The Jennifer Jones File Ch. 02

Ronnie Salazar was pitching the next evening in San Francisco, so I caught an afternoon flight from LAX.

Like Jennifer Jones, the stewardesses weren't getting any younger, but they were mostly still nicely put together, at least from the perspective of a man of a certain age.

I'm old enough to remember when stewardesses were the sex goddesses of the sky. My old man went on a spree of dating and boning them after he divorced my mom and moved into a condo complex in Dallas not far from Love Field. The place was stacked with stewardesses. And the stewardesses were stacked, too. The pool was filled with them. When I went for a swim, it was hard to keep from staring. And hard to keep from getting hard. I would get an eyeful and then retreat to my dad's condo and wank off to the stacks of Playboys in his closet when he was at work. Evenings and weekends I would listen to him balling one young thing after another.

My tastes have matured, some, as I've gotten older. But in comparison to Jen riding me in my office the day before, there wasn't all that much worth spending time perusing inside the airplane, so I gazed out the window as we took off over the beach, gained altitude over the sets coming in off the Pacific, and then banked north over Malibu.

Jen Jones was probably at home down there on the beach right now. Up no good, no doubt. The thought of it started to get an involuntary rise out of me.

I reviewed what she had told me the day before. Ronnie Salazar, she suspected, was cheating on her daughter, Betsy, when the Dodgers were out of town. He wasn't playing safe. Betsy was seven months pregnant and at her wit's end. Before confronting Ronnie, they needed information.

I didn't know anything about the state of Ronnie's play off the field. I was just a fair-weather fan, but I had sources, friends who could recount the whole roster's stats and the play-by-play of yesterday's game as well as games played years ago. Ronnie wasn't a guy about whom rumors flew. Low profile, low ERA, just like management liked. No chicks had come home to roost around him, as far as I knew.

That night in San Francisco, I sat in the upper right field stands, had a gourmet Italian sausage and a Sierra Nevada, and watched the sun go down and the lights come up all around the bay. Down below on the mound, in that red dirt diamond encased in emerald green, Ronnie carefully painted the corners and got the Giants to hit the pitches he wanted them to hit through six and two-thirds scoreless innings. When he walked off the mound, the fans chanted "Beat LA," but the Giants weren't coming back that night.

I left the stadium and walked to the player's hotel. I sat at the bar as the Dodger's closer, a big man, a Giant killer, blew nine fastballs in a row past the Giant's final three batters. I was on my third martini when I saw Ronnie sauntering across the lobby. I slapped two Jacksons on the bar and hustled down to the porte cochère where my rental car, an anonymous looking blue Prius, was waiting at the valet.

Ronnie got into a black Uber. I followed.

I always loved San Francisco, day and night. I had some of my own awakenings in the city as a college student and dropout. I left part of my heart there, and some bodily fluids.

Nowadays daytime San Francisco seemed more and more like a fake city, a cute Disney set of a beautiful city, filled with well-groomed actors and actresses playing at being techies changing the world. But at night some of the phony shine vanished and a bit of the old tawdriness crept back in, especially South of Market, where we seemed to be headed.

The Uber dropped Ronnie off near an alley on Harrison between Fifth and Sixth. As it pulled away, he walked a half block south and ducked into a dark doorway. I parked down the street and followed him.

Inside the doorway, down a short flight of metal stairs, another door opened into the foyer of a bathhouse. It smelled like a steamy locker room. A cute young guy with a goatee and a nose ring welcomed me with a smile and in exchange for another Jackson gave me a towel, a small bottle of lube, and a locker key and went back to the novel he was reading, "City of Night." I didn't know people still read John Rechy.

Though I had lost my virginity twice in San Francisco, once to an older woman and then to a younger man, I had never been to a bathhouse. Right at the moment I was ready to plunge into that world, I got scared by AIDS. Who knows what might have come of me if had been born a few years earlier, if that epidemic had not come right when I was exploring my own sexuality, as we used to say, a little willy-nilly as it happened.

I was crazy about women. Still am. Can't get enough of tits and ass, pussy, hairy or shaved, legs and armpits the same, the female form in general. And specifically. Yes, specifically.

But there was a time when I had a fairly avid interest in cock, too, and I still fantasized about it from time to time. In general, though, these days. Not specifically in a very long time.

There were a lot of very specific cocks in this bathhouse. I started to take a mental inventory as I stripped and stowed my stuff in a locker and began exploring.

There were white ones. Brown ones. Black ones. Pink ones. Big and small. Skinny and fat. Short and long. Bald, hairy, cut, and uncut. Cocks with piercings. Cocks with tats. Cocks and balls with rings around them. A few Prince Alberts, too. Balls that hung down full and heavy. Some with weights on them. Balls that rode high and tight.

But no cock and balls with Ronnie attached that I could see.

It smelled like nothing so much as jockstrap. Which was not entirely unpleasant. A United Nations of jockstrap once the nose got attuned to the diversity.

The place was laid out shotgun style. After the foyer and the locker room behind that, it was just one hallway with rooms on both sides.

In the first one on the left a handful of guys were lounging in a jacuzzi, chatting idly, while one silver haired old guy blew a bald young guy perched on the edge of the pool. I peeked into the sauna on the right side of the hallway. Two good-looking, young sweaty guys with blissful smiles on their faces were stroking each other's shaved hard-ons. It looked like fun. It looked like a Platonic idyll, a Platonic ideal, in fact. and I could feel my cock start to swell as I examined theirs and nodded a hello. But I had to move on.

The next two rooms on each side had no doors and lined with padded floors and walls and nothing else. Romper rooms, I guess, literally.

There were a couple of entangled orgies going on in each one. Guys in contorted positions with expressions of agony and ecstasy were doing a variety of very vigorous things to each other's bodies. They all looked quite athletic and muscly, including between their legs. I had always thought steroids were not good for your manly package, but apparently that isn't true in all cases. Fitness isn't my scene, though. And there was no sign of Ronnie.

There was a little congregation outside the fourth door on the left, offering lusty, low, growly words of encouragement to whatever was going on in there, and idly stroking their own cocks, and in some cases each other's. I glanced in the third door on the left and saw three guys on their knees with their dicks in holes in the wall. None of them was Ronnie, so I came up behind the group clustered around the fourth door and stood on my tiptoes to see inside.

It was a little awkward. My cock was getting pretty hard at that point, and I was trying to peer over the naked backs of eight or ten men. I was a little unsteady and my dick poked against the cheeks of the guy in front of me.

"Sorry," I said.

"No worries," he replied, with a smile as he reached back and gave my cock a friendly squeeze. A pal of his was vigorously stroking his cock, while another friend went down on him.

And there was Ronnie on his hands and knees in the middle of a narrow room, no wider than a closet, with one cock in his mouth and another in his ass. The room had glory holes on both sides. Ronnie was getting skewered. And good. He seemed to be enjoying it immensely. He held on to the long white cock in front of him as he sucked on its blushing head, slathering it lovingl with spit. At the same time, he pushed his arched back against the opposite wall slowly swallowing a black cock in his butt, again and again. Ronnie had the haunches of a pitcher, to be sure, but otherwise did not stand out much in the diversity of this bathhouse. Indeed, he fit right in.

Behind Ronnie in the narrow space, two young white guys with tattoos and cock rings were getting buttfucked on opposite sides of the room while stroking each other's cocks and French kissing lovingly. It was touching to see such tenderness, like a couple making out oblivious to a bar fight raging around them and in them.

In front of Ronnie, closest to the crowd watching from the hallway, a stout black guy with a huge shaved cock and balls in a silver cock ring was giving handjobs to two white cocks poking through holes on either side of him, and occasionally dipping down to take one or the other in his mouth, while a skinny black dude went down on him with gusto, his ass pointing at us.

One of the Latino guys at the front of our little group stepped forward, rolling a condom on to his cock. He took a squirt of lube in his hand from someone standing next to him, slathered it on his hard-on, and stuck it abruptly in the black skinny ass in front of us.

That elicited a collective "uhhh," from those of us watching. I felt a hand on my cock again. This one didn't just give it a squeeze but was stroking it softly but steadily, caressing the tip, feeling its shape. I looked over my shoulder and was greeted with a sweet hippy smile.

He reminded me of the guy who took my virginity back in the day, well that part of it anyway, on a desultory afternoon in the sunroom of a flat in the Mission District when I was in my exploratory phase in college.

I felt the hippy's hard-on rubbing between the cheeks of my ass. I pushed back gently. I wasn't ready for that just now.

"OK," the hippy said as he came around in front of me and knelt down. "How about this?" he asked, as he took my cock in his mouth. I didn't say, no.

I tried to pay attention to the action in front of me.

On the floor in the room, Ronnie was still holding on to the cock in front of him, but just for balance, as his ass was being vigorously pumped. The black cock was like a piston coming in and out of that hole in the wall with a machine rhythm. You could hear the body behind the wall thumping like a bass drum with each forward thrust. Ronnie arched his back and canted his pelvis so that the head of that giant cock inside him hit just the right spot. His body shuddered and then convulsed, wordlessly, oddly silent as the last sudden bang on the wall and a loud grunt signaled the coming of the black cock, and then Ronnie's cock stood straight up and exploded with one long rope of jizz, hitting the wall and the white cock in front of him.

Ronnie collapsed for a moment but still held on to that cock.

I looked down briefly as the hippy went to town on me. The kid was a great cocksucker, I had to give him that. As good or better than any woman, at least that I could think of at the moment.

Though truth be told, it wasn't a good moment to be making rational comparisons between the sexes.

I put one hand on the back of the hippy's blonde head to steady myself, and began moving my hips to fuck his mouth.

I was getting distracted but I kept one eye on Ronnie as he rose from collapse. The black cock behind him had withdrawn into its hole after leaving a mess on Ronnie's ass.

Ronnie still held tight to the white cock. He licked his own jizz off of it, sucking it from the balls, then tonguing up the long shaft, to the red tip, which he then took it into his mouth. He deep-throated the whole thing, and then began jerking it off, showing it off to the crowd, as it got harder and longer and redder.

I felt my cock hardening as it hit the back of the hippy's throat. He squeezed my balls, and then stroked my perineum with his slippery fingers, one finger reaching back to tickle my asshole. That felt good. I opened up my stance a little. He pushed a long, skinny finger into my ass, and all of a sudden all of my attention was concentrated between that hot finger and his warm wet mouth. That one spot in my whole body got more and more dense, like a critical mass before a nuclear explosion.

I glanced up to see the inflamed red-headed cock shoot load after load into Ronnie's open mouth, just as I unloaded what felt like a lifetime's worth of tension into the hippy's throat. The sweet thing looked up at me with an enigmatic, beatific smile and swallowed the whole thing.

"Thanks," I said, and rubbed the back of his head. It felt like a silly, condescending gesture, but it was all I could think to do at the moment because I had to get going.

I turned back to the locker room, got dressed without a shower, and went out into the alley. I stood in the shadows and smoked three cigarettes before Ronnie appeared at the door to the bathhouse. I quietly snapped a few pictures of him coming out and watched as he sauntered down the alley to Harrison, looking like he was coming off the mound after another good outing. I waited for him to catch a ride hail and then followed in that direction to find my rental car, feeling empty and light headed.