Chapter 1: Not Deep Enough
“I am dedicated to the cause and all. I am sure of my abilities. My ass is ready. Still, I am not 100% sure that this really is the way to truth or the better life for mankind, or whatever?”
It was May 2nd as Nels spoke to his editor Ernie in the bland Manhattan office. Or, to be more precise, Ernie was the editor of the online publication at which Nels interned in a loosely defined part-time capacity while a student at the nearby College of Citizen Journalism Critical Studies.
“Doubts are natural. But you are doing the right thing. You wanted to expose the social power failures and false consciousness, I recall you saying,” said Ernie.
“Well yeah, but like, don’t get me wrong, Congressman Hammering is a hypocrite. But is it going deep enough? You know there are rumours of the hottest gay guys disappearing in unexplained ways, some even say there are auctions and really strange stuff, like, bring-your-Venetian-masquerade-mask level of strange. Something is going on. Like some next-level late-stage oligarchy stuff, or something, I don’t know,” said Nels, who had insisted on this meeting twelve hours before his planned clandestine date when the carefully laid honey trap was meant to close.
Ernie had little patience for introspection. There was content to be churned out, and click-through rates to be maximized. But he was willing to spend a few minutes with Nels. After all, Nels had brought in some nice content that blended the lurid and the righteous to perfection. Sexual debauchery and titillation with a just and morally upright veneer was gold. And with a per-word published compensation, this earnest boy was a high-margin commodity.
“I hear you, I truly do. And I think you may be onto something. But we need some meat, as it were. Get the ball rolling, beat the grass to scare the snake, and so on. As long as you keep your drafts coming in, this could become a much larger exposé. You might be right that Congressman Hammering is a small part of a larger story. But how do you get there? Do you have a thread to pull on? A lead to follow up? A secret source?”
“Well no, but I feel it, in my core, like my intuition tells me…”
“Take it in steps. Don’t rush it. Give me some of that stuff that sells first. Then go for the scoop, the revelations that will shock the world, if there are any. Be a good intern now, get that booty ready and by tomorrow morning I expect your draft and we see if there is more to it. See… doesn’t it feel better already to have sorted out this stuff? I am an experienced and award-winning editor, I know these things. Trust me.”
“Well, I mean, I suppose taking action and executing is the way — act, then words,” mumbled Nels.
“Attaboy! Play this right and we may have a multi-article story, a reportage worthy of the annals of American journalism. Don’t get too poetic and wordy, as you sometimes do, and keep me posted on the corporate chat, and all will work out well,” said Ernie and turned to his computer to resume editing the titles of the afternoon batch of 2-3 minute reading content.
Nels stood up and left. Maybe Ernie was right, he thought. It was not the method that was the problem. He knew how to use his butt — real and metaphorical — for both fun and good. It was the tardy goal, the low ambition that irked him. Nels knew the rumours — the dangerous and salacious rumours. Every cell in his body and kernel of his soul urged him to pursue them. Nels needed something true and weighty to dedicate himself to. He just could not find how to begin.
Draft authored by Nels on May 3rd, recovered from digital device, NYPD evidence archive number B-55-2x54-1
For all the power unleashed in the multitude of collisions of uranium and plutonium, the warm touch and snug grip of an ass have empowered far more men to alter the course of history than anything else. A primary rule of human civilization: the force of the sweetest boy butt can make the subatomic forces of the nucleus look like rounding errors in comparison. Surely all the Greek marble statues and their literally rock-hard buttocks tell us something much grander about Man than the preferred fapping material of 4th century BCE Athens.
Might I join this illustrious group of perky young men? My ass, after all, is the beating heart of this undercover mission. Might this butt, presently wrapped in thin cotton and shapely spandex, unearth the errors of our modern world and its cold mechanical designs that grind us down to interchangeable commodities? I hope so. We need it to be so.
I have gone undercover to bring to light the falsity of Congressman Hammering. The reader may have heard the whispers about him and his predilections. Our publication has shared the rumours. But to date, the most specific details on the matter are what the parted lips of two or three DC rent boys have divulged — off the record, in hushed tones, vaguely outlined and all too often mysteriously retracted a day or two later.
The problem is not this, however. Paying to probe a premium pair of perky boy buttocks is a tradition at least as old and venerable as Western political thought. Rather, his frequent sacrifice of duty to America to serve his narrow self-interest and net worth is. A man endowed with power ought to contribute and nurture, not just take and erode.
The fact that he thumbs his nose at this principle is the problem — not that he from time to time wiggles thumbs and nose inside fit boys on all fours.
Truth is therefore not only imperative. Its revelation requires real bodily effort to attain. Here follows my account of my body in action — for truth, for good.
A central fact about me: I know with utter certainty whenever my ass is checked out with horny intent. From years of running along fields of corn and wheat, squatting in gyms and tiny dorm rooms, and the genetic flukes of distant history, I am equipped with a pair of buttocks that attract horny minds and trigger salivary glands. No more than twenty years have I been in this world, yet this package has felt more aroused touches by men than most asses will feel in a lifetime.
Like in the grand traditions of innumerable young men before me, I too have come to master how to wield this power to move the very wheels of our world. Call it natural talent.
So when my snug, low-waist jeans, which revealed parts of branded spandex on a cresting butt, attracted Hammering’s gaze as I had joined the pool of reporters shouting questions after his latest performative and contentless speech (let us not pretend otherwise), I knew my plan was working like a charm.
In short order, I was granted a fifteen-minute sit-down with the Congressman on a warm spring day. With our knees almost touching, I interviewed him in his office. My questions were the most well-honed fluff — inoffensive platitudes and chatter, the rhetorical equivalent of blowing a well-aimed stream of air on erogenous zones. I also wore a textbook boy toy uniform — tightness and cleavages in abundance — to tickle the mind of the man opposite, who patted my legs and shoulders “for encouragement.” It was almost too easy. Hammering’s boner was going to do most of the work. It might qualify for co-authorship of this article.
At least those were my thoughts as I exited Hammering’s office, his gaze locked onto my ass. As I write this dispatch, the first of many, Hammering’s part may however prove rather minor. A fitting condition for such a sad man. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The sit-down granted me an invite to an “intimate mentoring session with rising American talent”, as Hammering’s assistant had called it. On a warm evening, on the second of May, the air filled with the promise of a bright and lush summer, the slippery paths of winter fading from memory, I walked towards the New York City address I had been given, as cocksure as a young man of my constitution can be, that I was headed to something of significance and lively with risk and purpose. I needed that to be so. Ennui and purposelessness had been dreary companions for far too long.
The doorman gave me a knowing nod. He was the kind of man nobody would mess with because, despite his traditional long coat and stiff uniform, any man could tell this doorman carried grizzled strength in abundance. I felt oddly naked when faced with his gaze. No doubt, he knew the primal lusts my body was about to unleash in the luxury apartment above. I am no prude. Still, the doorman oddly unsettled my confidence.
“Ah, Nels. My favourite reporter. Intrepid and immaculate. Come in. I would normally help you take off your outdoor clothing, but I see you arrived without any — frankly, not much indoor clothing either. I am not complaining, just observing,” said Congressman Hammering as he opened the door. He was tipsy and his face blushed. Evidently, the Viagra was already hard at work.
On a scale from one to ten, I rate his routine at a decent three. This was not my first time at centre stage, so to speak. I knew my part of the script to play. And he knew his. However, he had become too used to flexing his government power and lobbying earnings. He lacked style.
There even was a non-disclosure agreement to sign. Can a boy be blamed for feeling a bit limp in the jockstrap when the procedural bureaucracy of an over-lawyered society is part of the foreplay? What is next? A McKinsey PowerPoint in flaccid blue and grey on the five frameworks to implement strategic corporate transformational change in bed?
At least the champagne was good, so plus one point for that.
His hand was stroking my thigh before the ink was dry on the NDA.
“Such youthful firmness. Cherish it. And so smooth and tender. Muscular also. You are the full package — smart and handsome. You sure have packed so much delicate boy into your body, I almost expect it to burst at the seams. Do you feel the pressures, inside and out? Do you need to burst a little?”
Considering his profession, he ought to be better at speech. What was he really saying?
In seconds, his hand slid along my thigh, from my knee to the edge of my shorts. The most intimate goodies, as it were, were within his reach. He hesitated, though. The Congressman surprised me — so I was not simply to be a warm and pliable cock-sleeve to stroke the Congressman’s ego and power fetish for a few blissful groaning minutes?
“You remind me of someone. Your body feels so good, all of it… it speaks to me…” mumbled the Congressman as he outlined my pectoral muscles with his index finger. “Let us do some role-play, good proper American role-play,” he said and leaned back with a drunken smile.
Here we go, I thought. Bring out the knee breeches and prepare for the Founding Fathers and the Naughty Clerk routine. Or perhaps the simple and direct Suck on My First Branch.
Hammering surprised me yet again. Rather than a leather stovepipe hat or a latex gavel, he brought a simple farmer’s straw hat and asked that I remove all clothes. Between my teeth, he tenderly inserted a freshly harvested straw of grass from the distant prairie. And thus, in front of a red-faced and panting Hammering stood a butt-naked boy, a bit of sweat rolling down the chest from the lingering warmth of the spring evening, straw hat on top of blond rumpled hair, chewing on straw — a view as if taken from Grant Wood’s most secret drawer.
“It’s you. Yes, it’s you in the flesh. I need to… let me,” said the Congressman excitedly and dropped to his knees to land with a thud with his face mere inches from my buttocks.
“Was it hard work today on the fields? The harvest took effort, right? Sweaty effort. But you are strong. Simple and direct. You climbed the stallion and went into action, no fear, no fuss,” shouted the Congressman while he lovingly hugged my ass with his hands.
He plunged in, mouth first. His lips and tongue pushed, probed and slurped all over my ass. I flexed a bit and arched my lower back slightly, which led to a muffled moan of joy from the Congressman. The tactile sensations were varied and intense. Frankly, pretty good.
His appetite was not in doubt. So as soon as I went down on all fours, the Congressman followed without for even a fraction of a second drop his grip and oral attachment. He began stroking my dick and balls from his position behind me while with the other hand, he stroked my chest, abs and biceps. His face he happily buried deep between my buttocks. I cannot tell how he did it, but whatever fantasy this role-play enacted, it led to some nice feelings. To Hammering’s merit, my dick was in short order hard and dripping for real.
Fuelled by alcohol and the potent stuff exclusively harvestable from the aroused body of boys, Hammering was launched into a vast and distant memory space, all while he mumbled and shouted incoherent things: “Lars, you are the best”, “I make you happy”, “You are a real man, Lars, all around, everywhere”, “It should have been you and I”, “You are so beautiful and courageous”, “Lars, I love you”, “I will make you squirt and scream of joy”, “Your ass, your body, your soul”, “You are true and strong, unpolished and whole.”
From a cliche and overly structured start, the Congressman’s natural talents had reached full organic bloom in that space my body had taken him. A moan or two escaped my lips, which only made Hammering praise “Lars”, manhood, sweaty farm labour and upstanding manly vigour even louder along with ever greater stroking and probing pace.
After a few pleasurable minutes, he detached himself and began fumbling with his belt and zipper. I was ready. Prepared to grip him, expose him, and make him naked both in body and spirit. I had him where I wanted him — hypnotized by my naked butt.
Alas, that was when the door opened.
“What!? Do not disturb me,” he shouted with animal rage to his assistant who appeared.
“Congressman Hammering, it is the President. He is calling. About that speech. I thought… it deserved your immediate…” stammered the flustered assistant who was unsure where to direct his gaze.
“Shit… Could he not… Where are the belligerent North Koreans when you need them… I have ass here…” muttered the Congressman with anger and frustration. He stood up, pulled his pants up over his boner, and walked to the door.
“Deal with that,” he said coldly to his assistant and nodded in my direction, his back turned. Gone were the praise and attention to the dreamy Lars, back was the instrumental logic.
After another summary of the terms of the NDA, I was shown the door. That assistant sure was an efficient programmable lump of matter.
I kept the straw hat, though. I hoped that would anger the Congressman. Petty, I admit.
An anti-climactic evening, in every sense. No conspiracy unearthed! Rather, Congressman Hammering was more a fool than a devil, an automaton of sorts, who moved with the currents. His abilities aimed at little more than recreating figments of a lustful past and undressed adventures, and to score a favour with tragic Washington men like himself. He was not a man powerful enough to rewrite the world around us, to assert himself on objects and subjects.
Is that all there is to explain things? Old nostalgic men stuck in a loop of self-gratulation and frustrated dreams of what once was? Automatons, all the way down? Was that what explained the errors of our world, and the epidemic of pain and vacuum inside?
“Looking for something more, something you can feel, truly feel, Nels?” The voice of the doorman woke me up from my dejected thoughts as I entered the street anew, straw hat in hand and clothes on my body. His words echoed my thoughts as if he could read my mind. I looked at him, startled, confused, yet intrigued.
“Answers and action are not found upstairs. I know things you would cherish to know too, truthful and soulful things,” he said. His certainty felt odd. He handed me a small handwritten note. Once I regained my composure, he had already returned inside the lobby.
An address, a drawing of a door, and the words: “Boy at the Round Table”. A secret society? A bar? A place of sex, auction and manly dangers? I did not know. But I had to learn. So my naked performance on all fours may not have been an anti-climatic thing after all. I think my butt moved something in the world that evening.
