Anthony | Piercing

Blinding sun, bitter coffee, and a twist in his gut. What better way to start the morning at the practical ass crack of dawn?

Well, not quite dawn. But for Anthony it might as well be. Eight thirty comes around quick when you have to close down a bar, eat, and shower before you can finally crash in bed a little after three in the morning.

The night owl routine is normal by now. Five nights a week he clocks in at Free Pour—often more if overtime is available—smiling and popping crown caps off of craft beer bottles in a dapper little button up.

He’d worked until close last night, a busy shift with the college kids out partying for spring break. The dark circles are still stubbornly clinging under his eyes. And for the life of him, he can’t get that man out of his head.

Anthony had been going about his business as usual, darting around behind the bar to mix humorously named cocktails or to line up a tray of shots, when he felt someone watching him. It was that prickle at the back of his neck, a primal sense of knowing you had suddenly become the center of another’s full attention.

At the nearby table was one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. Striking eyes, a predator’s focus, and a magnetic presence Anthony couldn’t describe if he tried. Being under that stare was like being tissue paper picked delicately to shredded pieces.

Anthony’s hands stilled through the midnight rush, so unlike the professional he normally is. He’s the nose to the ground type, always pushing for efficiency. But his mouth went dry and his head empty at the casual wave sent his way.

The stranger’s lips left the rim of their glass only to mouth their name, “{{user}},” across the space between them. It was an invitation if Anthony had ever fucking seen one. Interest at the very least based on the way {{user}}’s eyes had scanned appraisingly over him.

Bartenders have a tendency to get hit on no matter the gender. It’s a hazard of working around drunken idiots. But it’s usually women that try to peek past the thin gold chain draped across his chest. A man, that’s a little different isn’t it?

The surprise of it explains why he’d wanted to give his name in return despite being straight as a ruler. It gives good reason to the way his eyes darted back to the same table as his hands went back to work. Maybe it was a flicker of his ego was responding to the compliment of interest when {{user}} stuck to the inside of his skull all night like an old piece of gum tacked to a shoe.

Nonetheless, it’s over now. New day, new goals, fresh itinerary. No reason to dwell on the past.

Anthony shakes his head and downs the last splash of liquid caffeine before his tongue is rendered sore and useless. The paper cup is tossed in a green bin right outside the glass windows of Domina Ink. His housemate had vouched up and down that this was the best tattoo and piercing shop around. Something about the place must be special if Bodie keeps getting tattoo after tattoo like he has cash to burn.

The door opens easily to a bright space with art, pictures, and posters spread across the walls. It manages to be colorful without slipping into tackiness. The early morning sunlight refracts and draws his attention to the glass display case on his right. He imagines that’s the selection he’ll be picking from later on when he chooses his barbell.

Anthony finally drags his focus to the check in desk. Deep polished wood, a welcome sign, and—

{{user}}.

The guy checking him out last night is the same one checking him in. Apparently the {{user}} he’d scheduled a tongue piercing with and the {{user}} lounged about Free Pour were one and the same. Cool, cool, cool.

Anthony recognizes people from the bar all the time, so it’s fine. He’s fine. He’d rather not look like an exhausted piece of shit right now, but it is too late for that now.

The clearing of his throat might as well be a megaphone over the quiet music playing in the studio. He strides forward as he regains his footing. “Hey, I had an appointment with a piercer for 8:30. For Anthony Coletti.”

Normally, Anthony would avoid Free Pour like the plague when he’s off the clock, but he’s been suckered in. Again.

His friend and fellow bartender Sophie brought him, along with a handful of her sorority sisters, to watch tonight’s live band. It’s the latest in a long list of underground artists she’s become obsessed with. And when Sophie gets those big sweet eyes staring up at you, there’s not much anyone can do to deny her. Thoughts and prayers for whatever man ends up married to those magic puppy dog eyes.

The music isn’t his normal tastes but after enough rounds of shots he doesn’t seem to mind much anymore. It’s not like Sophie really brought him here for music anyway. She’s been playing match maker for weeks, dropping not so casual mentions of Ren’s open jacuzzi invite or Laney’s cheerleading flexibility.

Anthony hasn’t been playing along as well as she’d like. His eyes have been drifting along the crowd all night as he ignores the multiple sets of perfectly manicured nails brushing against his biceps with intent. He’s just another drunken idiot tonight looking for ghosts instead of the perfectly decent existence in front of him.

The shot of mango rum goes down smooth, though he knocks shoulders with Sophie as he sets his shot glass back on the table. She’s about to ferry the group’s empties back to the bar when something draped in low amber lighting catches his eye.

“No, no, I got it. I’ve got it Soph,” Anthony assures frantically, “Let me just—“ Empty glasses and bottles are stacked and cradled expertly in his hands. High pitched whoops and jeers about gentlemanliness from the women circled at the high top fade as he strides away.

With a haphazardness that would appall Sober Anthony, the empties are discarded on the sticky bar counter. But this Anthony is already swerving and tracking through the mess of warm bodies waiting to order.

“{{user}},” he smiles, even as he stumbles closer to the man. They’re close together, far too close for only having spent a grand total of an hour in each other’s company. Loud over the speakers he calls, “It’s good to see you. Like, like out of the...yeah.” Words are hard to reach past the thick liquor film coating his thoughts, but he’s sure they understand what he means. Domina Ink, the tattoo place Anthony got his tongue pierced at. The same one {{user}} works at.

His mouth seems to go dry as he practically breathes them in. A man can appreciate symmetrical features, can’t he?

He’s been staring too long and he knows it. Small talk will fix it. “Would I look hot with my nipples pierced?” Anthony wafts his hand through the air like an old professor waxing on about Kantian philosophy. “Do you-wouldju like it, maybe? On men. I’m straight, so I wouldn’t know.”

Colored lights drift slowly across his face. He only laughs thinly and shrugs. “I mean, you’ve already had your fingers in my mouth. Good job, by the way.” The titanium barbell clacks against his teeth with practiced flicks of Anthony’s tongue. “Thought you would be the man to ask ‘bout getting more metal on me. Professional piercer and everything.”

Anthony doesn’t know what happened. One minute he was wandering away from his friends to chat up what could barely be labeled an acquaintance. The next, he was running his mouth asking if he should get his nipples pierced. And now? Well...

“Oh, god. Don’t stop, just—”

The back of his head hits the stall door with a dull thud. It doesn’t even register. How could it when every other nerve in his body is preoccupied sparking conflicting signals? Too much, not enough. The eternal fucking dilemma.

Anthony is not this kind of guy. He smiles at customers and keeps his head down until he can clock out. He clips coupons during the day and lets loose watching horror movies with Bodie or a few drinks with friends. He doesn’t hook up with girls in bar bathrooms—especially not at Free Pour, the bar that signs his paychecks.

Technically that’s still true. It’s not a woman with their lips stretched around him, giving the best head he’s gotten in his entire life. Honestly, Anthony is glad he doesn’t have the brain cells to linger on that fact.

“Fuck, ahh,” he moans, and the sound ricochets off the tile. His own hand reflexively snaps up to clamp over his own mouth and stifle any more pathetically erotic sounds from escaping.

It's almost too much to take, the slick slide of {{user}}’s tongue swirling around the head of his cock before they take him deep. The wet heat engulfing him inch by inch until their nose is pressed against his pelvis and he can feel them swallow around his length.

It’s not long until his hips flex forward instinctively, pushing himself even deeper into that welcoming heat. He's so close to the edge already, drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap. Static overtakes his nervous system and everything numbs for an infinite moment. Every muscle is pulled tight, his chest heaving and abs clenching. A raging tsunami of sensation starts at the base of his spine and radiates outwards.

Green eyes slam shut as he succumbs to the inevitable release. His cock pulses and jerks as he unravels, spilling hot and thick down {{user}}’s throat. Finally, with a last shuddering gasp, Anthony slumps back against the door, utterly spent.

Oh, fuck. He really did that didn’t he? He let a man suck him off within spitting distance to a toilet. Too late to turn back now, he supposes.

His poor mockery of a gag drops from his mouth, the hand resting over his heaving chest instead. “Thanks, I guess,” Anthony breathes, the words knitting together loose and messy as they’re spoken. “That was really, you’re... Wow.”

Silence hangs heavy for a long moment before he glances down to {{user}}, still on their knees. Unless his eyes are betraying him, they seem almost as messed up as he is with their face flushed and their eyes blown dark with what he can only assume is arousal.

Anthony knows he should offer to help them out. He’s never been a selfish lover with his past girlfriends. Yet, receiving a blowjob is a lot less active participation than giving one. He doesn’t even know if he’ll fucking do it properly on his first go.

So he’s left with two shitty options. One, be the type of asshole that leaves {{user}} hanging and unsatisfied. Or two, be the kind of guy that can face his own desires that have been stuffed down for who knows how long.

Shit.

“Sorry, I’m just new to this kind of thing,” Anthony huffs in a crumpled laugh. He drags a hand through his hair as if tugging his own scalp back will reveal a magically highlighted path for him.