I Went to the Saloon to Fuck the Winner of the Best Dick Competition
But I got much more than I bargained for. This essay is part I of II.
I didn’t know it was a clothing-optional bar, and I definitely didn’t know that you could fuck anywhere your heart desired. The poorly-lit backroom was only for the coy gays because you could also fuck on stage with the lights shining down on you. Or you could fuck outside on the patio. Or you could bend over a barstool and spread your cheeks, so your asshole is the first thing men see when they enter. (“Hello, and welcome to Saloon 1!”) No place was off-limits.
But again, I didn’t know this when I walked in. It looked like any other regular, unsuspecting dive bar. It wasn’t hidden in a dark alleyway. There was no secret code to enter or an exorbitant cover at the door. It was just off the main party street in Key West. Anyone with an ID could walk in. This wasn’t your curated, NYC, queer, sex-positive, enthusiastic consent-touting club. This was your run-of-the-mill gay dive bar that catered to older bears, younger otters, and the horniest of faggots who need to get pounded anonymously. They weren’t looking for the magic, glass slipper of cocks that fit just right—any dick would do.
But again, I didn’t know this. All I knew was that Saloon had a “best dick” competition on this night, and I was in the mood to ogle some cocks. Also, I wanted to get fucked by the winner of the aforementioned best dick competition, obviously.
To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of dive bars. Sure, I had a stint bartending at a number of dive bars when I moved to Bushwick, and maybe that’s why I’m not a huge fan. But, to be fair, those weren’t real dive bars. Those were hipster dives where the 22-year-old artists (i.e., trust fund babies) don’t tip because they pretend they’re broke. (Untrue. They have access to their trust funds).
But you could see how bartending at these spots for a year could make a man skeptical of the alleged “realness” and “small-town charm” of dives. However, entering Saloon, I knew this was a real dive bar. Sure, it was a gay dive, but there were people over the age of 28 there. There were biker dudes with ZZ-Top beards in their fifties. There were lonesome stragglers, nursing their bottled beer, drinking their pain away. (Not a gaggle of five 20-year-old NYU students with fake IDs.)
I entered with Jordan, my then-partner of slutty crime. We were there on the earlier side (I was overly ambitious in my pursuit of seeing peen), so we made our way around the deceptively large space. There was a side-room that looked like an old-timey jail cell—on brand for a bar called Saloon. On the other side of the bar, there was a lightless room that had a large and private glory hole installed. I prayed that some of the contestants in the best dick might find their way there after the competition. Then there was a small enclosed back patio for smokers or anyone who wanted a breath of fresh air.
At this point, I figured that some sexual activity was allowed in the space. I refused to believe that the glory hole set-up was for aesthetics alone, but still, I wasn’t sure exactly how much we could do—how far we could go.
“Do you think we can full-on fuck here?” I asked Jordan.
“Yeahhhhh…” he replied. “I think so.”
Jordan and I found two seats at the bar with a perfect view to scope out the boys as they trickled in. Then we ordered two beers. (When in Rome.) As midnight approached, a rush came through. Big boys. Little boys. Hairy boys. Hairless boys. Black, white, and Latino boys. Bearded and smooth-cheeked boys, though most had mustaches (some even had handlebar mustaches unironically). Most wore tank tops showing off their pits—few wore deodorant. Cut-off jeans revealed juicy asses. Nasty Pig hats covered balding heads. And the boys wore striped, knee-high soccer socks with sneakers.
After seeing the third man in those socks—those slutty fucking socks—I knew sex was going to take place. I didn’t know when or where, but when a thicc boy wears those socks, you know he takes anonymous loads. He gets fisted in the back room, and even though you fuck him afterward, his hole is somehow still tight. That’s how much control he has over his sphincter muscles. An inspiration to us all.
Once Saloon was nearly full, I told Jordan I was going to take a peak at the glory hole. He gave me a suspicious look, knowing I was going to do more than “ just check it out.” (Reader: I was going to stick my dick in that fucking hole.)
When I walked on one side, a man followed to the other. I whipped out my dick and put it in the hole. I felt his prickly mustache on my cock, but then only felt tongue and throat. He just gobbled me right up. A guy came behind me to watch me getting blown in the glory hole, which was kinda hot. I think of glory holes as being secretive and illicit, so this man jacking off to me getting blown was unexpected. Then a few more guys came through to watch, and just as it started to get overcrowded, I heard a man on a microphone say, “The competition is about to start!”
I wasn’t going to miss this, so I pulled up my pants, and the boys followed suit. I went back to Jordan, who smiled and asked, “Oh, just checking it out?” I laughed.
A man who looked like a member of the Hells Angels took to the little stage of the main room. After welcoming us to Saloon, he said: “This is a place where you can touch first. Out in the real world, you can’t go up to a stranger and slap his ass, but here, an ass slap or crotch grab is how we say ‘hello.’ It’s our version of shaking hands.” The crowd, myself included, roared with applause. I was going to slap so many fucking asses, grab so many hard dicks, that I might just die. In fact, that was my goal: get so aroused that I have a heart attack. And with my last, dying breath, I whimper, “Finish on my face.”
The Sonny Barger (RIP) look-alike continued, “As you know, tonight we have the best cock competition. Note this doesn’t mean the biggest; this means the best. But before we get to the cocks, we also have other categories: best chest, best ass, hottest couple, best beard…”
Barger then told us the prizes, which were comically bad—like a ten percent coupon off of a store no one had ever heard of. The prizes being so terrible somehow made the competition even better. Clearly, no one was doing this for the prizes; they were doing it to show off and have some fun.
And that’s what the boys did, myself included. I actually entered the best chest category, and your boy(slut) won! More importantly, I was on stage, and others saw me. That was the real goal: to get the attention of the men, and, given what proceeded, I think I succeeded.
By the time the best dick rolled around, the boys were getting horny. Hands started lingering on the butts of others, guys were massaging each other’s cocks over their jorts, and some men had undressed into jocks.
When the host mentioned that contestants were allowed to use a fluffer of their choice, everyone in the audience lost any sense of decorum. Watching these meaty dicks get sucked created a ripple effect in the crowd; men simply had to start sucking dicks there, too.
It became a dick-sucking orgy, and you better believe I was getting my cock sucked down to the balls. He unbuttoned his pants and unclasped his belt, so I could finger his hole while he sucked. (Obviously, he was wearing a jock strap under his jorts.)
I don’t remember who won the best dick competition, but arguably, we all did. Once Barger announced the winner and everyone stepped down from the tiny stage, horny chaos ensued.
The man, let’s call him B1 (Boy 1), stopped sucking my dick, turned around, and moved the stool out of the way so he could lay his elbows on the bar. I took off his jorts and began feasting. While eating this plump ass, I felt a man with a beard C1 (Cocksucker 1) start sucking my dick. I’m not sure how he managed to angle himself to suck my cock in that position, but he did. Good for him. Great for me!
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