“Listen,” Nathan said, hoping things wouldn’t get ugly. There were two of them, one of the boy, but still…he’d heard stories. Why had Rich insisted on…“If you want, I’ll go out, find an ATM. But it’s just ten bucks.”

  Bobby paused—Nathan thought he could actually see him thinking.

  “Aw, hell,” he said at last. “Let’s do it.” His cock was visibly hard beneath the shiny fabric of his shorts. Rich relaxed and reached down again. Bobby spread his legs wider. Rich looked up at Nathan, who was standing a few feet away, an indecipherable look on his face.

  “You want some of this?” Rich asked.

  “You go ahead. I’ll watch for now.”

  Rich always does this. Well, not always. But a lot. Too fucking much.

  Gets us into messes that I’m not ready for. Was the kid kind of cute, standing there on the side of the road? Well, yeah. So what? That didn’t mean that he was a hustler. And even when that’s exactly what he turned out to be, that doesn’t mean we had to invite him back to our motel.

  And then when we get here, the kid already sprawled backward on our bed, the front of his stupid basketball shorts tented out, it turns out that Rich doesn’t even have enough money to pay for him. Damn it, I want to say, clean up your own messes. But I pay the extra forty dollars. It was supposed to be fifty, actually, and when the little whore finds out he’s not going to get everything he’d asked for, this threatening look passes across his face, like it isn’t above him to kill us for ten bucks. And that’s the first time I start getting hard all day.

  After the money shit gets straightened out, Rich swoops down. That seems kind of stupid, since I’ve always figured the hustler was supposed to service the client, not the other way around. But, hey, my experience in that area isn’t what you’d call extensive. Rich starts stroking the kid’s legs, then moves up to his basket. The boy’s dick is obviously a big one. Rich clambers up on the bed and buries his face in the kid’s crotch. I can see that he’s wrapping his lips around the still-hidden hard-on. The boy pulls up his wifebeater and starts to stroke his own chest, which is surprisingly hairy for such a young guy. He has really small nipples, almost tiny. I really like small nips. I pull out my dick and start jacking off.

  Why the hell not?

  Rich pulled down the boy’s shorts. A biggish, beautiful, nineteen-year-old cock sprang forth, boyishly ready for action. It was, somewhat surprisingly, considering age and locale, cut. Maybe the kid was Jewish.

  “That feels fucking good,” Bobby said, though he didn’t have to. He already had his money, and it was unlikely that flattery would get him a larger tip, or—judging from what had already happened—any tip at all. But it was true.

  The dark-haired guy was a good—no, a great—cocksucker. He was just as happy that the guy hadn’t expected things to be the other way around. It was always hard to tell beforehand who was supposed to do what to who, not unless you asked a lot of questions, and Bobby didn’t do that. A dollar was, after all, a dollar. And anyway, he really didn’t mind sucking cock. Truth to tell, it was actually pretty fun, though he’d still rather be with a girl, mostly.

  Rich—his mouth still on Bobby’s cock, nose buried in the boy’s bushy, nicely smelly pubes—moved his hand, which had been stroking the boy’s muscular thigh, around to his firm, furry ass. The boy flinched, but didn’t object, so Rich groped farther, till his fingertips made contact with Bobby’s moist, warm asshole. The little ring pulsed, then relaxed, as though it was not unused to a bit of attention.

  Nathan, meanwhile, hard-on in hand, had moved beside the bed and kind of crouched down, jockeying for a better viewpoint. Stroking himself, he watched the hustler’s sizable dick disappear down Rich’s throat, then reappear, then vanish again. Rich always was good at deep-throating, a knack that Nathan, with his hard-to-conquer gag reflex, envied.

  Rich thought he could already taste precum, faintly salty on his tongue. But he wasn’t about to let the boy shoot yet; he wanted to get his money’s worth. He reluctantly backed away from Bobby’s musky crotch and managed to pull the suburban boy’s shorts entirely off. Rich reached down for the kid’s battered high-tops and pulled the boy’s legs up, revealing a very pink hole nestled in dark-blond fur. Bobby let out an Unh! but was otherwise compliant. Bending down, Rich nuzzled the boy’s furry balls, then ran his tongue down the kid’s ridge until he could taste asshole. The boy was, as expected, musky down there, considerably funkier than his bush had been, but still not unpleasantly so. But then, Rich loved eating ass. Especially—he had to guiltily admit to himself—young ass. He licked around for a while, then burrowed his tongue up inside the boy. Bobby seemed to like the sensation. At least he squirmed and moaned as though he did, and, Rich thought, he probably wasn’t all that good an actor. He propped the boy’s sneakers on his shoulders and reached for Bobby’s furry asscheeks, spreading them till the hole was open wide. He really wanted to get up inside there, as far up that hole as he could.

  Nathan had climbed onto the motel bed, kneeling beside the boy’s shaggy blond head. He wanted to fuck the nineteen-year-old’s maloccluded mouth, buckteeth or no. He hovered over Bobby, rubbing his hard cock against the boy’s face. Bobby did not, however, open his mouth, the way a good hustler should. If anything, he seemed to turn his face away from Nathan’s dick.

  “Suck my cock,” Nathan said.

  Bobby didn’t.

  Nathan repeated it, fairly snarling this time. “Suck my cock, cocksucker!”

  Still no response.

  Nathan hauled off and slapped Bobby’s face, pretty hard.

  I’ve still got my tongue inside the kid’s ass when I hear the slap.

  Oh, Jesus, I think, Nathan’s at it again.

  I take my mouth away from Bobby’s only slightly dirty butt and look up. Nathan’s kneeling on the bed, his hand poised for another blow. The kid has a look of surprise on his almost-handsome face. Not shock, just mild surprise. Not even fear. But then, he probably figures that, pitted against two aging queers, he can hold his own.

  I, on the other hand, am basically miffed. This is not what I’m into, not what I had in mind. Sure, I, like Nathan, want to fuck the boy’s face. I just don’t want the face to be reddened and tear-stained when I fuck it. Nathan does, though, and it looks as though I’m not going to have any choice.

  Nathan brings his hand down again, slapping chest this time, not face. The boy looks at me, maybe pleadingly.

  “Try to relax Bobby,” I say softly. “Let him do what he wants.” The kid’s dick is still hard.

  Nathan wouldn’t dare pull this kind of shit with me. Not anymore. But here? In a cheesy motel, with a teenage hustler? Yeah, sure.

  Nathan hits the kid on the chest one more time, on the other tit this time. It makes a sharp crack.

  The boy still doesn’t open his mouth, though. Instead, he slides off the bed and gets on his knees. Mouth open, eyes closed.

  Nathan stands up, led by his cock.

  As usual.

  Bobby got off the bed and got down on his knees, waiting.

  Nathan positioned himself right in front of him and grabbed a shock of the boy’s blond hair, pulling Bobby’s head back as he slid the head of his dick into the kid’s mouth. Rich watched as Nathan began fucking the boy’s handsome, imperfect face. Slowly at first, then more and more brutally, furiously, slapping Bobby’s face, pulling his hair. Rich probably should have found it appalling, but he didn’t. It was, well yeah, exciting. He began to get that queasy feeling you get on the lift hill of a roller coaster, like you should want to get off, but you can’t, so you might as well relax and enjoy it. Rich wouldn’t have been able to stop Nathan even if he’d wanted to.

  And he didn’t want to. No, not really.

  Nathan continued fucking face for a few more minutes as Bobby sputtered and drooled. Then he said, hard dick still in the kid’s mouth, “Get on the bed. All fours, so I can fuck you.”

  As he got off his knees and got up on the bed, Bobby said, pleading, sounding suddenly more Southern, “Y’all are going to use a rubber, aren’t you, mister? I got one in my pocket.” He might have been suburban, but Bobby was selling country.

  There were some condoms in the luggage as well, but Nathan rifled through the boy’s shorts and drew out a foil packet. Staring at the boy’s hairy crack, he unrolled the latex over his stiff dick. Lacking proper lube, he got up a good mouthful of spit and hocked it into his hand, coating his cock. A second handful went into the boy’s exposed hole, followed by a couple of Nathan’s fingers.

  Rich felt like he was going to come. He pulled his palm off his dick just in time.

  With his free hand, Nathan began spanking the boy’s butt. The first couple of slaps were met with delighted, maybe feigned, sighs, but as the blows became harder, leaving red handprints below the blond fur, Bobby’s sighs ceased. If Rich had been able to see the boy’s face—which he couldn’t—he might have seen a grimace.

  Nathan stopped the spanking and pulled out his fingers. He spit another gob into his hand, relubed his now-dry dick, and, without further ceremony, shoved the head of his cock into Bobby’s loosened hole. It went inside with an amusing little pop. Nathan shoved his cock all the way in and began riding the nineteen-year-old’s bought-and-paid-for ass.

  That fucking Rich. Fucking pussy Rich, with his fucking qualms. The boy wants it, can’t he see the boy wants it?

  And anyway, the kid’s just some whore. Who the fuck cares what he wants?

  Fucking pussy.

  I mean, I love Rich, but sometimes…

  Rich, feeling like he was in a porno or else in a dream, walked around to the other side of the bed and shoved his cock in Bobby’s face. The boy opened his bucktoothed mouth and Rich fucked it. He was concerned about feeling teeth—especially since Nathan’s screwing had become brutally vigorous—but the kid knew what he was doing.

  Rich looked over the boy’s broad, young back. Nathan looked totally into it now, with an expression that someone who didn’t know him might have thought psychotic. He looked back at his boyfriend and smiled. It might have been an evil grin, it might not have been. Regardless, Nathan pulled his cock out, peeled off the rubber, and plunged his dick back into the boy’s loose, wet hole. Rich should have stopped him, but he didn’t say a word. And when Nathan, fucking hard, spit on the boy’s back, Rich felt himself losing control, and, helpless, he shot a big load down the suburban boy’s throat.

  Nathan must have noticed that. He, too, suddenly climaxed, pumping his load deep into Bobby’s guts. For the first time in very long minutes, he lost his look of fury, his face becoming relaxed, almost vacant.

  The rest was a matter of catching breaths, wiping up, and getting dressed. There was awkward small talk. Bobby made a trip to the bathroom, but didn’t bother to shower. No more was said about extra cash. There was no tip.

  Nathan showed the boy out the door, locking it after him. He looked over to Rich, who had an unreadable look on his face.

  “What?” Nathan asked.

  “Oh…nothing.”

  That poor guy, the one who all he wanted to do was eat my ass. When his boyfriend started slapping me around, he looked like he was gonna piss himself. What’d he think I was gonna do? Call the cops? Take on both of them? Cry?

  He didn’t know it, but I’ve had worse. Much worse. Course, I’ve had better, too. But a job is a job, a dollar’s a dollar. And then, while he was fucking me, the redhead pulled off his rubber, like I wasn’t going to know. But he was the one who didn’t know. He didn’t know that I’ve had it for a couple of years now. Maybe he’ll find out.

  Shit, I hope Daddy’s sobered up when I get home.

  A couple of days later, Nathan drove the rental car out of town, back to the Orlando airport, where they would catch a flight to L.A.

  “Sorry about my family,” Nathan said.

  “S’okay,” said Rich.

  The almost-familiar places whizzed by. The back roads lined by lush old Southern growth, the streets filled with cheapjack houses accessorized with beat-up trucks.

  The corner where they’d picked up the suburban boy.

  The church that commanded them to ACCEPT JESUS!

  Or else.

  “fifteen minutes naked”

  Jimmy Hamada

  The door opens and you enter the photographer’s apartment. You study him: his intriguing brown eyes, spiky hair, bearded chin. He shakes your hand and invites you into the living room. You follow him, check out his ass, rush into your explanation of why you’re here after chatting with him online, a nervous swell in your stomach.

  The photographer is quiet and thoughtful, putting you at ease. It’s as if you’ve met before, but you can’t remember where. He strikes up a conversation, something breezy about hooking up online. You’ve done it a few times yourself, but the guys rarely turn out to be what you expect.

  “So what made you decide to come over?”

  You feel his eyes on you, enjoy the sensation. “I dunno. I’ve never done this before. I’ve, you know, seen your work online and thought, what the fuck?”

  “Then you know what I do.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s why I’m here too.” You look at the photographs covering the walls, dozens of guys. All white. “You never shoot Asians?” You sit on the sofa, stretch out dramatically, savoring the fact that he’s watching you. “I mean, it’s a potato farm in here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  You reference the wall, the men in various poses and stages of undress. “They’re all Bleach Boys.”

  “A boy is a boy is a boy,” the photographer shrugs. “They all have mouths and cocks.”

  You suppress a smile, maintain your distance while your heart is running like a rabbit. “Yeah, but life needs variety. Cocks come in different colors.”

  He smiles charmingly. “We all come in white, last I checked.” He leans back, you lean forward. “You’ve been to my site. You know what I look for.”

  “Yeah.” A sigh, a confession. “Those guys are hot. Way hotter than me.”

  “I don’t think so. Just different.” The photographer studies you, like a spotlight on your fair skin. You blink rapidly, a habit left over from childhood. Laugh and cover your mouth with your hand.

  “Don’t do that,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Cover your face like that.” His hand straddles his face, peers between thick fingers. You wonder what those fingers will do to you.

  “Why don’t we go in there?” He points to a small room just off the living room. Its only furnishing is a large lamp and a mirror in the corner. You walk in, looking around like a tourist, back slowly against the wall. You pose, hooker style, with one leg crooked up behind you, foot planted on the wall; tilt your hips out, close your eyes and wait for him to approach. He’ll be eating out of your hand any second.

  The photographer deflates your balloon. “No, be natural.”

  You drop your leg and stand against the wall, feeling like a suspect in a lineup. Thoughts of jailhouse porn movies dance through your head. You’re Jeff Stryker and Brandon Lee in one package; halfway to hard already.

  He remains on the threshold of the little room, tilts his head thoughtfully. “Have you ever done this before? Has someone taken pictures of you?” The camera fires.

  “Not naked.” A flush charges your face with color. You are suddenly too warm and slip out of your light jacket, balling it into the corner of the room. “Well…I can’t believe I’m saying this, my, uh, boyfriend and I did it once. It was just for us, you know? Digital.”

  “And what did you do afterward?” A slow series of clicks reminds you that he’s taking pictures. With actual film.

  You smile, the memory flooding back. “We fucked like dogs.” You look out the window down onto the avenue. Cars flash by, sun glinting off windshields. “Can they see me?”

  “No one can see you except me.”

  The room gets warmer. You look around at the bare walls, at the platoon of men framed on the walls behind him. “So what do I do? Just stand here?”

  “Do whatever you want. Whatever you are comfortable with.” He raises his camera and stares through his viewfinder. “You’re beautiful. Nice smile.”

  “You think so?” You cover your mouth with your hand, then remember his previous objection and pull it away, stare deep into the camera, look stern.

  “Doesn’t your boyfriend think so? Don’t you?”

  “I guess so. He doesn’t, you know, say anything about me being beautiful.”

  “He should. Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?”

  You move closer to the rectangular mirror, stare at the boy framed in it, like the boys on the wall in the other room. You don’t recognize him, have to look past the outfit you’d so carefully orchestrated only an hour ago. You ask this boy if he’s ready for this. He nods enthusiastically.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  You laugh uncomfortably, then stare back at your own brown eyes. “Brown eyes. I hate them.”

  “Why?”

  “So common. Everyone has brown eyes. I wish they were blue.”

  The photographer moves the camera away from his face. You notice that he’s got eyes just as deep and brown as your own. You shrug, but gloat internally, return to your reflection. “I dunno. A boy. Dark shaggy hair. He’s skinny…too small. Like a bird.”

  “Like a boy.” The photographer fires off a few more shots. You figure he knows what he’s talking about. “That’s what I like about the Japanese. You will always look like a boy.”

  “Pedophile.” You smile at him, then turn it back on the guy in the mirror. He’s not bad. If you did rice, you’d fuck him.

  “Why don’t you take off your shoes? Relax.” He drops the camera and watches you from six feet away. You wish he would move closer.

 

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