I awoke on the couch.  My headache was gone but my eyes felt gritty and I had a taste in my mouth like someone had **** in it.  I rubbed my hand across my face and sat up.

My hands felt wet and when I looked at them, I saw that they were covered in blood.

Oh, my God!  What now!  I thought.  Frantically, I looked around the room.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  I checked my clothing.  My arms, my legs, everything.  No blood.  My hands, though, my hands were dripping blood.  I rubbed them on my chest but none of it came off of my hands.  My shirt remained clean.  I’m hallucinating again, I thought, just like this morning with the centipedes.

Gently, I pressed my hands into the cushion of the sofa and pushed myself up.  I stood and looked back at the cushions.  No blood.  I looked at my hands, still covered in bright red blood.  I ran to the kitchen intending to wash the blood off my hands.

There was blood splashed all over the kitchen.  The countertops, the table, the chairs, everything was literally dripping blood.  I moaned and fell back against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting.  I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. 

I don’t know how long I sat there but, it must have been ten or fifteen minutes.  With tears still trickling from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks, I surveyed the kitchen.  Spotless.  No blood anywhere.  My hands were clean, too.  I lay back and rested my head against the wall, staring at nothing.  My mind was racing but I couldn’t tell you where.  My thoughts were jumbled, disconnected – and my headache was back.

Looking at the clock, I noticed that it was mid afternoon.  Karen should have been back by now and the kids would be here soon.  I left the kitchen and went out to the garage.  The Escalade was not there.  I breathed a sigh of relief and went back into the house and upstairs.  In the bathroom, I ran some warm water and splashed it on my face.  I walked out of the bathroom and into a bar.

My conscious mind registered nothing more than the thought, oh, ****, what now?

The barroom was dark, as all bars are in the afternoon.  A jukebox was playing “Your Cheating Heart”.  A country bar?  I looked around but didn’t see any cowboy hats.  There were about eight other men in the bar, scattered between the bar itself, the tables and the pool tables at the far end.  No women.  The bartender was male, too.  I looked down and saw that I’d changed clothes at some point.  Instead of pajama bottoms and T-shirt, I was now wearing tight jeans, tight T-shirt and my engineer boots.  I haven’t seen these boots in years, I thought.  But, they felt good on my feet.  I felt strong, tough and….. horny.

I walked to the bar and ordered a beer from the gay looking bartender.  There’s a pussy, if ever I saw one, I thought.  I stood there, with my back to the bar and surveyed the “crowd”.  With one exception, the four guys around the pool table were macho, tough looking studs.  The exception was a very effeminate looking guy.  He was skinny wearing tight shorts, t-shirt and sandals.  A few stools away sat another guy.  He looked like a regular kind of guy, neither tough looking nor effeminate.  I slid down the bar to stand next to him, sitting on a bar stool.

“Buy you a drink,” I asked.

“Uh, sure.  Yeah, sure.  A beer, please.” He glanced up and then away again.  He was nervous.  I guess he didn’t get too many offers from studs like me offering to buy him a drink.  I figured he was probably straight, out “exploring” his bi side, maybe.

I looked at the bar tender.  He’d heard the order and was already pulling the tap.  Waiting for the brew to arrive, I looked over at the guy.  “You come in here, often?” I asked.

He looked at me before looking down at his half empty glass of beer and said, “No.  No, not often.  In fact, I’ve never been here before.”  He chuckled, a nervous little laugh, and I caught his eyes checking out the bulge in my jeans.  He must have noticed that I noticed where his eyes had strayed because he turned a little blush and quickly looked back at his glass.  I didn’t say anything.  After a few seconds, he looked back at me and asked, “How about you?  Do you come here often?”

“Nope.  My first time, too,” I said.  The beer arrived and the bartender set his and my own beer in front of us.  I picked up my glass and held it toward him in a toast.  “Well, here’s to our first time here,” I said.

The guy laughed that little chuckle again and raised his fresh glass of beer.  We each took a drink.  I noticed something funny, though, and reached up to find a mustache.  I don’t wear a mustache, but here sure as hell was one across my upper lip, now.  I turned away from the guy and pulled a little on the end of the mustache.  It stuck but I could tell that it had been pasted on.  I was momentarily confused.  Who the **** am I?  I thought.  I didn’t know anymore.  A few minutes ago, I was certain as to who I was.  A tough, gay, dominant Top out looking for pussy.  Boy pussy.  But, the mustache was fake.  I was not here in my normal self.  Who the **** am I?

Lost in thought, trying to figure this **** out, the guy tapped me on the shoulder several times before I turned back around.  I smiled at him.  “Sorry, lost in thought for a second.”

He smiled back.  “Oh.  OK.  Well, I just wanted to tell you that I needed to go the restroom and wondered if you’d, you know, keep an eye on my beer until I get back.”

What a stupid thing to ask, I thought.  “Sure, man, no problem.  Good ahead.  You’re beer will be here when you get back.”  I looked over at the bar tender but he had left.  He was nowhere to be seen.  I looked back as the straight guy walked down a short hallway where the restrooms were, I presumed.  I went after him.

As I strolled toward the hallway that he’d disappeared into, I glanced around.  No one was paying me any attention.  I spotted the bar tender over near the pool tables.  He was making out with one of the tough guys.  Top, I amended, he’s a Top and the bartender is a Bottom.  I laughed to myself as I turned into the men’s restroom.

The guy was standing at the urinal, a stream of piss arching into the basin.  He looked up, startled, I guess, to see me coming in behind him.  I didn’t say anything.  I just walked up to the urinal next to him and pulled my jeans open in one smooth pull, unsnapping the row of silver buttons on my Levi jeans.  I reached down and pulled out my penis.  I didn’t have to pee.

I could see the guy checking me out from the corner of my eye.  He was done with his business but, he hadn’t packed himself away.  I reached over and grabbed a handful of his ****.  He moaned.  I reached up and grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him toward me.  My right arm held him close.  I reached for his right hand with my left and brought it forward until he latched onto my hardening penis.  He moaned again.  I laughed and drug him away from the urinals to the toilet stall.

The little pisser went straight to his knees inside the stall and I stood in front of him.  He looked up at me with adoring eyes and I watched myself getting harder and bigger over the top of his face.  I didn’t say a word.  I didn’t need to.  He opened his mouth and took the head inside.  Ten, twenty deep thrusts later the guy was choking and trying to push me away.  I didn’t care.  I held his head tight and pumped.  And pumped and pumped.  As deep as I could, as hard as I could.  His eyes were leaking tears.  He was slobbering all over himself and down the front of my jeans.

Finally, I jerked his head back and in one smooth, quick move I pulled him up and spun him around.  I pushed the back of his head until he was bent over, his **** rising up to the level of my crotch.  He was moaning and I think, he was begging me to let him go.  I don’t know for sure.  All I heard was, “No, please, no, no, no, please don’t do that.”

It was so soft, such a whimper that I wasn’t sure I was hearing him say that in between his moans of obvious pleasure.  I held him position and reached down into the pocket of my jeans that were only half way down my thighs.  I pulled out a switchblade knife.

I paused for a moment, trying to figure out where these strange thoughts were coming from. No matter.  I opened the knife and a second later plunged deep into this pussy boy’s ****.  I pumped him hard, much harder than I’d used his throat.  He was squealing like a pig, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t care whether I was hurting him and I didn’t care if he screamed his lungs out.  Just as I came, planting seed deep within his bowels, I pulled his head back by the hair, leaned forward and sliced his throat open.

The little bitch was hard to hold onto as he panicked and then, almost instantly went into shock.  His body was jerking like an epileptic and boy did his **** clamp down on me.  It ended rather suddenly, and a bit disappointedly.  One second he was rocking, giving me a great **** and the next, he was limp as a noodle, hanging forward with only my hands around his hips holding him up.  I dropped him.  He crumbled into the corner between the stall wall and the toilet bowl.  I yanked a chunk of toilet paper out of the dispenser and cleaned off the knife.  I pushed the blade back into my pocket, pulled up my jeans and walked out of the restroom.

In the bar, the bartender was still doing kissy face with his boyfriend.  Two or three of the customers had left and the rest paid me no attention at all as I walked to the bar, drained both beers and left.  I got back into my car and drove home.  At least, I intended driving home but, damned if I could remember exactly where that was.