Tit-Slave — Chapter 5
I got through the afternoon’s meetings without any loss of awareness, at least not that I was aware of. I suppose you might consider that a tautology: if I’d lost awareness, how would I be aware of it? But there were no time gaps in the day, as there had been yesterday, when time passed that I hadn’t been knowledgeable about. Let me tell you: that’s profoundly disturbing. You’re going about your workday and then you wake up and realize that a couple of hours have gone by and you have no idea what happened. But you know that your tits hurt. I tried to push this out of my mind; no use obsessing over periods of time you don’t recall: they’re not going to come back to you. My work session with Greg went fine; no intuitions on my part that something was amiss. I was still having trouble keeping my hands off my titties and a couple of times, Greg’s glances went over me and he’d have had to have been blind not to see. Each time, I quickly pulled my hands away and busied them with something on the desk, but I was sure he saw and each time, I was sure I flushed deeply with embarrassment. Greg, however, said nothing, though I could swear I saw the creases at the corners of his eyes crinkle up, as though he were stiflling a grin.
We were finishing up and it was getting close to 5:00.
“How about that drink?” I asked, trying to sound relaxed, though, truth be told, I was wound tighter than a main spring.
“Sounds good,” Greg said. “Where shall we go?”
“I guess I don’t go out much anymore. Do you know of a place?”
“There’s a nice little bar on Christopher St. in the Village. Want to go there?”
“Sure. Is it quiet, so we can talk?”
“At this hour, it should be; it’s early and it’s a week-night.”
“OK, what’s the address?”
“It’s just west of Bleecker. A place called ‘Ty’s’. We can get a beer and sit and talk. The owner won’t bother us.”.
“Sounds good. Walk, cab, or train?”
“How would it be if we walked? It’s twenty minutes, but I’ve been cooped up all day and feel like stretching my legs.”
I laughed.
“Sure. Cooped up with me? Has that been a hardship?”
Greg laughed too.
“No, no, not at all. You’re easy on the eyes. But it’s a nice afternoon and it’ll be good to get some air and exercise.”
“You got it,” I answered, grabbing my jacket.
As I slipped my jacket on, I realized my cups were significantly poking through my shirt and tried to hide the fact that I was wearing something under my clothes. Had Greg noticed? I saw his eyes fastened onto my chest, and I knew that he’d seen it. But maybe he didn’t know what he was seeing and would leave it alone.
We hit the street and started walking uptown. The blocks slid past as we talked about office politics and who got which plum assignments and who didn’t, and why. Greg was pretty accurate in his estimate: in roughly 20 minutes, we turned left onto Christopher St. and found Ty’s halfway down the block. We went in, ordered a couple of beers and sat down at a table in the back. It’s not a big place, so we were lucky it was early and, as Greg said, mid-week, so there weren’t a lot of customers. Ty’s has been around a long time and I suspect that it attracts its regulars, the older gay crowd. It didn’t strike me as a hip place, and obviously didn’t want to be, or try to be. It’s old Greenwich Village gay scene, and happy to stay that way.
“So, Greg... As I said, we’ve been working together for a while, and I’m ashamed to say, I feel like I don’t even know you. I mean, I don’t know what you like or dislike. I haven’t the least idea what sorts of things you’re into. I suppose you could say that’s none of my business, but I’d like to get to know you better and have you get to know me. I mean...”
I looked down at the table, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and my hands wandered up to my pumped titties.
“I mean... You see, I’ve lived here all my adult life, at least since college, and I don’t have any friends. Can you believe that? No friends. My fanily’s in the mid-west, so I don’t see them much and it... it just gets kind of lonely.”
I’d blurted all this out without intending to. But once I began my confession, I found it impossible to stop. Greg gently placed his hand on mine.
“It’s OK Hank. I get it. You see, I’m gay too.”
My eyes flew up and locked on his. How did he know with such certainty? Was I that obvious.
“Oh don’t get nervous Hank; it’s that old gaydar thing. Remember that? Guys hardly even talk about it anymore with all the social media. Who needs gaydar when you have Grindr to find guys for you? If you asked me, it’s a skill that will be missed in the future.”
I laughed nervously.
“Yah, I suppose so. But how did you know?”
“Same way you know; you just sense it. You notice things about the way a guy looks at other guys, the way he carries himself, the way he acts.”
“But...”
“Don’t get me wrong Hank; you’re not in the least bit obvious. Very straight acting. Except you can’t help but look at men and women? You definitely don’t look at women the way straight men do. So I figured it out a long time ago. And then, there’s this...”
Greg dropped his eyes to my chest and raised his hands, taking my suctioned nipples between his thumbs and fingers. I closed my eyes and groaned as he squeezed.
“This is something only a gay man would do. So tell me I’m wrong Hank. Tell me your not a tit fag.”
His words swept over me like a tsunami. “Tit fag”, the word that had crept into my consciousness and changed me forever. “Tit fag”. Greg had said it to me, had named me. And I suddenly knew the “how” of how all this happened. My comlete awareness was now focused on those swelling bits of flesh on my chest.
“Yes sir. I’m a tit fag.”
“Good Hanky,”
And I was gone.