Try and Take Me

You know what Jack White looks like? Guy in the White Stripes? Raconteurs? The band? This guy looked exactly like him. Spitting image. White skin, jet-black hair, pointy Ming-the-Merciless eyebrows, bright but sleepless eyes, about six-three. Shit, he may have even been Jack White. You know what I mean?

It was only by chance I was there at all. Robert knew somebody who knew Omar and could get us over to Omar’s place and into Omar’s New Year’s party. This isolated place about twenty miles out of town, in the woods—you take a gravel road to get to it, shrubbery thrashing the sides of your car all the way in. Robert drove. I couldn’t find the place again to save my life.

Tall one-room marble building in the middle of nowhere. Four ornate archways opened north, east, south, and west. Painted ceiling—gods or shit like that floating on clouds. Gauzy curtains caught the late December breeze. Italian tile floor. Pool of albino carp in the center. It was Omar’s custom-built party sanctuary. It had like no address. Totally off the grid.

The place itself was lit up like a football stadium, but all around it, for hundreds of feet, just torches and kerosene blast heaters. A string quartet playing on the lawn. And guys carrying trays full of champagne, martinis, berries, crabcakes, chocolate truffles, and little quiches with shrimp and sausage in them. Maybe two hundred guests, mostly men, informally yet trendily dressed.

And there, in the center of it all, was this guy. In a plain white tee, skin tight across the chest and shoulders, and blue jeans. A bottle of Coke in his hand.

He introduced himself as John. He knew Omar. “Like everybody,” he said, not suspecting that I, for one, did not know Omar.

The two of us stood out. Taller than everybody else. Standing in one of the archways, talking, kind of looking down at the others, laughing conspiratorially. This guy John looked so fantastic, so surreally beautiful and strong, my head felt a little light in his presence.

It was nearly dawn when we left the party. Robert was still around someplace, but I couldn’t find him to say goodbye. John borrowed Omar’s limo to take us back to town, to his place. We snaked an ice-cold bottle of Bruno Paillard and sprawled together in the back of the car, trading swigs straight from the bottle. The driver knew where to take us, so I figured John must be in fairly tight with Omar.

John had a loft in the warehouse district. Very eighties Hollywood bohemian. Six giant canvases on easels—acrylic Lescaux-looking horses—crumpled sheets of plastic everywhere. Huge leather sofa and Moroccan rugs. Two-thousand white holiday lights crisscrossing the ceiling beams.

We smoked a joint and fucked, then fell asleep entangled on a king-size futon in the corner. It was mid-afternoon when I awoke.

John was already up. Bright white light shone through rows of skylights, making his body glow and blur in my slow-to-focus eyes. He was in white briefs, practicing tai chi chuan, parting the wild horse’s mane. I studied the paleness of his skin, the deep purple of his lips and nipples, the baby-blue shadow round his mouth and halfway up his jawline.

When he saw I was awake, he pulled me up on my feet and guided me to a 10x10 gym mat at the other end of the loft.

“Let’s fight,” he said.

I’d wrestled a little in high school phys ed, like anybody, but that was it. “Fight?”

“Uh hm. We’re an even match. Mostly I get little guys in here, short or thin, emaciated.” He rubbed his chin against his right shoulder and looked me up and down. “Come at me. Try and take me.”

He was limber and bright, and I was still groggy—just slightly hungover, not much, since I usually don’t suffer much the mornings after. He slapped me, playfully but hard, across the mouth. That cleared the cobwebs.

“Shit, um, John, really I don’t …”

Before I could finish, he swooped into me, flipped me off my feet, knelt on my chest, and twisted my arm upright, through his right pit, his left hand pressing my face to the mat.

Pain shot through the length of my body. I groaned.

“Louder, goddammit. Make some noise, boy,” he said. “I wanna hear you hurt.”

I groaned louder. He twisted my wrist. My prolonged owww had a girlish whimper in it.

“That’s how I like it,” he said. “I want noise. Every action needs reaction. Got me?”

This guy didn’t know how strong he was. Sure, we were about the same build, but damn.

He wedged my arm between his thighs and dropped to his butt, walloping my chest and chin with his long, burly legs.

Something cracked. Tears were in my eyes, I kid you not. We both bounced about an inch off the mat on impact. I let out a screech, only partly to make him happy.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

“Sorry, bro. I mean it, really, sorry.” He released my arm and jumped to his feet. He pulled me up gently to a standing position, a big, boyish grin on his face. He stepped back and held up his arms to flex his remarkable biceps, his eyebrows raised in gleeful self-admiration. “Hit me back. Gimme your best shot, bro. Here.” He slapped his smooth white belly. “Hard as you like.” He grabbed my right hand, rolled it into a fist—Jesus, he had big hands!—and pressed it up to his diaphragm. His skin was cool on my knuckles.

I struck. Hard. He howled and bent over, but even as hard as I had hit him, he was overacting—the punch gave me a good sense of just how hard his abs were, like punching a chunk of oak with a quilt around it. I’d barely made a dent.

He straightened. “Again,” he said.

This time I feinted with my right and swung a wide left to the side of his nose.

He wailed and clapped his hands over his nose. When he pulled them back, I expected to see a spot of blood, but nothing—except that his nostrils looked flared and raw pink.

“That make you feel good, hot shot?” He managed a crooked smile, his eyes glistening. “One more time?”

“Look, John,” I stammered. “This isn’t really my idea ….”

“Bullshit. Hit me again. I dare ya.”

I squeezed my fists together in front of my chest. Took a few deep breaths and bounced twice between my right foot and left foot. This cracked me up. I couldn’t be serious. I covered my face and shook my head no.

John smirked, grabbed my hands again, and replaced them above my chest, letting his thumbnails trace the outline of my pecs, as he did.

“Your best shot,” he said.

I inhaled deeply and counted to five; then I drove my right fist solidly to his gut, maybe one, maybe two inches over his navel.

I’d barely landed the jab when he lunged and locked my head in his right arm, grabbed the band of my new melon-glo AussieBum, and in one breathless move flipped me over his head. I landed with a whack on the mat.

He fell back on me, driving his elbow right below my sternum, knocking the wind out of me. I was unconscious for three-quarters of a second.

I came to, looking straight up at John, his knee on my chest, his big guns bulging to the left and the right, and his hard cock stretching his snow-white underpants. He looked straight out of Tom of Finland. Once again, my breath was taken away.

His skin smelled like lemon, salt, and cornflakes. The exertion had given it a nice, even shine. He squatted down on me and kissed my mouth, his knees now bracing my ribs.

“You’re learning.” He blew on my eyelids, and when I blinked he ran his tongue over them. Stale marijuana and champagne on his breath.

He rested his body on mine, chest to chest, belly to belly, hard-on to hard-on.

“Resist me,” he murmured. “Try and break free.”

I thrust my hips up two or three times, and he smiled smugly. I felt his penis stir against mine. I felt something like a sharp intake of breath, only it was in my asshole. This guy was hot, and every ounce of his attention was fixed on me. I could feel the pulses in our veins, both of us.

Then he grunted deep in his chest. He grabbed me by the wrists and pinned them firmly to the mat over my head. I struggled, but he subdued me. He bumped his crotch to mine. Snorted like a pig. Smirked. His front teeth looked ready to plunge into my throat. His cock ground upon me in circles. Our tight nipples scraped each other, too.

I managed to free my right hand and grabbed the hair at the back of his head. I tugged at it mischievously. He grunted and thrust harder.

“Rough me up,” I whispered.

He butted his forehead against mine, pushed my head to the mat. He said, “Bud, I’m gonna knock you out.”

He was rock hard. Thick and big and brutal and hard. My balls felt heavy, and my cock surged up, free of my briefs, and slid across his skin.

“C’mon, man.” His eyes flashed, and he sneered. His breath hissed through his gritted teeth. “C’mon.”

I understood. I rolled over on top, smashed my forearm against his nose, felt his belly heave up to mine.

I pushed myself up to a squat, straddling his thighs. I peeled his briefs down his legs and off his feet. Then pulled down my own, letting my hard tool collide with his.

I rolled my cock over his. They locked together, and I pressed my belly down on his lower abdomen. Cool sweat covered every inch of us.

John let loose a mighty Aargh, a warrior’s roar. He bucked and threw me off to his side. He thrust his left leg through my thighs. I grabbed the back of his moist neck. He pushed his glistening chest on mine. Our cocks crossed like sabers between us.

Titanium hard, now. We stabbed ourselves into each other. We locked arms and let our chests and bellies chafe against each other. We rolled on the mat, him on top, then me, then him again.

He pushed himself up with his arms so he could slam his chest down on mine. Our cocks whipped each other furiously as we ground our bodies, full force, against each other. We were two meteors slamming into each other in space. We locked our arms, our muscles bulging and straining, skin slipping on skin.

We rolled over side to side and pushed ourselves up to our knees. Hearts banging together, hands clasped, we pushed to unbalance the other. Our stiff rods arched, throbbing, thrusting, about to burst, corps-a-corps—deadlock.

We groaned. Satisfyingly loud groans, guttural, strong, big, male. Slick skin grinding us—the cores of our being—to a fine polish.

I wanted us to cum together. I wanted this to end with both of us triumphant. So, at the last possible moment, I pulled back my head and stared steadily into his eyes. Our gazes locked into each other, guiding us like heat-seeking missiles.

Our bodies surged, flared red hot, and we exploded simultaneously. Like fireworks, the jizz shot up to our necks. We collapsed back into each other’s arms, dug deep into each other, rolled and thrust and slid and grunted and groaned and pressed and heaved, until both of us were screaming at the top of our lungs, howling ourselves hoarse.

We kind of melted into each other then. You know what I mean? Two big, burly guys, so unlike the svelte fashionistas back at Omar’s party.

For a long time, we lay there side by side, massaging each other’s well-lubed dicks with the tips of our fingers, playing on each other’s skin, training ourselves to breathe as one, seeing ourselves in each other’s gaze. We licked the cum and sweat off each other’s stomachs, chest, and neck. We kissed and breathed inside each other.

He rolled over on top of me, then, and just lay there, with his head tucked down on my shoulder. His full weight relaxed on me.

We were silent all this time. Then he said, “Told you I’d knock you out.”

It was like that. Everything had changed. I was never the same.


  1. Hulks meet at "jet set" party, pounce and bump. :) When my brother lived in New York he got to go (maybe like Robert) to some parties in the "Hamptons." Maybe Omar has a place there, too.


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