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(Death in the Rockies is a ten-chapter novella, the last chapter of which will be post by the end of the first week in October 2011)

I was coming up from a fog; I could hear the buzzing, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it was and was struggling with whether I should even care. Where was I and what was I doing when I drifted off? It was dark in the room, but the curtains weren’t drawn over the window, so the blue and yellow alternating flashing of the neon sign across the canyon of the street was bathing the room in pulsing, if soft-focus, light, and the noise of not-yet-dead-of-the-night traffic was drifting up from several stories below. I forced my eyes open and saw the bullet head, with the buzz cut, the nose that probably had been broken several times and indifferently set, the scar running from lower eyelid and over the cheek toward the cauliflower ear. Much too close though, and the breath smelled like a beer hall on the morning after. Pulling my head back, I was now staring into a blue-and-black-ink tattoo of a grinning skull on the side of his neck.

Looking down along his body, I saw that he was virtually nude, had the musculature of a body builder, and was breathing deeply and snoring slightly in repose. My own body, stretched along his, was turned slightly toward him as we lay full out on the bed, and I could see that I had my forearm running across his belly and was holding his generous-sized genitals. He had black leather cuffs at his wrists and was wearing heavy hob-nail boots.

In bed. In my bed. Ah, I was remembering at least that much. The room did have a familiarity now that I thought of it. My own bedroom. I hadn’t had the small apartment near the village in New York City for long, though, and I had no intention of making this a permanent, or even long-term residence, so I forgave myself the slow uptake.

My head was throbbing, and I was still in a half haze. I’d either drunk too much or not quite enough. I couldn’t figure out which. I had the notion that I would have been better off going one way or the other.

I was, however, beginning to remember bits and pieces of the earlier hours of the evening. I was on my way somewhere, but I was out of sorts and stopped in at Benny’s on my way for some fortification.

I wondered briefly why’d I’d been out of sorts. The buzzing had stopped but now had started again and I wondered about that. The guy lying next to me snorted in his sleep, and I pulled my hand way from his balls, but I didn’t wonder about what he was doing here. I felt that was strange even as I wasn’t wondering—I didn’t recognize him as anyone I knew. But I felt the pressure to think of something else—and maybe more than one something else—as being more important to think about just then. Somehow I knew that figuring out who this guy was and what he was doing in my bed wasn’t my highest priority. Fundamentally, I knew I was the champion of the one night stand. And I wasn’t at all surprised this guy was in my bed. He had a monster cock and muscles—and tattoos. Those were almost always enough reason for me—all together or individually.

About all a guy had to do was unzip and pull out something that size and tell me he wanted me, and I was good to go. I had learned long ago that they call guys like me satyriacs, and the sound of that word still made me laugh. I didn’t make excuses for it; it was what it was. So, for the most part, I just enjoyed it. Sometimes I concerned myself a bit about not being able to be steady with one guy—and I almost got there once, with Brad. But thinking about that made my head pound so I willed it away.

How had this motorcycle guy type gotten here, though, I wondered. And why did I feel pangs of guilt about that? It had been some gaziantep escort time, years, since I’d felt guilty about bringing guys home and letting them fuck me. Even guys I didn’t know—especially guys I didn’t know. But somehow my mind was telling me I should be someplace else.

But en route to someplace else I’d stopped at Benny’s, one of the rougher clientele bars near police headquarters. And I’d been in a deep funk. Yeah, right, now I remembered. It was that thought of not feeling guilty for some time. There was a time when I would have felt guilty, when life was more steady and I was monogamous—if only briefly.

This was Brad’s birthday. Brad had been my partner—in more ways than one. This had been in the years when I’d cared enough to live someplace that wasn’t a six-floor walkup bathed in blue and yellow pulsing neon lighting from the building across the street. Brad had been murdered two years ago, and I’d been on a downward spiral ever since. Cleaned up his murder, I had, but I was his partner and hadn’t been on the ball in our case. If I had been, maybe we would have gotten the guy before he got Brad.

Today was Brad’s birthday. I was supposed to go someplace where they were celebrating—not Brad’s birthday, but something else I couldn’t help being bitter about. And maybe if it wasn’t supposed to be a happy time—a beginning—on Brad’s birthday, I wouldn’t have concentrated on it being an ending—or at least a “never can be again.” Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so sorry for myself. And maybe I wouldn’t have stopped at Benny’s for some fortitude.

Obviously I’d had too much of the fortitude. I did remember now the drinking and the boasting and the challenge to dance the pole at Benny’s and how well that exercise in pushing the thoughts of Brad and how I’d failed him out of my mind had gone over. Guys—rough-looking guys, when I was feeling like being handled roughly—were working my vanity and playing a yelled-out guessing game of what movie star I looked like while I danced and stripped for them—with a few actually coming up with the name of the matinee idol of years gone by who was, in fact, my father.

I’d obviously made an impression on their libido and they on mine, because here I was, in my bed, next to a lightly snoring biker type with a nice fat dick. I almost regretted that I didn’t remember what we did here that tired him out so much that he was sleeping in my bed. It couldn’t be much beyond 11:00 PM, I didn’t think, gauging from the noises that were coming up from the street.

That part had amazed me when I moved in here—discovering that it didn’t take me more than two weeks for my internal clock to set to the differences in the types and volume of sound coming up from the canyon-like New York street. That I didn’t need any other clock.

And thinking about the time told me why I was hearing the buzzing off and on.

“Shit,” I muttered and turned over toward my nightstand to where I was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the cold, dusty tiled floor. A new cell phone. I wasn’t used to the ring tone I’d set it to.

I picked the cell phone up and hit the talk button. Didn’t even have the chance to say anything.

“Clint, where the hell are you? I’ve been ringing for an hour.”

“Uh, sorry, Chief. Not feeling well; decided to give it a pass, but forgot to call before I hit the sack.”

I nearly added a yelp. My answering the cell had awakened the giant, and he had rolled over toward me and had an arm around me. One hand was on my cock and the other one was running under me, snaking between my butt cheeks, a finger pressing up into my hole. I slapped at the hand encasing my cock, and I felt the bed shift as he snorted and rolled over on his back again. The other hand stayed where it was, though, and I felt a second finger pushing into my channel. Visions of memory hit me of earlier—mostly the vague sensation of feeling, though. He had been good with his cock, very good. The memory was almost of more than just his cock in there, a counterpistoning. I didn’t wonder why we’d both been exhausted enough to doze off.

“Danny told me that would be the case.” Burton was saying into my ear. “He isn’t surprised and sore. He said you could catch him on his bachelor’s party for the next marriage. Reminded me it’s Brad’s birthday.”

“Thanks. Tell Danny thanks—and that I’ll toast him alone some day this week. And sorry, Chief. You’re right. I guess I just couldn’t party today.”

I felt guilty about that, about giving the chief the impression I was alone and just in a funk I wanted to handle in solitary. Obviously, I could party. A vision of the guy on my bed on his back and me straddling him and riding his shaft hard blew through my mind. I was hardening right up and knew what I’d be doing when I clicked the phone off. I was partying. But not in the “new beginnings” way the guys from the squad were partying. I was doing it my own way, my own self-pitying way, I had to acknowledge. But it was my way. And I was hooked into it, even though some of my friends, meaning the best, told me it was self-destructive behavior.

“Won’t be toasting him this week,” the chief of NYPD Homicide said. “Got a call after you left. You might pack your bags tonight. You’ll be going out West tomorrow night. A special assignment. Your specialty. I’ll tell you about it when you come to headquarters tomorrow.”

“Right, Chief.” I didn’t need to ask what my specialty was. Whenever they had anything involved with guys doing guys or needed someone who could get close to that, they called on me—not just in New York, but also farther afield. I didn’t mind. I guess I knew it was an ideal job for me. I loved being a cop. But I also loved being cocked. And as long as they needed the specialty and knew they needed it, I was safe from the normal rules of serving in the NYPD and didn’t have to hide my wants. Because my wants were my wants; as much as I liked being a cop, I couldn’t deny my wants.

As I placed the cell phone back on my nightstand, I looked up at hearing an unexpected sound and from suddenly being bathed in light. The door to my bathroom was opening and another guy not unlike the one on my bed, but hairier, scarier, with bigger muscles and hanging even lower than the guy on the bed was standing there, grinning and naked. In the light, I picked out the residue of white powder at his nose and could see beyond him to the glass shelf over the sink, where he’d been cutting his stuff.

Oh fuck, I thought. Not in my own apartment. But then that sort of crime wasn’t my look see.

He had a raging hard-on, which I figured now would last for a couple of drug-enhanced hours. I didn’t like the idea of the drugs in my place, but the hard on was just fine.

In two strides, he had reached me and pushed me down on my back with a beefy hand pressing on my sternum. I went down with my head on the belly of the other guy on the bed, who gave a grunt, but his belly was so rock hard that I knew I hadn’t done any damage there.

I didn’t know the drugee from Adam, but I knew I was having a personal pity party, and I knew I liked what I saw between his legs—not just the flesh, but the thick cock ring piercing the bulb of his cock. I gave him a big smile as he roughly grabbed my legs by the meat of my calves, spread-eagled them with a splitting jerk, and thrust his dick inside my channel, splitting me with a thickness that had me arching my back and yelping to the ceiling and him shouting out with pleasure. As he began to pump and I thrilled at the feel of the metal of the ring rubbing on me inside, my hips began to counterpunch as if they had a mind of their own. My channel grabbed the digging monster tool and pulled it deeper inside me. The other guy took my head in his hand and turned it southward on his body, where I saw that he had something rising there for me to work on with my mouth. I moaned and sighed and steeped my senses in the best drug I knew of to remember and then try to forget that it was my Brad’s birthday.

But the funk wasn’t only because it was Brad’s birthday. And I was only beginning to acknowledge that, as I felt the guy who had been stretched out on the bed pull his cock out of my mouth. He changed positions, close behind me now, his chin on my shoulder, his hard nipples pushing at my shoulder blades, the leather wrist cuffs rubbing roughly on the small of my back as his hands moved to and grabbed my waist, working his way under me from the back. The guy crouched between my legs with his bludgeon up my channel was lifting me off the edge of the bed, his meaty hands cupping my butt cheeks, enabling the other guy to move his thighs under my butt, lapping me. I moaned and began to breath in big gulps as I remembered now that it wasn’t just him counterpistoning me earlier in the evening.

The biker in front of me whispered something.

“What?” I murmured. In a daze, steeling myself, pumped up with fear and exhilaration. A hill to climb, a challenge to take on, something to transport my mind, focus it on managing a challenge, while knowing it wasn’t impossible, because I’d already scaled that height once this night.

“A snort? You want something . . . to help?”

“Nooo,” I moaned. “I want it all. I want to feel it . . . working together.”

“You’re gonna feel mine for sure,” he muttered, “‘Cause the snort really made me into a horse. You’re gonna feel them this time, pretty movie star boy. You’re going to squeal.” And then he laughed.

I was trembling, shuddering, groaning as I felt the bulb at my entrance, there rubbing the underside of the cock of the biker crouched between my legs. Begging entrance, demanding entrance, gaining an inch, as I panted hard and groaned. Yes, this was what I wanted—what I’d gone to Benny’s for. It wasn’t just because it was Brad’s birthday. It was very much as well because it was Danny’s bachelor’s party. It was the two, together, pushing me over this edge—seeking this punishment.

Danny’s impending wedding. Danny, the young, black stud macho cop, just up from the beat and learning the ropes in Homicide. Strutting around boasting of how much cunt he got—often and from whatever woman he fancied. His tales maddening, because of his hunkiness and the chip on his shoulder and mostly because of what he didn’t boast about—that I opened my legs for him on demand too. And had heard him whisper that he loved me—and only me. Danny, who I’d wanted every inch as much as I’d wanted Brad.

I panicked, having second thoughts, even while knowing I’d gone beyond the stage of refusal, both bikers now grunting and straining, not to be denied—knowing they could have it because they’d had it before. But the drugee was right. He’d become a horse. I didn’t think . . . I . . . . could. And then I had. “Oh, god,” I cried out—squealed just as the biker said I would—as the second splitter worked up into me and the bikers went into a counterpumping sharing. “Oh, god, Yesssss!”

They danced their cocks in my channel. I writhed between their heaving, sweating chests and worked my legs in the air in a bicycle movement in a vain, instinctive movement to master and diminish the filling of their cocks—and, with a cry, shoot my load up a sweaty belly. The bikers laughed and pumped on toward their own ejaculations.

So much to forget.

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