Crystal Ball

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Clarence was one of the most timid men on earth. And yet Clarence craved adventure. In his mind he engaged in the most dazzling exploits. Exploits with other men. Whole scenes and novels ran through his mind of “Clarence of the monster cock,” fucking other men silly. Clarence, in fact, had a very nice cock. Clarence just had never used it in anything remotely like his fantasies in his entire thirty-six years. Oh, he used it all right—but always alone, in his own bed, as his mind wove tales of super cocking. Clarence the Superfuck.

Clarence was getting a little worried about his failure to get laid. I mean he was thirty-six, for god’s sake, and although he knew he could be considered to be a handsome man and he kept his body in tip-top shape and had this very nice cock that he knew men would just love to have churning inside them, he was beginning to lose his hair. And he noticed an extra laugh line appearing here and there—despite this not being a laughing matter at all—and was there a hint of a little extra padding around that formerly washboard stomach of his?

He was just too damn timid—unable to cross a certain barrier. It’s not that other guys weren’t attracted to him, didn’t sense that he had something they’d like to share. It’s just that whenever Clarence came to the point of “getting it on” with another guy, he shrank away in indecision and shyness.

His problem had become accentuated of late. He had this little heart matter that he couldn’t help chewing on—and letting chew on him. The doctor had said it was just a bit of heartburn, but, well, you know, one could never tell. And, perhaps worst of all, Clarence hadn’t been able to get it up the other night. He was tired that night, for sure, and had watched a couple of DVDs that afternoon that had done a good job on him. But he’d never been unable to get it up on command before.

Maybe that’s why he perked up when he was in Chuck’s Bar the other night. It was a gay bar Clarence went to so he could get a good buzz on to work off alone in his bed later that night—having nervously pretended not to understand a couple of perfectly fine come ons in the bar earlier. While there, he’d heard two guys talking about a small carnival that had settled on an absentee farmer’s field a couple of miles out of town—of how it was a traveling gay troupe on the sly—the usual offerings out front and gay shows at the back of the tents—and how they were planning to go out there and get their rocks off.

Clarence decided that was a good idea. He was growing tired of the DVDs—and he was afraid maybe they were part of why he had failed to arouse himself the other night. Or at least he hoped that might be a reason. When he contemplated becoming too old to get it up—especially when he’d never really used it with anyone else—his mind just shut down in a blue funk. Maybe if he saw a live show . . .

* * * *

Eric was sitting, fidgeting, in the folding chair in the front section of the tent. As he was driving by, he’d seen the “Maximus Circus” sign over the somewhat bedraggled collection of tents and small trailers pulled up in a small double ring in the field at the Chapman farm. He’d heard about this carnival—that it was a front for a traveling gay show. He had immediately wondered if there would be good action there, and, against his better judgment, Eric had pulled over into the parking lot. This was Eric’s problem. He was promiscuous beyond all reason, willing to bend over and spread his cheeks for any man who put a hand on his belly.

Eric knew he couldn’t keep on doing this. At twenty-two Eric already had the urge to settle down with just one man. That’s what he craved. But, still, he had these urges he couldn’t control. Even as he was parking the car in the muddy lot next to where the Maximus Circus tents were pitched, he knew he needed help; he didn’t need to be stopping off at a dive like this in hopes that some man would give him that look and lay a hand on his belly. With a sigh, Eric had put the hand brake on the car and gotten out and walked toward the double ring of tents and vans.

As he entered the first circle, Eric saw the sign beside the open flap into one of the tents. “Madame Toni, Clairvoyant” it said. And gaziantep escort in smaller letters under that “I can change your life.”

Eric certainly did need his life changed. He hesitated momentarily. There was a big bruiser of a guy looking at him from across the circle. He was giving him the eye in that old familiar way. Eric wavered, and then, disgusted with himself, he abruptly turned to the right and entered the tent. The tent was divided into sections by plywood screening. There was a small area with four rusty metal folding chairs in the section Eric first entered, and there was a sign hanging next to the beaded curtain-covered door into the next section that said “Please wait. In Session.” So Eric plopped down in one of the folding chairs.

He had no idea, really why he was here. There was just something about that “I can change your life” statement that had gotten to him. He knew it was all hooey, but he needed to do something to stop this insatiable appetite for having another guy’s cock inside him. He needed someone steady, someone permanent. A daddy who would take care of him. Just one lover. Oh, and he should be well hung too.

As he was ruminating, the flap at the entrance to the tent fluttered and another guy entered the tent—or rather came inside the opening to the tent. Once there, and having seen Eric, however, the other man wavered.

Eric looked up to see an almost panicked expression in the other man’s face. Otherwise a good face, though. Quite handsome. Sandy haired, hazel eyes, a nice smile—a few laugh lines to indicate a humorous, gentle nature. Good build. Very presentable. Maybe ten or fifteen years older than Eric. Eric couldn’t tell, but he could see that the guy wasn’t too young or too old. Eric liked being fucked by guys not too young nor too old.

Eric could tell, however, that his presence was disturbing to this guy, so he did what he could to be invisible. He shrank into his chair and looked the other way. It’s OK, guy, he was thinking. I’m not here. I’m no threat to you.

The other guy hesitated for a few more moments, but then he straightened up, somehow resolved not to break and flee, and sat down in one of the folding chairs on the other side of the tent enclosure from Eric—as far away from Eric as was possible.

The more Eric was alone with this guy, the more he lost his own resolve that had brought him into the tent to consult with Madame Toni on how he could get off this wheel of casual promiscuity. And the more his resolved flowed from him, the more Eric, the problem child, took over. He began to fantasize about this other guy in the small tent enclosure with him—about what they could be doing. Wondering about what the other guy was packing.

He looked at the other guy’s midsection, at his basket, and the other guy nervously crossed his legs—as if he could divine what Eric was thinking. Eric slouched down in his chair, instinctively spreading his legs, gazing steadily at the other guy now. The other guy was trying to look everywhere but at Eric, but that wasn’t working so well. From time to time, he took peeks across the enclosure. Eric let his hand go to his basket.

Silence for the longest time, with Eric doing his “available” signaling and the other guy taking occasional—actually, more frequent—peeks and getting pretty fidgety.

“Wanna fuck me?” The question was posed in a low voice so that the other guy could pretend he didn’t hear Eric if he wanted to.

But the other guy had clearly heard what Eric said, and they both could tell that he had said it. The other guy’s hands were trembling; his whole body was shaking, and he popped up out of his seat, ready to flee the tent.

“Oh, two sweeties. Two honeys waiting to see Madame Toni.” The husky voice cut through the exploding tension in the enclosure. A blowsy “woman” in full-drag gypsy dress was standing at the beaded curtain into the back section of the tent, a monstrous, high-color figure that suddenly filled the space, both with “her” presence and with “her” strong perfume—to capacity. A middle aged man, working on his zipper, tucking in his shirt tail, and sporting a sloppy grin was passing from the back to the tent opening, and was quickly gone—barely an illusion of whatever had been going on in the back of the tent while tension was building in the waiting enclosure.

The other man was already standing, and Madame Toni jumped to the conclusion that he was next.

“Come on back with me, Honey,” she was saying in that melodic husky voice of hers. She turned to Eric. “Be with you in a few minutes, Sweets.”

The other man opened his mouth to say something—either that he had changed his mind or that Eric was the next one in line, but Eric was already demurring, conceding his rightful place to the other man, and Madame Toni had a pudgy, bejeweled hand on the other man’s forearm and was guiding him beyond the beaded curtain.

* * * *

Clarence felt trapped and was close to hyperventilating as Madame Toni manhandled him through a second, darkened compartment of the tent, which appeared to be her sleeping and cooking quarters, and into the section at the back of the tent, which was set up in some tacky perception of the Arabian nights, as envisioned by someone who had never been outside of Kansas. There were candles and large carpet pillows strewn everywhere, and in the center of the area, a small, round table was strategically positioned, covered down to the ground with a green felt cloth. On one side of that was another one of the rusty metal folding chairs and across the table from that was a white wicker fan chair that was listing a bit to the left. In the center of the table was a crystal ball, all aglow, with a murky milkish cloud swirling inside it.

Madame Toni pushed Clarence down onto the metal chair, and she moved around the table and lowered a gigantic butt into the fan chair.

Clarence was still in high panic over the near-thing encounter he’d had out in the waiting area with that dark-haired, dreamy-eyed young hunk. The guy had been coming on to him. Clarence had known that long before the guy had asked him if he wanted to fuck. And Clarence had found the young guy irresistible—or would have, that was, if he didn’t have the block against contact with another man that was driving him crazy—and, he suspected, sending him to his grave.

When he’d popped up out there, even as he was doing it, he didn’t know what he would do next. He wanted to grab the saucy little hunk and take him into the woods and fuck his lights out—and, in fact, that night when he got back to his apartment, all alone in his bed, he would weave a fantasy of doing just that as he masturbated himself to sleep. But the rational side of Clarence’s brain was telling him that he had jumped up to escape once again—that he just couldn’t slip over that divide from fantasy to reality. He needed something to explode him across that divide.

“What is troubling you, my dear? Tell Madame Toni. Madame Toni can help.”

Clarence looked up, realizing for the first time that the larger-than-life figure across the table from him was addressing him. He looked around the enclosure, with its cheap movie set props of the mysterious Orient—seeing them for the first time—and he wanted to laugh. And to get up and march out of there. This wasn’t going to give him any answers. But then, that young hunk was out there. And Clarence would have to see him again and be struck with the reality that he just . . . couldn’t . . . take that step.

Madame Toni had one palm on her glowing crystal ball, milky cloud aswirling, and she was holding one of Clarence’s hands in her other hand. She had her thumb folded under so that it was stroking Clarence’s palm, and it brought chills up his spine—and, he was almost embarrassed to admit, stirrings in his loins.

And then he blurted it all out. How he’d dreamed of having sex with another man—of mastering another man. And of the block he was having doing that. And of how he was getting older—and, he was afraid—infirm. He even told Madame Toni that he was beginning to have trouble getting it up.

All the time Madame Toni sat there, looking comforting and confident and sympathetic, stroking Clarence’s palm with her thumb, and clucking that she was certain she could help him.

Inside, though, she was calculating. She’d heard this story a hundred times before. This was probably the number two reason the men came to see her. The number one reason was that men just liked to get their rocks off and hers wasn’t any more expensive that any other quickie blow job.

This seemed to be an extreme case, though. The guy seemed to be on the edge and tipping over it. For no particular reason at all, really. He was quite good looking and in great shape. Madame T wondered for a moment if he was just tiny down there. Well, that wasn’t a problem, either. She could pretend delight with the best of them and if there was anything down there at all, she could get it hard between her lips.

He was so skittish, though. The approach would have to be delicate and she’d have to gauge what he would be willing to pay—what amount she should charge him that wouldn’t scare the rabbit off.

Clarence was trembling and shuffling his feet nervously under the edge of the green felt table covering. Madame T knew she’d need to move this session along quickly to close the deal. And there was another one waiting out in the waiting area. A real cute one. She could tell what his problem was. He’d want to be fucked. Well, she could manage that, as well, although the blow jobs were a lot more convenient, took less time, and were less messy.

“Let’s just see what the crystal ball has to say about this,” Madame Toni murmured, letting go of Clarence’s mitt now and covering the ball with both of her palms. She raised her face to the ceiling and closed her eyes. “Let’s just see what the crystal ball has to tell us about your future.”

She was humming, in a low, husky baritone, her tone becoming darker, more possessed, the light in the room seemed to be dimming.

In fact, it had become a whole hell of lot darker in the room. The crystal ball had blacked out. No glow. No milky-white swirl. Nada. Black.

Clarence gave a strangled little cry and stumbled up from the folding chair, which fell away behind him with a metallic clang. Panicked, knowing instantaneously what the crystal ball was telling him about his future, and gurgling his horror, he turned and hobbled out of the room.

He stumbled through the intervening, dark section of the tent, and his eyes were blinded by the light as he pushed through the beaded curtain into the reception enclosure.

“There is no future. I have no future. I knew it. I’m doomed. I’m going to die,” Clarence was muttering to himself as he entered the reception area.

His eyes, when they focused, lit on Eric, still sitting there, jaw dropped, eyes bugging out, as he viewed the ghostly apparition bursting through the beaded curtain.

Clarence leaned down and grabbed Eric’s wrist and pulled him out of the folding chair with superhuman strength.

“Now. You. Me. The woods,” Clarence roared as he pulled an astonished Eric toward the tent opening.

Clarence fucked Eric three ways from Sunday on the moss in a little glen of the woods between the field and the house of the Chapman farm. Clarence was a superfucker. Masterfully taking Eric in several positions—all that he could remember from his built up fantasies—with a master cock that made Eric melt and writhe and cry out in ecstasy.

At length, both spent and exhausted and still panting, Eric lay in Clarence’s arms on the soft moss as they watched the leaves in the trees above them sway in the evening breeze.

“God, I have never . . . never . . . never been fucked like that,” Eric muttered in awe and admiration. “Can I come home with you, Daddy? I mean like in forever?”

“Yes, why not?” Clarence answered in a small, dreamy, well-satisfied voice. Why not indeed? Clarence had had no idea it could be this good. He was at least half in love with Eric already. And what was forever, anyway? He had seen reality in that crystal ball. Forever was fleeting.

* * * *

Back in the rear enclosure to Madame Toni’s tent, Madame T broke her trance and humming and looked, in surprise and confusion, at the retreating figure of Clarence.

Then she looked down and saw her blackened, dull crystal ball.

“Damn. Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered as she bent and ran her hands under the table until she found the two loose ends of the electric cable that Clarence had knocked apart with his shuffling feet. “I keep telling myself I need to get a battery-operated ball. Shit.”

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