Friday Flash: House of Cries

Friday Flash Fiction time. Not sure this needs any explanation, but in case you were wondering, The House of Pies (Houston, TX) used to be a notorious late-night pick-up joint for men seeking men. Still might be, for all I know; I haven't been there in years. And, yes, the pies were pretty good.

Story after the jump.

"House of Cries"

I am not gay. Let's just get that straight. Have a girlfriend and everything. Sure, the House of Pies caters to a swishy late-night crowd, but I go there for the food. Fact I'm there in the middle of the night with all the cruisers is just 'cause that's when I get cravings for sweets.

I'm not gay. Just hungry. And happy as a lark now, mouth full of berries. But then there's this commotion from over in one of the booths. A bunch of gays, all prettified and whatnot. Regulars; I see them here a lot. There's this one guy, dark hair and incredible blue eyes, really attractive--I mean, I guess women would like his looks, and fags. He's kind of on display, everyone else leaned in around him as he talks. Can't hear every word from here, but I catch enough. Blue Eyes is talking about what he did last night. Seems he got spanked.

Man, I knew they were sick!

But he can talk. "The bear pulled me over his leg and went to town. Slapped so fast the echoes crashed together, but I felt each and every one. I shouted and cursed and even cried a little, but he didn't react at all, just bam-bam-bam until he was done. Didn't matter how I struggled or kicked, he was a rock. When he finished..." His voice goes soft and I lean over my plate trying to hear. "--when he was done, he rolled me off his leg. And the second my hot ass hit the cold floor, I spurted. All over everything."

"What was it like? What did it feel like?" I don't know if that's one voice or more. Hell, it almost might have been me, because I really do want to ask. Not that I'm excited by the idea, but... No need to go down that road; I'm just listening to a story.

Blue Eyes is thinking, his eyes and his mouth all soft, post-orgasmic. "It was incredible. You know how it is when you're taking a really firm top, and he's slamming into you, and you feel all those muscles pressing down on your own, molding you..." His sigh calls echoes from his crew. "It was like that, sort of, only more. His body held me in place, all hot and solid like a lover, and when he spanked me...my whole body shook. Hell, you know there aren't any words! Describe cumming to a virgin."

Laughter and chatter meld into noise, clattering utensils and calls for the waiter obscuring what else might be said. But I've heard enough to wonder. Spanking. That's even weirder than two guys.

I order another piece of pie. Try not to think about what I've heard, wonder what that cute (to women, I mean) guy got out of it, being spanked. And questions spool in my head: were they naked? Was his cock rubbing between his stomach and the big man's thigh? It must have been Blue Eyes' first time, the way he talked. So how did he find this spanker? Was it for fun, had money changed hands, how do people go about setting up such a thing?

"Are you going back?"

"Three days," Blue Eyes sighs. "It's their rules."

"What?" "I don't get it." "Why?" "Spill!" I almost choke on my coffee myself, so I understand why his crew's gotten so loud. "Pax," he says, "let me get a refill and then I. Will. Tell. All." He could be an actor with that face, that voice. Girls would go mad over him.

Not just girls.

My plate's empty, but I'm not going anywhere. When the waiter comes by, I accept a refill I don't want, just so I can sit here. Wait. Listen.

"It's a very...disciplined...set-up," he says, and there's something in his voice in that one word that makes my skin crawl. "Lots of ritual. Once you step through that door, you're committed. And once you've left, you don't get in again until they say. The door-keeper told me the rules, and one of them is that you don't so much as knock until the appointed time. And if you forfeit your invitation, you're out. No second chances."

"Invitation?" the chorus comes.

That intimate low laugh again. "Invitation," he confirms, "and, oh!, very mysterious it was. A card with an address and the offer. I almost didn't go--it's a dangerous world, you know--but there are details to be had if you know who to ask. And how."

"On your knees?"

"With your mouth full!"

My head's spinning. Think I ate too much, my stomach's in knots. And my bladder's shouting to be emptied. Time to get out of here; my girlfriend's probably wondering where I am. Or worse, she knows I'm here at "The House of Guys." I don't have the strength for another round of that argument. She knows I'm not gay!

They're leaving, Blue Eyes and his fans. I hear a high, squeaky voice: "What are we going to do tonight?" He answers, "Same thing we do every night." Everyone chuckles, even the waiter standing there. Together, they recite what's obviously some sort of slogan: "Try to take the world."

Flaming much? Disgusting!

But at least the story's done, so now I can go. I flag the waiter, mime signing an invisible check. He winks at me. Just what this night needed to be perfect--not. The bathroom's in back, but I can't brave it, not tonight; there's usually some perv waiting to proposition any man who goes for a piss. Sometimes I think that's funny, but not right now.

The waiter slides the check into place and sashays away. God, why do I come here at night? If only my girlfriend could bake. My head's killing me, shooting pains behind my eyes. I can hardly see. The pie's about to make a reappearance. Fumbling some cash out of my wallet, I push back my chair.

"Your receipt," the waiter coos, pressing it into my hand. It feels thick. Another "Call Me" card, no doubt. I can't deal with it now, can't do anything but run. Outside, it's cooler, dark, and the migraine fades. I duck back into the alley to pee. That and a burp makes me feel better. Enough that I realize I've still got that stupid paper in my hand.

Why do I look at it? Why the Hell don't I just drop it to the ground? Because...because I'm curious. It's a card, all right, but it doesn't say "Call Me." It says "Come to the House of Cries." And there's a time written on it.

An hour from now.

I really should go home. My girlfriend's waiting for me...