****** An Evening with Gamal by Arablover ******
===============================================================================

An Evening with Gamal


Gamal worked the counter at Jo-Jo's, a stand-up, pizza-by-the slice joint on
Father Demo Square here in the Village. I'd go there for a slice hoping to see
the young man. He wasn't "goodlooking" but he was sexy. Dark with thick wiry
black hair, the young Iraqi was stocky but sturdy. Gamal's right eye was
somewhat turned giving him a dumb, slightly crazy look that turned me on. Like
a lot of countermen his uniform was white shirt, white pants. I guess
management was trying to promote the idea that theirs was a sanitary
establishment. The tomato sauce splotches and the sweat stains on the young
man's pants kind of defeated that idea. Gamal wore no shorts and his meaty rump
was achingly evident through the thin fabric. When he turned his back I would
stare at that backside pregnantly filling the seat of those thin white pants. I
love pizza but what made my mouth water was the idea of getting my hands on
that ample, manly young ass, spreading those delicious mounds and getting my
face and mouth all over them and in them. Think of a starving man licking the
pudding off the inside of a pot.

I never looked away when he would turn back toward me. It didn't bother me that
he would know what I was thinking. Somehow, I didn't think he would mind. When
he started giving me a second slice for free, I knew he didn't mind.

One quiet Tuesday afternoon while I tore at a slice, Gamal stood on the
customer side of the counter with his foot on a chair looking out the window,
pensively.

"You look sad," I said.

"I don't think I will work here much longer," he said, scratching the crack of
his ass with his thumb. My mouth must have fallen open. "Excuse me," Gamal
said, "I forget myself."

"I don't mind at all, Gamal," I said. "It's so warm in here. You get sweaty. A
man has to scratch."

"Khalil, he is the boss. He is a shit," he said.

In places like that, the boss usually is.

"Gee, Gamal," I cooed, "wherever you'd go, I'd follow you. You're a real good
host. I'd miss you so."

When Khalil entered the store, Gamal jerked his foot off the chair. "Make
yourself busy," Khalil snapped. Gamal went behind the counter. There was
nothing to do, really. He started to move this way and that, then arrested
himself mid-motion not knowing what to do. Then he picked up the rag and wiped
the counter. Not that it mattered. Khalil had gone immediately to the store-
room.

"Write down," Gamal made a scribbling gesture. "Your address. Phone."

"Sure." Fumbling with excitement, I wrote the info for him on a paper napkin.

"Go now," Gamal said. "The boss doesn't like faggots."

I should have been insulted but from Gamal it was the kind of talk I wanted.
Instead of waving goodbye, Gamal cupped his hand under his crotch and made a
flipping motion in my direction. His smiled glowed obscenely.

After I got home (I lived just two blocks from the pizza place) I whacked off
twice in an hour. It helped the heat in me subside. But I resigned myself to
the idea that I would probably not get a call from Gamal. Ever. Perhaps it was
for the best.

But the following evening, hey, he did call. " I am gone," he said. "Fired."

Poor baby! "Come tell me about it," I said.

"I tell you," said Gamal. "But you come to me. Good."

He gave me an address on the Upper West Side that turned out to be a nice old
brownstone. The rent had to be rugged on a pizza slinger's pay. In the
apartment, the furniture was nondescript except for a beautiful Persian carpet
covering the living room floor.

Gamal immediately put me at ease. "Down. On knees. Crawl." When we got to the
living room he said, "Sit up." I got into a crouch, balancing on the balls of
my feet.

He dropped his pants unveiling his soft, circumcised dick. It was long, curving
graciously outward with a gentle banana-like bend, its shaft blooming
lusciously into the mushroom head of his manhood.

His rough hand grabbed my chin and I opened my mouth. He spat in it. I savored
and swallowed his garlicky saliva. My cock was hard.

"Don't you spill any of this on the carpet or I will beat you," he said putting
his dick in my mouth-hole. Without hesitation he started releasing his piss. Of
course, I swallowed his water like I had been dying of thirst. I love a man's
piss. It is as normal to me as drinking lemonade. A brew from a sexy man's body
is a gift. I don't think guys like Gamal are aware of how generous they are in
this act of intimate sharing. When he finished, he pulled his fist down his
dick to wipe off my saliva. Then he wiped his hand on my hair.

"Undress," he ordered. " I am going to beat you."

"Why, Gamal?" I said, surprised. "I didn't spill any."

"You have not been calling me 'Master', you piece of shit."

"Aha," I said. "Sorry, Master." I pulled off my duds and took a position ass up
supporting myself on my elbows and knees. I guess that was satisfactory: He
made no comment. I heard the whoosh of his belt coming off and presently he
smacked me hard with the doubled up belt, again and again, on my ass and upper
back. He was saying something emphatic in Arabic, each slap underscoring a
word. I wasn't sure that he was being entirely flattering but I didn't think to
ask. Some of the slaps were numbing, some stung. All dissolved into a delirious
sensual heat. When he stopped whacking me, after I don't know how many swats, I
fell flat, exhausted.

"Over," he said weakly, out of breath.

I rolled over on the carpet. He came to me and stood with a foot on either side
of my head. He dropped his pants and squatted with his smelly, hairy asscrack
over my face.

"Lick."

"Yes, Master," I said, bending my neck and shoulders upward to get my mouth
where it belonged. I attempted a nice long lick but could only flick. I
attempted to suck but couldn't get close enough on it. "Please, Master,
closer," I whined. Gamal helped now by gently settling his ass crack on to my
face. Now wildly, madly, I licked Gamal's crack and asshole all over, my breath
coming in gasps and snorts in the close quarters of his unwashed sanctum. My
saliva turned the residue of his last shit into a paste. As I expressed my
adoration of his shithole with my tongue, I rubbed my face all around the crack
to paint his shit on my cheeks and chin and nose. His sphincter grabbed my
tongue for a long moment. Then let go. Suddenly, he gave out with a loud wet
fart that reverberated in that small space. I swallowed it like breath but my
lungs refused. I choked and Gamal quickly moved off me and stood up. I panted
on the floor for a few moments, then relaxed.

Gamal squatted again and took a dump on the carpet. The turd was soft, half-
melted like a log of chocolate ice cream that had been sitting in the dish too
long.

"Gamal," I said. "Master, I mean."

Uncaring what I called him, Gamal started stripping.

"I would have taken care of it," I said. Saying nothing he went to the couch,
spread out my shirt and sat his shitty ass down. His mama's training in living
room manners had not been wasted. (By the way, I still have that shirt and
smell it sometimes. The stains, the still-present odor are a piece of the
reality that was Gamal).

"It does not matter that I did not in your mouth," he said. "You can lick it
up."

"But the beautiful rug will never be the same."

I could see he did not want to discuss it. "Let us be quiet for a time," he
said. I crawled over to the couch and sat on the floor facing him.

"Why did you get fired," I asked idly after a while.

Gamal, my Master for the night, so beautiful in his ease, explained that Khalil
accused him of stealing. "Which I do," he said. But the real reason he was
fired was because he insisted on fucking other men besides Khalil.

"I thought you said he didn't like 'faggots.' If you were fucking him isn't he
a faggot?'

"No, he is not a faggot. He is a married man. Far from home. You are a faggot
sitting there at my feet with my shit all over your face." Then he gestured to
the rug. I obediently crawled to it and started lapping at the pile of his poo.

Gamal, continuing, said Khalil needed to be held close in someone's arms. Who
doesn't? he said.

"Women, Middle Eastern women, are not easily available here." Working, chewing
on the mouthfuls of shit to make them swallowable, I looked up and nodded from
time to time so he knew I was listening to him.

And since he, Gamal said, was not yet even married, he, too, had a hard life.
Whether here or back home.

"We helped...each other...Khalil and I," he said.

I stopped eating and looked up at him. "You're a good looking guy, " I said
thickly, the insides of my mouth and my tongue coated with his crap. "Why don't
you hook up with an American girl?"

"Western women do not respect a man correctly here."

There was silence now except for the clicking sound of me chewing clayey shit.
Relaxation time ended. He came to me. He knew what I needed. "Open," he said. I
knelt and dropped my tired jaw. He gave me a couple of squirts of piss which I
sloshed around in my mouth thoroughly before swallowing. Now my mouth was much
clearer.

"I'm sorry Gamal, sir, but I could lick at that carpet all night and there'll
still be a big stain. I doubt if you'll ever get it out."

"The carpet is for me to be concerned about," he said, his voice rising. "But
clean my ass well. Or I will beat you again."

I did my duty to Gamal and went to work on licking and sucking his ass clean
but he would have to wash with soap to get rid of the smell. As for me the shit
smell I had on me would take more than a shower, it would take days for me to
lose the smell. I leaned back on my heels when I thought I was done. He took my
hand and put between his asscheeks, drawing it up through his crack. He
inspected. My hand was clean. "I should beat you anyway," he said. "But I am
too tired."

He put on the television and we were watching Charlie Rose interview some
faggot when Gamal decided he wanted to shit again. I got on my back and opened
wide. He squatted low directly over my mouth and gave me a nice long one that
would have slid down my throat whole had I not bit off a piece. I held it in my
hand until he moved off me.

As he went back to the sofa, I popped the last piece of shit in my mouth. He
switched off the lamp on the side table leaving the room lit only by the TV. He
sat sprawled on the couch pillow, my shirt under him. I sat cross-legged on the
floor by his feet munching my late evening goodie. Comfortable, sweet
domesticity. I could have stayed with him for keeps.

But after a little while he switched on the lamp again and said he had to take
a shower. But I could not. "A faggot cannot use a shower meant for men. You
should get dressed and go home."

"Couldn't I stay?" I pleaded.

No, he said. He, too, had to go home.

"But I thought this was your home."

"Stupid slave," he said. "How could I pay for a place like this on a
counterman's salary."

We were in Khalil's apartment, he explained. "He will be home soon."

Hmm. It was a good idea to make tracks.

Gamal busied himself with getting a towel from the closet and toiletries from
the kitchen. It was as if I were no longer there. When he had collected the
things he needed, he headed for the shower without another word.

That pissed me off. I like being treated like shit but I won't stand for being
ignored. When I heard the shower start I squatted over the rug and took my own
dump. Then I scooped up the shit and using my hand like a spatula, I scraped it
into Gamal's shoes.

I thought about getting a cab but the driver would probably put me out once he
got my stink. As I pulled on my polo and my other bedraggled duds the thought
occurred that some day I might hail a cab and Gamal would be driving. If that
did happen, I knew Gamal would not be embarrassed by seeing me again. He would
be like stone toward me. But he would have to remember me and I chuckled at the
thought. As for me, no hard feelings really. I had gotten what I came for.

I took the subway back downtown. Though it was late, there were 8 or 10 others
in the subway car. My smell hit them hard. None heaved but one guy made some
retching noises (not in nausea, but in sarcasm, I think) and a lady loudly said
"P.U." Would they throw me off? Go get the conductor? Though no one ever does
more than gripe, it makes me uneasy when people get vocal about the stink. By
ones and twos, all of them left to sit in other cars. At 18th Street a man
stepped into the car, got hit by the smell, and stepped back out to wait for
another train. I didn't give a crap. For the rest of the ride I had the subway
car to myself, all the way to my home stop, Christopher Street.

Comments invited Banglalover@hotmail.com

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