The man himself was making his way toward me. Well, toward the table at which I was seated with mates, Dazza, Franco, and Tick. I was so excited I almost shit myself. As always, he had me wriggling like a worm on the end of a hook. This special man. The man I’d had the most enormous crush on since I hit puberty.
Gage.

Just the sound of his name made my cock so hard you could hammer nails with it.

His body was incredible. He was obviously past his twink years – that was a plus for me as I like older men – but he kept his body honed to perfection. Not steroid perfect, but gym toned; the sort of body that takes dedication, still a turn-on for a muscle worshipping freak like me. As it came toward me, okay us, the body was part-hidden by an intricate crisscross of leather straps and metals rings that highlighted its pecs and its biceps. A man could die happy cradled in those powerful arms. This man certainly could.
Tick nudged me. “You’re drooling, mate. Put your tongue away.”

As to whether my dream man was handsome as fuck or ugly as a fundamentalist’s personality, I couldn’t care tuppence. Just as well, the currency changed decades ago. It was the body I craved. I had horny schoolboy scrapbooks filled with publicity photos and flyers of Gage and his dance buddies. In every single public picture, however, he was wearing his signature leather hood, only his mouth and his eyes visible. It just made him that much more sexy.

The paparazzi left him alone because his fame was so minor and so specialized. As a result conspiracy theories were rife about his true identity, ranging for the bizarre to the ridiculous. He was either a Phantom of the Opera-style figure whose face was so hideously deformed as a result of a childhood accident or because of a jealous lover’s acid attack revenge, or a moonlighting politician/actor/sportsman whose fetish for flashing his dick would cripple his career if it were to become known. I didn’t subscribe to any of these romantic flights of fancy, preferring to think of Gage as just a regular Joe who wanted to keep his identity private so he could have precisely that: a private life.

None of us was even sure he was gay. Sure, he threw himself into his performances with the sort of relish you’d expect from a guy who wants everyone to admire his body and his…um…rather large tackle, but there were plenty of examples of gay-for-pay performers in the nightclub tonight. I tended to avoid them as far as possible; they offended my nascent gay political sensibilities. There were plenty of gay guys, however, who liked nothing better than the fantasy of converting a straight man or being on the receiving end of his straight cock.

“How are you gentlemen today? Enjoying yourselves?”

I couldn’t speak. The deep masculine tone was just perfect. Not too educated, not too working class, and not so deep as would be the envy of James Earl Jones. That was too deep; I never found it arousing.

“You’re doing it again,” Franco hissed.

He, my he, was standing so close I could have reached out and run my fingers across his lightly haired chest, the oil glinting under the subdued lighting of the club, his nipples perfectly erect and just begging to be tweaked and chewed on. His biceps had that divine vein running the length of his arm. I wanted to lick it, to feel the pulse of blood beneath.

Oh, those abs; his washboard stomach, again with a slight mat of hair that trailed down, down, down until disappearing under his leather pouch. Oh, dear God, did it ever get any better than this?