Gay naked men stories

The air was getting cooler and the shadows were growing long. Already most of the narrow streets and passageways were quite dark. Dusk was coming on and most of the shopkeepers were beginning to shutter up their shops by the time we stumbled upon the bar. The place was a simple whitewashed room with Formica-topped folding tables. It was gay naked men stories crowded and noisy, full of Turkish men with their thick black moustaches. They all wore crumpled white shirts and heavy wool gray suits and they smoked like chimneys. They were drinking arak. I’d heard of the stuff before, in books written by guys like Somerset Maugham and Ernest Hemingway, but this was my first introduction to the arak experience. Wish I knew then what I know now. Hans and I sat down. A heavy-set Turk who looked anywhere from forty to sixty-five sat on the other side of the table. We nodded with the same tough-guy frown this guy gave us, and when the proprietor came up, we both indicated the same thing he was drinking, a clear glass bottle the size of a coke bottle containing a clear liquid. “Arak?” “Yeah. Arak.” The big Turk on the other side of the table lit up a cigarette and ignored us. Then the proprietor returned with our bottles, two glasses containing chunks gay naked men stories of ice obviously hacked off a larger block, and a small jug of water. I gay naked men stories tossed a few drachma or lire or whatever the currency is over there on the table and we were on our way. I guess arak is a type of anisette liqueur, along the lines of that god-awful stuff they drink in the south of France. Whatever it’s made of, it’s got a liquorice taste to it and it turns into a white liquid when water is poured into it. A twelve-ounce bottle of the stuff cost us about fifty cents.

What I didn’t get from reading all those novels was the kick this stuff has. It sort of sneaks up on you. Hans and I were knocking the stuff back like it was kool-aid and ordering more bottles. Before I knew it there were ten or twelve empties on the table. My head was pounding, I had a taste like gacky cough medicine gay naked men stories down the back of my throat and the room was beginning to spin. “Hans,” I said, “ we gotta get outta here. I gay naked men stories need some fresh air.” “Yah, John, dot’s a good idea.” I threw a few more shekels or whatever they were on the table and we stumbled out of the place, back into the souk, now dark and cold. We staggered along the damp cobblestones, trying gay naked men stories to keep our balance. That arak really hit home hard, but as hard as it hit it seemed to be wearing off pretty fast, too. My head seemed quite clear in the cold night air. We tried to keep straight as we walked past what appeared to be a police station, and then somehow we ended up stumbling into an open doorway that led us up a flight of stairs and into a large, darkened room full of tables and chairs and filled with Turkish men and women. At first I thought it was just another bar. Then I noticed that all the women in the place were all wearing nothing but lingerie beneath these long flowing nightgowns made of sheer diaphanous material. It was pretty obvious what sort of a place we gay naked men stories had stumbled upon. We found a couple of seats at a table. The proprietor came up, a fat guy in a white apron. I told him the gay naked men stories only word I know in Turkish. “Arak.” At the time I wished I knew how to order a beer, but in retrospect gay naked men stories it probably saved my life that I didn’t mix grain with whatever it is they make that ungodly stuff out of. He came back with the little bottles, the glasses and the water and we paid him. Like I said, my head had cleared up from our little walk down the street, and I could now take in the scenery around us from a fairly straight point of view. I noticed quite a few police officers about the place, but this is not unusual in Third World whorehouses. Either they’re there getting paid to provide security or they’re picking up their payola.