It's a little after 11 o'clock — late enough to draw a decent bar crowd but early enough, if I'm lucky, to score and still catch a few hours of sleep. I have to be in the hiring hall by 8 o'clock sharp tomorrow morning if I want a crack at a job. It's crazy to be cruising on a weekday night, but I haven't been laid since I've moved here, and my cock is giving me a hard time about it. Springsteen is playing on the jukebox, and the boys are lined up against the walls, checking out any new action that walks through the door. I feel their eyes draw a bead on me, and it's gratifying to see how they track me as I push my way through the crowd. I need a little tender loving tonight; I'm feeling lonely and more than a little depressed about not finding work.

I make my way to the bar and order the cheapest beer they got, which is still three goddamn dollars. As I pull the bills from my wallet, I realize I'm going to have to nurse this sucker for the rest of the night—that is, unless I can get someone to buy me another. This is a distinct possibility. I'm muscular and hairy, with the face of a back-alley thug—perfect fodder for all those guys out there with fantasies of getting it on with a knuckle dragger. And they are out there. I found out long ago that just by leaning against a wall and looking stupid, I can usually draw in someone looking for a little walk on the wild side.

Within half an hour I've hooked up with a couple of boyfriends with a place in the Village. One's a humpy little Italian with a tight, compact body and dark, soulful eyes. He tells me his name is Lou, short for Luigi. His buddy is lighter, with blond hair, a kid's face, and the tall lean body of a competitive swimmer. They both fall into the "sex candy" category, and I'm quite happy to be their stray mutt for the night. We talk the usual barroom bullshit, and I answer their questions as politely as I'm capable of, waiting for them to make up their minds. When the blond guy, whose name is Charley, asks me what I do for a living, I tell him I'm an iron man. Well, that tips the scales in my balance fast enough; I can see they're about creaming in their jeans at the thought of making it with a construction worker. They exchange glances, raise their eyebrows, and give each other a silent nod with all the subtlety of a two-by-four between the eyes. It's funny, but they seem to think I'm too clueless to notice any of this. Or else they just don't care. They finally ask if I want to go home with them, and I say, "Sure."

Riding in their car, I pick up signals that these guys want someone mean and stupid. I think about calling this off but decide to just go ahead and play the game.

When we get back to their place, I throw them around the bedroom, rough them up a bit, rip their clothes off, and then make them strip me naked. Lou pulls my pants down; when my dick springs out to full attention, he looks like a kid who just got a new bike for Christmas. I grab his head and start fucking his face hard while Charley eats out my ass. Lou is no slouch at giving head. I close my eyes and let the sensation sweep over me of finally having my dick someplace warm and wet.

We play out all the expected riffs on the theme of the big, bad construction worker. I call them "faggots" and "cocksuckers" and knock them around some more. But later on I let them turn the tables on me. Charley "pins" me down, and Lou slowly works a greased dildo up my ass. I snarl and spit, cursing threats at them, with all of us just having a grand old time. I end up fucking them both in retaliation—first Lou, then Charley, then Lou again, because I find him the hotter of the two. I shoot my load while plowing him, and as I squirt it deep into the condom up his ass, I throw back my head and bellow like a bull. A neighbor pounds on the wall and shouts at us to shut the fuck up.

I lie back while Lou and Charley kneel over me and shoot on my face. They beg me to spend the night, but I tell them no, I got plans tomorrow morning. When they don't give it up, I kick over an end table and tell them to go fuck themselves. They love it.

On the subway back I think about how easy it was to give them what they wanted. Hell if things get desperate enough, I could always try hustling. Christ, I hope it don't come to that.

I luck out. The next morning I finally land a job up on Lexington Avenue. One of the iron men there took a flop yesterday and fell two stories, breaking his leg. Tough luck for him. Lucky break for me. Oh, does that sound callous? Excuse me, I'll be more sensitive when I have more than 57 bucks in my checking account.

I show up the next day right at 8 o'clock, like I was told to; I'm not about to do anything to blow this gig. The building's a big motherfucker all right, already 54 stories' worth of iron thrown up with another 22 to go. I take the lift up to where the crew is punching in. By force of habit I zero in on the humpiest guy there, some Irish piece of tail with a red crew cut, alert blue eyes, and a tight, sexy body that's just screaming for a serious plowing. I ask him what the foreman's name is and where I can find him.

He gives me a quick once-over. "His name's Jackson," he says. "Last I saw him he was over by the derrick bull wheel."

"What does he look like?"

He gives a hint of a smile. 'Think pit bull on steroids." He buckles on his tool belt and hoists a coil of cable on his shoulder. "Just go over there. You can't miss him."

It doesn't take long to find Jackson. The guy was right. He does have the small bloodshot eyes and sloped head of an attack dog. I report in, and he looks me over, his eyes pausing for a second on the four gold rings in my left ear. He don't look too happy with what the cat dragged in. We're standing just a few feet away from the bull wheel and have to shout to hear each other. "The hall tells me you're a connector," he growls. "Is that for real?"

I nod. "For five years. Out in L.A"

Jackson squints his eyes, a third-rate Clint Eastwood. "Oh, yeah? Why'd you come back here?"

What, I think, I need a passport? But I know how crews guard their turfs like junkyard dogs. I plaster my best shit-eating smile on my face. "Construction' s gone to hell out West. All the trades are scrambling for work I thought I'd try East for a change."

Jackson's squint don't lighten up any. Then again, maybe that's how he always looks. He points up to a figure balanced on an eight-inch beam overhead, guiding down a 20-foot I beam hung from a derrick cable.

Even from this distance I can see it's the redheaded guy I talked to earlier. "That's Mike O'Reilly. You're going to be working with him, bolting those headers." I start climbing up the column next to Mike's, but Jackson grabs me by the arm and pulls me back. By instinct my hand clenches into a fist, but I unclench it just as quick. I don't think slugging the boss would be such a good idea. "I'll be keeping my eye on you," he says, giving me the fisheye. "If you can't cut it, your ass will be off the crew by tomorrow."

Thanks for the pep talk, I think. I shinny up the column with my eyes trained on Mike. He's perched on the beam, wrestling a header into place. I give myself a few seconds to take in the sight: his shirt off, his body packed with muscles, his powerful arms lifted up and struggling with all that steel against the backdrop of clear blue sky. Pure poetry. Enough to set my dick thumping. God, I love construction!

Mike is still humping the header when I finally get level with him, though with 20 feet of empty air still between us. "Howdy!" I call out to him.

He glances my way and then back at the header. He gives it a mighty whack with his spud wrench and then looks back at me again, his gaze bold as brass. His mouth curls up into an easy smile. "I wondered if you were Pete's replacement. How ya doing? Did Jackson chew a chunk out of your ass?" "I still got most of it left." I grabbed my end of the header. "You need some help with that?"

"Yeah, if you feel so inclined."

I get the header lined up just so, slip a few bolts in, and tighten the nuts. I glance over to Mike. "You secure?" I call out. He nods. I hoist myself up onto the beam, trot out to the center, and cut the choker loose. A gust of wind blasts me, and I sway to compensate, nothing to fall back on but empty air. Girder surfing, we call it back in LA.

The building foundation pit is a tiny patch of blackness 54 stories below—far enough down that if I took a dive, parts of me would splatter into Brooklyn. This don't bother me any. If it did, I'd be selling shoes for a living.

Mike and I pace ourselves like dancers, matching our rhythms and moves as we line up the headers and start bolting them down. I can see Mike knows what he's doing. He works the iron good, moving the beams easily where he wants them and bolting them down quick and skillful. It don't take long before we get a heat up good and are snapping those beams into the columns like they're from a kid's Erector set.

I find myself sneaking glances at Mike from time to time. He isn't exactly cocky, but he handles himself like a man who knows he's good and just lets his body take over and do what has to be done. It's late in the morning now, and the sun is getting hot. Streams of sweat trickle down his torso, making it fuckin' gleam; drops of it bead around his nipples, which are as big as quarters and the color of old pennies. I think about what it'd be like chewing on them, flicking them with my tongue, nipping at them with my teeth as Mike's muscular body squirms under me. His torso is nut-brown, but when he leans down to spin a low bolt, I see his tan line and a strip of creamy skin beneath it. His ass must be a very pretty thing, pale and smooth like polished ivory. The night before last's fun and games haven't taken the edge off my hunger; if anything, I'm stoked for more of the same.

We're on our fifth header by the time the lunch whistle blows. Mike pulls off his hard hat and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand; I watch as his biceps bulge up and dance. He stands there for a few seconds, his left knee bent, his weight on his right hip, that muscle-packed torso so nicely slicked.

I feel my throat squeeze tight just looking at him. He's a slab of prime beef, all right, and my brain goes into overtime thinking of all the dirty things I'd like to do with him. He suddenly turns and looks at me, and there's this second when my face is still naked, my thoughts written on it for anyone to see. I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd reached out and grabbed his basket.

Mike's eyes burn into me, and it's clear he knows what's on my mind. But he turns his head and gazes out toward the Jersey shore like he's searching for something. Slowly, carelessly, he reaches up and scratches his balls, giving them a little extra tug. The signal is so fuckin' blatant that my brain buzzes with confusion. I'm surprised smoke isn't coming out of my ears.

Mike and I eat lunch together sitting on a girder with our legs dangling over 800 feet of nothing. Mike is relaxed and friendly, so open and at ease that I begin to wonder if I misread what was going on between us just a few minutes before. I ask Mike how Pete, the guy whose place I'm taking, happened to fall.

Mike shrugged. "We were working a little late. I guess he was tired and just got sloppy. It happens."

After a while we run out of conversation. I lie on my back and close my eyes, feeling the sun beat down on me. I think about what Mike looks like naked, and I give him a dick that's meaty and thick just to keep the fantasy interesting. In my mind he's fucking my mouth slow and easy, his balls slapping against my chin. My dick gives a hard thrust against my jeans, but I don't do nothing to hide it.

"Thinking about pussy?" Mike asks. I half open my eyes and see him looking down at me, grinning. "I was just wondering. It looks like your dick's about to split your pants wide open."

"It's been a problem lately," I say, keeping my voice casual. "I seem to be horny all the time."

Mike's grin widens. "Well maybe you'll get lucky soon." He winks his eye at me, and again I get that weird feeling, like he's sending me some kind of message. He stands up and dusts himself off.

"Time to get back to work."

For the rest of the afternoon it's like that, Mike joking around, giving me these looks that may mean something but then again may not. He's got me wound tighter than a clock, and I don't like it. For one tiling, it's affecting my work now. A couple of times I fumble the bolts, stupidly watching them slip between my fingers and drop down all that space beneath us. I almost lose my spud wrench the same way, just grabbing it in the last half second before it's gone for good. I glance toward Mike, and he's watching me, grinning. "Uh-oh," he says.

"You almost killed a businessman that time." His smile is good-natured enough, but his eyes gleam with a bold light that misses nothing. He's just having a good ol' time at my expense. I feel like pushing him off his beam.

At 4:45 Jackson signals for us to start wrapping it up. Mike cups his mouth with his hands. "Send another beam up!" he shouts. Jackson shakes his head and points to his watch. "We can do it!" Mike shouts back. "Al and I don't mind working a little later." Jackson shrugs and signals for the crane operator to hoist up another beam.

I glare at Mike. "What the hell's got into you?" I call over to him. "I want to go home."

Mike just grins. "The way you been fucking up this afternoon, I figure you owe the company a few minutes' extra work." The beam swings down overhead, and he guides it into place. Pissed, I help line up the holes and slide a few bolts in. By the time he cuts the choker loose, the rest of the crew have taken off, leaving us alone. I spend a few more minutes bent over my end of the beam, slipping in the remaining bolts and tightening the nuts.

I'm working as fast as I can so that I can just get the hell out of here and put an end to this day. I turn to see how Mike's doing with his end. He's still out there on the middle of the beam, only now his pants are down around his ankles. He's slowly stroking his stiff cock, his face as calm as if this is the most natural thing he could be doing. I almost drop my wrench for the second time that day.

"You ought to tie that thing around your wrist," Mike says, "before you kill someone."

I just stare at him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Mike laughs. "What does it look like?"

I watch his hand slide up and down his thick dick, his balls bouncing heavily with each stroke. My own dick starts beating against my zipper, yelling to be let out. "Come on down to where there's some floor beneath us," I say. My throat's so tight, I can barely get the words out.

Mike shakes his head. "No. I got a better idea. Come up here and join me."

The beam he's standing on juts over the side of the building. I look down at the 54 stories' worth of empty air beneath us. If we fell, I just might be able to shoot a load before hitting bottom, but there'd be hell to pay afterward. I shake my head. "No way, Mike. I only practice safe sex."

But Mike just stands there grinning, his hand moving up and down his uncut dick. He stops for a minute and peels off his T-shirt. His sweaty torso gleams in the late-afternoon sun, cut and chiseled in such a way that every muscle stands out. He tosses the shirt into the wind, and I watch as it floats down into oblivion. The street below is deep in the shadow of early evening, but up here it's still bright daylight. I spend a couple of seconds watching Mike standing there buck naked except for his hard hat, and I know I'm going to get it on with him or die trying. I jump up on the beam.

"Hold on," Mike calls out. "I want you to get naked first."

What the hell, I think, shrugging. I'm ready for anything now. I do a careful strip, draping my clothes over the column head. Seconds later I'm bare-ass naked. A slight breeze plays over my body, and I can feel the last rays of the sun on my skin. The steel's cool and smooth under my bare feet; everything else around me feels like miles of empty air.

Mike's lips curl up in a slow smile. "You look fuckin' great, Al" he says. He kicks off his shoes, and I watch as they disappear into the darkness below. He steps out of his pants, leaving them piled on the girder behind him. He's pumping his dick faster now, and I watch as his cock head winks in and out of its foreskin. It makes for a great show.

I walk across the girder toward him like a man crossing pond ice on a sunny day. I've been walking for years on narrow beams above open space, and I feel my body automatically making the tiny adjustments that keep me from losing my balance. When I reach Mike I run my hands over his chest and torso, as much to steady myself as to feel his naked body. He leans forward and kisses me lightly, then not so lightly. We play dueling tongues for a while, then Mike reaches down and wraps his palm around my dick. He glances at it and then back at me. "Jeez, you got a beautiful dick, Al."

"Yeah, I get a lot of compliments on it."

Mike grins. "I bet. Look how thick it is. And long too. And how big and red the cock head is." He laughs. "Not many men are blessed with a dick this pretty, Al. I hope you appreciate what you got." He squeezes my dick, and a drop of precome oozes out of the piss slit. He smears it between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. "Your balls have a nice size to them too, even though they're pulled up a little tight"

I give a stiff smile. "Being scared shirtless has a way of doing that to me, Mike. Maybe we should just skip the commentary and move on to what's next."

Mike looks amused. He carefully bends down and picks up his jeans. He pulls a condom out of the back pocket. "All right, let's get to it. How 'bout plugging my butt—hard?"

I have to laugh. "Well, I'm glad you practice safe sex." None of this seems real. My cock is granite-hard, and I've never felt hornier. Mike spits on his hand and strokes my cock, making it slick. He slips the condom on over it and carefully turns around. I take his cue and with killing slowness impale his sweet ass.

I have never fucked with such concentration before. My mind is alert to every movement we make, and my body is as tuned as if each nerve ending had a mind of its own. I begin pumping my hips, first with a slow, grinding tempo, then faster and deeper.

Everything is reduced to one word: balance. Mike knows this too, and he meets me stroke for stroke, his body reacting to the thrusts and pulls of mine as if we're both well-oiled parts of one moving machine. I hold on to his torso, not roughly but with a touch light and cautious enough to just barely feel the squirm of his muscles beneath my fingertips. We fuck like we're defusing a bomb, in carefully controlled terror. I have never had sex feel so goddamned exciting.

I spit in my hand and begin stroking Mike's cock. It's already slippery with precum, and it slides easily back and forth across my palm. Mike groans loudly and squirms against me, a move I wasn't expecting. For a second we sway to one side, and I feel the beam slip from under my feet. Mike and I both quickly shift our weight and regain our balance. "Sweet Jesus," I mutter. But I never miss a stroke.

The lights are beginning to come on in the buildings below us. The city spreads out beneath us to the horizon, and I feel like I'm fuckin' flying. Even this far up I can still faintly hear the sounds of traffic from below. I plunge deep into Mike's ass and just leave my dick there, slowly rotating my hips. Mike groans again, this time louder. His dick in my hand is as hard as rebar, and I know it won't be long before it's ready to spew. I pull out almost all the way and then shove my dick hard back in till my balls press tight against Mike's ass. He cries out, and I feel his spunk gush between my fingers and drip down into the darkness below. I hold on tight as his body shudders in my arms, keeping the control and balance for both of us.

When he quiets down I give my hips a few quick thrusts. That's all I need to get me off, and I feel my load shoot out into the condom up Mike's ass. I ride the orgasm out like a surfer on a killer wave, getting off on the thrill but concentrating on my balance at the same time.

When the last shudder is over, I carefully pull out. Mike turns around, and we kiss each other lightly, our bodies pressed tightly together. Mike makes a sudden jerking movement to the side, and I feel a half second of pure terror before I regain my balance. Mike laughs.

I glare at him. "You dickhead."

But Mike just keeps on grinning. He picks up his pants. "Come on, let's get off this damn beam."

Back by the foreman's shack, I give Mike my undershirt to replace the one he tossed over the side. But he's going to have to take the subway home barefoot. He just shrugs this off. As I get dressed I start thinking about what a fuckin' insane thing it was we just did. To my annoyance my hands begin to tremble as I tie my shoes. I make sure Mike doesn't see this.

I look up and study him for a moment. "Did you ever do anything this crazy before?"

The muscles in Mike's face twitch, like he's trying to decide whether to say something. Finally he gives a slow, easy smile. "Sure. How do you think the guy you replaced fell?" He sees the expression on my face and laughs. "Hey, I was joking, OK? I've never done this before."

We ride down in the lift in silence. Mike is idly looking out toward the city skyline. I stare at his face, trying to figure out just exactly how Pete did fall off that girder.

Down on the street Mike kisses me lightly. "See you tomorrow, Al. You're great working with." I watch as he walks barefoot down the sidewalk to the subway station on the corner, his arms swinging jauntily by his side. I shake my head. Jamming my hands into my jeans pockets, I plow through the crowds of people. When I get to the first street corner, I wait for the light to turn green, looking both ways carefully before crossing.