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BRUSSELS, BELGIUM — The best sex session I had last month was with a bartender in Brussels. I rarely do the Brussels’s scene, since it’s mainly rather camp and snooty, but two friends and I were there for this mid-week Libertines concert, so we decided to make it an all-nighter all the same, never mind the bollocks, etc. The Libertines played a criminally short gig, and then we hit the town — more specifically the gay zone — only to find the very few places I did know over there to be either closed or semi-deserted.

Nevertheless, I was very determined to make the evening work, no matter what, and in a desperate attempt to break into Brussels’ inner sleaze circle, I phoned up this guy who’s a friend of a friend and, more importantly, a shopkeeper by day and a notorious sex pig by night. Of course he didn’t remember who I was, but he invited us over to his place anyway. He had cold beers and even offered to share his coke, but us good Antwerp boys don’t do that kind of thing, I mean not when it’s for free.

Things were rolling but not really rocking, so he drove us to this club in a dormant Brussels’ suburb. It didn’t look like much from the outside and we had to knock on the door for like five minutes to get in; luckily there was a Kawasaki 1500 Classic parked right in front of the club, so the anticipation to meet its owner encouraged us to bang away for like another five minutes.

Inside, it turned out to be this typically louche, gaudy place, and somewhat second-rate at that: red and green disco lights, a house compilation tape on the sound system, a few drunken fat blokes, two ageing drag queens, a gang of student-like types with too much time on their hands, and a few gym queens on nitro. Right there and then, my two friends decided to pretend they were a couple, mostly to avoid any hassle from the cock-hungry gym queens. I myself figured only beer would help me get through the night, which is how I came eye to eye with my brawny Heineken supplier.

I know all too well it’s pretty cliché to get the hots for a bartender, but since this one didn’t look like he was cast for the part of a cash-in attention-grabber, I didn’t feel guilty at all. For a start, he had really big floppy ears; the sex-pig-with-a-day-job who was still with me thought they were ‘disgusting’, while all I could think about was licking and sucking them till they fell off.

Bartender Man obviously wasn’t embarrassed about his huge ears: he kept his dark hair very short and even had a tiny earring (can’t remember which side). He had small, peering eyes, drooping but thick, black eyebrows and a bit of a rough skin, or maybe he was just bad at shaving. Being a bartender, he looked fit and agile. He was constantly biting his lower lip as if he were concentrating very hard, and only when he handed over a can of beer did he flash the tiniest smile. He had this brutal thing about him, which made him look dirty rather than plainly handsome.

I tried to be flirty with him, but he didn’t take much notice. Apparently there was some kind of private celebration going on behind the counter: with him there was another bartender, greyish, in his fifties, and some other guy in a suit, probably the owner. They had a bottle of champagne between the three of them, and now and then they were chanting ‘Till the end!’ really loudly.

And so the night dragged on, with me ordering a beer every ten minutes in the softest voice I could muster, so that he had to lean over and get really close to grasp what I was saying. Sex Pig, witnessing my sad little act, said I shouldn’t give up: he knew for a fact that Bartender Man was gay, cryptically adding he had a bit of a ‘chat box reputation’.

I stuck around, danced a bit, switched to ordering water and sat through a gruelling hour of Céline Dion’s greatest hits and their extended house versions. Finally I got up some wobbly stairs that led to this small upper floor thing with a balcony that sort of hovered above the dance floor. The space didn’t seem to have any purpose, but there were some chairs and ashtrays, but it was alright for a chill. Then somebody lowered the volume and put on the regular lights, announcing closing time. Apart from a very drunk straight couple in the middle of a slanging-match, I was the only one left up there on the balcony.

As I was about to leave, I saw Bartender Man climbing the stairs to the balcony. I actually didn’t recognize him at first, because he had ditched his T-shirt with the club logo and changed into clothes that seemed like his own. Jeans, pale polo shirt (couldn’t make out the exact colour), dark hooded jacket with some fake American campus badge on the chest pocket and something that I took for a baseball cap in his hands. He looked totally hot, like an amateur league footballer on his way to Saturday afternoon training camp. At least that’s what he looked like to me in the split second it apparently took him to walk up to the balcony. He slowly walked past me and went up to the couple. He shook hands with them and said something I couldn’t overhear. Then he walked past me again, very casually. He looked around as if he were inspecting the place for litter or broken glasses or whatever. In some kind of hazy panic, I racked my brain for something interesting and sexy to say to him, but the only thing that popped up was the old and tired ‘Do you have a light?’, so I wisely shut up (’cause I was already smoking a cigarette).

Suddenly he turned round and looked me straight in the eyes. I just stared back, sensing some kind of momentum. He walked right up to me. He came really close, his chest almost touching mine. He was practically the same size as me, only bulkier. ‘Hi,’ he said, curtly but grinning. Before I could even reply, he mumbled ‘Let’s go’. For a moment there, I thought he was merely urging me to leave the club, but then he slid his hand across my chest, his thumb circling round my left nipple, so I there and then I realised I was officially invited.

Without saying another word, we walked down the stairs, past the bar where the old guy in his suit was shouting abuse at some barfly-types who refused to be kicked out. On our way out, Bartender Man stopped to say goodbye to the bouncers, who seemed very nonplussed by the sight of a colleague staff member excitedly rubbing a client’s chest while talking about next day’s working schedule. Obviously I didn’t mind at all, although I was still a bit bewildered by this strange turn of events.

The Kawasaki on the curb outside was gone. Bummer. Instead Bartender Man walked me to his car, a forest green Audi. All the way from the club to his car, he kept walking up front, without paying any attention to me. So I got a perfect view of his short, strong legs and his pert, round ass, although he could have done without the big, fat wallet sticking out of his backside pocket. It kind of ruined the picture. In the morning light his skin looked really white and pale, which got me going even more. I don’t like guys with a fake tan; it just looks silly.

We both got into the car, and he told me to buckle up. I leaned over and tried kissing him, but he was far too busy adjusting his door mirror, checking his metres, getting the heating running. To top all of that, he was the worst driver. It took him ages to get out of the parking spot and the morning traffic seemed to frighten him to no end. All the while, still no conversation. I put my left hand between his legs and started rubbing his crotch. I could feel he was hard, so I tried whipping out his cock. At least this got him smiling again. ‘Naaah…’, he said, but he shoved my hand deeper down his half-opened fly. So all the way to his flat my fingers played with his balls. They felt very warm and sweaty and hairy.

He lived somewhere off-centre, in a rather bourgeois area. Houses with little, neatly kept gardens in front of them. He took me to the third floor of this swanky building: wide stairs with gilded banisters, wooden doors with brass handles everywhere. I was very impressed. But his actual apartment turned out to be really small. Very basic.

Once inside, Bartender Man suddenly transformed into a full-on motormouth. He didn’t stop talking: did I need a beer from the fridge, did I like his place, did I like the club he worked at, had I had a good night out, did I know what movie the poster on his wall was from, did I want him to put on some music? It was just too much. I told him to relax, which was funny, since I wasn’t even at my own place. In fact, I told him to shut up. This threw him a bit, but he managed a sly grin, and said, ‘Alright, you take charge then’.

I told him to sit down on the couch. I knelt in front of him and took off his sneakers and socks, really slowly. Then I unbuckled his belt and slid off his jeans. He had very hairy legs, black spiky hair everywhere, on milky white skin. He was wearing dark grey ribbed Y-fronts without any visible label on the waistband, which could only mean he shopped smartly. His hard cock was tenting his briefs straight up. I pulled off his underwear while he sank deeper into the couch. He wanted to get rid of his jacket and shirt, but I stopped him right there.

I just loved the sight of this guy in his own living room done up in true backroom style: jacket and shirt all rumpled and twisted, buck-naked from the waist down and with a raging boner. Very hot. I teasingly sat down next to him and lit up a cigarette, calmly taking in the view. Mister Bartender laid on his couch like he was ready to have his portrait taken: legs spread wide open, one foot touching the floor, his hands behind his head. His dick wasn’t huge but soldiered on gloriously, standing perfectly straight and ready. It came in what I call the working class palette: rather white, verging on greyish, slightly getting more pink along the shaft, going for deep pink for the head. No veins showing, just slick, almost polished, with a nice girth. He had a big, dark bush and very hairy balls. Luckily his jewels hung low in a soft, loose basket so the whole package didn’t look like a coconut.

Like he was still pouting because I had told him to shut up, he cheekily started humming a song. This sort of broke the spell, so I grabbed him by the waist and rolled him over. Without much further ado I dived right between his fuzzy butt cheeks and started munching away. It worked like a charm: the singing stopped and turned into heavy breathing. He loved having his ass eaten and I complied heartily.

Given the right asshole, I could easily rim away for hours, and Bartender Man had an award-winning one: tight, deep and sweaty, definitely unshaven, with a crunchy, crinkly rosebud that needed a bit of working on before opening up (manholes shouldn’t be too slutty). It tasted and smelled as intoxicatingly sexy as only perfect assholes do, so I got pretty carried away nuzzling, licking and tongue-plunging his sweet little epicentre.

Somehow, the couch was getting uncomfortable and I wanted to get naked too. He got up and dragged me into his bedroom, still wearing his shirt and jacket. He had no windows in his bedroom, so it was quite dusky in there. He switched on this tiny souvenir shop lamp that spelled ‘OCCUPIED’ in red neon letters, which made me laugh, especially since it didn’t give off any extra light at all.

He (obviously) got totally starkers first, and looking at his body I suddenly felt a bit self-conscious about mine. I mean, he actually was built like a bartender that’s hired to lure in the spandex crowd. Great chest, big shoulders. But no mind: this time he got on his knees and started blowing me while I was still undressing. I had been hard ever since I had walked into that club, so I could use some release.

He sucked slow and regular, really nice, and every now and then he stopped to stick out his tongue and ride my dick against it. The size of his tongue easily matched the size of his ears. Then he notched up the pace and sucked me hard and fast like the true pro he probably was. As gently as I could, I fondled his Dumbo flaps, but he was just so good at giving head I couldn’t help myself tugging and pulling them to bits. Without taking my dick out of his mouth, he directed my hands towards his neck and shoulders — only reluctantly I took the hint. Apart from that, this really was a fantastic blowjob. I couldn’t hold back any longer, pulled out my cock, took a step back and came all over his chest. He wasn’t that disappointed about my early climax; instead he produced a big, happy smile and wiped off my cum with his own shirt. Then finally we got on his bed and had our very first kiss.

Normally I can’t make out with a guy without doing some serious tongue-on-tongue business first, but his brusque pick-up routine earlier on at the club had somewhat changed the programme. He was a wet, juicy kisser but not a truly passionate one. He obviously liked cock better. Nevertheless, we had a long, reasonably priced snog.

Before going below the navel on him, I licked his armpits with great care. Armpits are like assholes: they’re just as tasty and horny to go wild on, and the smell can be just as satisfying. Bartender Man had bushy, stinky candy pits and both of them were mine for the taking. Between going from one pit to the other, I sucked and nibbled his nipples, and that really hit his buttons.

At this stage I had already figured out he was the kind of man that fell into the lollipop category: as long as he was getting licked or chewed on, he was very happy. So I swiftly continued the pit-nipple routine, and from the corner of my eye I could see he was pulling on his cock like a delinquent monkey. Pretty soon he shot his load right across his belly and onto my own back. It was quite a jet of cum. Out came the big smile again and again he used his own shirt to clean us off.

I began cupping and fondling his hairy balls again. Although he had just come, his nuts were still loose and bouncy. Then he announced he had to take a piss. I figured I could force myself to some of that too, so I followed him into the bathroom. He was still semi-hard, but I had gone soft, so I was actually the first one to let go a stream of piss. We stood next to each other at his toilet and he held my cock while I was taking a leak. I gently jerked and squeezed his dick too. When he finally got round to pissing, I let the head of his cock resting in the palm of my hand so I could feel the spasms of his dick and the piss on my fingertips at the same time.

My magic hand trick however made quite a mess and Bartender Man didn’t really like his pee on the floor. So I stopped. Just as I was pondering that this guy was actually having a very long piss, he shouted ‘Oh well, the floor’s ruined anyway!’ and quickly spun round to me and pissed against my leg. He didn’t have much liquid left to spill anyway, so this sudden golden shower was over before I knew it, but it got me rock hard instantly. He grabbed a big towel and half-heartedly wiped the floor and my leg with it, thus being in the right position to very thoroughly clean my cock with his mouth. This guy was stealing my juice and my heart big time.

Back in the bedroom I wanted to get ready for a probing fuck moment. He got on his belly and with both hands he spread his butt cheeks open wide. I couldn’t resist eating his ass for the second time, only this time I made sure I made it as slippery as possible, drooling all over his cheeks and balls too. I made good use of his hairy crack, gobbing spit all over it until I could practically draw the letters of my name by circling my fingers through the wet hairs on his butt.

I didn’t want to miss a beat, so I repositioned his legs and knees so I could suck his cock too. This meant I had to blow him from a very awkward angle, so instead he lay on his back to get sucked more leisurely. I slurped on his dick for a few minutes, but then he got on all fours again and made clear he wanted to be butt-worked some more. I worked one finger inside his asshole and then another one — the keys fitted perfectly.

He was tugging at his dick again, really fast, and he grunted and puffed as if he were getting dangerously short of breath. I wanted to stick my cock inside him, but then I couldn’t be bothered to stop the finger-fucking, get up from the bed, find my jeans, search my pockets for a condom and whatever else. The whole position we were in was just so good — me crouched on top of him, one of my hands almost completely up his wet arse, my other hand squeezing his tits, him jerking away and chanting like a monk — that I skipped the fucking altogether and kept on fingering his hole.

Then he came again. His ass contracted so vehemently I thought my fingers would bruise black and blue, but of course they didn’t. I let my fingers slide out and they were all mushy and wet. So I smelled my fingers and he thought it funny to hear me sniff them, so he turned round and wanted to smell my fingers too. We lay down next to each other and kissed, and I took another chance at his ears, this time licking them slowly. His spunk was all over the sheets, but after a while it didn’t feel sticky anymore.

He asked me if I wanted to come another time, but I said I was fine. I could go to sleep if I wanted to, he said, as long as I slept face-down, because he felt like eating my ass in the meantime. I replied that was alright by me, but I first wanted to know why he had ignored me the whole time he was serving drinks at the club and then picked me up after all at the very last minute. Another wide grin. ‘Just to see the look on your face,’ he said. ‘So how did I look then,’ I asked. ‘Petrified’, he said. Then he ate my ass for breakfast.

Originally published in BUTT 11

Published on 25 October 2004