who promptly squatted down, out of my mouth, and starting shooting himself, as though continuing the relay race of fuck-juice. He grabbed onto my arm for support, and immediately I felt my own prostate react, and pulling out roughly, shot a cupful of sticky juice all over Licky's face and beard, while my asshole was reamed out by fingers like there was no tomorrow.

The scene was like a suspended animation, while the music softened to something savage and ugly by Black Sabbath, and half the bar in front of my tried to wipe off its pants. John and I somehow left an hour or more later, to go off to King of Hearts, after just beginning the evening. The music still danced in our heads.

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