Jack's Offshore

The blue and white Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was closing on the oil rig, eighty miles into the green choppy sea off Port Fourcon, Louisiana. Jack told himself he wasn't going back offshore again! Ever! Yet, here he finds himself, accepting another hitch -- not on the platform he's flying to, but on the one-hundred-forty foot supply boat tied up to it. Twenty-eight days of – fourteen days off.

Along with Jack and the pilot, were two rig-operators and a roustabout. None spoke during the entire thirty-five minute flight. As the chopper banked for the approach, the roustabout vomited into a bag handed out by the pilot before take-off.

Can't even handle the helicopter ride. Sorry bastard - Jack thought to himself.

As the skids beneath the helo where touching down, Jack was already longing to be back in the gay bars of the French Quarter. Everything from the big dance clubs to the hole-in-the-wall spots. He thrived in that environment. Jack wasn't attracted to the men in this flying box -- not even a little bit -- but he loved being wanted by the men in those bars. He'd been heavily desired by beautiful women in his past. Slept with plenty of them - but none could equal the ravenous intensity of unfamiliar gay men in heat. Jack found that most of the single gay men in the Quarter weren't looking for love behind the eyes. Many, not even like.

Jack would come in from offshore with a fat twenty-eight-day paycheck waiting, catch a Greyhound bus to New Orleans, and pay for two weeks in a cheap hotel. Sometimes, he was so excited, he'd put his off-shore bag in a coin-pay locker in the bus station, and head to the bars in the same dirty work clothes and knee-high rubber steel-toed boots he stepped off the boat in. He wanted to be seen, and fast.

As he approached any gay bar, his routine was to take off his shirt, tie it around his waist, and step inside. Jack has a swimmer's build with arms much larger than had ever been seen on any swimmer. Just past six foot tall, his overall appearance is striking. Thirty-six years old and solidly developed. Strong chin and wispy blonde hair, like that of a young Iowa corn farmer. Age would never move his amazing hairline.

Jack’s routine: he'd enter, step to the bar, and order a Budweiser or some other bottled beer. This will be the last drink he'll purchase all night. Queer as Folk is on the big screen behind the bar and "Better off alone" is bumping from the speakers. It won't be long before some older gentleman comes up to talk. Sometimes, they'd reach around and grab his cock first -- and then talk. The attractiveness of these men was of no consequence. It wasn't about looks. Men were just men -- they just had to lust after him.

He favored the older men because they carried with them a certain desperation. All the better, as it added to their desire. A sultry rush of expediency emanated from them that just wasn't there in the younger guys. For each, he was the Big Fish. A last chance at excellence in a lover. Plus, most where at a point in their lives where they were financially well-off. Many live Uptown in large Victorians, or owned a place in the French Quarter. Some lived Uptown and held a second place in the Quarter -- just for guys like Jack. Either way, they had play-money. On some occasions, a random opulent tourist would whisk Jack away to a suite in one of the pricier hotels. No matter if it was a local bottom or a tourist, jack just wanted to get their legs up and drive. He never cared too much about the money -- but it did make things easier. No worries about splitting the check in a bar or restaurant. No concern about paying for anything. Ever.

In the gay community, Jack is what's considered a power-top -- just might be considered a prostitute also. He prefers to top. He's bottomed before, but it didn't do much for him, other than make him aware of the constant throbbing sensation in his colon in the hours that followed. He's given some blowjobs too, every one of them to orgasm, he often recalls proudly, but his head doesn't naturally desire to go down there. Legs-on-shoulders is Jack's favorite position, but some aren't able to do that. Some were obese, perhaps from the excesses of beignets and gumbo. Others, just too damned old. These men had to sit on his throbbing fuckstick or take it from behind. Many just prefer it from behind. No matter the position, Jack would always be the Alpha.

When in the missionary position, as he was pumping his cock in and out of these men, he’d often look into their eyes. Were they good men? Did they have family, or were they alone in this world like him? Was he part of their dream of a complete life, or was he a momentary release from despair? He never lost his erection during these ponderings. He rather enjoyed the mystery of it all.

The chopper came to a rest on the helo-pad on the far right quadrant of the oil plarform. The pad is designed for just this kind of personnel exchange.

"You fellas enjoy!" the pilot yelled from a mouth framed with aviator glasses and an ear-muffed headset.

A quick peek under his dark safety glasses revealed a wet and growing spot in the crotch of Jack’s coveralls. He’d been hard for most of the flight. Precum had seeped from his pisshole, through his cotton briefs, leaving a mess on the outside. Maybe no one would notice.

Jack and the others grabbed their large offshore bags, donned their hardhats, and stepped down onto the rig. Near a large, rusty yellow crane, three men were waiting for the chopper-cabin to clear so they could embark.

Jack stooped low and scooted clear of the whirling blades, traversing down a single set of metal steps. He set the over-sized duffel bag down on the abrasive non-skid surface and waited for further instruction.

Sunshine beamed with what felt like added strength. The Gulf breeze was amazing. Peering up past the cold steel, to the soft blue sky, Jack imagined most people would consider what he was experiencing -- dreamy. A delight.

Just then, a door behind him opened. Jack turned. A large, burly, middle-aged man wearing green coveralls and a white hardhat stepped into Jack's dream.

"Hello Jack!" Mike Rogers said with a grin.

"Mike"

They shook hands. Jack wasn't much on small-talk.

"How's Mary and the kid's?" he asked.

"Mary's alright, but that son of mine is going to drive us mad. Three stints in rehab, and here we go again. This whole thing is breaking Mary's heart. Dog died last week and work's slowing out here. I see the plot of a country song building!" he laughed, his voice rising up and out of the gloom.

"How long you out here for this time?" Mike asked

"Twenty-eight." Jack responded. That's what they tell me anyway. I got fucked last time out. My relief never showed up to the office in Houma, and I had to do his twenty-eight too. Fifty-six days is just too much." Too much time away from the scene -- Jack thought to himself.



Hugging the steep curve, Jack steals a quick glance to the sideview mirror, nobody there. Holding, are three bald tires, and an almost new one on his beat up black 1993 Nissan Sentra. Hood and roof strafed with bird shit. Beer breath and a hint of mufalata fills the cabin. Jack doesn't give a thought to cracking the window for fresh air, as it's already stuck in a two inch gap. Won't go down any further. Won't go back up either.

Jettisoning New Orleans. But for what?...to where? -- he doesn't know. West. Anything is better than The Big Easy, and at the same time -- nothing is better.

"Fucking Decatur Street."

As he nears the end of the on-ramp, merging onto I-10 West, Jack scans the rearview and sees no cars behind him on this six lane interstate. Nothing ahead either. A strange gap in a normally busy stretch of highway.

"If it could only be this, stay this way -- just for a little while or just forever. The whole world to myself. A chance to recover and catch up."

Another look back reveals an old gray Cadillac breaking the horizon.

"Damn. Had it for a moment."

Nick Drake's "Parasite" starts on the radio. How aprapos.

Didn't he off himself? OD'ed on depression meds I think. This shit has got to stop. It just has to. I'm closing in on forty with no plans. No prospects. I'm losing.

Scanning the dash, Jack sees the constant glow of the yellow check-engine light that's been showing since two Augusts ago. Gas almost on empty, but he's not stopping yet. He knows he has to create some distance between himself and the puddle of vomit comprised of Zapp's chips and Abita Beer -- the splatter he left next to the newspaper stand outside the A&P on Royal.

Good times! - Jack thought, with a grimace

Sarcasm has never been more earnest. In this moment, comfort in his own skin is tied directly to the rolling numbers on the odometer. No comfort yet, still being this close to his latest debauchery.

I have to get out!

Jack reaches over to the passenger-side looking for a loose smoke and the map of the United States he picked up at a gas station just outside Fort Meyers, Florida. No cigarette, just some loose tobacco and eighteen cents, but there's the map -- falling into the gap between the seat and the door. Jack reaches for it, swerving toward the concrete divider in the middle of I-10. A quick jerk of the wheel pulls him back to his lane. A sharp hot-flash of panic follows, the kind he used to get in elevators and sleeping bags. These attacks made him feel as if his brain was heating up. Almost to a rolling boil. Intense sweating and spots before the eyes weren't far behind.

“Keep it together.” he scolded himself. "I can't let myself faint behind the wheel of this shitbag."

Half-a-dozen cars were around him now, and Jack made his way through and around them to finally find the shoulder of the road. As he slowed to a stop, a delayed dust cloud enveloped the vehicle, first dimming his only working brake light at the trunk, and then making its way over the roof and into the broken window.

Jack coughed and wiped his nose, watching the remaining dust roll off of the hood, only to be grabbed up by a passing eighteen wheeler and turned into a Dr. Suess swirl. He gathered himself.

"A beer and a cigarette. That's all I need."

Jack knew from experience that one doesn't do well to linger on the shoulder. State Troopers are like southern biting flies: once they see the target, they have to bite. And bite they do. Although in withdrawal, Jack couldn't be certain his blood-alcohol level was low enough to be considered legal to drive.

"Gotta get moving."

Jack accelerated, throwing stones and dust in his wake. He merged back into traffic, narrowly avoiding the broadside of a gold minivan traveling far too fast for the slow lane. As he reached fifty-five miles per hour, Jack could feel the rattle of the chassis and see the shaking of the steering wheel. If his last name were Palance, he would have pulled right back over to the shoulder of the road - and shot this gimpy steed.

As he continued on, Jack began to daydream about Roxanne. With no alcohol currently in his possession or in his system, thoughts of her would be the only escape from his present reality. Of all the lovers he had bedded in New Orleans, Roxanne would be the only one he would miss. Certain he was unable to love, Jack was sure he felt something close to love for Roxanne.

They met last March, at the Oz nightclub on daiquiri-night. Post-Mardi Gras, these sort of events attract a large, local gay crowd. Roxanne was a tall and absolutely amazing cross-dresser. Even without heels, she towered over Jack.

He recalled the first time they locked eyes. She was coming out of the bathroom stall, pulling down on both sides of her green sequin gown. Jack was turning from the urinal, still trying to push his thick tool back inside his zipper.

She looked down in time to catch sight of its beautiful veiny flank - just as the snake made its escape into a denim and cotton jungle. Roxanne froze and leaned back with her hands on her hips.

"Daddy!" She remarked in a deep, but feminine voice - along with a tilted smile.

Jack, froze as well. Not so much that they both knew the reason for her comment, but because, she was in fact -- stunning. Apparently, fun too. Before he could fully process her command of the encounter, his newly-tucked-away cock started to jump with excitement, bouncing inside his right pant leg. This action caused his urethra to squeeze out a last pulse of warm piss which had managed to escaped the club's plumbing.

"Buy me a drink?" she followed.

Jack hesitated for a moment, still locked in heat - then replied, "Sure."

Holding Jack's hand, Roxanne led the way out of the purple-lit restroom and out into a sea of dancing gay men -- some of whom wanted to look like, or be women. This was Roxanne. Jack noticed her hand was soft and much larger than his. Long, perfectly-painted fingernails were adorned with small hoop rings through the tip of each fingernail. These details seemed to cancel out the difference in hand size.

Jack was caught in Roxanne's draft as they made their way to the bar. Her scent was divine. The end of a long pink wig bounced off the small of her back, forcing one air current of delight after another into his nostrils. In her hand, Jack was floating like a Mylar balloon at the county fair. With surprise, he looked down, finding his feet were still on the ground.

They found two open stools at the long round glass-top bar. Bartenders inside the circle were busy like bees defending a threatened hive. Jack could see Michele,' his favorite bartender, was busy pulling a draft beer. Looking around as the glass filled, Michele noticed Jack at the bar with Roxanne and acknowledged him with a nod.

Michele is a beautiful specimen -- short and wirey, with slick black hair pulled up into an Elvis pompadour. A single curl protruded from the steep rock-face of hair, coming down over his left eye. Dressed in tight silver shorts and a yellow tank top, Michele resembled a gay doll just out of its packaging. When he finished, he came over to Jack and spoke over the loud music with a thick Italian accent, "Hello Jack!"

"How are you Michele?" Jack replied. "I want you to meet a new friend of mine."

Jack suddenly realized he didn't have a name for this new friend. Before he could clean it up, Roxanne reached across the bar, offering a hand with a relaxed wrist.

"Roxanne."

Michele immediately smiled, grabbed her hand in both of his, and kissed it just above the knuckles.

"Bella" he said, his eyes meeting hers.

Michele straightened up and tossed out two napkins on the bar to serve as coasters, "What are you drinking tonight?"

With learned chivalry, Jack deferred to Roxanne. "I'll have a Cosmo" she said.

"Beer for me" Jack followed.

As Michele turned to fill the order, Roxanne, facing Jack asked, "So, what's your story stud?"

For a moment, Jack looked distant. He raised his hand to his forehead and pushed his hair back.

"I'm from Los Angeles originally. Grew up there." Jack sipped his beer.

"Left sixteen years ago and never looked back." He thought of his childhood, and how it had scarred him. Anyone who's spent some time around Jack would conclude he's a tortured soul. He'd done well in school, played sports and experienced a wealth of friendships in his youth. This was all before his mother married Tony when Jack was nine.

Anthony Blago was an out-of-work meth addict given to abusive behavior based in resentment. While Jack's mother was at work, Tony would often take Jack out to Hemet, the high-desert - in order to complete drug transactions. On these day trips, Tony would travel between three houses in Hemet. Two were located inside the city limit, but the third was way out in the desert with no other houses in sight. This was the one they always visited first. The house was an aged powder blue, with a sunken roof on one side of the peak. A rusted out 73' Vega adorned the arid front yard. Inside, were two permanent residents, and always five or six other people who were unknown to Jack. Every time they pulled up, three brown Pitbull terriers would fly out the front door. They'd surround the car, snarling and smearing saliva and muddy claw marks all over the windows. As a young boy, Jack was frighten by this, but in his adult years, he often wished the trauma stopped with the dogs - but things would get much worse.

Roxanne continued her interrogation, "What brings you to New Orleans? Why the Big Easy?

Jack snapped out of his reflection and turned to the present moment with a bit of a start, "Just the latest stop. I like it here. I find that I can be myself."

"Do you like me?"

"I do" he said, looking away while taking another pull off of his beer bottle.

Roxanne blushed. Her full, painted lips parted as if say something -- but they hesitated. She was overcome. She realized she adored him already.

Roxanne is an amazingly gorgeous sissy. Beautiful blue eyes with the clarity and depth of Lake Tahoe. A strong jaw-line, but with the way she applied her makeup, a decidedly feminine countenance emanated from her. Long smooth legs which ended at a perfectly round bottom. Lashes so long, a wink might blow out a candle. Exposed, thin arms, holding a few gold and silver bracelets at each wrist. Hoop earrings. Her smile was near perfect.

Watching him scan the room, Roxanne imagined herself in his arms. She imagined him taking her, over and over - their bodies joined together in shared ecstasy. She thought of his warm semen filling her up as they both moved together towards dawn. At this thought, she felt her member, which she referred to as her "clitty" - quickly growing in her chastity cage. The expansion pushed the soft skin of her pink sweet-scented button firmly against the cage holding her unit. She felt pain - and passion.

Roxanne refocused, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

Jack returned, "Okay, but let me do something first."

He downed the remainder of his beer and headed towards a small stage in the middle of the club. Three near-naked men, hired by the club, were dancing in g-strings -- surrounded by excited gawkers. Jack made his way through them and put a folded twenty-dollar bill inside the narrow panty string of one of the glistening specimens. All at once, the chiseled brunette dancer winked at Jack and pulled his bikini aside to reveal a fantastic root. Thick and long with a bulbous head, his manhood was swinging side to side -- opposite to the motion and direction of his hips. Jack smiled and threw up his hand as he made his way back to Roxanne.

"Let's go" he said.

Roxanne unfolded her legs and brought them straight together as she stood up. The inside soles of her long heel shoes almost clicked together as she ascended. She leaned down and gave Jack a kiss on the cheek.

"You're a sweetie." she said, referring to him tipping the dancer while wiping the lipstick from his cheek.

"Don't put me on a pedestal just yet. I owed him that money for the cab we shared last night."

Roxanne remarked, "Well, I'm a pretty good judge of people, and I'm going to say -- you're a sweetie. And, if you were in a cab with that wolf last night, I have to get you off of the market and quick. I want you to love me."

Jack instantly thought of sex. What else could she mean?

As they exited the Oz, Jack smelled the rancid odor of the gutters on Bourbon Street. He felt the energy and mystery of this city set on the banks Mississippi river. He also sensed ghosts of centuries peering down from every balcony.

Passing gaslamps, their flames flickering, Jack noticed Roxanne was easily a foot taller than himself. Her long strides were graceful and confident. She carried herself better than any woman he had ever known. Already, to him, she was amazing.

"What about you? What's Roxanne's story?" he inquired.

"Oh, child. This girl is a mess." she said with deprecation.

"How so?"

"Well for one, I love men. Not all men. Strong ones like you."

She continued, "The problem, if that's the right word, is that many men see me as a novelty. Something to play with for a night, or even a weekend, and then return to back their wife and kids. I can't put the blame on them. I'm always a willing partner."

Her bubbly persona faltered for a moment. "Here's a story."

She started, "For two years, on weekends, a married lawyer from Baton Rouge would meet me in the Quarter. He'd take me the gay bars outside of the Bourbon street area. Did you know they have cameras on Bourbon streaming a live around the clock? He didn't want to be seen in real time - entering a rainbow-flag-draped establishment by a random friend or his wife."

"Anyway," she went on "he'd lied to her and told her he had a long-term weekend work commitment in New Orleans. Said his company was litigating new zoning requirements for business expansion around the Superdome. Lying bastard. The part about his company and the litigation was true, but he wasn't assigned to that team."

"I'd spend all Friday afternoon getting ready. This was always exciting for me. A long soak in a hot bubble bath with flower peddles and a glass of chardonnay. I'd shave my legs, my armpits, my face and my undercarriage. A nice colorful dress and heels waited for me in my bedroom."

"Goodness, I would get so aroused during my bath - thinking of my lawyer friend, that my throbbing clitty would be poking straight up through the bubble foam. This was not good! There's no way I was going to get that thing locked and secure inside it's cage while it was in that condition."

"Any time my clitty wants rebel, I just start singing 'Mandy' -- you know, the Barry Manilow song."

"Yep."

Hands in his pocket, Jack kicked a bottle cap out into the street, almost as if he wasn't paying much attention. But, he certainly was paying attention - to all of it. Roxanne was pulling at everything in a man that makes him attracted to a woman -- more specifically, in light of Jack's sensibilities, this stunning man who lives his nights as a woman.

Roxanne stopped short and brought her hand to her mouth, gently pressing her lips with the middle three fingers "Oh, am I talking too much darling?"

"I don't mind. Go on" Jack answered.

"So, I'd wash out my colon with a warm enema, as any respectable girl would."

Jack was looking over to her as she said it, and her eyes lit up. "It's super-clean tonight." she said cutely in a whispered tone. Hearing this, Jack experienced a stuttered inhale, but instantly coughed through it - to avoid being found out.

"Beef broth after the bath. The whole weekend, I'd drink plenty of booze, but no solid food leading up to, or during his stay -- for obvious reasons. Mondays, I was like a pig at the trough. Ravenous. At least for this part, maybe it's better he's gone. My health was suffering terribly because of this routine."

Jack nodded, noticing a row of tarot card readers at their individual tables to his right. A bat was moving haphazardly through the warm air just above them. How fitting, Jack thought. His attention returned to Roxanne.

"Fresh out of the bath, all clean and smelling divine, my clitty got locked in her cage. The lawyer liked it that way. He thought it was for him. He didn't know it, but every time I go out, she's in her cage.

Roxanne went on, "Next I'd sit on my steel, purple-crystal crowned buttplug, slip on a great set of panties and these boobs" she said, cupping both faux mammaries. Dress goes over the top and - voila! - I was ready for Vance. It's really no different than what I do now, except for the rose pedals and fasting."

"Your lawyer's name was Vance?"

"Vance Rigley" she replied. "Graduated Tulane, then went on to Georgetown. He met his wife there. They got married and moved back to Louisiana, settling in Baton Rouge. He tells me she's a cold bitch, but isn't that what all cheating husbands say?"

She added, "I don't know about cold, so much as indifferent. He told me that she could smell me on his rod. I really don't think she was giving him welcome-home blowjobs as much as she was just sniffing the crotch of his boxers on Sunday nights."

"Bitch" Roxanne uttered softly.

"He decided to break it off after a rumor started at his firm. You can't meet this hot beautiful cunt, who happens to have a cock bigger than yours - in the French Quarter for two years - and not be seen by someone. So that was it. Love left me."

They both paused as a horse drawn carriage passed in front of them. The driver, an older gentleman, was wearing a long black jacket with tails and a tall black tophat. A thick white horseshoed mustache hung from the chin on both sides of his rosey face. He was holding the reigns attached to handsome brindle horse. A young couple sat behind the driver, listening intently as he, with his head half-turned back toward them, was pointing out a landmark building and explaining its history. The clopity-clop of the hooves created a magical echo in the starry night.

As the carriage passed, they both stepped off the curb and crossed Royal Street.

Roxanne wrapped her argument, "So, I style hair during the day and look for my one prince at night."

"You're beautiful, funny, and although we've just met, you appear to be kind and fun to be around. You won't have a problem finding a good man that will stay. You deserve that."

Charmed, and peering into the distant night, she moved over to him and locked her fingers into his. Hand-in-hand, they made their way past the police station and closed specialty shops -- out to Canal Street.

Jack had more physical prowess than any of Roxanne's past lovers. His wide back and narrow waist made him an attraction to men and women alike. Jack's arms almost as big as one of Roxanne's legs. His right upper arm bore a tattoo of just four letters: USMC. Veins spider-webbed along his powerful forearms -- down to hands which could easily tear a phone book in half. She felt safe.

It was almost 3 am when Jack made a suggestion, "Let's stop by Barcode. It's a place near the circle -- a couple of miles from here. We can catch the trolley."

In New Orleans, trolleys were a great way to get around, especially when one has been imbibing. Jack always enjoyed the feel and ambiance of trolley cars. There'd been many times, he'd grab a coffee at Cafe Du Monde on a Sunday morning, jump on a trolley, and ride for hours. During these day trips, Jack would daydream about a life of possibilities. Sometimes, he was bartending along the beaches of Southern California. Other times, he thought he might find his way to Australia and become a police officer there. He even once saw himself winning the Iditerod.

The 609 trolley slowed to a halt. The doors swung open to reveal a young African-American man flashing a big bright smile.

"Ya'll step on up!" he said with the energy of a carnival barker.

Jack moved first so he could pay the fare for both of them. Roxanne reached out and cupped his perfect ass, tightly wrapped in denim. As the coins dropped to the bottom of a small metal fare-box, Jack felt a tinge of excitement. "Thank you" he said to the driver.

Other than Jack and Roxanne, only one other rider was present. He looked to be a balding disheveled businessman who had a few too many highballs and lost his way. As they passed by him, the couple could hear the businessman snoring. Roxanne still holding Jack's hand, stopped him short in the isle, and pulled him back to her. She released Jack's hand, grabbed the sleeping man by both cheeks, and kissed him right on the lips.

"Oh, love" she said, sounding like a disappointed mother.

The man grunted lowly and then cleared his throat -- turning toward the trolley windows, settling into a new sleeping position.

For some reason, Roxanne's behavior didn't surprise or shock Jack at all. In that moment, something deep within him revealed that he had known her before he'd met her. It didn't make sense, but there it was.

As they found their seats at the back of the trolley car, Roxanne bit Jack's earlobe. She thought she was initiating something, but he was already in the middle of unbuckling his pants. Aware of the fact that Louisiana still had sodomy laws on the books concerning oral copulation, Jack was careful not to draw the attention of the driver. In one motion, he sat and had his pants to his knees.

His semi-hard cock laid resting between both closed thighs for only an instant. Quickly, his member filled with blood, rolled to the left, and stood up perfectly erect. Jack spread his legs some, loosening the scrotum that was anchoring his cock. His balls coming loose allowed his cock to rise even further.

For her purposes, Roxanne found heaven. If she had to guess, his amazing rod was no less than eight inches long. But that's not what impressed her. The girth had her almost seeing stars.

She thought, “Goodness - how this would feel in my ass!”

There had been times in her life when she was obsessed with finding objects to shove up her ass. In the supermarket, she'd find a girthy cucumber or banana. Sometimes, it was both. The anticipation on the way home from the store was maddening. Busting through the door of her apartment, she couldn't even put the other food away. She'd just drop her panties and sit her nicely preened anus right down onto the fruit, or vegetable.

Empty beer bottles were another favorite. Roxanne liked to drink in the kitchen while cooking a meal. When the beer was empty, she'd set it on the floor and lower herself onto it. The bottle-neck would test her man-pussy some, but as she slid over the base of the bottle, the pressure on her love-pouch could be felt throughout.

She always purchased shampoo bottles shaped to enter her colon.

She watched Jack's pulsing manhood throb and move to his heartbeat. A glistening bead of precum emerged from his piss-hole. Jack relaxed and leaned back under the single dim yellow exit light above them. The glossy fluid broke from the form of a bead, and made its way down the side of his granite shaft.

Roxanne's chastity cage was under real strain now. She could feel her own fluid dripping through the silver bars holding her package. She would never allow herself to go out unlocked, but she wasn't ready for this. Even Vance never put her in this kind of heat. She reached under her skirt to touch her own hot juice leaving her body. Roxanne bit her lip.

Sitting next to him, she opened her full lips and took him into her mouth. Her tongue felt the warm radiance coming from his cock. The taste of him was amazing.

Roxanne always enjoyed sucking cocks. She loved it. Considered herself a true slut for it.

A few years back, she'd had a few too many drinks at the Beau Rivage Casino in Biloxi Mississippi. After leaving the establishment, she spent hours under the starlight - watching the Gulf from the dunes of the beach. As she sat there, every now and then, Roxanne would notice dark figures emerge along the shoreline. Some where groups of young people horseplaying or couples holding hands, but every now and then, a random man -- all by himself, would appear. Roxanne would find her feet and walk down to the shore to meet him. She wouldn't even introduce herself, "Can I suck your cock? For free. Please allow me." As dawn was breaking, Roxanne had racked up five takers out of six asks. Shoes in hand, she left the beach that morning with a belly full of semen.

Jack moaned in pleasure as Roxanne cupped his scrotum in her hand. While slobbering his fuckstick, her mind suddenly went to what life might be like with Jack as her man. She knew he would fuck her the way she presents herself to him now, but what about when the makeup, the earrings, the shoes, and the dress come off? Seeing her in a hairnet - Jack might run for the hills. He'd have to accept all of her. Love all of her.

Jack could feel the warm rush of orgasm approaching when the trolley made a long screeching sound and slowed to a stop. Three young revelers, wearing multiple strings of Mardi Gras beads and holding beer in plastic cups - hopped up to the driver.

Roxanne's lips made a strong sucking sound with a final pop at the top of his shaft. She sat up straight, pushed her pink hair back from her face and crossed her legs. Jack's still-glistening cock was left to Jack. He pulled his pants up and over his erection.

The new trolley riders came halfway up the isle and sat down. Roxanne held Jack's hand and laid her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head into hers.

Barcode was a gay bar Uptown. The place was dark and dingy, just the way Jack liked it. The first time he went there, he'd spent the night sleeping on the ground, in the corner doorway of a consignment shop on Magazine Street. As he woke from his slumber, he became aware of the morning dew, and the fact that he really needed a drink. Sitting with his feet outstretched in front him, Jack noticed splash marks of pink vomit on his sneakers. Did I drink a daiquiri last night? Vodka cranberry? Maybe my stomach is bleeding.

Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet. A quick audit of his right pocket revealed a condom, a two dollar chip from Harrahs Casino, a napkin with a phone number scrawled on it, and an ATM receipt with a final balance of five dollars and sixty-two cents. In that instant, Jack had what can only be described as a flash of panic.

Broke! Fuck!

He threw his head back, took a deep breath. Checking his left pocket, he fingered legal tender. Paper cash. Eighteen dollars. He exhaled. This is plenty enough. For no particular reason, he started toward Uptown.

When Jack happened upon Barcode, he noticed no door on the place -- just vertical overlapping strips of thick plastic which one would push through to gain entrance. He stepped into a room that was maybe twenty feet wide, by forty feet long. It took a minute for his eyed to adjust.

To his immediate left sat a jukebox playing Social Distortion "Ball & Chain." The volume is way too loud for a joint this size, he thought. As the kaleidoscope, which was his vision in that moment, started to clear, Jack could make out a long lacquered bar to his right. There looked to be a dozen or so stools lined up along it.

Seated at the bar were two business types who looked to be talking shop. Neither noticed Jack had entered. Next to them, sat a large, bald obese bear wearing only a black leather vest on top and blue jeans with a black leather jock strap on the outside - fitted around both legs and cupped at the crotch. Black shit-kicking boots finished out the look. A large thick cigar protruded from the top of a gray beard which came down to his belly.

Next to the bear, stood a muscular military type -- the kind Jack had gone off to war with. This guy's back was turned from the other three. Joe Army turned his beer bottle up and leaned back some, only to reveal a young twink blowing him at the bar.

This slut had to be half the size of the stud he was servicing. Skinny and cute, the toy was wearing a pink half-shirt with the sleeves cut off and tight short-shorts. All of this was very nice, but Jack was focused on the whore's legs and feet. This beautiful femme was wearing thick white aerobic socks pushed down to the tops of white sneakers. Jane Fonda would have been jealous of this cunt's look.

Jack made his way to the end of the bar -- past the business-types, the Bear, and the deep-throating twink. A skinny young female bartender - arms sleeved with tattoos, came to meet Jack as he stood at the bar.

"What'll it be?" She asked.

"Budweiser," Jack responded.

The bar was set up with dingy liquor bottles lining back wall. A string of colored lights running the length of the wall was tacked just above them. A neon Abita Beer sign hung above and to the right of the bottles. This sign represented the major source of lighting for the entire establishment.

Opposite, along the bar itself, sat a deep-sink and a rattling beer cooler holding Jack's Budweiser. As the barkeep turned to retrieve the suds, she paused and started to wretch. Her hands dove for the edge of the sink, pulling her shoulders and head inside. A heavy flow of vomit spewed from the mixologist's jib. She quickly grabbed a moist folded bar towel from the top of the cooler, wiped her mouth and reached inside.

The Emo bartender strolled over to Jack and sat the bottle of beer in front of him.

"Two bucks." she said, through a repetitive swallowing motion -- trying to stave off the next heave.

"Can you run me a tab?"

"Sure," she answered

Jack scanned the room, only to see the jock getting the blowjob -- grip the bar tightly -- and release. After a few spasms, his shoulders slumped forward. The cute and tiny cum-catcher beneath him bounced to his feet smiling. The young bitch whispered something into the ear of his latest protein source and proceeded to prance out of the door -- into the early morning daylight.

Jack thought to himself, "My kind of place!"

Peter Murphy started on the jukebox.

The trolley let Jack and Roxanne off a block from Barcode. They stepped into the balmy night. Roxanne lit a corked cigarette and grabbed jack's hand, pulling him toward a half-built Uptown home. It was one of a few new constructions going up on the street. No doors or windows yet, but the house had a roof and walls.

Jack smelled a mix of old piss and the trailing smoke of Roxanne's square as they entered. Stepping over some ruble, pulling Jack off to a corner lit partially by a street light, Roxanne turned in passion and kissed him.

His tongue was sweet, flattening and pushing against her own. She sighed with a wince, feeling the pressure building in her cage. This time, she welcomed it.

Jack's cock was in its own cage. Throbbing and pushing against his zipper. Roxanne brought her cigarette to her lips, leaving it dangle. She reached down to unleash Jack's love. Pulling the zipper down, she could feel the enormous pressure. She reached inside and pulled his throbbing erection out.

Taking her smoke from her lips, she released a large drop of saliva onto his beautiful knob. After rubbing the warm fluid around his cockhead and down his waiting shaft, Roxanne dropped her panties, lifted her skirt, and turned away from Jack.

In front of her were three unopened bags of concrete. She leaned forward, laying her torso perfectly on them. Jack grabbed the base of his fuckstick and stepped forward, entering Roxanne for the first time. Ecstasy. Her warmth swallowed him. Roxanne moaned. She turned her head to the side and took a long drag from her cigarette. The cherry on the end glowed, casting low light in the room of the unfinished dwelling.

Jack grabbed her hips, picking up speed. As he stroked, he could feel the depth of Roxanne's love-box. The perfume of her lovely under-carriage rose to meet his nostrils.

She tilted her head upward, taking another long pull off her smoke.

Watching her, Jack felt his orgasm building.

As she double-pumped the short of her cigarette, Roxanne's own orgasm had caught up with her. They arrived together. Fluid came blasting through the bars of her cage as Jack showered her tender ass-cheeks with hot jets of jism.

Catching her breath, she wondered - “Can I keep him?”