He was a tough white boy with an edge. He wasn’t tall, dark, or handsome but actually a four-eyed fat ass with brown, wavy hair riddled with dandruff. He was always around ’cause his only friends also worked at the theater. I loved it when he’d come by wearing some old tattered, faded T-shirt and blue warm-up pants he’d cut into shorts which he never wore underwear under. Those sweats used to ride up beautifully into the crack dividing those meaty ass cheeks of his. Mmm!
But that was nothing compared to the dick of death that hung between his obese thighs. You could see the outline of it along with the bulge of his hefty nuts behind the thick blue cotton. Oh, how my dick used to pull and stretch in my black pants. A real dick-tease he was. It was like he knew what he was doing to me.
I used to dismiss myself to the bathroom sometimes and jack off just thinking of him naked with shower water trickling down his love handles and through the ditch of his ass. I used to jerk crazy loads onto the tiles of the men’s-room floor. Even now naughty visions of being his fuck buddy rattle around in my head, fingers stroking and tugging at pink foreskin. I would often get into trouble for pulling such disappearing acts. Hell, I almost got ﬁred until I pleaded to Tony the manager that I wouldn’t take off like that anymore, but that was a promise I often broke.
The night that John fucked me I was working the snack bar and he was on projection duty. Like most Thursday nights, we were the only two left to close up. Everyone else had gone home for the night. My feet were killing me, I smelled of popcorn and butter, and all I wanted to do was go home and soak in the shower and watch the last eight hours of grueling work swirl down the drain. But John always wanted to stay behind and smoke and drink until 4 in the morning.
“Hey, Poopsie,” he said as he entered the concession stand. That was his nickname for me– Poopsie. I hated it, but he didn’t care. The silly name grew on me after a while.
“What time is the last movie over?” I asked. John looked at his watch.
“2:O5,” he answered. It was 1:55, so we didn’t have too long to wait. “You want to hang out after we close? I got some beer upstairs.”
“If Tony or Mr. Hugo finds that shit they’re going to fire your ass,” I said as I wiped down the glass of the popcorn popper.
“Well, you better not tell them,” he said, whacking me on the butt.
“Ow man, damn. You ought to know me better than that by now.”
“So let’s pop a few after we close,” John persisted.
“I don’t know. I’m about to keel over. I think I’m just going to head home and I go to bed.”
“C’mon. I don’t want to drink by myself.”
“Fine, but one beer, man. That’s it. I got to be here at 11 tomorrow,” I told him.
John always had a way of convincing me to join him in his nightly ritual of getting drunk and shooting the shit about absolutely nothing. We both knew that one beer would turn into three, then three into five until we were both piss-drunk and couldn’t see straight.
I watched John’s ass stretch his black standard—issue pants as he hiked up the stairs to fetch the beer. I was done cleaning the popper. It was the only part of working at the theater that I hated, but the free movies, soda, and popcorn made that shit worthwhile. Next I’d do the floor, which was filthy with popcorn oil and the remains of yogurt pretzels and crunchy nachos that had been crushed under the snack—bar operators’ feet. As I swept I could hear the sounds of the movie echoing into the hallway lobby, signaling that it was finished. People talked and laughed as they left through the double doors leading to the parking lot, which glowed with the peach hue emanating from the streetlights.
After the last of the moviegoers had gone, I checked the restrooms for any stragglers, locked all the outside doors and switched oft the lobby lights, leaving on the ones that lit the front of the theater. Now it was only John and me, which was the way I liked it. Just me and him drinking, talking, and teasing each other.
I unbuttoned my ugly paisley vest, removed my plastic bow tie and let out a long sigh. It was late and I no longer gave a shit about how I looked. The sound of wild strawberry and pineapple swirling in the slushy machine was all that was left to keep me company. Until John came down with a bottle of hard stuff instead of beer. He grabbed a couple courtesy cups from beneath the snack bar and filled them with liquor.
“Given any thought to what I asked you last week?” I asked.
“Sorry. Still not gay,” he laughed.
“Well, my ass and I say the verdict is still out on that.”
“We just had too much to drink, damn it,” he replied.
“Well, too much beer might have had a little to do with it. It’s always been quite the truth serum.”
I playfully grabbed his dick, and he shoved me into the wall, knocking the cup of booze out of my hand. He pressed his hand against my throat and repeated, “I told you I’m not gay.”
“OK, OK, you’re not gay,” I said through my constricted throat. His eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol; by the looks of it he was way ahead of me. He eased his grip from around my neck and took another drink.
“It doesn’t matter how many times you say it to yourself– it don’t mean the shit’s true,” I said as I copped a feel of his ass and bolted from behind the snack bar.
John chased me down the hallway of the lobby and around the theater. He could really haul ass for a fat guy. I tried to exit through the front glass doors but forgot I’d locked them. I ran until I felt his big, strong ex—football player mitts pulling at me. He threw me to the floor of the concession stand like I was nothing and straddled me, pinning my wrists and feeling heavy as hell. I could smell the Jack Daniels on his breath as he towered over me.
“Get the hell off me, man,” I said, squirming. I could feel my buzz starting to come on. My glasses had gotten knocked off in our struggle, and John was just a blur of wavy auburn locks.
“Don’t fuck with me,” he said angrily.
“Get off me, fag,” I laughed.
He drew in, his hot breath at my nose.
“John is a fag. John is a fag,” I taunted. He gripped me tighter as I mocked him. Saliva foam gathered on his lips.
“You better not spit on me,” I warned.
I watched as John’s loogie went splat on my chin. “Ugh! Get the hell off me.” I felt him pulling at my shirt until buttons started to pop from the fabric. “Man, you done ripped my shirt,” I complained.
John lifted his weight from my body and twirled me onto my belly. John likes cock! John likes cock!” I continued. His fingers felt wet as he pushed them under the waistband of my britches. Hetugged downward until I felt a cold draft blow across my butt. I pretended to put up a fight but I secretly always wanted to be trapped beneath John like that. The ache from standing on my feet all day had vanished. I couldn’t have cared less that I was musky and salty. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted John to take it out on my ass.
“I’m not a fag,” he kept going on, yet he continued pulling at my clothes, yanking my pants down to my feet. My shredded vest was thrown onto the filthy, unmopped floor. I heard John’s zipper, then felt the sensation of his warm genitals pressing against my booty.