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Confrontation with an asshole, and another threesome.

Good for you."

"Thanks," I say coyly, although I'm not going to be a dork and point out how much I hate gyms, how I have never sustained a workout regime for more than a week in my life. If he wants to think a bench press did this, so be it, it's not as though he likes me for my mind or the witty conversation, anyway. Details like that are lost in a place like this -- it doesn't matter why you look good as long as feel like you look good, it's a man's confidence that draws men in places like this like flies drawn to a burning torch.

Okay, time to go before he asks me how many reps I do and spoils the moment. I turn to the bar, leaning over a chair that is strategically in my way, so as to give the crowd behind me a good view, squeezing my ass gently to make sure the shine of my leather pants catches the light of the spot lights above, showing the curve of my butt. It works, in a few seconds a couple of passers-by slide their hands over my ass as they walk past. "Tall Tom Collins, please, easy on the ice," I ask the bartender, also known as "hit me hard with the hard stuff, would ya?" A smile and a wink on my part seals the deal -- I'm such a shameless flirt. However, the drink is now so strong I can barely manage to swallow without wincing at the biting sting of the alcohol. You have to love the American "free-pour" mentality when it comes to mixing cocktails.

Speaking of cocks, the place is full of them tonight, all ages, sizes, and tastes (pardon the pun). I make my way down the back stairs to the Pit Stop and lean back so as not to hit my head on the low ceiling of the bottom landing, making a deliberate thrust-and-twist to my hips as I spin on the heel of my boot and stride into the crowded room. It's way dark in here! and it's very hot! The humid aura of musty basement and sweaty men fills the space. Many men are wearing leather gear, and I can catch the occasional whiff of tanned leather. The sexual energy is intense, I can feel the eyes careening over me, and I lick my lips slowly, drawing heavily on the straw of my drink. I can feel my heart beating faster, and my nervousness increasing as I venture into this den of iniquity. "I know I'm going to be faithful to my man, I'm not going to do anything to hurt him tonight," I think to myself.

After hastily finishing off another two Tom Collins I seek refuge in a dark corner to play the role of voyeur for a while. The attention and cruising is a little too intense, and it's making me uncomfortable, nervous somehow, too much under scrutiny. I sit on a stool in the corner just next to the "Gear Box," the tiny leather store in the corner of the basement. Before long an attractive, older man approaches and starts a friendly conversation, but when I don't show any reaction when he rubs my leg, he quickly moves on, saying, "Well, good luck tonight!"

"I don't need luck, you fucker, just because I'm not into YOU." Still, what he said bothers me a bit, twitches my insecurity -- I finish off my fourth Tom Collins, just now beginning to feel a light-headedness, and just now beginning to feel really bold. In the back of my mind I consider this could be bad, that I don't have to prove anything to anyone.

I seek out the dark corner by the door to the storeroom, and find a stool to sit on. I lean back, suck in my tummy, and adjust my balls. Within a couple of minutes a stalky man in jeans and a tight white t-shirt approaches and stands next to me, pressing his shoulders into me. The bartender approaches and pushes past to get into the storeroom the beefy man turns to get out of the way, and is now standing directly in front of me, his chest inches from my face.

'Hey, having a good time tonight?" he asks.

"So far," I reply, with a flirtatious grin.

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