by Niall O'Conghaile

Content Warning: Explicit Sexual Chat

I’m coach this time. See-though coach. I am wearing a mesh American football top, black, with a big white number 20 splayed across my tits and my belly. My chest, my nipples and my deep bellybutton are all visible underneath. The top is tight and the number 20 stretches and curves. Down below: matching shorts. See-through black mesh with white detailing. It looks a set, but actually it was a happy accident. The shorts were standard basketball kit until Joe removed the silk lining, leaving just the mesh. Instantly they were transformed from sports wear to fetish gear.

Andy loves them. He asks me where I got them (I know he wants a pair) and I tell him about my genius boyfriend. Of course, he already knows that. Every fucker in this club has been complimenting Joe on his flesh-coloured, Slayer-logo’d, full rubber basketball outfit. You know, the one he made himself. This old thing! Thierry says the shorts alone could sell for $600. Oh really? Yes really. We are fat boys who know how to turn a fucking look.

Andy’s wearing a mesh top too. His is blue with just a white jock. Classic. I have a white jock on too, under the mesh shorts. Later, in the darkroom, I take it off, reasoning that it was irritating my balls and I will probably be naked by the end of the night anyway. I had considered a black jock when we were getting dressed but thought that a white jock and white socks seemed more sleazy. Joe instantly agreed and that was it. The underwear looks sweaty and used, even though it is clean: we’ve been fucking in that white jock for so long now the cum and piss and sweat stains are permanent. The kind you wanna try and suck out. Just for coach. And there was something else: I was hoping that under the UV lights the jock might show up through the shorts. Andy tells me it does. My effect worked! The jock can afford to come off and, lo, my cock and my balls will hang free.

We’re deep into the main dancefloor at Gegen. Bodies, moving, red and orange lights, that inferno of flesh. The never ending kick drum pounds out the rhythm that beats us into submission. We’re dancing too, moving, touching, kissing, floating. We’re among a group of big bears. Fat, round bellies are out all around us. Heaven! Fat is great to touch: soft enough to squeeze, malleable, almost edible, but hard enough to retain its shape, its form, its purpose. The round curve of a big belly, you can’t beat that. You can slap it, you can stroke it, you can slowly run your finger down the firm flesh through the sweat feeling the hair, the follicles, the bumps. I LOVE FAT. My own fat and the fat of other guys. I’m a fatty who chases other fatties. Chub 4 Chub. There are some thinner guys there, the chasers, the boyfriends, but I’m focussed on the fatties. I have never really felt that much attraction for skinny guys if I am honest. I just love fatness.

And it seems mesh is in this season. String tops revealing all that fat underneath. The roundness, the softness and the solidness. But here’s the thing about mesh, especially tight mesh: it doesn’t go well with sweat. It irritates my skin and scratches my nipples. Now, I am a nipple queen: get them at the right moment with just the right amount of tension and I am a squealing fat fuck bunny, putty in your hands. But I need it done properly, not by a fucking sweat rash. So I lose my mesh. Off goes my top. It’s tits o’clock!

I have huge tits for a man. And I LOVE my tits. They are handfuls, big fucking fleshy handfuls and I love feeling hands on them, all over, squeezing and rubbing, even if those hands are my own. Fingers gliding through my chest hair as a thumb strokes my nipple. As I explain to Lupe later on the sofas as he carresses them, my tits may be big but they’re very masculine. Hard and almost perfectly square, with a swirl of tufty hair right in the middle. I love to get my tits out. Because under a shirt or a t-shirt they are ugly protrusions, moobs that could be in a bullet bra. But naked, they look right. They suit me.

I’ve got nice tits. And like Nomi, I like having nice tits. I wonder - does anyone else likes looking at ‘em?

I slide up next to a big fat bear in a luchador mask, a black string vest and a black jock. Luchador masks are insanely hot. I have a few. I want to run my fingers round the leather on his skull. He adjusts it, trying to get the knot right at the back. I want to ask him if he will allow me to lace his mask up properly, and to tie the knot for him. A sensual, intimate act of respect. But I hang back, just dancing, trying to size him up. The body language isn’t there. At one point I briefly put my hand on his thick sweaty bicep and give it a squeeze. His bicep feels great. I keep the touch very brief as I don’t want to overstep, and when he turns to me I give a little lopsided grin and a snarl. “Woof!” I tell him. He just nods and turns away, back to the dance floor. Well, that isn’t happening.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice something else. Someone else. He’s staring at me. Intently. Those eyes. His desire for me is clear and it’s not that often that I find myself being so openly desired. You must remember, I am a fat man. I may be very comfortable with my fatness and my own sexuality but the vast majority of the world is not. As a fat child/teenager the only message that is ever sent your way in regard to sex and your own sexuality is ridicule. Fat is NOT desirable. That’s what us fatties are told every day of our waking lives and its why these spaces of fat love and appreciation are so important to us. 

So I turn to catch his gaze. To let him see me, maybe even to show off a bit. He’s small. Shorter than me. Skinny. Oh. I recognise him, I think. Is he Luchador’s boyfriend? That would explains why Luchador isn’t responsive to my advances: he’s into smaller guys. Oh well. Shame for him. But that does mean that his boyfriend must be a chaser. He likes the big boys and I mean, who can blame him? And it seems like he really likes me. I smile and nod, and he smiles back. Woah… He has a really cute smile. And those eyes. Mmmm. Thay’re actually pretty gorgeous. There’s just something about this guy. He has a full beard, a full head of hair and he’s very hairy all over (he’s only wearing a small pair of trunks). Those eyes. That smile. I don’t know why, maybe it’s that super-wolf-blood-blue moon, but for once a non-fat man is doing it for me.

You know what, I’m going to be vey honest here: there is a part of me that thinks that by flirting with the chaser I might make my way into the big boy’s pants. Or his mask. Whatever. But I also have to make one thing very clear. if I flirt with someone, or dance this intimately with them (be they big or small, skinny or fat, young or old) it means that: I am down to fuck. I’m not going to use this guy to get to someone else, discarding him in the process. No. I am not that bitch. I am more than happy to play with them both. There’s more than enough of me to go around. And if Joe’s into it too, well then it’s two for the price of one.

When Joe and I first got together, as an actual couple and not just friends, we went through the advantages of having an open relationship (after my previous ex I reasoned that I can’t do monogamy). One of the scenarios was double-team flirting. How we could both hit on a guy at the same time in an obvious bid for a three way. Here’s something else you should know: I LOVE group sex. And I’m good at it. Attentive to everyone’s needs. Aware that everyone should be getting the same amount of attention and pleasure and no-one should be feeling left out, whatever the positions and roles. Basically, being a good sport. 

So I dance with the chaser for a bit. We exchange small talk, though really all the communication we need is physical. His name is J. I run my fingers through the hair on his body, from his shoulder down to his groin. Oooh. It’s so soft. Mmm. Gorgeous. He runs his fingers down my sweaty breasts, round the curve of my belly down to my abdomen. Hah! I’m ticklish! Right there… So I pull him in for a kiss, letting his much lighter body slap against my fat flesh. I wrap my arms around him and our tongues do their own little dance. Ok. He is a great kisser. I rub my fingers through his hair, towards the base of his skull and down the back of his neck. Are you on ecstasy? His shudder tells me he’s on something, anyway.

Joe is watching us now. I pull him in to join in our kiss. Like I said, two for the price of one and I know chasers like the sounds of those odds. We pull our mouths in close together, all three of us. There is nothing quite like a three way kiss. When everybody’s getting some it can be quite wonderful. And let me tell you this - that three way kiss on the dance floor of Gegen, with J, was like no other kiss I had ever had before. It was something else. Magical. Our bodies, our selves, it was as if we all dissolved into one mass of tongue and lips and facial hair. I couldn’t tell where my own body ended and Joe’s and J’s started. We had fused, one being of ecstasy, adrenaline, lust and love. Through my closed eyes the coloured lights made blue and red pools and yes, while I’m sure the drugs might have had something to do with it, all I could think was: Holy shit! That Gegen magic again.

It’s not just this kiss. In my incessant craving for the grizzlies, the big boys, the chubs and the fatties who will let me put my face between the cheeks of their lard asses while they jiggle, I have missed out on a whole other world of men: the chasers. They must make up half the crowd at these kinds of clubs and you know what? They actually desire ME. Like really. They do! Am I missing out on something?

I think of Jorge, Benito’s skinny, older boyfriend who I know has the hots for me from that time we were sat on the ledge outside Sin & Sawdust with our legs touching for what was probably longer than appropriate. I picture the fun we could have together if we ever did end up in bed, my big body and his smaller one. But I’ve always been too focussed the straining buttons on Benito’s tight shirt. Still, Jorge IS cute. Shit. I see it now. The next time I see him I’ll hit on him.

We keep dancing with J. It’s great. I pull him in for a snog as I press him into my belly, then turn him around to face Joe so he can do the same. I use my big chest to push him further into my boyfriend as they kiss. Without verbalising anything, Joe and I know what we need to do next. If you’re a smaller, skinnier man who loves the look and feel of big fat lads, then the chances are you are going to appreciate the feeling of being squashed between two much bigger, fatter, fuller figured bodies. So I pull Joe into me, and for a minute we hold J there. Tight. His small body sandwiched between us, two big fat bear buns with a skinny chaser filling. I listen to his breathing (you have to be careful you’re not literally smothering by doing this) and I can hear him moaning with joy.

On my side is the raw, naked skin of my broad chest, and on Joe’s side is the smooth, slick sensation of tight rubber. Warm and soft versus hard and slippery. I let J lean back into my belly, which swamps his whole back, and pull him further into me with my hands on his hips. All three of us kiss again. I reach round and stroke the hair on J’s chest, catching his nipples now and again. I massage the back of Joe’s neck. J leans his head back onto my shoulder and we snog one-on-one. In front, Joe turns around and backs him his ass onto J’s crotch, grinding it up and down as I hear him moan into my mouth. We finish this simulated three way fuck with a laugh. Time to return to gaiety of the dance. J leans in to tell me how he didn’t think he’d be able to get hard again this late in the night but that we had proved him wrong. Result! Later, Joe tells me how he felt J’s cock getting hard as it rubbed against his ass cheeks. And his dick felt really nice.

That’s all we got out of J for the night, but it was enough. More than enough. For now, anyway. I know that the next time we see him we will most likely get down to the real fucking. And we will all have a good idea of what we all want. And, oh, the thought of us big guys both topping the little guy is so fucking hot.

If he surrenders his body to us and lets us get really physical with him, each of us reveling in our own size. The power we have as big men over a smaller man.

We slide out of the dance floor and go to mingle and get more high. Later, on the sofas, where I am relaxing with Fernando, Lupe, Kit and a few others, we see J as he and his partner are leaving. He comes right up and kisses me on the lips. He tells me to look for him on Facebook and gives me his full name. [It’s not J by the way, it’s a secret unless he tells me it’s ok to share].

And I really did lose that mesh American football top. Somewhere between those sofas where we were cuddling and the darkroom over the Snake Pit, where I went to fuck and suck with Kit. My beautiful Kit. The big thick Bavarian farm hand of your dirtiest German fantasies. He gave me exactly what I needed that night. He ate my ass for a good half hour, and oh-so-very-gently slid his cock in between my lips, right up to the point of my hemaroid. I held him in me for as long as I could and then pushed him out, feeling every inch of that dick rubbing against the walls of my cunt. God fucking knows I needed that. I haven’t been fucked in almost half a year, and I was beginning to think that I would never be able to take a cock ever again. But now I know I can.

He’s a real ass man is Kit. and I wanted him to have mine. So the mesh football top was hanging out the back of my shorts which were halfway down my bare ass anyway, because I wanted him to watch me as we made our way through the dance floor. When we got to the stairwell the top was gone. Kit asked if we should go back and look for it and I said “no”. It was ok. I took his hand and led him up to the darkroom. We were too horny and hungry for each other.

I saw it as an offering. At Gegen:Sweat (exactly a year earlier) I had again come to this dark room to be fucked by Kit, and I had mopped up pools of cum on the seats and floor with my white denim battle jacket. In the 1970s, the street gangs of New York and Brooklyn would piss and puke on their denim cut-offs, to disgust strangers, ward off rival gang members and ensure no-one stole these prize totems of tribal affiliation. In other words, they charged them. And now mine had been charged too. By the spunk of a hundred German strangers.

That mesh top is what I gave back. There you go Gegen. Thank you. Who knows, someone else might even find it and wear it. A twink, maybe. 

Words by Niall O’Conghaile, you can follow him on Instagram here. Images by Gegen’s in house photographer Gili Shani, you can follow Gegen on Instagram here.

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