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.Kissing was uncommon in 1995, though not unknown.Anal intercourse was rare.There was seldom much loose talk.One man mightinvite another to sit beside him with a cupped hand or a word.But personal space was preserved.No matter how erect or enthusiastically pumped a potential partner’s pole might be, men didn’t handle each others’ cocks without fi rst touching the other man’s leg, chest or—gently and respectfully—balls.A nod or welcoming hand in return was sufficient to ignite a consuming, if short-lived, confl agra-tion.Most club members, of course were comfortably heterosexual and not inclined to experimentation.Nobody forced a man to do something he didn’t want to do.That said, Midtown’s membershipconsisted of men well versed in the gentlemanly ways in which a team-obsessed town operates.No matter what the venue, Atlanta operates on consensus.Everybody benefi ts in the end.That’s the Atlanta Way.The lawyer-dude and I reached our consensus fast, and got down to business.For perhaps fi ve minutes, we operated in perfect agree-29Hot off the Pressesment.First we played hand mirror, just to heat each other up.After the show-and-tell, he decided to take a closer look, so he shifted seats, moving to the ledge next to me.After fi rst bumping and then pressing knees, we hand-smoothed each others’ shoulders, backs and chests.His body hair was black and wiry, mine tan and soft.I put my head on his shoulder and my hand on his fully risen outcrop.When I began teasing the eggplant-colored head using a cir-cular, fi ngertip stroke, he began pulling my cock much harder and rougher than I like.“Let me show you something, man,” I whispered, inviting him to rise and stand between my legs.Once on his feet, he took a confused step backward, then righted himself and moved in close.His pointer was pointed right at my sweaty chest.When I raised my hands to handle him, his parts fi t right in.He was circumcised and producing a lot of slick wetness, so he was easy to work on.After prodding his knees and feet further apart to steady him, I held his piece level and started playing Nippy Mouse with the tips of my fi ngers.When I began pinching the loose skin of his scrotum and then the area where his pubic hair was thickest, he began scowling and taking short breaths.Next, making rings of my thumb and fi ngers, I slipped fi rst one and then the next and then the fi rst ring and then the next ring over the tip of his cock, continuing slowly back to the base of the shaft, squeezing lightly as I went.Full-body masseurs call this fi sting stroke the bottomless hole.Because regular up-and-down pumping can bring a horny man off faster than a vibrator applied to a teenage punk, the bottomless hole off ers nearly the same sensation with a lot less ejaculatory risk.My man was ready to risk everything, however.His eyes were closed, his hips lightly humping my hands and his breath was beginning to go ragged.I’d heard him mutter “Suck, suck me, man,” a couple of times.But that kind of sex wasn’t safe, and I wasn’t going there.Instead, I redoubled my eff orts, smoothing his stomach, hips and ass with my wet left hand while pistoning his jutting rut with my right.I’d just slipped my left hand behind his rising scrotum, intending bothElliott Mackle30to support and tease the contents as the crisis came, when the steam room’s metal-and-glass door swung open.“Watch it,” I said, dropping his cock and pulling a towel over my crotch.The black man didn’t seem to hear me at fi rst.His hips kept moving, fucking the humid air.“Ugh.Go ahead and suck me, man,” he whispered again.“Suck.”A tall white man with gray sideburns and a modest belly looked in, surveyed the scene and smiled as if remembering a good joke.He had a square, jowly, football-playing face, like Harrison Ford, only older.Stepping through the doorway, he pulled the door shut, unhitched the towel from his waist, sank down on the tile shelf by my side and brushed my knee with his.Recovering quickly, the black man moved away, arranging his towel over his unruly rack.But if he hoped to suggest uninvolvement in, or lack of responsibility for, the hanky-panky just interrupted, his gestures were fruitless.My quick cover-up could be set down to mod-esty.But the other man’s anxious cock was too hard to ignore.The older guy leaned back, nudged my elbow and gently cupped his privates.Though I didn’t know his name either, I was pretty sure he was a friend and contemporary of Pope McClelland.I wondered if he was a regular reader of Outlines.He looked more like a subscriber to the Wall Street Journal and National Review.He turned sideways to face me.When I nodded, he began to touch me gently.One of his big hands smoothed my chest and stomach, pulled and tweaked my nipples, rubbed moisture around my navel and brushed the underside of my balls.At fi rst, he didn’t touch my resurrected uprising.His other hand moved behind me, giving my spine a fi ngertip rub, with occasional explorations farther south [ 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.Kissing was uncommon in 1995, though not unknown.Anal intercourse was rare.There was seldom much loose talk.One man mightinvite another to sit beside him with a cupped hand or a word.But personal space was preserved.No matter how erect or enthusiastically pumped a potential partner’s pole might be, men didn’t handle each others’ cocks without fi rst touching the other man’s leg, chest or—gently and respectfully—balls.A nod or welcoming hand in return was sufficient to ignite a consuming, if short-lived, confl agra-tion.Most club members, of course were comfortably heterosexual and not inclined to experimentation.Nobody forced a man to do something he didn’t want to do.That said, Midtown’s membershipconsisted of men well versed in the gentlemanly ways in which a team-obsessed town operates.No matter what the venue, Atlanta operates on consensus.Everybody benefi ts in the end.That’s the Atlanta Way.The lawyer-dude and I reached our consensus fast, and got down to business.For perhaps fi ve minutes, we operated in perfect agree-29Hot off the Pressesment.First we played hand mirror, just to heat each other up.After the show-and-tell, he decided to take a closer look, so he shifted seats, moving to the ledge next to me.After fi rst bumping and then pressing knees, we hand-smoothed each others’ shoulders, backs and chests.His body hair was black and wiry, mine tan and soft.I put my head on his shoulder and my hand on his fully risen outcrop.When I began teasing the eggplant-colored head using a cir-cular, fi ngertip stroke, he began pulling my cock much harder and rougher than I like.“Let me show you something, man,” I whispered, inviting him to rise and stand between my legs.Once on his feet, he took a confused step backward, then righted himself and moved in close.His pointer was pointed right at my sweaty chest.When I raised my hands to handle him, his parts fi t right in.He was circumcised and producing a lot of slick wetness, so he was easy to work on.After prodding his knees and feet further apart to steady him, I held his piece level and started playing Nippy Mouse with the tips of my fi ngers.When I began pinching the loose skin of his scrotum and then the area where his pubic hair was thickest, he began scowling and taking short breaths.Next, making rings of my thumb and fi ngers, I slipped fi rst one and then the next and then the fi rst ring and then the next ring over the tip of his cock, continuing slowly back to the base of the shaft, squeezing lightly as I went.Full-body masseurs call this fi sting stroke the bottomless hole.Because regular up-and-down pumping can bring a horny man off faster than a vibrator applied to a teenage punk, the bottomless hole off ers nearly the same sensation with a lot less ejaculatory risk.My man was ready to risk everything, however.His eyes were closed, his hips lightly humping my hands and his breath was beginning to go ragged.I’d heard him mutter “Suck, suck me, man,” a couple of times.But that kind of sex wasn’t safe, and I wasn’t going there.Instead, I redoubled my eff orts, smoothing his stomach, hips and ass with my wet left hand while pistoning his jutting rut with my right.I’d just slipped my left hand behind his rising scrotum, intending bothElliott Mackle30to support and tease the contents as the crisis came, when the steam room’s metal-and-glass door swung open.“Watch it,” I said, dropping his cock and pulling a towel over my crotch.The black man didn’t seem to hear me at fi rst.His hips kept moving, fucking the humid air.“Ugh.Go ahead and suck me, man,” he whispered again.“Suck.”A tall white man with gray sideburns and a modest belly looked in, surveyed the scene and smiled as if remembering a good joke.He had a square, jowly, football-playing face, like Harrison Ford, only older.Stepping through the doorway, he pulled the door shut, unhitched the towel from his waist, sank down on the tile shelf by my side and brushed my knee with his.Recovering quickly, the black man moved away, arranging his towel over his unruly rack.But if he hoped to suggest uninvolvement in, or lack of responsibility for, the hanky-panky just interrupted, his gestures were fruitless.My quick cover-up could be set down to mod-esty.But the other man’s anxious cock was too hard to ignore.The older guy leaned back, nudged my elbow and gently cupped his privates.Though I didn’t know his name either, I was pretty sure he was a friend and contemporary of Pope McClelland.I wondered if he was a regular reader of Outlines.He looked more like a subscriber to the Wall Street Journal and National Review.He turned sideways to face me.When I nodded, he began to touch me gently.One of his big hands smoothed my chest and stomach, pulled and tweaked my nipples, rubbed moisture around my navel and brushed the underside of my balls.At fi rst, he didn’t touch my resurrected uprising.His other hand moved behind me, giving my spine a fi ngertip rub, with occasional explorations farther south [ 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