By Eric Lupin
There’s a business in my hometown that services a unique clientele. If you happen to be online, you might receive an instant message from someone advertising this business. You might be enticed to make an appointment to visit this business, which is run out of someone’s home.
If you do, you’ll approach the house and see a pleasant looking California cottage. Attached to it is a normal, everyday-looking garden shed with a wrought iron weathervane, in a porcine motif, that points you to the door. You open the door, and see another door that leads into the house, with a doorbell marked RING FOR SERVICE. So you do, and you hear a shuffle shuffle shuffle. You look down at the door and see two glory holes, for men of different heights, and an eager mouth appears in one of them.
You unzip, and do your business. As you’re being gobbled, you look up to your left, and just as your mind thinks, “God it’d be great if there were some porn playing right now,” a monitor snaps on, displaying the kind of hot sex you didn’t come here for. As your pleasure increases, you look off to your right, thinking, “God, I wish I had something to make this incredible head job I’m receiving feel better,” and notice a bottle of poppers sitting there, just for you.
As you get closer and closer to an earth-shattering orgasm, you wish that you had something above your head to grab onto, maybe some sort of handles, the better to fuck that hole you’re fucking right now. And lo, you look up, and there they are. You realize then that this person you're doing business with must be a master manipulator, a king/queen of spin, and it frightens you, frightens you to know that someone can play on your desire to shoot a wad so much that you've ended up here ... here ... where it's not exactly a woman who's on the other side of that door and...
Just then, the person you're doing business with does something to your frenulum (tongue stud? omygodomygodomygod), at the precise moment that something very hot happens on the monitor up there, and your balls draw up and you don't care about the gender of this businessman, it feels too good to care, this person who knows just how to please you with nothing (no intimacy, no friendship, no love, no sharing, just cocksucking) more than sex, and you give up to it, for one brief moment you give in to it, you're not minding and maybe, you think, maybe it can be better than this, and maybe you should be honest with the people you love and maybe ...
Then you come, screaming your incredible pleasure in the relative safety and friendly confines of private property. You hear a gulp, your cock is released from the warm sucking place its been for the last ten minutes and you hear shuffle shuffle shuffle receding into the distance.
By the time you’ve zipped up and gotten back into your car, you’ve already forgotten that you’ve just been sucked off by another man.
The people who know about this place, and its reputation is growing quickly, have decided to call this business “The Pig Shack”.
When I tell my straight male friends about The Pig Shack, two questions are invariably asked. The first: “So, how much does this cost?”. When I answer, “It’s free,” the second question is always, always, “And where is this place again?”
You’ve been given the thinnest veneer of plausible deniability … you were watching straight porn after all … and that’s all you need to get by.
…but I don’t feel very proud.