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Browsing at a gay video store in San Francisco before the advent of AIDS applied the brakes to unsafe sex, I first saw Hank in the pages of a magazine which featured stills from one of his films. I went to the counter. The movie was in stock. I rented a copy and headed home.
The tape was spinning on the VCR before I stripped off my jacket. Hank's face appeared on-screen in the opening frames. Transfixed, I fell on my knees to get closer to the set.
I had a record of going for dark hair in general, in contrast to my own, but sometimes a sandy-haired man caught my Irish fancy. This one did. He was fucking another guy's butt in a machine- shop setting. The guy lay across a work table, one knee propped on the leading edge to lift him higher, his fingers gripping the far edge to hold him steady.
My boy stood behind, sturdy legs jackhammering upward, forward, in quick, violent thrusts.
Sweat plastered an avalanche of honey-colored curls to his forehead and streamed in rivulets down his lithe, lightly muscular physique. His head fell back. His blue eyes were half closed above a trim mustache that bristled as his features contorted in an ecstatic grimace. He was an Irishman if ever I saw one. The instant of ejaculation was upon him. With a moan, he backed out and let his dick ride the slopes of the bottom's ass. A torrent of semen rose in an arc before it showered down on his partner's back.
Lost in the intensity of the video scene, I was barely aware that my own body had reached a feverish pitch. I jerked my stiff member out of my fly just in time to spray its libation across the television screen.
Sixty seconds of Hank had already brought me to one of the deepest, ball-draining orgasms I had ever experienced in my life.
Still on my knees, my cum still dripping from the screen, I watched avidly when, a few frames later, he went on the bottom for the dude he'd just fucked.
Panting and embracing each other after the first session, they fell to a mattress placed on the floor. Hank lay on his back with his arms and legs lifted in dog-like submission, ready to take it from the front. Dust-misty sunlight shone on him through a broken window. I was entranced by the sight. Although I had gone bottom often in my youth, having been sexually active from the age of thirteen, in my more mature years I had come to think of myself as a top. Now Hank lay in the position that excited me most, shedding all dignity for the naked purpose of making love.
In my mind's eye, it was not the other actor, but I, who hovered over Hank and felt his fingers guiding my penis through the gate. I was the one who sank down and twisted my hips to slip it in. It was my shaft, hard as stone, that felt his sphincter muscles relax to make way and then tighten to clutch me inside. He planted the soles of his feet on my chest. I kissed and licked the toes. His hands reached behind him to grasp the railing of the headboard. He used his feet for leverage in pushing away, his hands for pushing toward me. My gaze rested on his face, concentrated on exploring the eyes.It didn't take much to get me off although I tried to prolong the joy. A second libation poured over the television screen well before the top in the film moved into the short strokes that showed his climax was coming on.
Meanwhile, Hank's hands had moved to his crotch. One of them stimulated the ejaculatory duct beneath his scrotum the way men sometimes do when jacking off. The other jerked his cock savagely in a frenzied effort to keep up with the other guy. The dude pulled out, and, simultaneously, with loud grunts of pleasure, they got off together. Over the rainbow!
I stopped the movie. I couldn't take anymore, but a resolution had already formed in my brain: Get Hank. No matter how. Get that man for yourself. I might not be able to give him the foot-long hotdog he took in that film, but my Oscar Meyer would have to do. Getting Hank had suddenly become a challenge as magnetic as finding the Holy Grail.
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