Gods and Men

Clusters of Turks sit cross-legged on richly woven carpets. Young men still in their late teens, idle and relaxed in these last days of summer, they glance up from teacups when I enter, their dark eyes like shadows, watching as I cross the room and stand at the desk and wait for the man behind it to give me a towel.

A barrel-chested, shirtless man, he smiles and asks, American? I nod and say, From Florida. His eyes light up, and he spreads his arms wide like he¡¯s a genie here to grant my wishes. Flor-i-da, he says, stretching the word out like it¡¯s something holy, a place you go when you die. I nod, we laugh, he places a towel on the marble counter. He cocks his head and motions toward an opaque glass door.

Just before I knock, the door opens, and an older gentleman, skin the color of teakwood, welcomes me inside. These baths are over twelve hundred years old, swirling black and white tile surrounding a steaming pool, aqua walls inlaid with mosaics of unclad gods and men. The elder glides his arm to the right. Hot, he says, then sweeps to the left: more hot. Young men line the walls, relaxing beneath thermal falls, their black hair plastered wet. Sunlight filters through the glass-domed ceiling. You come, the old man says, and I follow.

Wire baskets hold personal belongings, stacked from floor to ceiling. The man takes my towel and hands me a white cloth, which I unfurl and puzzle over. A small apron with strings, I hold it up to my waist. The man smiles and shakes his head. I do not understand. No, I hear, a strong German accent. Like so. Behind me stands a strapping, uncut Bavarian, his strings tied around his hips, the apron flap covering his rear. For sitting, he tells me. And peek-a-boo. He turns and lifts his apron, revealing a tanned, tight, muscular ass. I see you in steam room? He trots out into the light.

When I turn back, the old man's gone. Oh well; when in Rome... I slip off my loafers and tee shirt. Unbuckling my belt, I hear a sort of hissing. Behind me, leaning against a wall, a thin Turkish teenager, naked as the day he was born, pulls on his ropy, semi-hard cock. With a sparse triangle of feathers, smooth pink nut-sack, and swollen nipples, he smiles with teeth like ivory, a model of perfection. Sliding off my jeans, I turn to face him, my own cock fattening up nicely, growing with desire. Show me. I open my arms, inviting him closer.

A smell like hair pomade, sweet and bitter, fills my nostrils. A gentle hand cups my ass. Another young man, early twenties, silent as a cat, has sidled up next to me. With heavy eyelids he stares at my mouth, and when I open it to speak he places a finger to my lips, shushes me, points to his eyes, then points to the boy in front of us, indicating I should watch.

Using both hands, the teen continues to pull on his cock, from base to tapered tip, stretching it like a length of brown circus taffy. And though it doesn¡¯t stand at full attention, it seems to transform into something almost serpentine, alive. He turns his back to us, spits in his palm, then slowly inserts the spittle deep inside his smooth, hairless ass. Like a dancer at the barre he touches the wall for support, then allows his feet to slide apart, wider, spreading, sinking down toward the floor in a perfect split. Not quite what I expected, but I nod solemnly, trying to look impressed. The man beside me smiles; he indicates more to come.

Reaching between his legs, the gymnastic teenager pulls his cock back, and as he slides to the floor, he forces the head of it into his ass. Inches from the tile, he removes his hands and sinks lower, the weight of his body forcing the elastic cock up his spread-wide hole. The man next to me grins. He rests his head on my shoulder, his hand roves my ass. The muscled teen moves up and down, fucking himself in a sweaty, erotic ballet. My own cock throbs so hard it knocks against my belly. A rough finger teases my hot hole. I push back; it slides in dry. Deeper, all the way in, pushing against my prostate, urging and tickling, stoking the fire that burns through my belly all the way to tip of my straining dick.

The man beside me squeezes my pec, then rakes his nails across my chest. He pinches my nipple, twisting and pulling. He opens his hand, palm up, waiting for something, I¡¯m not sure what. The teenager moans, face against the wall, moving faster, his slick cock plunging in and out of his hairless boy pussy. Remembering the teen's warm-up routine, I take the man¡¯s hand and move it to my mouth, licking his open palm. But instead of a hand job the man begins a strange ululation, a sort of high-pitched howl you might hear at a Bedouin street rally.

Naked Turks stream in, crowding our private fuck fest with brawny bodies. Uncertain what I¡¯ve done, I pull away from the finger fuck and take a step back. For a moment, nobody moves. Heavy breathing mingles with a nearby shower. I scan faces, listening to their breathing. Somebody chuckles, a deep, patriarchal laugh. Others join in, and soon we¡¯re all laughing. The autoerotic fuck-show teen gets hoisted onto a big man¡¯s shoulders. Others gather round them, and he¡¯s paraded like a prince from the room. Hands urge me to follow, and we move through the doorway toward the pools.

The crowd begins a rhythmic clapping. Other bathers appear. The big man, trailed by admirers, carries the fuck-show teenager around the poolside, heading for the runway. Young men leap into the water, splashing and kicking, while other ones wade out to the steaming depths. They whistle the teens over, grab at their slippery bodies, kiss their faces, give suck to their darting tongues. A bearded man with an eye patch wraps a wide, hairy arm around one man¡¯s hips and pulls him back toward his eager mouth. He buries his face deep in the teenager's ass. Other teens slide over and around them like otters, begging their turn.

My friend from the locker room drops to his knees in front of me. He looks so hopeful, like a pound puppy ready to please. He wraps his hands around my boner, then drags it across his lips, painting them with precome. I snatch a handful of hair, then push my cock down his lovelorn throat. I slow-fuck his thin, dark face. He whimpers, hungry for my jizz. Someone kneels behind me. A tongue explores my fuckhole.

On the tile runway the show boy clings to the big man¡¯s back. The crowd parts, and a tall man in purple robes steps from the shadows. With shaved head and a barbell mustache, he moves with purpose, commanding respect.

Behind the show boy his robe falls away; the room gasps at his thick body, its wild, roving, gypsy tattoos. He spits on his hand, strokes his cock, then shoves it up the show boy¡¯s ass. The smiling boy faints, impaled like a rag doll. The gypsy king¡¯s hand supports the boy¡¯s chest, and the big man steps away, joining the others, clapping and laughing, urging on the gypsy, who moves like a shaman in a slow, undulating circle, thrusting into the boy with deep, powerful strokes. The man at my feet stops to watch. I grab his face and stuff my cock back into his mouth.

The show boy wakes. His thin cock stiffens like a spear. The gypsy king roars. The cheering crowd kneels around them. They open their mouths like baby birds, and the boy spreads his arms, a grinning masthead, blessing the suppliants. His cock erupts. Long streams of jism arc out over the congregation. They lap at the air like barn cats. A few older men lick the floor. The gypsy lifts the boy up and off his enormous cock, so slowly you can almost hear it. He hoists the boy over his head, laughs, and tosses him into the pool.

He scans the room. His eyes meet mine; he points a finger. The crowd goes wild. They rush toward me, lift me into the air and carry me like an offering to their tattooed, hairless king. I stand before him, naked and afraid. He slides a finger between my lips, prying them apart. Then, leaning closer, he spits into my gaping mouth.

My carriers force me to my knees. I stare at their leader¡¯s heavy balls. Hands on hips, he shouts out an order in a language I don¡¯t understand. The crowd drops to their knees, and with shaking hands, I reach around and grab his muscular ass. Opening wide, I pull him into my mouth. The bitter show boy residue almost makes me gag. What would my wife think? I do not wonder too long. For here in the bowels of this Istanbul fuck pit, I¡¯m nothing but a plaything, an American writer, tossed to beautiful lions.

I suck his pungent cock, salivating, making love, a dedicated virgin bride. The crowd drums, slapping at the wet tile floor. Two teens give suck to the Lion King¡¯s nipples. Slick hands coat my body with oil. A chant rises. My nostrils fill with the stink of ass and man sex. I hear sounds of fucking. I tongue my King¡¯s scrotum, pumping his cock, begging to please. He lays me on my back and pushes my knees to my chest. I take a breath, and he enters me, pushing in, ripping me open. I blink back tears. I wonder if I¡¯ll need a doctor.

With a deep growl he pushes in all the way. Fucking hell. It¡¯s like being punched in the stomach. I close my eyes, pray that he takes it easy. He slaps my face hard. Stares into me. A gang of boys circle us. They point their cocks, and wait for a signal. My sweet holy fuck pulls back slow, then thrusts again, splitting my ass, cramming my bowels. I stifle a scream. He does it again. Out, in. Picking up steam. He begins a howl: wild, ecstatic. I shiver, hair on end.

The boys start pissing, showering my face, and chest. My prostate burns. My balls tight. I feel like I¡¯m losing it, breaking apart, melting. Oh God, here it comes, my cock erupting, jets of cum rocketing into the air. The teenagers fall to me, licking, and slurping, my cock still shooting, they cover me with kisses. One of them sits on my face. I feast on his tight, puckered hole.

My hands flail. I grab hold of man dicks. I rock beneath my master. I want him to take possession of my sad, lost soul. He pounds harder. Heartless. Beyond words. Perfect. And then I feel it. His whole body vibrating. Waves of electricity roll up my spine, clang against my skull. He fills me with a river of white, hot fire.

I awake in the morning back at my hotel. Taxi cabs and motorbikes sputter in the streets below. Somewhere, a phone rings. On the pillow beside me, a tiny folded waist apron. For sitting. And peek-a-boo. I slide out of bed, open the curtains, and suck in the morning light.