Conference Room

Like pigeons spaced evenly on a wire, the three of them sat against the back wall in chairs meant for a conference room staring at the screen.  

The man nearest the door wore long gray hair under a blue ball cap.  He leaned forward a bit in what looked like an attempt to better see the screen – exacerbated by squinting such that it was difficult to determine if he was in pain or if he were asleep. His wrinkled face indicated that the squinting wasn’t a recent acquisition. 

In the middle, a bald man, perhaps nearing eighty years old and slightly frail sat tall in a way that if he were a boy, it would be easy to imagine him on a bench in a hallway waiting to see the principal.  Tidy jeans and a blue windbreaker led him to blend into the background of the black walls, black ceiling, and black floor.  

The third man along the back wall was in the corner of the room.  Big – he took up a massive amount of space.  Part of the bulk was his winter jacket which he had unzipped and which exposed a thick flannel shirt.  Bright eyes and rosy cheeks poked out from under the brim of his ball cap.  One might have easily thought he was St. Nicholas on a day off.  Likely in his early 50’s and likely a trucker, he wasn’t aging well and if he was a trucker, this would explain it.  Days and months of sitting, along with poor food options and not enough rest.  

His legs, thick.  Thick in a way that indicated he may have been diabetic because from the knees down each leg was a solid bulk that did not taper at the ankles.  And at his ankles were his unbuttoned pants, clustered there along with his briefs and his belt.  He sat with a wide spread with his right hand gripping his exposed, also thick, cock.  

The room was about the size of a bungalow’s living room, but with everything painted black it felt bigger than it was.  A forth conference room chair was against the back wall, as were four others on the adjacent wall.  I sat on a row of seats along the other wall that looked as if they’d come from a departure gate at an airport.  Metal and slightly ergonomic, they offered only a meager upgrade to the space. 

Mounted on the wall slightly above eye level was a large flat-screen TV showing a pornographic movie, it being the only light source in the room. Today’s feature included chicks with dicks – and hairy chested men fucking them. 

This was the ‘theater’ I’d heard about at the porn shop just outside of Gary, Indiana.  I’d heard about it – from friends who had been there in the past, specifically from a friend who drives a few times a year to and from Detroit to visit his brother.  Another grew up nearby and would sneak off from his parent’s house and visit in the late hours of the night. 

The single gabled building sits askew on the lot, surrounded by ample parking, on a large parcel on a lonely stretch of road a couple of miles off the Interstate.  Zoning. The area looked to once have been an industrial corridor.  There is a diesel transfer station on the adjoining lot.  Closer to the Interstate, two truck stops. 

Inside, an older woman sits behind an elevated counter collecting the admission fee.  Fifteen dollars.  She wore thick rimmed glasses and a knit stocking cap.  Perhaps a retired trucker herself, this place may be her retirement as it didn’t look like the kind of place that would attract an employee.  The shop sells the usual items. Dildos. Lace clothing. DVDs.

Across from me, on one of the four other conference room chairs sat a lone man facing the screen, slender with curly gray hair and tanned skin indicating perhaps field work, though it was February, so more than likely, mixed race.  He’d glance at me from time to time, then look back at the three men seated along the back wall.  

A bit later – there is no sense of time on a place like this, the thin frail man reached in between the legs of large man and held his cock, then took over the stroking motion.  He unzipped his windbreaker, perhaps to offer greater mobility, and then proceeded to lean over and take the large man’s cock in his mouth.  

“Go easy.  Easy”, the big man said repeatedly.   “Watch the teeth.”  Then, every few minutes he’d adjust himself in the chair such that the thin frail man would have to stop – and he too then would sit up and watch the screen for a bit before returning to duty.   From time to time the big man would stand which removed the other man’s need to lean forward into his lap.  

The man who squinted would lean forward more, turn his head, and watch while diddling the inseam of his jeans with his thumb.  

Shortly before twelve noon the next man arrived.  He was younger than all of us – late forties, perhaps. His salt and pepper hair was mussed from having taken off his stocking cap.  His beard, untrimmed but not unkempt, was also salt and pepper.  He took the last remaining chair against the back wall, unzipped his jacket, undid his pants, and pulled his cock and balls out from his boxer short’s waist band, masturbating himself at a fairly vigorous pace.  He appeared adamant about making eye contact with all of the men in the room, his piercing dark round eyes surveying the space at regular intervals.  

Honestly, had it just been he and I in the room I would have joined him because I admired this level of bravado.  I think the attention would have inspired him. 

The duo in the corner finally wrapped up their session at which point the big man stood up, pulled up his briefs, jeans, then buckled his belt, zipped his jacket and then left.   His departure left the old frail man sitting with his pants around his ankles, now starring again, with the same upright posture as before. 

The movie ended and another one began.  Same genre, but more elaborate costuming, which the long gray haired man commented on from time to time, adding his personal narrative to what he was seeing.  “Those titties are the size of watermelons” and “Would you look at those shoes!  You’d have to be really careful walking in those.”  

It wasn’t long past the noon hour when the next batch of men arrived.  Lunch hour. The first was a stocky white guy in his late thirties. Short dirty blonde bangs framed his ruddy cheeks and red nose. Rosacea.  This man walked over to the chair vacated by the big man, undid his jean, pushed them down where they bunched against his white sneakers, then sat back in the chair, legs spread.  He was here to take care of business and considering his unabashed entrance, seemingly a regular.  

The man with the long gray hair prodded the thin frail man with his elbow, “He’s got his dick out ” he said. Their camaraderie led me to believe they knew one another – or were at least familiar with one another’s proclivities.  The thin frail man proceeded to get onto his knees between the legs of the man with rosacea.  Within a moment or two he had pulled his legs together and leaned forward, removing the available space and told the thin frail man that he didn’t want to cum yet.  

Next to arrive was a man in his mid sixties.  Somewhat coiffed gray hair, wearing glasses, a gray crew neck sweater, and sweat pants. He took a seat across from me, sitting next to lone mixed race man.  They glanced at one another’s crotch until such time that the man with the coiffed gray hair pulled down his sweat pants exposing a limp and lifeless dick.  The man in the adjacent seat reached down, fondled it which caused the coiffed man to lean his head against the wall – sighing and delighted by another man’s hand on his cock.  He reminded me of a man who had retired from working at the Sear’s photo studio a few years prior.  Well groomed and convivial. Exactly what one wants while posing for that photo against the robin-egg blue backdrop. 

Next came a man I’ll call the Fisherman.  Likely in his early fifties, he wore olive drab cargo pants, a solid mustard colored flannel shirt, wore wire rimmed glasses, and had a day’s growth of his beard which was gray – the same as his thick wavy hair.  A gold wedding band was visible on his left hand.  He too took a seat along the back wall and loosed his belt.  After about five minutes his left hand was down his pants, and shortly after that he’d pulled his cock out of his fly, gently stroking the head of it while gazing forward at the screen.  

He pulled a small bottle from his shirt pocket and took a hit.  Poppers.  His movements were calibrated. Deliberate.  And reminded me of a man stepping into a boat, pushing it away from shore, then after arriving at his preferred spot, opening his tackle box, casting his line, and now waiting for what he knew would be the one that didn’t get away. 

Mr. Bravado man heard the sound of the two small beads in the popper’s bottle rattle, at which point he got up, walked over to the Fisherman, dropped to his knees, took a hit of his poppers, then proceeded to suck the Fisherman’s cock.  Nothing changed with regards to the Fisherman’s body language or expression.  He continued watching the screen until the job was complete, all of a minute or two.  When Mr. Bravado returned to his seat, Fisherman stood up, zipped up, and left.   Transactional. He got what he came for. 

Entering as Mr. Bravado left was a man, again, mid-fifties wearing gray slacks and a bomber style jacket.  Slightly greying at his temples his hair was parted on the side, well maintained though he was probably overdue to visit his barber.  He too took a seat along the back wall.

Leaning forward with his elbows resting atop his knees, he glanced up over his brow in order to watch the movie.  In doing so I saw the whites of his eyes beneath his pupils. His forehead cast a shadow on his face accentuating the jowls that hung gently on either side of his face.  Unlike the others, this man appeared ashamed to be here.  He’d look down at the floor, then back up at the screen, never really acknowledging anyone that was there.

Next to arrive was a tall slender man with white hair worn in a Pompadour style and a white mustache.  His square jaw, muscular face, along with his posture gave the appearance of authority.  He is used to overseeing things.  Organizing things.  I pictured him dockside, the owner or manager of a marina.  Something to do in retirement that allowed him the ability to be in control of something.  He took the seat next to me.  

Another man arrived, but he stood at the back of the room choosing not to take one of two open seats that would have put him next to someone.  Mr. Bravado came back and took a seat across from me, undoing his pants again, looked at me square in the eyes, then refastening them – pondering what was next, and eventually undoing them again and pulling out his cock.  

When I arrived, slightly more than an hour earlier, there were five other cars in the lot. When I left there was double the number, the latest arrival – a gruff but trim man had just gotten out of his car.  Jeans, jean jacket, his hair pulled back in a pony tail with a bandana around his forehead.  Had it not been February he would have arrived on his motorcycle.