Part 3: September 1st - later that night



My phone rings me out of my revelry - a superturgid piss boner, a still dream image of Marcos' arms around me, my hand down my shorts, local news on the TV, it's dark out. Kill TV, look at phone, number I don't recog-

Marcos. Punch it.

"Yo", in a better way than with Al earlier.

"Danny? Marcos."

"Mera, que guey."

He launches into his Spanish that I still can't quite crack yet, having been around more Mexicans than Puerto Ricans. "Hey - hey, slow your roll. Ingles."

A pause pregnant with seemingly more Spanish, he then says "Can you come by? Better for me to explain."

How the hell it get to be 9:30? "Sure... gimme a minute. Out in the garage?" My mind in its haze thinks more sex.

"Gracias - sí, but the big door close - gate open, come around, knock on small door."

I have to piss in the shower because the few times I've tried to piss with a hard on into a toilet have been awkward and messy and painful. Boner subsiding, a minute to rinse the shower, and one to gather thoughts in the mirror...

Aw, just go do it.



I learn in the next fifteen or so minutes that Marcos woke up after the game, left me napping, came back here and started drinking after dinner, which he offers, but I decline. Because he's sitting on a stool, or rather has his weight triangulated between both feet and butt on stool, and looks to be in confessional - not looking up often, inspecting his hands, and smoking - the first time I've seen him do it, and ultra lights. Oh shit. He's gonna flip out about the JO session.

"I told you bout Anna. I don't do this often. Talk like this, you know? It break my heart, her going. I really do - or did - love her. I love my kids." Twisting an imaginary ring on his left ring finger. "I try to do good by every body - I work hard, pay bills..."

Something in my head shifts - the listener in me comes forward, front and center. "Marcos." A pause until he looks up. I sigh for courage and "we just met? But I feel like I know you a long time, and you know me... you feel this?", motioning between us.

"Sí. Raitrú. Why I call."

I want to lead into how quickly we identified each other as game, the circle jerk, maybe it will get the gay/not gay thing out on the table, but the missing ring twisting says otherwise. "I want you to feel comfortable with me. But it sounds like you're uncomfortable with..." Leaving the sentence unfinished, in case the circle jerk freaked him out - which I doubt. Or want to doubt.

"No. The day we meet? I know you a good guy. I have friends, but not any to talk to, like this. Try something new with you," a sly little sparkle in his eye. A little sign to say what we have done earlier was not new to him. He's great at it.

"Está bien... mi aprecio. Go on."

Dead air, then: "My papa not around much. I get most every thing from mi abuelito, y hermano Raul. Grampai, he say: be true. To my God, my family, myself, my country, El Jota... Anna..." Motioning with a big hand in each direction of the words. "Grampai, he look at me, and look at me, and say 'you do what you do, but don' hurt nobody'". Pulls on beer.

"And Anna hurt you?" Soon as the words are out of my mouth, they rearrange in my head to figure he hurt Anna.

"'Don' hurt nobody', he say." Dead air. "But I hurt every body I fuck."

Don't let him see you take that one in the wrong way. I need a minute to wrestle with it anyway. I avert my gaze.

"Well, not every body, but always, a problem - I see porno, I can never fuck like in porno - you know?" Starts making the exaggerated fucking motions, we trade a smile, his breaks wistfully. "Anna, we together 10 year. All that time? Always problem. I tell you bout hospital..."

"Sure, but..." I look down again. How do I steer this? Looking up, "you say everybody..."

Marcos holds my gaze, expression unchanging. "Yea, I fuck around wit guys. You don' know?" with mock innocence, brows raised.

"Girls too?"

"Sí, chingar culo, crica... pinche culo firmemente. Every body too foquin... tight." A big, heavy, subtly cracking sigh, a weight lifted.

"I can imagine, with pinga swingin like that."

"Que guey, the girls around, they know what goes on," hiking his junk. In a falsetto, "Oooo, Marcos my new boytoy!... " Pause. "Until it get all... un-com-fortable," in his regular voice. "I have one guy, down at electrical union, guero boy in office, kinda gordo... he make sign, I go to his place, oooo I got big loose hole, even his too tight. I put bicho between legs, you know? Make like fuck that way? But no, eh... pen-a-tration. OK for a while... not the same, you know?"

So he's trying to tell me he's a bad fuck? No stupid, he's confiding in you that his sex life is rough, and bringing him down. Still more disbelief in the face of such a huge dick, but here he is, sitting in front of me, picking at a hangnail. And a huge heart. Huge heart huge dick huge frame = an enormous beast when he gets his freak on.

"Marcos... dude, I been around too. More guys than girls... and that has to be the biggest dick I've seen, ever." Geeking out. Stop it. "I feel you, man. That's gotta suck, not being able to get yer freak on." Pause. "There has to be someone out there for you, that can accommodate. If you've seen porn-" Porn is hardly reality. The gaping pussies and assholes you're thinking of now, aren't the norm... at least not in my circles, and Marcos is saying the same. "Ah... fuck porn - you know, porn ain't for real." Pause. "You, El Toro...", leaning over, poking a stiff index finger into the middle of his pecs, "...are for real."

Where's a fucking camera when you need it: the silent bashful look I get from him is priceless. "You the real deal, primo. Porno, gaping pussy, big horse dick, that shit is few and far between. Look at our world, right? Too tight... sprained dick from goofy positions... people want to ride you every which way, unprepared, unsafe... use you like a toy... not caring... hurting people..." Pull on my beer. "You and Anna work on stretching out?" Immediately again realizing that yes it was the biggest I've seen in all respects, and it's not just length or girth but both combined, with a partner very petite, maybe all of 5 feet, so stretching might only work in the girth axis. Never been balls deep. Damn.

"She... no."

"No toys or nothin? No dildos?"

"She make a face when I bring one home, make a big deal out of it, eh - being a fake of me..."

Huh? Enormous dick? 'A fake of me?' No, it can't be... Cynthia? "You were casted? By Cynthia?"

Marcos searches his memory. "Qué?"

"Never mind. Long story." Cynthia got around enough to cast in plaster the phalluses of a number of hung rock stars and celebrities of varying caliber since the 60s, most notably Jimi Hendrix. Based out of Chicago. Cynthia Plaster Caster. "You make dildo of you?", making broad molding motions around an imaginary two foot erection, "or you buy one?"

"Oh no, I buy."

Fly on that wall.

After conversing with Marcos for another few hours that night, lending ears, commiserating, liberating, staking of boundaries, a one-fist-to-the back guy hug, followed by a big bear hug, I returned down the alley to my place in mildly exhausted, slow steps. No action tonight.



I was trying for weeks to not watch Marcos' window, but at 3 AM I'm awake, due to the nap we all copped during the game. Brush the covers, pad to the window in white socks, and he's there again, the light dimmer, his shadow darker, the same pensive position against the window frame again this time. He's been quick to be friendly... can care for things - his house, El J, works like a dog... sincere... affectionate... And maybe these few times I've caught him in the window like this are proof. But I dunno... neither one of us seems to acknowledge the other across the distance when it happens. I still don't know if he can even see me. 100 yards? Reflections in the window? But hangin out, it's like we've long known each other, or at least been in each others' shoes for a bit.

I sat on the edge of my bed, thought about the crass gaping hole porn and continence, how my predilection towards topping all these years has kept me tight. Then I found my jock and track pants and shoes, keys, wallet, myself backing out of the garage, wondering if Marcos is watching.

And after 4 AM, there is a fly on the wall, on the one of the cameras now, behind the register in the somewhat busy, midsize adult video/toy store I stand in, waiting for my "MONSTER COCK!!!" brand dildos to be rung up. I selected the biggest size I could without looking too ridiculous - then also a half size version. The Hilfilger daddy standing behind me has his credit card out already, a small black strap contraption dangling from the other hand. I smell his booze. Nasty harsh fluorescent Home Depot grid ceiling lighting. High energy dance radio pumps, and really loud female porno noises emanate from the arcade. I fight off the urge to get five in tokens.

No. No one else. Going to be good to him. Knowing through his style of driving, his clear mannerisms, his choice of words, that he can be gentle, and aggressive. He just hasn't stumbled onto anyone patient or caring enough to stretch out for his bulk.

Until he welcomed me to Bridgeport, back into which I travel, the lights in my favor most of the way down Halsted at almost 5 AM.



My first wad hit the wall behind my head, with the half size in me halfway at 7 AM.