A Pornceptual Short story

Drag's Angels

By karl Schlonger

Waking up that morning she felt like some kind of gloopy, formless alien. Perhaps some kind of sloppy, frantic rebirth had happened while she was asleep. Well, unconscious, because when Gonnorhianna finally stopped partying and slept, she was usually totally frazzled. 

After doing over five hours of make-up, 12 hours of work as a Door Whore and hostess then 22 hours of partying, she was used to this kind of exhaustion. Years of playing rugby had given her an athletic body. The speed, cigs and dancing kept most of the fat off. The beer, pizza and deliveroos put it back on. It was summer and her hairy body, pale-skinned with the lightest touch of a tan was still hidden under the thin summer duvet. I’ve said ‘she,’ because we’re talking about Gonnorhianna, Berlin’s trashiest Drag Queen.

But Glen, the man underneath Gonnorhianna’s trash drag make-up, ginger wigs and sparkly party frocks bought from Humana a size or two too small, was a very different kind of human altogether.  

Glen was quiet. On the border of timid, never being able to chat to guys he liked without drinking or snorting a lot first.

Which was often.

But now that Gonnorhianna’s bookings had finally gone through the roof, Glen barely had time to be himself. To be Glen. Okay, so he was getting a bit more sex, but we’re talking barely satisfying blowjobs from ‘curious’ dudes in dark corners, his creased beer-stained dresses pulled up or down for a quick suck after a hurried bump of any kind of white powder in a toilet stall. These encounters felt more like a joke most of the time. Like he was just some kind of curiosity to be poked at. Most of the guys were doing it for the thrill of sucking off a Drag Queen. For the LOLs.

The other night, Gonnorhianna had been getting sucked off by a muscled ‘straight’ Canadian guy in a silky black suit and tie, the sweetness of Tommy Hillfiger cologne wafting up through his neck into the thick noisy air, cushioned by the metal walls of a toilet stall at Berghain. 

The Canadian couldn’t get hard, “too much MD dude.”

Glen was bored after a minute of this kind of sex, so, as Gonnorhianna, made some joke, put her cock away and pushed the dude out of the stall, back to the other guys in suits at the rest of the Stag Party, his white shirt smudged with glitter, eyeliner and bronzer. 

Fuck knows how they got in anyway, thought Gonnorhianna, as she stood alone, in the cubicle, her cock going soft, already tucked back into her flesh-coloured tights. Finally a moment alone from the madness of the party.

That was a while ago, and Gonnorhianna was now Glen, for the most part.

In his messy room in Friedrichshain, full of panicked plants silently crying for water, Glen still had make-up on, well, bits of it, as well as those flesh-coloured tights, torn at the crotch and on the left leg. He was still waking up. 

This could take some time.

He felt the make-up thick around his eyes, and could see the stains of clubland under his nails. The kind of dirt that just seems to get trapped after hours and hours of after hours.  He was in a thoroughly genderfucked mental limbo, half Glen, half Gonnorhianna. Sometimes when he was like this, he didn’t really feel like anyone. 

The first thing he noticed was the heat of the sun outside, already baking the room through the curtains. The second thing he noticed was his throbbing hard-on. Morning Glory probably, that erection men wake up with without anything to do with it, probably enforced by the Viagra he’d taken the previous night. 

He finally got enough strength, motivation and mental capacity to kick the duvet off. The sun was burning in lines through the blinds and sweat was dripping all over his hot hairy frame. He ripped what was left of the tights off, tearing them open and pulling them off with a loud grunt. It felt good to be naked. 

Naked apart from last night’s make-up, smudged and darkened, as if each manicured, mascaraed eyelash had fucked the pillow during the night, black streaks a blur of abstract stick men, horny bodies made anonymous like we are in the Dark Room, but instead right here, on the fluffy, white, soft, curved pillow. A drop of sweat dripped from his head, further blurring some of the stick men. He wiped his head dry with the pillow, and then they were gone.

Glen barely moved for another ten minutes, then finally, he sat up. He heard the comforting white noise of water from a shower, maybe the neighbours, or maybe his flatmate Stephanie, a law student, German, polite, friendly, but out and gone without a word most of the time. An alarm started to pulsate from the Amazon Echo Dot in the corner. 

“Alexa, snooze!”

This cycle continued, interspersed with “Shut UP Alexa, ALEXA STOP!”

That poor downtrodden, abused Amazon Echo Dot. Nothing but abuse as each snoozed alarm flowed politely towards the bed. He loved being mean to Alexa. But sometimes he was nice to her too. Asking her what her favourite song was and shit like that. He knew it was a bit fucking sad, to chat to it like she was a real person. But sometimes a friendly voice to break the silence is a friendly voice. It made him feel less alone, even though much of the time, that’s what he wanted. Life was a constant see-saw of wanting space alone and wanting to be around people. Glen would ask Alexa how she was, what the time was, or questions about the weather, geography or history. But if he was hungover, she just got plain abuse.

“Alexa, why are you so basic?”

“Hmm, I don’t know that one.”

Alexa rarely complained, the kinky bitch. 

Glen surveyed the carnage all around his bedroom. The familiar space had been turned into an unfathomable tableau of discarded debauchery. Dotted around on every surface were empty beer bottles, upturned juice bottles, and a large jar of Coconut Oil, made liquid by the heat. The dry plants, drooping, thirsty, looked on. In a way it was beautiful mess, the kind that would take weeks to clean up.

Glen couldn’t remember a time when his room had looked quite this fucked up. He must have knocked over the largest potted plant by the door, its earth sprayed in multiple directions like dried brown blood at a murder scene.

Glen had never taken a fuck back as Gonnorhianna. Apart from the one time she’d stolen a friend’s boyfriend, and made them wait, fully-clothed outside the bathroom while she scrubbed her face and dragged her wig and dress to the ground. By the time she came out, naked, steaming from the hurried extra-hot bath, two black halos of eye make-up still on her face – unscrubbable, he’d gone.

Glen was now sitting up, looking from one pile of mess to the next. Last night had been Pornceptual’s birthday party and she’d drunk a lot before even leaving the house. Her electric, blue sequinned party dress had split in the Uber, revealing Glen’s broad muscled back and broad shoulders, totally out of synch with Gonnorhianna’s thickly-painted face and blue eye-shadow.

She’d only ever been to Pornceptual as Gonnorhianna, to host, to work, to network, well, sometimes horny stuff just happened too, you know? Although at Pornceptual, the guys didn’t care so much about traditional labels of masc, femme, whatever.

Most of the guys she met when she was out were fairly sozzled before they’d pluck up the courage to get frisky, to get on their knees and part the folds of her sequin dress to find out what was there. But once Gonnorhianna was turned on, Glen was turned on, and the two characters combined created a fucking animal. The boys didn’t know what had hit them. With such short slutty dresses, it was easy for guys to feel her cock, to deep throat it and once or twice, when she was really high, to get fucked. Hard, rough, against the dusty red crumbly brick walls of Alte Münze, sweat dripping. 

A rock hard, thick nine inch cock under such a theatrical dress is not what anyone really expects. But if anyone’s brave enough to discover – fuck do they love it.

These guys from all over the city from every demographic were always surprised by how big it was, and how they each and every time lost control from the instant of their first taste. The straight and curious boys were always too shell-shocked to move much after the first taste of Gonnorhianna’s hot fat dick. The way she held their head, strong, firm. The way she made them cough and gag, pounding their faces like a fleshlight, then discarding them like pieces of cheap, nameless meat. That’s what they needed. Glen longed to be as confident as a man as he was as a woman. He hated himself for it.

Right, back to Glen, he’s more awake now.

The anxiety inside him started to rise at the exact moment she saw a frilly gold dress and a lampshade headpiece. Neither of them were his. Alongside an upturned scarlet blusher and a bottle of poppers.

He noticed that the shower had stopped and suddenly someone was whistling. Stephanie never whistled. His bedroom door flew open.

“Hey babe! I still can’t find my Swarovski earrings. Hi Alexa!… Oh, OK, no answer. She’s as fucked up as you, babe,” the handsome dark-haired stranger said with a smile, a sense of familiarity that kept Glen’s startled face frozen, lips clenched. 

Who. The fuck. Was this. 

“How are you feeling, babe?” He continued, a white fluffy towel tight around his waist. It was Stephanie’s. As if Glen could keep a fluffy white towel white or fluffy. 

“Fucking hell, we were a mess last night. I’m glad I came back though. Your hair is even more beautiful under that wig. Fuck, I’ve missed work for sure. Angela is going to kill me this time, I can feel it. What the fuck was it that we drank when we got back? ALEXA, what drugs did I take last night?”

“Hmm, I don’t know that one…” the robotic voice said, perhaps with a touch of familiar disappointment.

“Yeah, neither do I but there’s no need to be such a sarcastic bitch Alexa. Alexa, play songs by Celine Dion on Spotify.”

“Right, where’s my fags?” 

Glen still hadn’t said a word. As the orchestral intro of Celine Dion’s “All Coming Back To Me,” oozed through the speakers, Glen’s heart was visibly pulsating through his naked chest, the golden hairs that covered it, shaking with each pump of hidden blood. His cock was resting on his leg, gone down a bit from the Morning Glory hardness, but still half-hard from the Viagra. 

The arrival of this strange man was already changing that, as Glen grew harder at the sight of his thick dark beard, sparkling eyes and black curly hair. It had been him in the shower. His flatmate was in Hamburg, he’d just remembered her note on the kitchen table. The two men were alone together in the flat.

“Someone’s still horny…” the man winked, looking at Glen’s growing cock, continuing to talk as if the two had known each other for years, all the while Glen just got more and more confused. More confused, and hornier. 

Who the fuck is this hunk? Why is he talking to Alexa the same way I do and why the actual fuck is he playing Celine Dion? thought Glen.

“Here you go,” he said nervously, handing ‘the man’ a tiny box of matches, and a packet of Camels. As the man struck a match, dramatically lighting the cigarette, Glen noticed his long fingers, complete with gold nail polish. The man took a long drag, inhaled deeply then let out the smoke in one thick cloud, spilling into the room towards Glen. Then the man passed the cigarette to Glen without a word, lighting another one for himself. 

We usually don’t smoke in the bedrooms actually, thought Glen, stopping himself from saying it out loud. He sucked hard on the cigarette, getting a big hit of nicotine that sent warm shivers through his body. He opened his mouth slowly and said:

“That’s actually Stephanie’s towel.” What the fuck. Come on Glen. Don’t fuck this up. This is the hottest man you’ve had in your room, like, ever. 

“I’d better take it off then.” The man said. He yanked the towel away like a stripper doing an act, revealing a trimmed bush of shiny, curly pubes, wide hairy muscled thighs and the most delicious-looking cock Glen had ever seen. It was long and thick and milky white with a pink tip where his foreskin ended.

“You don’t remember me, do you, babe?” the man looked at Glen the same way you’d look at your cat if they being a bit naughty and cute.

“Ummmm…” Said Glen, looking first at the man’s cock, then self-consciously at his own hard-on.

“It’s Chloe. Chloe Midia. Well, It’s Jason now.” He winked and laughed maniacally, blowing smoke towards the window, looking out towards the bright sun, now refracting in jagged beams under the curtains and through the gap where they’d been hurriedly shut the night before. 

“We kissed at Pornceptual, did a few shots, laughed at THAT bitch, Vile Viola, then you dragged me home.” He stubbed the cigarette out in the plant pot and sat down on the bed, straddling Glen, their hairy muscled legs electric against each other, almost starting to sweat from the second they touched. Their cocks were a hair’s width away from touching, with Jason’s dick feeling cool from the shower. 

Jason held Glen by the throat and kissed him forcefully on the lips. His tongue teased Glen’s mouth open and suddenly all his anxiety, worry and confusion billowed away into the smoky room. Glen opened his mouth wider and stuck his tongue deep into Jason’s hot mouth. As he did, Glen’s cock throbbed, almost painfully. He was so fucking hard. Then he felt Jason’s cock touch his, and then again, and again, with each heartbeat pumping his cock harder and closer against Glen’s. 

Jason gently pushed Glen backwards, flat onto the bed, their tongues still locked, their cocks rubbing against each other. Glen let out a loud moan, which Jason answered, a moan that half-hid a stifled chuckle. He was enjoying this. Their hands gripped each other’s beefy backs, one hot and wet from sweat, one cool and wet. They relished the sensations of each other’s bodies, melting into each other, salty sweat mixing with the mint fresh residue of shower water still drying on Jason’s skin. Their hands went up to each other’s necks and at the same time, they broke away from the kiss, their foreheads resting together. Glen starred into Jason’s dark green eyes and for a few seconds that seemed to last for an eternity, they just sat there, staring into each other’s souls. Jason leaned back, analysing Glen’s face, his neck slightly crooked to one side. 

“You have fuck loads of make-up still on babe, let me get that for you. Worked out who I am yet?” His accent was a bit Australian. Or was it more London? Glen didn’t have a clue.

Jason dived up from the bed to snatch the jar of Coconut Oil then sat back in Glen’s lap, their legs intertwined as before. Glen noticed dark rings around Jason’s eyes, the familiar remnants of mascara and eyeliner. The black ring around the eyes was a kind of right of passage, every queen knew it took a couple of days before that ring would finally rub off.

Jason unscrewed the lid and dipped his fingers into the jar one by one. He told Glen to close his eyes, which he did, with a smile. Jason dripped the oil onto Glen’s eyelids and eyebrows, then gently massaged it into the black mascara and blue eye-shadow still covering them. Then, with one hand he grabbed the discarded white towel and dabbed off the oily paint. 

“Sorry about Stephanie’s towel…”

“Fuck Stephanie’s towel, this feels amazing,” said Glen, his eyes still closed. 

“Not as amazing as what I have planned for that cock of yours… Keep your eyes closed until I tell you, OK?”

As Glen nodded Jason gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, and then a lick. His fingers went deep into the jar, scooping out a handful of the warm oil. He held his hand up high and poured it slowly over their two cocks, already pressed tight against each other. 
Then Jason took both of Glen’s hands, placing his fingers together in a lattice. Then he cupped them around both their dicks, pressing them even more tightly together.

“You get to work on our meat and I’ll get this off your face… Grip harder? Yeah, that’s right, nice and tight. Follow my instructions, and while you’re being a good boy, I’ll get you all cleaned up…”

Glen had been hard for hours, long before he was awake, and now his body’s pent up longing to orgasm was now being met in the most sensual way. Jason continued to softly massaged Glen’s eyes and face with the oil, gently wiping off the gloopy blue-black residue each time, kissing his face after each wipe. Jason’s touch was soft and gentle, while his voice was confident and strong, telling Glen exactly how hard to he wanted him to wank their cocks together. His Aussie accent, it must have been Australian, gave Glen tingles all over his body.

Jason told Glen exactly how fast to go, sometimes really fucking hard and fast, the sweat shaking from Glen’s body onto them both, sometimes slow and sensual, each finger relishing the feeling of each cock, from the hairy base all the way up to the soft foreskin and pink tips. At last Jason allowed Glen to open his eyes.

“I’m gonna cum,” Glen said biting his lip.

“Keep looking at me,” Jason said, and once again they were staring into each other’s eyes, locked. Now Glen’s blue grey eyes were framed by bushy blonde eyebrows and long brown eyelashes, cute puffs under his eyes, glistening with the oil. 

All traces of Gonnorhianna were gone from his face, and as Jason said, “Go on then! Come all over me like a good boy!” the two started to shoot their pent-up loads, hot and thick over each others cocks, chests and stomachs. 

Jason scooped a handful of the cum from his torso and held his palm in front of Glen’s to lick clean, which of course he did.

It tasted like coconut, sweat and men.

Glen looked away for a few seconds, panting heavily. It felt like nothing but the sound of his breath and Jason’s had filled the whole of Friedrichshain. Glen half-opened his mouth, “How did you know that I liked being called -”

“Shhh babes. Go back to sleep. Let’s both go back to sleep. We can talk about all that later.”

As a sudden summer rain shower shook the curtains and filled the air with a cool breeze, they fell asleep, covered in cum, sweat and coconut oil. It was going to be a good summer.