Circle Pit of Crusties

by Reb

Chapter 1: A little live music always gets things pumping.

Blame it on Nickey Alexander's mouth. The ex-drummer for the Weirdos and now with The Cramps, has got the sexiest mouth on the scene. Painted red, always open for business, his tongue darts in and out over his moist kiss flesh. It's enough to make a sweaty pit boy swoon.

Maybe it was Slim Chance's dead-pan bass.. His nickel-sized nipples clearly visible through his sheer black shirt.

Or maybe it was Poison Ivy looking like a Suicide Girl in her thigh-high thong and fishnet hose and alabaster flesh.

Or it could have been Lux Interior's black high heels and the filthy way he kept deep-throating the microphone that had all of us in the pit peeling off our sweat-soaked band t-shirts to expose glistening skin that made a smacking sound as we slammed into each other.. a sound not unlike the slaps across bare asses that resonate in every high school locker room after the big game.

Maybe it was the kid with the red mohawk and baby face slamming next to me or the guy with the mohawk in the bullet belt and nose ring, whose pants were so tight and slung so low that I could see the top of his curly black pubes, behind me who so graciously protected me from the flailing mania of the untamed pit filled with half-naked boys with nothing to lose. My protector never complained or inched away even though my ass kept grinding into his crotch. It was just that kind of night.

Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't gotten it in along time that made me dance a little harder and act even more brazen than normal. But something in the club tonight struck a primal nerve.

And as these social outcasts and drunk punks and lost kids and I were devoured by the campy, ghoulish funeral parlor freak-out known as The Cramps, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a half-naked bald skin with a goat tuft on his chin climb up on an amp tower next to me, and while waving a PBR in his raised fist I watched as he dove head-first into the pit of swarming boys.

That's the last I'll see of him, I thought. He crashed straight to the floor and is probably sportin' a size 12 Doc where is nose used to be. Too bad. What I saw of him used to be cute. But I forgot about him as Lux and crew launched into their hit "Surfin' Bird" and the mohawks and I lost any inhibitions we had left.

When the song stopped the band left the tiny stage at Club Baby Head and the drunk manic crowd began stomping and shouting for the inevitable encore. I laughed to myself as I remembered the Limpwrist show I went to a few weeks ago. Martin refused to do an encore unless some straight guy kissed him on the ass. He was wearing nothing but a jock strap. And two guys obliged. So they played two more songs. But that was then and I didn't think Lux was about to peel off his black vinyl cat suit and demand someone kiss his ass so I stepped back from the crowd at the edge of the stage to cool off. I dropped by braces and pulled my Fanorama Society t-shirt up over my head so that it made sort of a harness around my shoulders that looked like the brace I had to wear when I broke my collar bone playing soccer in high school. I lit a cig and waited for the band to return.

"Excuse me, Sir. Do ya have one for me?" It was the bald amp-diving skin and now that he was right in front of me I could really check him out. I took my time to pull one out of the pack while I scanned him up and down. Shit, he's really cute. Okay, act unimpressed. I passed it to him and flipped open my Zippo and aimed it as his mouth.

"Thank you, Sir." What is this "Sir" shit I wondered? For a moment I resented this kid's wise-assed sarcasm. Sure, I was older than anyone else in the crowd. Probably old enough to be his dad but when I remembered how intimidating people say I can look sometimes, I figured he was just being appropriately respectful.. or submissive. I figured the cigarette was all he was after and now that he got what he wanted I fixed my gaze on the baby-faced mohawk I'd been cruising and stomping next to all night.

The kid with the red mohawk caught my blatant stare, turned as red as his 'hawk and turned away. But I must have gotten him curious 'coz a couple of seconds later he turned back to see if I was still looking. I was. He turned away again and this went back and forth for what seemed like forever but was really only a matter of minutes. He looked to his right, and then to his left, to see if anyone was eyeballin' us and then he held my gaze for a moment too long and it was then that I knew he was mine for the taking. He knew what was happening and acknowledged our silent mating dance with a coy little smirk. Noticing that I had half-stripped off my shirt, he looked around to see if anyone was looking.. he needn't have worried, everyone else was still transfixed on the empty stage waiting for the band to return. He turned to fave me directly and slowly, teasingly, unzipped his black leather jacket to reveal his ripped, hairless torso. His skin was so pale and smooth it was almost transparent and I could swear I could see his heart beating!

Ow! He looked so good it hurt! But before I could do anything but drop my jaw in appreciation, the band returned and his attention, and mine, returned to the show on the stage instead of the one in the pit. Plenty of time for that later, I thought.

When The Cramps lurched into "Bend Over, I'll Drive" I felt some unfamiliar flesh smackin' up against me. Since it felt real good and I didn't want to scare him away by turning to make eye contact, I let him continue through the first chorus before turning to face him.

It was the smart-alec amp-diving butt-beggin' blonde skin again who broke into a huge grin as our eyes met. But this time he didn't call me "Sir" and he didn't ask me for a cigarette. Instead he asked, "Do ya wanna go outside or somethin'?"

I was real curious by now so I nodded yes and we began to work our way out of the fanatic pit in front of the stage and make our way towards the exit. The baby-faced mohawk I'd been eyeballin' all night looked crestfallen and zipped up his leather jacket as I passed him. I kinda shrugged my shoulders and looked sort of sheepish as if to say, "Maybe some other time."

Chapter 2: The Real Show Begins

By the time I had worked my way through the sweaty crowd and reached the door, the kid was already out on the sidewalk in front of the club leaning up against the wall. He was still shirtless and glistening with sweat under the street lamp. One leg was bent at the knee with the sole of his Doc planted firmly against the graffiti splattered brick wall. His thumbs were forced into the front pockets of his rolled up tattered jeans and the studied casualness of his pose made his washboard abs look like they'd been carved out of marble. He'd obviously spent some time practicing this look in front of a mirror.

"Too hot in there, " he said as I joined him. A fresh bruise on his shoulder (from his dive into the pit?) was bleeding a little but he didn't seem to care. I pulled the pack of smokes from the pocket of my cut-off camo pants, took one for myself and offered one to him.

"Thanks. I've seen you around." He said this with a wicked glint in his eye as he lit his cigarette. "MY friends and I thought you were some kind of psycho or somethin'."

Now that's an original opening line I thought. "Why?," I asked.

"Coz like we never saw you hangin' with anyone.. like maybe you were a... fag."

With that accusation, question, he turned to face me man-to-man and braced as if I was about to hit him or kiss him. The beads of sweat were beginning to evaporate off his hairless chest and his itty bitty nipples were standing at attention. Titty hard-ons we used to call them when I was a kid.

"Well, that makes two of us doesn't it?" I knew I had to make this quick coz The Cramps would be finishing their encore soon and the sidewalk would be crawling with people in a couple of minutes.

He paused for a moment. "Well.. I like to get my dick sucked."

BINGO! That was my cue. My friend Nick always used to tell me to "strike while the iron's hot" and my iron was hot as hell tonight!

"It's gettin' kinda cold," I said, "Wanna sit in my car for a while?"

A shiver, or quiver, ran down the entire length of his compact body and I couldn't help but notice his right hand fishin' around in his pocket like he was trying to find something.. Or adjust something. He looked around to see if the coast was clear, threw his half-smoked cig on the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

"I got a better idea," he said, "follow me." I'm always up for an adventure so I figured why not? I followed him down the dead-end alley, which stunk of piss and beer-vomit, next to the club and when we were almost to the end he said, "Down here."

Down three or four steps and through a concert poster papered door that I had never seen before. Apparently, this was the way into the cellar beneath the club. I knew the place had a downstairs. The bartenders used to go someplace and return with cases of PBR on their shoulders. So this is where it came from. He looked back to make sure I was still following him and said, "I hope you like to party."

We entered the dank, dimly lit cellar and could hear the feet of the crowd above us leaving the club. The dee-jay had put on some old school ska, Op Ivy I thought, but I was too busy trying to adjust my eyesight to the darkness to pay attention to the music.

"Back here.. I'll show you" and he stuck out his hand and I happily took it as he led me even deeper into the recesses of the basement. For a second I though I was about to be fag-bashed as my other hand gripped the Boy Scout jackknife that's always on my key ring. "Be Prepared" is still my motto. I could hear other voices, male voices in the dark up ahead as I deftly flipped the knife open. I felt like a lamb being willingly lead to the slaughter.

He knocked three quick times on the door before us. "It's Dylan," he announced and someone grunted and opened the creaky wooden door.

I closed my knife. For what loomed before us in this cellar storage room stacked with cases of PBR and Narragansett was a scene that I had only fantasized about before or seen in Joe Gage pornos. Seven, eight, nine guys, most of whom I recognized from the club upstairs were milling around in groups of two or three, drinking beer, talking, looking our way.

"Hey Dylan," it was the guy from the pit with the tight pants and mohawk, "I see ya brought a new friend along. Is he cool?"

"Yeah, no worries, hey you wanna beer?" he asked me.

"Sure. What is this? Like an after-hours club or something," I asked.

"Or something!," he laughed. He popped open two tall boys and the cold beer tasted great.

I looked around again and some of the guys had taken off more than their shirts. Two guys, one black, one white, both hot, were standing way closer than any two straight guys would ever stand when suddenly the white dude started unzipping the black dudes fly and out popped his half-hard bone. Damn, I thought. How did I not know this place was here before tonight. My tour guide looked my way when he saw me staring at the guys and said, "Man, I really wanna kiss you."

He must've seen Private Idaho too. He dove into my arms and began tongue-fucking my mouth with a hunger and unleashed fury I hadn't experienced in ages. He began to feel me up as we made out and one had found a nipple and he started pinching it and twisting it which made me moan and yelp a bit. His other nimble hand slid down my abs and into my shorts and he started groping and kneading my ass. I unzipped my shorts, pulled out my dick and began stroking it to the rhythm of The Might Mighty Bosstones. His hand left my ass crack and I could tell my the change in his breathing as we continued to swap spit that we were beating ourselves off in unison. He kept sucking on my tongue and chewing my swollen lower lip until he let out a little howl and I felt his warm, sticky spunk splash my right hand which was jacking my dick. Just a few strokes more and I popped my nut too.

Trembling, he nuzzled against my smooth chest and buried his face into the crook between my shoulder and neck. He kissed my neck softly with his warm open mouth. I hadn't expected this kind of tender exchange from a sweaty skin from the pit.

Chapter 3: Circle Pit of Crusties

I couldn't have imagined a better way to end the night. But I was wrong. When we finally came up for air and looked around the room, apparently our performance had attracted and inspired the rest of the guys in the cellar. Everyone was completely naked except for maybe their socks or docs, a few wore cock rings and one guy had a tube of lube in his fist that he was offering up to everyone like some sort of unholy communion. MY boy and I followed suit and stripped off the rest of our clothes and left them in a pile on the floor. Slowly, silently, almost intuitively. We began to form a circle pit of crusty punks and naked skins and horny skaters in the cellar much like the circle pit we had just been moshing in upstairs. But this time there was no band. And no girls. And we were all naked and sporting greasy hard-ons. It was then that I noticed the baby-faced kid with the red mohawk I had cruised so shamelessly earlier had joined this circle pit as well. Fat uncut fuck joint in his hand, he smiled and nodded in approval as he gazed at my stiff dick, which was at full attention again.

" Hey Dylan," he said as we all circled closer and more tightly, "Good call." By that I knew he was referring to me.. The latest inductee into this lost boys club. "In honor of you bringing a new member, it's your turn tonight. Everyone agree?"

The rest of the guys nodded or grunted in approval. I wasn't sure what they were talking about until Dylan left my side and said, "Watch this." and dropped to his knees on the dirty, damp concrete floor in the center of the circle. Aha, I realized, bukkake finale. And my boy is tonight's lucky recipient. And more lube was squirted around into our already greasy palms and some guys fingered their asses, or their neighbor's hole, with one hand while they spanked off with the other and before I knew it the baby-faced mohawk has wriggled his way in next to me and he reached over and started pumping my cock and we began kissing and biting each other while never taking our eyes off Dylan in the middle who squatted there, a dick in each fist and his head thrown back, wild-eyed as if in ecstasy, mouth open, ready to accept our communal offerings.

And one by one, sometimes two or three at a time, we shot our loads in Dylan's direction. Some missed their target and hit someone else but most, including mine, landed on his bald dome or into his ear or into his open mouth. He licked his lips and pumped the two cocks in his fists off as the baby-faced mohawk and I looked at each other and without exchanging a word dropped to our knees in front of Dylan and sucked him off in unison as the last guy shot his hot load across the back of my head where it drizzled down my spine and down my ass crack and dripped on the dirty cellar floor as Dylan shot his load down my hungry throat.