Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 20
I’m a private dick, and even though FDR keeps telling us prosperity is just around the corner, times are hard and money is tight. Considering how bad the times are, you’d think I’d be scrounging for jobs, but I work steady most of the time.
It’s been my experience that no matter how much a guy cries poor, when he thinks his old lady is mattress-dancing with someone else, he always manages to come up with my $10 a day plus expenses so that he can find out for sure. Following restless wives isn’t much of a living, but when I see guys standing on street corners selling apples, peeping through hotel windows and taking dirty pictures starts to look real good. So when Fletcher Greenfield called, I came running. At least there wouldn’t be any haggling over my fee. He probably spent that much on a good cigar.
The man looking at me from across his desk had to be in his 50s, but he was in fine physical shape, which made him appear much younger, despite the generous strands of gray in his black hair. His small mustache was dark except for a large streak of gray, making him look as if he’d forgotten to wipe his mouth after lunch.
What surprised me even more than his wanting me for the job was what he wanted me to do. I’d expected him to ask me to follow his wife, or maybe his girlfriend. When you’ve got big bucks, it must be pretty hard to figure out if a dame really loves you, or if she’s just calculating your net worth while you’re dick-deep in the cooze.
Being rich had to be tough. Given the chance, I knew I could learn to live with it.
But there wasn’t any skirt involved. Greenfield wanted me to find some missing designs he thought had been stolen by a less than reputable competitor. Almost all my work’s as a peeper, so I couldn’t figure out how he’d come to think of me for the job. All he’d say was that I’d been “highly recommended.” I couldn’t help wondering who’d done me such a big favor, but I didn’t want to press Greenfield for information, so I just accepted my good luck. The only problem was, I didn’t feel lucky—maybe because I didn’t trust the guy. He was a little too polished for my taste. Call me crazy, but there’s something about a guy with manicured fingernails that raises my hackles. Still, the money Greenfield was going to pay me was good, too good to pass up. I’d have to peep through a lot of windows to make what Greenfield was offering me, and I wouldn’t have to worry about getting my face bashed in by some unfaithful wife’s burly boyfriend.
“So, Korrigan,” he asked me, “can I consider you on board?”
Even though a little voice inside me was telling me to cut and run, I told the little bastard to shut the fuck up, and told Greenfield, “I’m your man.”
“Excellent. I knew we could come to terms.” Greenfield used a silver-handled ink-blotter on the check he’d just written, and handed it to me. “This should be enough to get you started.”
“It will do nicely,” I replied, slipping the check into my pocket. I stood up to leave, but when I offered Greenfield my hand he didn’t take it, didn’t even stand up.
“You can see yourself out,” he said by way of good-bye, and with that I was dismissed. I didn’t take offense—it was no less than I’d expected.
I took the stairs two at a time, anxious to be out of the house and back in the fresh air. But when I reached the bottom of the staircase I heard an urgent whisper, and turned around just in time to see him coming down the stairs.
Framed between the staircase pillars, he looked like a Renaissance painting I’d seen in the Guggenheim once: Soft, gentle features, with eyes such a deep blue that I could have drowned in them. That first look was like getting struck by lightning, and my dick had been the lightning rod.
“What can I do for you, kid?” I asked when I got my breath back, but the sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs sent him scampering like a scared rabbit. Just as well. Even if he wasn’t jailbait, he sure looked it, and if he hadn’t gone I might have been tempted to do something that would have gotten me into trouble.
All during the drive back to the city I couldn’t get the kid out of my mind. My dick was so hard that working the clutch in my ’37 Dodge coupe was almost painful. If I hadn’t thought it would cause an accident, I’d have jerked myself off in the car.
My reaction to the kid wasn’t surprising. After all, there hadn’t been anyone since Frankie.
Frankie was just another Bowery boy when I met him. No mother, and a father who’d crawled inside a bottle of rotgut and came out only to slap his son around. He was living on the streets, doing whatever he had to do to survive. Our introduction wasn’t the usual: He’d tried to pick my pocket. I’d caught him red-handed, but instead of turning him in to the cops, I bought him a bowl of soup and offered him a place to stay for the night. I’d left him on the couch, but I woke up in the middle of the night to find him between my legs with his mouth sliding down my pole like a fireman on his way to a three-alarmer. Frankie never made it back to the couch.
With due respect to F. Scott Fitzgerald, it was this side of paradise, but it hadn’t lasted. Frankie had gotten restless, and the lure of easy money had sent him to work as a whore for Blackie McCabe. He’d still come back to my place from time to time and share my bed—on the house, mind you. I should have left well enough alone, but instead I used Frankie to help me on a case, asking him to get information on one of Blackie’s regular clients.
Even though six months had passed, I still woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares of seeing his beautiful face with the .38 caliber bullet someone had planted between his eyes. I knew it had been Blackie, but the pimp’s alibi had been air-tight, so Frankie’s death had just been forgotten by everyone. Everyone but me.
After leaving Greenfield’s place on Long Island, I went back to my office and poured myself a well-deserved shot of whiskey while I sorted through the compromising photos I’d taken of the ex–chorus girl wife of a geezer old enough to be her grandfather.
I turned the radio on, and Lamont Cranston was just about to use his power to cloud men’s minds when my office door opened and the kid from Greenfield’s place came in. A large bruise on his cheek had marred his Renaissance beauty, and his eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Mr. Korrigan?” he asked softly.
“That’s me,” I answered, shutting off the radio. “That’s a nasty bruise, kid. Greenfield do that to you?”
His hand went to his cheek. “How did you know?”
“I’m a detective, remember. Finding out secrets is my business.”
He took the chair opposite my desk, but didn’t volunteer anything more, so I asked, “What can I do for you, kid?”
“It’s David, Mr. Korrigan, David Bachman.”
“As in Bachman Greenfield Ironworks?”
The kid nodded. “My father and Fletcher were partners.”
“Were?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I miss him.”
“So, what were you doing at Greenfield’s place?”
“I live there.” At my raised eyebrows, he explained, “He’s been my guardian since my father died.”
“So he controls the purse strings,” I surmised.
David nodded again, only this time he kept his eyes down. “He’s the executor of my father’s estate. I have to live in his house and do whatever he says…” The kid’s words trailed off as his bottom lip began to tremble.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, but he wasn’t fine. He looked pale and shaky and about to come apart like the guts of a Swiss watch, but I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to talk. When he did he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I have to get back before Fletcher realizes I’m gone.” The kid got up from the chair and would have fallen flat on his face if I hadn’t gotten up from my desk just in time to catch him.
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere, kid. Now tell me what this is all about.”
David Bachman slumped against me, and the waterworks started. I picked him up in my arms and he buried his face in my neck.
I kept a couch in my office for those long nights when I was too beat to make it back to my furnished room, and I lay the kid down on it. He wouldn’t let go of me, and ended up pulling my bulk down on top of his small, compact body. Losing myself in his tear-filled blue eyes, I asked, “Greenfield took you into his bed, didn’t he?”
The kid blinked, sending tears cascading down his pale cheeks. “It was what I wanted, but then he became possessive, never wanting me to leave the house. I thought he loved me, but when I told him I was moving out…“
“He threatened to keep your father’s money from you.”
David nodded. “I told him I didn’t care about the money, so he said if I tried to leave he’d have me sent to jail.”
“For what?”
“For stealing those designs. They’re not really missing, Mr. Korrigan. Fletcher hid them away somewhere. He said if I try to leave him he’ll tell the police I stole them.”
It didn’t make sense. “Then why hire me?” I asked.
“He knows the police will be suspicious if he doesn’t do anything to get the designs back, so he hired you to find them. He know he’ll be safe, because there’s no way you can find them.”
I didn’t like being played for a sucker, but I wasn’t so sure I was ready to give up the golden goose on the kid’s say-so. “So what do you want from me?” I asked.
“I need to get away from Fletcher, but I can’t do it on my own,” David whispered, his lips so close I could feel his breath on my face. “Please help me, Mr. Korrigan.”
Knowing I wouldn’t be sending him into strange waters, I offered the kid the kind of help I needed as much as he did. “I’m your man, kid,” I said, covering his mouth with mine. His lips parted and I slid my tongue inside. He tasted of mint and dark chocolate.
My hands worked quickly as I unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was smooth and boyish, and I ran my hands over it, feeling his tiny nipples harden the moment I touched them. I kissed all the way down to his waist, stopping only to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants so that I could take them off. His silk boxers came off next, revealing a long, slim dick, surprisingly big for a kid his size. I touched my lips to the tip and it saluted like a career soldier.
Sliding my hands under his ass, I cupped his cheeks in my palms as I prepared to swallow him whole. That’s when I felt the welts. “Greenfield did this to you?” I asked.
The kid nodded, then turned away, his face flushed. “He likes to play rough. He ties me to the bed and uses his belt on me. It’s the only way he can…”
Playing rough might have been the only way Fletcher Greenfield could get it up, but I had no such problem. Just touching the kid already had me so close to shooting I was afraid I wouldn’t get my dick out of my pants in time.
Greenfield might have been his first, but David Bachman had been a good student. He took my dick out of my pants like a pro, then he turned over underneath me so that he was face down on the couch. When he pulled his knees up under him and raised his ass, I didn’t need an engraved invitation. I spit on my dick and sunk it into his hole. The kid groaned, but he took it all, bucking against me until I was buried deep inside him, my balls slamming against his ass while I fucked him. I shot quickly, pumping my jism into him until I’d been milked dry. It wasn’t until the kid asked me who “Frankie” was that I realized I’d screamed out his name when I came.
So I made my pact with the devil and sealed the deal with my seven inches deep inside David Bachman’s ass.
It wasn’t difficult to pull off the scam. I learned Greenfield’s daily routine, his work habits, his comings and goings—all in hopes of finding the designs he’d hidden away. Each week I turned in phony reports of my progress on the case. Not that things weren’t progressing on my end. I was fucking David Bachman regularly, and getting paid to do it. The good life didn’t seem like such a dream after all. Until I got the wake-up call.
“Artie!”
I was half-asleep. “David?” I said into the phone, still fuzzy. “What’s going on?”
“Fletcher found out about us, Artie! He’s going crazy! Please come get me before—“
The line went dead. I jumped out of bed and into my clothes. I drove to the Greenfield mansion like a madman, determined to kill Fletcher Greenfield if he’d laid a hand on the kid. But when I got there everything was quiet. The front door was unlocked and I let myself in. I called out, but there was no answer, so I drew my .38 and went upstairs.
There was a light on in Greenfield’s study. His chair was turned away from the door. “Where’s David?” I demanded. “If you hurt that kid, so help me…”
When Greenfield didn’t answer, I went to the desk and spun his chair around so that he would face me. Greenfield’s eyes were staring straight at me, but he was long past seeing anyone. There was blood dripping down onto his $100 suit from the .38 caliber hole right between his eyes.
When I got to David’s room I found him naked, tied spread-eagle, face down on his bed. A silk tie had been fastened around his mouth to gag him. “Are you all right, kid?” I asked, putting down my gun so that I could untie him. “Greenfield’s dead. Thank God whoever did it didn’t know he’d left you in here like this.”
“He knew very well.”
Hearing that voice made my blood run cold.
“Blackie McCabe,” I muttered as the dark-suited pimp walked out of the bathroom carrying a leather belt in one hand and a .38 in the other.
“I’m so pleased you remember me, Korrigan.” My eyes went to my gun on the bed, but McCabe said, “Don’t even think about it.” He picked up the gun and put it in his belt.
“Don’t hurt the kid,” I pleaded.
McCabe shook his head. “You disappoint me, Korrigan. You’re such a smart dick, I was sure you’d figure this out right away. Davy likes being hurt.” He slapped the belt hard across the kid’s ass. David moaned and raised his reddened asscheeks up for more. “It makes him one of my most popular boys. You’d be surprised how much my customers are willing to pay to beat a rich boy’s ass.”
“A rich boy?” I asked stupidly.
“Very rich. Davy already has his father’s estate. He’ll get all of Bachman Greenfield Ironworks too, now that his dear guardian is out of the way. We just needed someone to take the fall for Fletcher’s murder.”
The realization fell on me like a two-ton slab of concrete. “You had the kid recommend me to Greenfield.”
“Very good, Korrigan.” Blackie nodded his approval. “I knew you were a smart dick. I thought you might be too smart to fall for our little plan, but I knew Davy-boy would be able to convince you. You always did like the pretty ones, didn’t you, Korrigan? Like Frankie?”
“You bastard!” I spat, lunging for the .38 in McCabe’s hand. He sidestepped me like Fred Astaire, and brought the butt of the gun down on the back of my head. Everything faded to black.
When I woke up, the room was full of blue uniforms and I had McCabe’s .38 in my hand. The cops didn’t believe me when I told them I’d been framed, especially when they untied the kid and he started talking. David Bachman told them in a small, teary voice how I’d tied him up and forced myself on him, and how I’d shot Greenfield. The kid sounded real convincing, especially with those tears running down his beautiful cheeks.
I’m not in the peeper business anymore. Now I’m getting my three squares a day courtesy of the state. I spend my days making license plates in the Greybar Hotel.” And my nights alone in an 8 by 10 cell. I don’t mind the solitude; it’s given me a lot of time to think.
After lights–out, I spend hours staring up at the ceiling. If I look real hard I can see David Bachman’s tear-stained face when he asked for my help. I still can’t believe what a sucker I was. A pro like me getting conned by a kid like him….
I’ve never been one to give advice, but this pearl of wisdom is worth taking: Sex and business don’t mix. I’m living proof of where a stiff dick can lead you. The Fletcher Greenfield case taught me one other hard lesson:
You can never trust a pretty face.
Prolonged Exposure May Cause Dizziness
Sandip Roy
It’s 12:25. He never comes in before 12:30, but I just wanted to be sure. Just in case, you know. The bench is hot on my bare butt and I wiggle around trying to avoid the nails. The sauna smells of stale towels and trapped air. Someone left a newspaper inside even though the sign explicitly says, “No newspapers.” The pages have dried to a crisp. I glance at them—the sports pages, oh well. I spread my towel on the bench and sit down and wait. I have been watching him for days—from behind my book on the Lifecycle. It was very hard to concentrate on the book while he pounded away on one of those running machines next to me in his little butt-hugging blue satin shorts that showed off those sleek brown thighs. Once, after he had finished running, he pulled up his blue-ribbed tank top to wipe his forehead and I almost dropped my book as I was treated to a glimpse of his flat brown belly and I saw his belly button was pierced. I could even see the thin line of hair running from his belly button down into those satin shorts that looked as if they would just glide off him.
The other day I almost got him. Just as I was about to finish my shower, he came in. He glanced at me and then hung his towel on a hook and came to the stall right opposite mine. He turned on the water and jumped back with a start as the icy-cold spray hit him. He stood away from the stream of water, fiddling with the controls, while I feasted on his body. The slopes of his chest, the taut belly, and the sudden fullness of his butt. His uncut dick. The neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair. Just above the hairline I could see a little tattoo. A dragon perhaps. Maybe that was his Chinese Zodiac sign. I could suddenly see myself between his thighs, my tongue flicking across that little dragon and around his sweet tight balls. And I wanted to see his throat tighten with pleasure as my tongue swirled around his balls and his dick swelled in anticipation of my mouth. And the water from the shower would be cascading down his back and chest and blinding me as I looked up. I could feel my dick stirring. I glanced over at him. He was looking at me in the shower. I turned around to face him and soaped myself in what I hoped was a languorous gesture. I took my time—pumping that liquid dispenser for all it was worth. I hated that evil-smelling pink liquid soap the gym provided. But I lathered myself with it for his pleasure. I ran my hands over my butt and let the water wash away the ringlets of foam, only to do it all over again. I filled my hands with soap and vigorously rubbed myself between the thighs, playing with my dick as I did so. I glanced over and saw his dick had lengthened. It was not hard but it definitely hung a little heavier. He glanced at me and then his gaze shyly darted away.
