I
honestly don’t know the answer to the question I asked, and I’m guessing Mark
doesn’t either. We have always been friends. (IRL zero clue about Mark since
shortly after high school.) I guess I am just now finding out he lets guys suck
him off. Anyway, accommodatingly, he beckons me over, so I slide across the
table on my belly. As a matter of teasing or reward system, Mark postpones the
actual event by giving me other things to suck first: a squishy white latex
buttplug-looking thingummy—it feels like a
Stretch Armstrong in squishiness; it is obviously intended primarily for butt
play because it sucks nothing like a dick—and
then an actual dildo, which is much nicer to fake with. I guess Mark is playing
with his own dick under the table while I’m demonstrating technique and getting
myself hot with the toys, because when he finally says, “Ok, here ya go,” and
stands up, his dick is huge and beautiful: not rock hard but exactly at the
best stage of engorgement to suck on; the foreskin is pulled back and the top
of the glans is dark purple and flat and sleek. The whole thing is a small
Italian sub and I immediately put every centimeter of it in my mouth.
Timing
is everything, and of course Mark is called away almost immediately with the
others in the conference room (except me); but in a genuine act of kindness he
leaves his dick with me so I can keep sucking it. And believe me, I do.
I
spend an entire evening at an establishment that is part punk rock bar, part '50s
style burger joint, and part Grandmom and Grandpop’s house on Edgewood Drive,
Collings Lakes, N.J. At various points throughout the evening:
- I hang out at a big circular table in the starkly lit main diner space with Mark McKinney, Breck Young, Spike, surely a bunch of dead people like Ray and Chad. Possibly Dan BigBooté, though he is less welcome in my dreams and he knows it. It is an ordeal trying to decide which empty seat to sit in. Whom do I want to talk to most? Who actually likes me? (I am fairly certain Brain still has 40-year-old PTSD from a particularly cold and purposed experiment in ostracism Brain’s two best “friends”, not to be named here, ran in grade school.) Not that any of this matters much because the dialog from this scene, like the dialog from the cited experiment, is entirely lost.
- I go outside, where some of the seating is in little cars that move, slowly and continuously, along a track around the patio area, maybe 5 feet off the ground. I guess there are steps leading up to the track somewhere, but I don’t investigate. I just think it’s a neat idea for a diner/bar.
- I realize my party has run out of good steak, so I wind my way back into Grandmom’s kitchen, and further back down the hallway into a prep area that is where the little antechamber with the bookshelves should be. Here I find, on a white polypropylene cutting board, an already cooked prime-rib looking roast thing just begging me to carve it. This is perfect! Just what my friends and I were looking for. I take a knife that looks precisely like a scale model of a 2-person saw, and cut off a good, thick slice to try. Unfortunately, when I do so, some kind of sweet goo, like barbecue sauce but not quite, leaks out from the center, whereupon it becomes apparent that the slab as a whole was somebody else’s preparation that I have just violated. People have been wandering by me the entire time and nobody has hollered at me; I decide I have done minimal damage at this point, so I make myself scarce.
- I find myself at the bar across from Dave Silverman (the bar in this section appears to be in a long, narrow figure-8, with service areas in the loops on either side and between the loops, in the center of the 8, bar space where customers sit directly opposite each other). I have ended up with two beers; both of these are in what look like 24- or 32-ounce plastic iced tea jugs. In fact, the labels on the jug-handles have a sans-serif beige font against exactly the tannish-brown color you expect from iced tea labels. I have just got round to noticing that one of these beers in particular sucks; and when I consult the label I discover this is because it’s near-beer. “0% alcohol”, it tells me. Yuck. Dave is warning me about my social interaction with the guy on my left. Maybe he’s here fresh from Mos Eisley or something, but apparently I’ve already done something to piss him off, so I take my >0% alcoholic beer and go away.
Abruptly—no
footage of the setup remains—I dash through
the exterior door of the school or whatever public or institutional building
where I earlier sucked Mark Tomasello’s dick. I instantly notice shadows and
voices of colleagues in the hallway around the corner from this hallway; so I
duck through an open doorway on my right into the same conference room from
earlier. It occurs to me in rapid succession: They must have heard the exterior
door open and close, mustn’t they? If they do not discover me here I will have
the unique opportunity to be in this building after closing, which, well, who
knows what I might find? But I believe they have already come around the corner
of the hallway, so I cannot shut the conference room door behind me; and I
expect one of them will almost certainly check this room, or at least lean in
to grab the door and shut it, and there is no place for me to hide so quickly,
and enough light is coming in that I will certainly be discovered if anyone
leans in.
So
I decide the thing to do is jump out and yell “BOO!” and scare them. So I jump
out and try to yell “BOO!”; but because Brain is in dream mode trying to work
actual vocal chords, it comes as out a vague moan with no chance of scaring the
empty living room.
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