If you absolutely, positively demand that I choose my favorite story from Dario Dalla Lasta’s Squeeze Pants, I’m going with this one: “Skinhead on the Subway.” Who doesn’t love queer skinheads? Better yet, who doesn’t love queer skinheads named Skiv?
And you’ll get lots and lots of Skiv in this story, but only just a taste in this excerpt.
What you kind of need to know before you begin reading: Byron is a financial district, big-corporate-office slave of a guy, but Skiv catches his eye on the subway not only because he’s gorgeous, but because of the way he wears his working class pride. Byron follows Skiv home, gets into a little playful scruff with him in an alley way not far from Skiv’s home, and that’s, just so you know, when Byron’s nose got a wee bit bloody.
We sat down on a ratty tan couch, each on our own cushion. I stopped myself from scooting beside him and kept my free hand to myself, although I wanted to rest it in his lap. His thighs stretched the denim tighter, and the top button of his jeans appeared ready to pop. I scoped out his bulge until he caught me.
“Yo, eyes up here, mister,” he said, grinning, the chipped tooth making another appearance. I wanted to lick it. “I’m Skiv,” he said with a firm handshake.
“Byron,” I answered. It didn’t even occur to me to use a pseudonym.
His eyebrows arched, calling my attention to one with three lines shaved into it. “Like the highfalutin‘ ‘Lord’ Byron, eh?”
“If you insist.”
He cackled. “Guess I do insist, ’specially after rearranging yer nose for ya. Again, sorry, mate. Sometimes I guess I don’t even know me own strength.”
I brushed my hand through the air as though a kick in the face meant nothing. “Oh, please. It’s all good. And thanks for the beer. It makes the blood dripping down my throat taste a lot better,” I joked.
“Huh,” he said while getting up to flip on an old-school turntable. The needle hit the record and the Sex Pistols came roaring through the speakers, yelling for God to save the Queen. How appropriate, I thought.
“Somethin‘ else might taste better goin‘ down yer throat,” he suggested, clutching his front and leering at me with a perverse, crooked smile.
And there that somethin‘ was, that beautiful long stick of manhood riding down his pant leg again, except now he was showing off for me, getting it hard, rubbing that meat without mercy, just what I had been wanting him to do since first glimpsing him on the subway. I leaned forward and focused solely on what his hand was making grow bigger and stronger. I almost said, You’re going to bust through your pants, but he beat me to it.
“It’s gonna fuckin‘ bust right outta me jeans,” he mumbled, stroking the length suggestively.
Agreeing, I set my beer down on the floor after a large swig, stripped my tie and jacket off, and beckoned him to move closer to me. I didn’t have to ask him twice. He brought that throbbing member strangled in rigid dungarees up to my face, eased each red suspender off his broad shoulders, intent on having me watch his every move, and then unbuttoned his jeans. The zipper stretched down another five notches on its own from the pressure of the serpent writhing around in there. Trembling, I reached over and grabbed the zipper between my thumb and index finger. Before pulling it down the rest of the way, I glanced up at his face. “Do it,” he said tersely, his chipped tooth glinting in the light.
He didn’t have to ask me twice.
I yanked the zipper down and his pants with it. As I suspected, no underwear held him back. His cock bobbed in my face with all the gusto of a horny teenager. A robust thatch of blond pubic hair framed the vein-riddled schlong, and a whiff of musk hit my nostrils. His dick smelled like it had been trapped in those jeans in a hot subway in New York City for far too long, and I was just the man to assist in its escape.
Read more in Squeeze Pants!