Different Strokes

Free Spirit

[This is part one of a two-part work, the second of which is entitled “Different Strokes: Aloha Week”.]

We were getting to the main event. Sailor A was lying on his back on the hotel room bed, legs dangling over the foot of the bed, and I was sitting on his cock, facing the foot of the bed. Sailor B was standing in front of me, his hands holding my head, and I was giving him head, while, using the leverage of my feet digging into the edge of the mattress and in a crouch on the bed on either side of Sailor A’s thighs, I rose and fell on Sailor A’s cock, fucking myself. Sailor A was just lying there, his hands loosely on my waist, but not doing anything but holding his hard. I would have liked him to be a little more active. He was the cute one of the pair.

I clutched Sailor B’s butt cheeks to keep myself steady. I didn’t often do two-for-ones. I was doing that now, though. I’d given them a high price, half thinking they’d back off, but they didn’t. That was the thing with the sailors. They came off the ships horny and ready to go, but often without enough cash to give it a really good go.

They’d given me their names, but damned if I could remember them. This was their hotel room, at the Ypao Breeze Inn in Tumon, the touristy resort area on the west coast of Guam. It wasn’t exactly a dive, but it wasn’t the Ritz either. I could fuck on this bed—and I usually did when ships were in at the naval base—but I was glad I didn’t have to sleep on it. I wondered if both of the sailors would be sleeping on it—and if they had sex with each other. Maybe they were in the room only long enough to use me in shore leave relief, and they’d go back on their ship after they’d done me. They certainly were royally doing me. Maybe I hadn’t asked for enough money. I kept forgetting that the sailors arrived revved up and full of cum and could fuck like bunnies.

Both sailors were muscular. Both had average-sized cocks. One was younger and good-looking in a full-lipped, sultry way. The other was older, pretty ugly in the face, but having the better muscle definition of the two in the body, probably because he was more mature and more wiry. They’d told me the name of the ship they’d come off for shore leave from the naval base further south on the coast, but I hadn’t remembered that either. Nor did I remember the name of the guy who had given them my telephone number for the hookup.

Some things were important to remember. For repeat sailors I could look at the face and know the size of his cock and how he used it. What was going on here wasn’t that important. This was just paying the bills to cover what I really was on Guam to do—to ride the surf and paint. That’s what was important to me. I was highly sexed, though, and had to have it regularly. Laying down for the sailors and being paid to do it scratched a couple of my itches.

Sailor B, the older guy, was the active one here, telling and showing me what they wanted me to do for them. Sailor A seemed to be along for the ride, more interested in Sailor B and pleasing him than in me, which was a pity because he aroused me in ways the older one didn’t.

Sailor B fucked me as soon as we got in the room, bending me over the bed after I’d stripped for them and knelt in front of them, with them arm in arm, and worked them hard together, taking them both in my mouth at the same time as I was able. Sailor B ate my ass out as I was bent over the bed, fingered me for a minute or so, snapped a rubber on, slapped his cock around on my buttocks a few times, ran it over the hole, and then was inside me, pumping and snorting. Sailor A sat in the room’s desk chair, beat his meat, and watched the action, egging Sailor B on with words that had a nervous edge to them. He wasn’t comfortable doing this. Sailor B was very comfortable doing this.

Sailor B was efficient and straightforward and went directly for an initial jack off. They’d paid for multiples and a special, so I knew this was just Sailor B getting his anticipation rocks off—that he’d take it slower and more deliberately in subsequent rounds. I wouldn’t have minded if Sailor A, the cute one, took up position behind me after the ugly one pulled out, but he didn’t. They sat side by side on the foot of the bed and I knelt in front of them and handed and sucked on their cocks again.

They leaned into each other and kissed while I worked on their cocks, and that answered the “what are they to each other?” question for me. They probably were a couple on the ship, with older Sailor B seeing it as getting-his-rocks-off sex and cuter Sailor A seeing it as love. The cute one was here only because the older one wanted the variety with a rent-boy—with a third party they didn’t have to live with on the ship.

When we moved into the “special,” the cuter, younger guy just lay under me with his cock up my ass and moving it slightly in countermotion to my rises and falls. Sailor B, who I’d been sucking off, took the root of his cock and pulled it out of my mouth. He lowered his face to mine and took my mouth with his in a kiss. I felt him frotting our cocks together and stroking them. I continued rising and falling on Sailor A’s cock. I felt that Sailor B was working toward the special—the double—though, and I was right.

This wasn’t a favorite of mine, but they’d paid for it and I’d agreed to it. Neither of them was hung. I could manage them. It was something I was pleased to have managed—after it was over and the money for it had exchanged hands.

Sailor B was pressing on my chest with his free hand, and I arched back into Sailor A’s chest, whereupon Sailor A wrapped his arms around my chest to hold me there. I groaned and opened my mouth in a wide yawn, which was the alternative to crying out, which I didn’t really want to do in a hotel with paper-thin walls, as Sailor B worked his cock into my ass above Sailor A’s cock. I did let out an “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” though. I knew they’d want to think they were putting me in on-the-edge distress.

They worked together. They’d done this before. They probably did this to other sailors on their ship.

I gasped, gulped in air, and gave them a strained, “Oh fuckin’ fuck. Shit, shit, shit,” as Sailor B bottomed and began a slow pump.

It was only painful for a few minutes. My passage was well used, and I knew the tricks of relaxing and willing the passage to stretch. It had taken a variety of sizes and it had doubled for bigger cocks than this. The walls stretched to take them and rippled over both cocks, inviting them both to stroke. That was a special feeling when both cocks of a double were actively stroking. That wasn’t the case here. Sailor A held steady, his cock throbbing inside me and him moaning as Sailor B stroked his cock slowly inside me. I just concentrated on being as relaxed and open as possible.

“Like that, do you?” Sailor B whispered in my ear, and I voiced a dutiful, “Yes, yes. Yes! Fuck me, sailor!”

Happily, it didn’t take either long for both of them to fill out the bulbs of their condoms.

They lay on their sides on either side of me, touching me here, there, everywhere, intimately. Sailor A, more demonstrative now, touched me on my inner thighs and stroked them. I moaned for him, spreading them and put a leg over the legs of the sailor on either side of me and planted my feet on the other side of them. “Raise your tail,” Sailor B commanded, and when I did he, bolder than the cute one, had fingers up my ass.

“Come for us,” Sailor B directed, and there, with my legs over theirs and raising my pelvis off the mattress, I stroked off my cock. They both exclaimed their pleasure when I shot off in a strong arc of cum. Sailor B continued playing with my cock after I’d ejaculated and lowered my tail again.

“Like this?” he murmured.

“Um, um,” I sighed in affirmative, knowing that was what he wanted to hear, although I did like it—and would have liked it better if Sailor A was doing it. I was built bigger than either of them, and Sailor B seemed to enjoy the size of me and making me fill out. While he fondled me, he licked my cum off my belly, and exchanged cum-laced saliva with me in a kiss. I got the impression that he missed some of the kinkier aspects of sex—that it wasn’t something that turned Sailor A on, so rent-boy sessions like this when they got into port were meant to rev up Sailor B’s engines.

I also got the hint from his playing with my cock that maybe he went both ways. Maybe he’d want me or Sailor A to spike him before the evening was over. Maybe he wanted to be doubled and was building up to that.

“Jake told us he was good value for the money,” Sailor B said as they came up for air. So, then I knew who had recommended me, and I was more comfortable with them, for some reason, knowing that. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did.

They weren’t finished. They’d paid enough not to be finished. They lay on the bed, shorter Sailor A stretched out on top of taller Sailor B, Sailor B’s cock poking through under Sailor A’s scrotum, and, kneeling below them, I sucked off both cocks, together, unhinging my jaw to take both of them in. They liked that. They obviously liked having both of their cocks engaged together.

Sailor B fulfilled my suspicion for the finale. He rolled me onto my back on the bed, jacked me hard with his hand, crowned my cock, climbed on top of me, and moved into the saddle, positioning my cock head at his hole, sitting on it, and sliding down the pole. He rode my cock while Sailor A lay beside us on bed, watching his partner milk my cock with his passage muscles, conveying in his eyes that it would have been quite all right with him for them to have kept the hotel room to themselves, with him, rather than me, fucking Sailor B.

That was OK with me—that the sailor was using my cock. I was versatile and didn’t get many clients who wanted me to fuck them. Jake was one of those. No doubt he’d told Sailor B I’d do a flip-flop.

Other than the oversized cock, I was built to be a submissive—slightly less than average height; a willowy body, although muscled up enough to please the eye; smooth, hairless torso; slim hips, flat belly, and plump buttocks; trimmed pubes; androgynous features that were assessed more to be beautiful than handsome; watery blue eyes and blond hair with platinum highlights that I kept shoulder length and had in a ponytail except during sex. Men liked to run their fingers through my hair during sex—or, if they were thuggish, to use my hair as a handle to drag me around with. Either way, they could excite me.

It was my seven thick inches hard that surprised, although I wore clothes tailored to give a hint of it. And I didn’t usually wear underwear at all. That really turned the johns on, seeing me in the raw when I unzipped and flared my shorts, giving them a shot of the trimmed golden curlies followed by the root of a thick cock. Often they stopped me there and took out their cell phones to take a photo to take home with them. I didn’t care. I wasn’t ashamed of my package, and it wasn’t a head shot. It wouldn’t be identified specifically as me.

They were both off the bed after Sailor B had fucked himself on my cock and headed for the shower. I heard sounds of them fucking in the shower. It sounded like it was the younger guy, Sailor A, who was fucking Sailor B, which is what I thought he longed to do the whole time.

I lay there watching them as they dressed. They’d counted out $400 and put it on the dresser, so unless there was any last-minute funny business, we were all good. That was a lot of money on Guam for a sailor trick, although it was two of them. They both had great bodies, which I guessed was usual for working sailors. It was why I liked to lay down for the sailors rather than working the businessmen of Tumon. It was just that, although it was only a business transaction, I would have liked Sailor A to have more actively fucked me. It wasn’t a bad way to earn $400, though. It wouldn’t have been nearly that much without the DP. I had three days of abstinence coming up, so the money was welcome.

Sailor B turned to me. “The bathroom’s all yours now if you want to clean up. If you’ll show us a good bar for us to go to, we’ll stand you a drink. You did great. If you have a card we’d be happy to pass it on.”

It was 10:00 p.m., a good time to go cruising. They’d stood me a steak dinner before we’d come up to the hotel room. They had fucked me—and each other—for more than an hour and a half and paid me well for it, in terms of Guam prices. This wasn’t New York City or L.A. I couldn’t see any reason not to steer them to a good club for the rest of the night.

I took them to Denial, which was nearby and which had a good band going, a dance floor, pool tables, and a bar. They could pick their interest. Since their ship was in, they hooked up there with some of their mates. They ordered me a drink and paid for it, I gave each of them and all of their friends my card, and they went off to the pool tables while I leaned against the bar and contemplated whether I could—or wanted to—fit in another john that night. The ship had just come in, so there was no doubt that I could pick someone up for an energetic hour in the hay. Was I up for energetic, though? I checked my mind and ran a mental scan for aches and pains and was surprised to learn that I was up for nasty.

I would have to go three days after this without turning a trick. I’d enjoy the time off to do what I came to Guam to do, but the money would have to stretch. I’d made good money for a day, and I usually worked only long enough to feed my surfing and painting habit for the foreseeable future. I lived up the coast near Fai Fai Beach, on a more quiet stretch of the South Marine Corps Drive coast road, and I only came into Tumon when I needed to replenish the cookie jar. My Jeep Wrangler was ancient—Guam wasn’t a place to find a new car—and I didn’t exercise it any more than I had to.

There was a clean-cut, good-looking guy who obviously wasn’t Navy—more professional or businessman—sitting at a table across the room and looking at me. I looked back, instantly attracted to him, even though my mind check had come back “nasty,” and this guy didn’t look like that’s what he was looking for. I was concentrating on thuggish sailors, who were all hard muscles, a fetish of mine, who fucked fast—if furiously and multiple times—and who would be on a ship again before they could complicate my life with claims of commitment. A guy in civvies might be a permanent resident and come with issues that didn’t want to go away easily.

The guy was maybe in his early forties, but strikingly good looking and solid, and, regardless of the “local john” possible problems, I was thinking of maybe going over and asking him if he’d like some company. Before I could do so, though, there was a chunky hunky sailor at my elbow dropping one of the cards that I had just given out to Sailors A and B on the bar top. “Chunky hunky” is a name I give to big bruisers who would be considered overweight if they weren’t so massive that they carried the weight more as muscle than as excess padding.

He looked thuggish and would, by my guess, give me a cruel ride. But part of why I chose to make my money this way was that I liked variety and was turned on by a little danger and manhandling. I didn’t object to being knocked around a bit occasionally. I’d have three days to recover. Sometimes the vanilla sex dulled my arousal. Being taken by a thug now and then sharpened my appetite for it. Of course I didn’t need the sex—or so I kept telling myself—but as long as I was in that business, it was good to sharpen the arousal now and then.

He was interested and he had the money. He also would pay for the room but only at a cheap motel. I took him back to the Ypao Breeze Inn, which was nearby. Once in the room, he was impressed that just an unzip and tug on the hips of my trousers had me ready for him. He slapped me around, did me in a doggie on the floor, slapped me around some more, tossed me on the bed and, with a massive cock, brutalized me with a pistoning missionary accompanied by a choke hold with a strong, calloused, Navy man’s hand. He left me moaning and with my legs spread wide for some time to come. But he did leave me with the room for the rest of the night and left the agreed amount of money on the desk.

In this business, you take the bad with the good—the brutal with the vanilla. And without some manhandling thrown in, you could too easily become numb to it. I was a rent-boy not only because it was a relatively easy way to make money on Guam if you were good-looking, trim, and submissive. Androgynous blond guys could score, because the local women were mainly squat and dark, and sailors came off the ships with an “any hole will do” attitude, many of them looking for a blond cutie rather than an island local. I was a rent-boy because I enjoyed having a man’s cock inside me.

My dwelling was not much more than a shack on a beach near Fai Fai Beach—one large room with a floor-to-ceiling glass window to take advantage of the light for my painting. I managed to haul out of the hotel early enough next morning that I was back at my place in time to grab a couple of fried eggs and be wading out into the surf with my board as the sun was coming up. I surfed for an hour, first alone but increasingly with buddies who showed up here regularly to take the waves. When I returned to the beach, I could see that the retired sergeant, Sid Tanner, who was in a wheelchair and who owned one of the small houses with a large deck on the hill overlooking the beach, was out, watching me.

We had an arrangement. I went up the beach and climbed the wooden stairs to his deck. As the sun climbed up in the sky, I sat, facing him, on his cock in his wheelchair, and rode him to his ejaculation while he licked and sucked on my nipples and whispered his thanks over and over again. It was about the only excitement he got twice a week and he paid for the Wi-Fi in my shack. Beyond that, I considered it a thanks for his service to the nation. He lost use of his legs in Afghanistan; I saw no reason why that should be rewarded by losing use of his cock before he had to. I wasn’t a totally selfish shit.

I liked this regular fuck almost as much as Sid did. He made it seem almost like lovemaking. I couldn’t reach the deck with my feet with my legs hanging over the wheelchair arms, so it gave my thighs muscles and my biceps exercise in rising and falling on his cock. He was paralyzed down there except for his cock, which was capable of erection, of feeling the rub, and of ejaculating. He had what they called a beer can cock—all thickness and little length. That too was an aid to me in training my hole to be able to open quickly and wide. My hole, like the rest of my body, was deceptively small until it had received a thick cock or two. It was part of the turn-on for some johns—that what I had to receive them with looked like it couldn’t manage them, but that it then did—swallowed them right up to the short hairs, rippled over them, and milked them dry. It was a talent, and it put money in the bank.

Returning home, I painted for two hours, this being the best day for the angle of the light coming into my essentially one-room—although it was a big room—abode, and then I slept for four hours.

Just another day of filling in and paying for the days of a free spirit on the island of Guam. I didn’t apologize for the prostitution. I had a young, supple body, a talented hole and passage, and a good face that hungry men lusted after. And it was my life to do with as I liked. I wasn’t so invested in it—I didn’t think I needed cocking as much as I made use of it to support my free and easy lifestyle—that I couldn’t give it up when my paintings started to sell well. They sold now—just not well.

* * * *

At 11:00 I was at the free clinic on South Marine Corps Drive that I’d been sent to for a blood test. I tested for HIV regularly anyway, but this was a special. If I cleared, which I did, and abstained for the next three days after the test, I could do a one-day, one-night $1,000 gig at a private ocean-side mansion north of Tumon. The owner of the mansion, a mixed Japanese-American named Lee Houser, was a sometimes client of mine—he usually went for higher-drawer hookers than I was and ones he could certifiably bareback, which I couldn’t afford to accommodate in normal circumstances, but sometimes, he said, he liked to go with someone less practiced and jaded. He also hung nearly a foot long hard, which required some recovery time afterward but was oh-so melting in view of what a guy managed to sheath. He also was a master of the fuck. When he did me, I usually just lay there, willing myself to open, breathing shallowly, whimpering, and concentrating on how far up into new territory he was journeying—giving a long sigh as he withdrew it and a deep gasp as he slid it in deep again—and then again and again. He really knew how to work a guy with the snake he had.

It was a test of how much pain a guy was willing to endure for the high of knowing he’d taken something that big and of just how much a submissive wanted cock. He convinced me I wanted cock.

He had a friend who was a men’s fashion designer and another one who shot porno films, and he was doing a combination day. One of his regular models was AWOL, given to accepting offers of week-long jaunts to Hawaii or Australia, and I was offered a last-minute fill-in slot—for $1,000, plus any tips I got. That would do me for more than a month of living my way on Guam.

But I had to be clean. They’d want to bareback.

While I was waiting for the test, my attention went to a white-coated doctor walking across a doorway to the clinic’s examination rooms. I might not have noticed him if he hadn’t stopped in mid-walk and stared at me. It was the man who had been at the table across the room at Denial the previous night—the man I’d established “you’re interesting” eye contact with before the bruiser took me back to the Ypao Breeze Inn and humped me into submission.

He came out into the waiting room, but he didn’t come over to me. He had a short conversation with one of the receptionists, but he kept looking my way. When I left after taking the test—but not seeing him again when I was back in the guts of the clinic—I stopped at the receptionist’s desk and asked who he was.

“Dr. Prentice,” she said, cheerily. “Dr. Paul Prentice. He’s the senior doctor here. Do you need to make an appointment to see him? Were you referred?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I just thought I’d seen him before.”

“Probably in the papers. He does a lot of work with charities.”

Charities. That’s what Lee Houser was running the fashion show at his house for—for a free gay man’s clinic in the slums of Tumon. The porn filming later in the day wasn’t acknowledged anywhere in the publicity. Nor was it acknowledged that an hour with each of the models was being auctioned off, although Houser said that money was going to the clinic too. In fact, it was the bulk of the money the clinic would get. The models would get 25 percent of the auction price.

So, three days later—three delightful days of surfing and painting, one of the paintings coming out to be a nude of my vision of Dr. Paul Prentice—I was at Houser’s multimillion dollar house hanging out over the ocean on a cliff north of Tumon and, having arrived with a clean test certification in hand, I was modeling tuxes, suits, casual wear, beach wear, and, last, micro thongs best suited for the bedrooms of a bordello. There were four of us who were walking the runway—two smaller guys, including me, and two muscled-up hunks. The other smaller guy, Tyler, was a near duplicate of me—small, blond, willowy, androgynous, slim hipped, and sexy, if I do say so myself.

He was not for me, of course, as it was obvious we swung the same way. I’d seen him at the beach before, riding a board, same as me. I had been told the four of us would pair up for the porno films later in the day. I eyed the two muscular guys, trying to figure out which one would be mine. They were both body and face beautiful. One looked more dangerous than the other, though. It could have been because he was part Chinese and had a colorful dragon-scene tattoo that covered his left breast, around to his shoulder blade, and down his left arm to his elbow.

The catwalk was out on the wide, deep deck hanging out over the cliff head. The walkway came out of a bedroom at one end of the house—where we changed—and went around in front of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and entered into a den, from whence we ran back across the interior of the house to the bedroom to change for the next pass.

The buyers, having been fed lunch, came out onto the deck and sat in chairs strung down between the cat walk and the railing overlooking the ocean.

Dr. Prentice was there. That threw me for a loop when I first came out, in a tuxedo, and passed by him on the catwalk. But then, while I changed for the suit walk, I reasoned that that made sense. I figured he was gay. I’d seen him at Denial, and we’d shared gazes of unmistakable interest. The interest was there in his eyes at the clinic three days previously as well. And he was a doctor and was known to support charities. This was a charity event for a clinic. It aroused me to see him there, in the audience, but I had a job to do, money to earn, and I settled down to trying to do the modeling as professionally as the others did.

A walrus of a man in his late fifties won me in the auction of models. I was thrilled to see that Prentice bid on me—and none of the other guys—although he dropped out when the expense got into nosebleed territory. The walrus bidder fucked me—or rather, I rode his cock—on the bed in an upstairs bedroom, with the windows open to the sound of the angry surf below the cliff.

He lay there like a beached whale, not really gross other than his rotund stomach, and, for starters, I lay below him, between his spread legs, and sucked his cock, which was presentable, and played with, sucked, and distended his huge balls, which were interesting enough that, stroking myself at the same time, they enabled me to harden so that, when I moved up his body and saddled over his chest, my butt resting on the great mound of his stomach, I was able to convince him I was aroused as he took my cock in his mouth and sucked me to an ejaculation, which he willingly and happily took in his throat.

I gave him what would pass as a sexy massage then, kneading his muscles, of which he did have some, no doubt maintained on the golf course, and his rolls of fat, and stroking his cock hard again. To his sighs and moans, I mounted his hips, facing away from him, took him inside me, and, gripping his knees with my hands and arching my torso over his thighs, rode his cock to his barebacking completion. Then I leaned down and licked his legs and ankles until he had rehardened and I rode him again. He was virile for an out-of-shape man in his fifties. I didn’t know if I could pull a third ejaculation out of him in the hour, but I did—and he produced a prodigious wad of cum each time.

I didn’t know what his winning bid had been in the auction until the accounting came in later and I’d earned an extra $150—which meant he had bid $600 for my services—but he left the bedroom happy, leaving me a $50 tip. Houser had passed the word to treat him right, no matter what, and have him leave happy. I was more interested in making Houser happy, so I did what I could.

The walrus asked for my card, so chances were good I was adding a big spender to my client list. For an even $500, I’d let a whale fuck me.

I had pulled the tattooed part-Chinaman for my porn film partner that evening, which was fine with me. The movie was filmed in an upstairs bedroom of the cliffside mansion. Ours was the second of two sessions. Tyler was still lying on his back on the bed, legs open, arms akimbo, and looking dopey and well worked over when I arrived. His hole was gaping and leaking cum. A couple of guys were standing there, holding sheets and waiting for Tyler to come to enough to vacate the bed so that they could change the sheeting when the half-Chinese guy, who was named William, and I were taking our instructions on what the scene would be.

My film partner pointed to Tyler and laughed. “See that,” he said. “I’m going to leave you as fucked silly as that guy is.”

I laughed at his joke, but it wasn’t a joke, and he did just that, although he came at it from a different angle. Tyler looked like he’d been brutalized. On the whole, the half-Chinese guy loved me to death.

The scene described to us had almost no plot, of course, but, in spite of our disparate sizes and perhaps for the surprise of it, it was to be a romantic scene. The director of the film, half something black, trouserless, and his dong erect, probably from a successful earlier filming, gave us direction in a half pant and told us to get right to it. “Just leave the little guy well fucked,” he said.

“No problem,” my film partner responded.

“If I don’t think you’ve fucked him good enough, I’ll do it myself.” the director said.

“You’ll do it anyway, won’t you?” the big guy shot back.

“Probably,” answered the director. “It’s the second shoot. So I can shoot when it’s done. They saved the cutest one for last.” They both laughed. I didn’t particularly like them standing there talking about me like I wasn’t standing there too, so I didn’t join in the laughter.

We entered the room in the thong swimsuits from the fashion show and with towels over our shoulders, like we’d just come from the pool. We opened with standing kissing and petting. William pressed down on my shoulders and, taking the hint, I knelt in front of him and gave him prolonged head. His cock was very nice. He gently laid me on the foot of the bed, my legs dangling down to the floor and spread, and spent several minutes while the video whirred eating my ass out and finger fucking it with good camera angles, while he sucked me. We did a couple of minutes of sixty-nining on the bed, him stretched over me, and then he took me in his arms, maneuvered me into a position where the camera could get a prolonged shot of his thick cock invading and conquering my puckering, small hole, showing me opening to the thick shaft, and then he fucked me for twenty minutes in positions that showed his domination but also highlighted the romantic pleasure we both were getting from the fuck.

William was an expert at porn films. I wasn’t, but I was totally submissive to him, which is what I understood was wanted, and I think I did fine. He had whispered to me, “Just try to ignore the cameras and pretend that we’re long-term lovers.” That seemed to work OK.

The director must have thought I did fine too, because when the end of the shot was announced, with both William and me on our backs, beside each other, shooting our loads one after the other, and William had rolled off the bed, the director came onto the bed, separated my thighs with his hands, hunched over me, thrust inside me with his big black cock, and pistoned me to his release. He didn’t ask my permission. I wanted to impress Houser, so I didn’t make any waves. I’d been barebacked, so I was both open and well lubricated, and he just slid in and did me. To the director, I’m sure, porn actors were just slabs of meat to be consumed when and as they wished.

He wasn’t anything close to being as gentle as William was with me, but bouncing around in the bed under the director, meeting his thrusts with countermotions with my pelvis, I met him heat for heat.

I did like to be barebacked when that was in the cards, and I had been barebacked by three nice cocks—a white one, a half Chinese one, and a black one. And I was being paid more than a month’s worth of support in one day too.

The next morning I came awake in a big bed in yet another of the mansion’s bedrooms. The windows were open and I wakened slowly to the sound of the surf below. As a devoted surfer, I could hear no more pleasant sound than that of the surf meeting the shore. I was sore, but I was satisfied.

Lee Houser was standing at one of the windows, looking out at the ocean. He was smoking a reefer and had a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He had a silk kimono on his back, but it was open, showing a lean, well-muscled physique. Two more mugs were on a tray on a nightstand next to the bed. I didn’t know why there would be two, but I didn’t give it much thought. They both were steaming now, apparently having just been delivered by one of the Filipino servants who padded around Houser’s mansion, but I figured it would be cold before I could get to it.

Houser’s nearly foot-long, relatively thin cock was sticking out in full erection.

“Ah, good, Keith. You’re awake.”

I spread and bent my legs, stuffing a pillow under the small of my back as he put the smoke and coffee mug down on the nightstand, shrugged off his kimono, and climbed up on the foot of the thick-mattressed bed. He hovered over me, propped up by stiffened arms on either side of my shoulders and smiled down into my face, as he started the long, long, long slide into me. I grasped his shoulder blades in my hands and gasped and gulped as he possessed me as no other man had done, sinking deep into my gut—nearly twelve inches of throbbing, raw-skinned cock. The muscles of my walls were going wild again—he had fucked me at least three times during the night; I had passed out at one point—fighting to close up on the relatively thin cock, rippling over the flesh-on-flesh shaft, grasping and squeezing it and pulling it deep inside me. I moaned deeply, moving my hands to grasping his buttocks, as he began to pump, deep, deep inside me. Allowing my head to turn to the side, cheek to pillow, I opened my mouth in a gaping yawn; my eyes glazing over; panting lightly, moaning deeply; and reveled in a slow, deep fuck that no john had ever been able to give me before. My walls had struggled to spread open to a man before, but they were equally exercised to close on and undulate over the long, thin one.

Slow thrust up into my gut; shuddering thrust of my pelvis down to meet it. Slow thrust up into my gut . . .

There were times when I was an in-control, cynical rent-boy. This wasn’t one of those times. For this time I was a small, young man, covered by an experienced, masterful man with an impossibly possessive monster cock and being laid out and totally fucked—for the fourth time in the span of eight hours. And Houser knew it. He held there, hovering over me, having released his seed deep inside me for the fourth time, my cum slathered on his body, and looked down into my eyes, his smile almost a leer. He knew he had conquered me, that I had surrendered fully to him, that I was his slave to use as he wished.

“Turn over,” he said. “Turn over and go up on your knees.”

“Enough. No more,” I whined.

“Turn over. Turn over and go up on your knees,” he repeated.

Groaning, almost sobbing, I rolled out from underneath him, went up on my knees, my cheek pressed to the pillow, my arms straight out from my sides in a cruciform form of surrender, and, crouching over me like a horse jockey, he mounted  my hips, invaded my ass, and began the dance of the fuck again.

It was one of the few times I’ve been fully satiated, but it scared the beezeeges out of me. I had become a rent-boy with the understanding that I could maintain control, that I didn’t need the sex, that I could hold myself above it all, do it but not be controlled or consumed by it.

I groaned as he slid inside me again, deep, pressed his fists into my shoulder blades to keep my chest flat on the bed, and once more began to pump. Tears came to my eyes in the realization that I wanted him inside me—needed him inside me.

About the time it struck me that I’d been the one chosen to spend the night under him, memory clicked in. It hadn’t been just me, which explained the additional cup of coffee. The other small blond from the fashion show, Tyler, came out of an adjacent bathroom and climbed up on the bed, stretching out beside me, but at a distance, as it was a huge bed. Houser turned from me to Tyler. His hand went between Tyler’s thighs, and he coaxed them open.

“Push your hips up for me, baby,” Houser murmured, and when Tyler did, Houser rolled over between his legs, spiked his ass and began to pump him. Tyler turned his face to me, giving me a glassy, “He’s inside me now” stare, like we were playing some sort of “who’s his favorite” game that I wasn’t interested in playing.

I rolled out of the other side of the bed and went for a shower, taking one of the mugs of now-tepid coffee with me.

I went home $1,400 richer—Houser had sweetened the pot by $200 and promised to use me as a model again—and went straight to bed and slept through the day. I was up before dawn the next day, though, and out in the surf—just me and the ocean—with memories of that foot-long cock churning inside me. I was sore as hell deep inside—and the soreness wasn’t all physical. Moving with the high-rollers was hard work.

* * * *

Maria, my Filipina cleaning lady, who I splurged to have not only because, although I appreciated neatness, I was incapable of sustaining neatness myself but also because I enjoyed the normalcy of her company in my solitary life, had arrived at the shack and was cleaning when I came home from Lee Houser’s house. She was intensely cleaning, which wasn’t like her. And her greeting had been perfunctory.

“What’s wrong, Maria?” I asked. You’re not yourself today.

“It’s not your concern, Mr. Evans,” she said, her words clipped.

“Have I done something to upset you?”

“No, no, of course not. You aren’t like those other whites.”

“What other whites?”

“Like that retired Navy officer who lives in that big house down the road. The one who, with his wife and all of their bratty children, think they are better than anyone else.”

“What have they done now?”

“Ferdinand. Their pool man. One of the Filipino community. They fired him.”

“Fired him? What did he do wrong?”

“He fell by their pool and busted up his arm.”

“Did they take him to the doctor?”

“No, they fired him. Told him to get out. He left holding his arm, as I was coming to work. I got him a taxi to go back to his house.”

“He didn’t go to a doctor?”

“He can’t afford a doctor here. Doctors are for snotty white people like that retired Navy officer.”

“Where is he, Maria?”

“At his big house down the street, probably. Swimming in his big pool. I think they wanted an excuse to fire Ferdinand, because he’s gotten old.”

“No, I mean, Ferdinand, Maria. Where is Ferdinand?”

“At home probably. Putting ice on his arm.”

“He may need more than ice. Come on. Get in the Jeep. We’ll go check his condition out.”

An hour and a half later we—Maria, Ferdinand, and I—were at the free clinic on South Marine Corps Drive. Paul Prentice was the doctor who came out to take a look at the arm. He did a bit of a double take when he saw that I was with Ferdinand and Maria.

“What seems to be wrong?” he asked, looking somewhere between the three of us rather than at Ferdinand, standing there holding an obviously broken arm.

“It’s his arm,” Maria said. Ferdinand was too much in shock still to say anything. I have to admit that so was I—for different reasons.

“Let me take him in the back and take a look at it,” Prentice said. A half hour later, he came back out. “I’ve done what I can, but it’s a bad break. He needs to go to the hospital. And he’s in shock. They’ll need to keep him for observation for that. I’ve put a splint on it until he can get to the hospital.”

“Thank you, doctor. We’ll take him home,” Maria said, her jaw set.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” Prentice said.

“He can’t afford to go to the hospital,” she stubbornly responded.

For the first time Prentice looked at me fully, and it was the first time I was able to look fully back at him.

“Tell me which hospital to go to, and if you’ll call them to expect him, I’ll take him there . . . and pay for the treatment,” I said in a low voice. I was already touting up in my mind how many sailors that would be, but what the hell? It was just sex.

Prentice gave me a long look. “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll go with you and talk to the doctors there in person. And I’ll share the cost with you.”

After Ferdinand had been carted up to a ward at the hospital, Prentice turned to me and said, “That was a generous thing you did for that man. I’m Paul Prentice, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” I answered. “I’m Keith Evans.”

“I know who you are too,” he said and smiled at me. I smiled back. He reached out and touched my forearm and I knew then that we would fuck.

“I appreciate what you did as much as Ferdinand will, Keith. I run a free clinic to help as many as I can, but sometimes more needs to be done than I can do. When that’s the case, it breaks my heart. Perhaps you’ll join me in a drink this evening so I can show my appreciation.”

“Yes, I guess I can do that,” I said. Yep, I knew we were going to fuck. He knew it too.

“Say the Surfer’s Point Bar at the Sheraton Laguna at 6:30? I’ll have to stay to closing at the clinic.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I answered. “6:30.” We weren’t going to fuck at his house then—or, at least, we weren’t going to have the obligatory preliminary drink and waltz around each other at his house.

He turned to leave but then turned back. “Are you going to break my heart, Keith?”

Yep, we definitely were going to fuck. “I don’t know,” I answered. “We’ll have to see.”

“You know what I want,” he said.

“Yes, I know what you want.”

We had two drinks at the Surfer’s Point Bar and a bit of conversation. Prentice was an Australian, on Guam because after doing his internship in the poorer areas of Sydney, he wanted to go the free clinic route. The job had opened up here and he’d been here for fifteen years.

“And what brought you to Guam, Keith? You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, I’m from the States—South Carolina. A southern boy. I heard the surf was great here and I’d read about Gauguin and his retreat to Tahiti to paint in peace. I also heard that living was cheap here—and, all cards on the table, I heard that sailors took shore leave here.”

I looked at him to see if this would make him get up and leave, but he didn’t, so I continued. “I guess Guam is the poor boy’s Tahiti. And I was a poor boy when I came here. I’m basically a free spirit, I think. My father has often said I’m a hippie born too late.”

“Are you still a poor boy, Keith?”

“I make do. I sell some paintings. I intend to sell more.” I’d dropped the hint, but I didn’t want to say straight out that it was the paid sex that sustained me here. He probably knew I was a rent-boy, but I didn’t want that to be between us from the beginning—the beginning of what I didn’t want to think about.

But then he obviated the need to think about it. He placed a hand on my forearm and said, “I’ve taken the liberty of booking a room upstairs in the hotel. Will you go upstairs with me?”

I looked into his searching eyes. “Yes. You already knew I would.”

“I’m versatile, but—”

“So am I. I usually bottom, though.”

He smiled. “I should warn you. You are a small young man. I’m built big.”

“I’ve done all sizes.”

“Enough so that . . . ?”

“I can handle just about anything.”

“I’m not sure I brought . . .”

“I did. Never leave home without them is my motto.” And that was that. I followed him up the stairs in the hotel. He didn’t want to be seen using the elevator.

“Built big” was an understatement. He wasn’t as long as Lee Houser was, but close. He had to be ten inches hard. But where Houser was thin, Prentice was thick, and that more than made up for the difference. And he was virile. He could shoot, recharge, and score again within the span of fifteen minutes.

We held there on the bed in the hotel room, each of us, I know, counting the ejaculations, as he pumped cum again and again into the bulb of the condom deep inside me. I was arched back on the bed, my weight on my shoulder blades, my legs running up his muscular chest, and him kneeling between my legs, holding my buttocks up with his strong hands. He was buried ten inches inside me.

One, two, three . . . four my mind screamed as I counted each clutching of his buttocks, jerk, and huff as he pumped cum inside me.

He let my hips down easy, pulling only a couple of inches back, leaned his face down to mine, and we went into a deep kiss.

“That was nice, very nice. I’ve been wanting to do that to you since I saw you at the bar in Denial,” he said when we’d come out of the kiss. Although going mostly flaccid, he was gently moving his cock in and out of me, still deep. keeping us both aware he was still inside me.

His hands went to my hair, which was down, and he ran his fingers through the strands, straightening out the knots.

“Yes, that was nice,” I responded. “If I knew you were that big, though, I would have been scared.”

“I did warn you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“That’s why I didn’t pursue you at Denial. You looked too small to take me.”

“What changed your mind?” I asked.

“When I saw you in the fashion show I knew you could take it.”

“How did that tell you so?”

“You were modeling for Lee Houser. Lee fucks all of his models. He’s fucked you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.” I saw no reason to deny it.

“I know how long Lee is. I knew you could take me then.”

“You’re a lot thicker than Houser is,” I said.

“And you took it, didn’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Enough. Yes, enough. You’re big too, especially for the size of your body.”

“And you want—?”

“Yes, it’s my turn.” He rolled off me and then, crowned me with a condom, and climbed back on top of me, positioning my cock at his hole and slowly, breathing hard and letting his breath out in puffs, descended on my cock. I held onto his waist—thick but manly, his abs sculpted like the armor of a Roman soldier—as he rode my cock. His dick bounced up and down on my stomach, until I grasped it and stroked it as he rode me to my ejaculation—not as dramatic or copious as his was. When I’d come, he leaned his face down to mine and we kissed deeply again.

“You don’t mind that I’m a . . .” I couldn’t finish that.

“A rent-boy?”

“Yes, a male whore.”

“Yes, I mind very much. I want you all to myself.” He said it in a joking manner, but I later realized I should have taken it more seriously. “But right now, I want to possess you again—make you all mine, if just for now.”

“A request,” I said.

“What?”

“Could you open the windows? I’d like to be able to hear the surf from the ocean. Maybe you could try to match the rhythm of the sound of the surf with your thrusts?”

He laughed, bounding off the bed to open the windows. And then, putting me on my knees, cheek to pillow, he mounted my hips, invaded me deep, and slow pumped me to the rhythm of the surf. Even his spasm of release matched the rhythm of the surf.

“I want you to come back to the clinic with me,” he whispered in my ear as we lay there, me in his embrace, both listening to the sound of the surf, both fondling the cock of the other.

“When? Why?”

“Now.”

“The clinic will be closed.”

“Not to me. I’m the senior doctor there.”

“Why?”

“I want to give you an HIV test.”

“I had one four days ago—at your clinic. But why anyway? We used rubbers.”

“How many men have fucked you since you had that test?”

“Three. No, four. You’ve fucked me too and I haven’t asked you to test.”

“I do test. I will test tonight too. I want you to take the test because I have to have you bareback, and I want to fuck you a certain way, at the clinic. I want it to be natural with you. I can do the test. It won’t take long.”

We both tested negative—according to him.

He fucked me on an exam table, with my legs spread and raised and my feet in stirrups. This was the special way he wanted to fuck me—bound to one of his medical tables, vulnerable and totally open and captive to him. My arms were pulled down the side of the table and restrained there. He told me that binding his partner heightened his arousal. I admitted that being bound heightened mine as well. I was completely at his mercy. He took advantage of that, taking me hard and rough. I loved it.

He wore an open white lab coat for effect—and nothing else. I was naked. He stood between my spread thighs, ran his long, thick cock up into my ass, and leaned over me, his hands pressed into my pecs, his thumbs thrumming my nipples, his eyes locked on mine as he fucked, fucked, fucked me in long, deep slides, raw, throbbing cock flesh stretching undulating passage walls and, one squirt, two squirts, three and four squirts seeded me deep inside.

He kept murmuring, “You are mine, helpless to me, taking my cock whether you want to or not. Taking my cum. I own you.” I got caught up in the role play. I writhed under him as much as my bindings permitted, crying out my passion and the totality of being taken to the walls of the deserted clinic. I went totally quiet, though, and passive as I felt him tense and counted in a shaky voice the number of times he jerked and released: one, two, three, four.

I had been royally fucked and bred, flesh rubbing directly on flesh. I had been his captive slave and he my conquering master. I wasn’t a rent-boy with him. Rent-boys maintain some form of control. He’d stripped all of that away from me and I had surrendered totally to his lust.

* * * *

We slept, him on top of me, on a bed off the staff break room at the clinic, rousing an hour before dawn to be out of the clinic before the staff started to arrive and it opened. There wasn’t much sleep to be had. He couldn’t get enough cum into me, fucking me for fifteen minutes of every forty-five. If I were a woman I’d be having sextuplets in another nine months. He reveled in the barebacking. So did I.

“You’ve told me you go surfing at dawn,” he whispered.

“Is that what you want to do? To watch me surfing at dawn?” I asked.

“Yes, now, please.”

I took him to my beach, making him go down to the beach while I retrieved my board and towels from my shack. He sat on a towel on the beach, just in his briefs, as I surfed the sun up over the ocean. When I came out of the water and walked toward him, I saw that he had his briefs off and was in massive erection again. I took him to a secluded place on the beach where a sandy patch was surrounded by rocks near the face of the cliff above the beach. He fucked me there again. He went down on the towel cross-legged, and I sat in his lap, on his cock, facing him, my ankles hooked behind him above the curve of his buttocks, and we embraced and just rocked back and forth, our rocking motion moving his unsheathed cock inside me until his warm semen flowed deep in my core once more.

“You found a surfboard somewhere,” he whispered. “Do you live near here?”

“Yes, just at the top of the beach,” I said. “Do you want me to show it to you?” I’d never brought a man home to my shack—certainly not a man who was fucking me. I’d kept my rent-boy activities entirely separate from my private life.

“Are there examples of your artwork there?”

“Yes, it’s my studio too.”

It took him no time at all to find the painting I’d done of him—imagined—in the nude. I, of course, hadn’t done his genitals anything close to justice.

“It’s of me,” he said, his voice full of awe, as he stood in front of the painting.

“Yes, I’ll have to fix that,” I said, pointing to the cock in the painting.

“You know what that makes me want to do, don’t you?” he said.

“I’m sore. I bet you are too. And don’t you have to go to work? Aren’t there patients at the clinic who need you to go to work today?”

“Tonight then. Come to the clinic at 6:30 and we’ll go someplace.”

The someplace was a room at the Sheraton Laguna again. The next day’s someplace was here, at my shack. The someplaces from then always were somewhere other than where he lived. After a week, it had become just the clinic after hours and my shack. We were, of course, still barebacking, and that was nice. But I was getting itchy, without really understanding why.

When he popped the proposal, I understood why.

“I don’t want you to have to be a rent-boy anymore,” he said.

“I’m not a rent-boy because I have to be,” I said. “I am a male whore because I choose to be. It frees me to be what I want to be.”

“I want you to be mine—exclusively,” he said. “Don’t you like the barebacking? If it’s just me, we can bareback to our heart’s content. We don’t have to take the tests all the time.”

“Yes, the barebacking is nice, but—” I didn’t fill in what the “but” was, but it struck me that the “but” was that it took variety from me and it put me in the control of one man. I would become Paul’s mistress—exclusively Paul’s. Just another of Paul’s possessions.

“I want you to be—I don’t know what they call a man who is one—I want you to be my mistress. Exclusively mine. I’d pay all your bills. You could paint and surf to your heart’s content and you wouldn’t have to open your legs for any other man.”

“It’s something to consider,” I said, knowing that, in fact, it wasn’t.

When he left, I found a wad of bills on the counter beside my painting of him. $500. I hadn’t asked him for money the entire time we’d been together. Somehow it cheapened what we had together. It was no different from taking money from anyone else fucking me, of course, but it put Paul in the same league—buying my time. Buying me, my body. Making me just an object of his obsession.

I got a call from Lee Houser the next day. “I’d like you to come over—to spend the night. I have someone here who I’m trying to make a deal with. I think you’d like him. I’ll pay you well, of course.”

I went. The friend was black and big, a bull of a man. I don’t know what the deal was other than that it included me from Houser’s side. The black bull fucked me on a bed in the guest room for an hour, snorting like the bull he was and pounding away inside me with a big black cock, giving me no quarter, slapping me around when I struggled with him. It was exactly what I needed, what I’d missed after a week of Paul.

Afterward Houser took me to his bed and gave me a foot of cock. That job was gloriously welcome. They’d both barebacked me. I no longer was exclusively Paul’s on the strength of the last HIV test he’d given me. I was what I was in Guam to be—a rent-boy.

When I left the house there was a big black limousine parked beside my Jeep. As I came around to the driver’s side of my Wrangler, the back passenger side window of the limo slid down and the black man who had fucked me earlier in the day showed his face.

“I like to think I haven’t finished with you, young man,” he said. “Come into the car and drive to my hotel with me. I’ll take you to dinner there and then I’ll pay you $1,000 for the use of your body through the night.”

The use of my body. No “make love to you.” Not even “fuck you.” I don’t know why, but that sounded so real to me, so expressive of the impersonal nature of the business I sought—not intruding on my surfing or painting even a bit.

“I have my car here,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“And is that the only reason you won’t go with me?”

I thought about that. Turning him down hadn’t been my first reaction. That was somewhat of a revelation. Until then I’d assumed that I’d be taking Paul Prentice up on his offer of a more permanent, exclusive relationship. But I hadn’t hesitated in accepting Lee Houser’s summons to come entertain someone he had a business deal with. I’d known what that entertainment would entail. I also had known that, once at Houser’s house, I’d let him fuck me again too with that snake of his—if he wanted me. And I would have been disappointed if he hadn’t wanted me. I’d been disappointed that he had chosen that Tyler kid last time as well as me. I realized I looked forward to a foot of Houser’s snake inside me.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s the only reason I couldn’t come.”

“The price is right and the service expected acceptable?”

“Yes, there’s just the logistics involved.”

“I have an extra man in front here. Would you let him drive your car to the hotel? He’d pay for valet parking for it. I’m at the Dusit Thani Resort.”

Ah, five stars and on the ocean, I thought. But I’m not sure my old Wrangler would be acceptable there.

“Can you hear the surf of the ocean from your room?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. A private joke.”

“Yes, I can hear the sound of the ocean from my suite,” he said. “Does that help you to decide to accept my offer?”

He wanted me. He wanted me enough to essentially plead with me to come to him. I wondered, though, why I couldn’t just drive my own car there. I didn’t ask, and it’s just as well that I didn’t. He wanted me in the limo because he wanted to start using my body immediately.

The driver took the long route to the hotel, because the man buying my body—after telling me his name was Kwame and he was from Nigeria—pulled me onto his lap, had my trousers off while he was pawing me and his own fly open, and had me bouncing on his thick cock, yodeling, and bareback seeded once again before we reached the hotel. The driver had taken twenty minutes for a ten-minute drive. Kwame took his time fucking a man.

He fed me at the hotel’s Aqua buffet restaurant, winking at me and telling me to eat hearty to keep my strength up. Once in his room, which indeed was an ocean-front suite, and where, indeed, I could hear the sound of the surf crashing on the beach, he held me in the bed for eight hours, fucking me with his big black bull cock for a half hour every two hours. He didn’t just want to fuck me. He wanted me to resist until overpowered, which he easily could do. And he wanted to slap me around. And he wanted to bind my wrists together with leather cords and take it from me. For $1,000 I let him do what he wanted. And most of the time I enjoyed the intensity and variety of it—and that big black cock that nearly dislocated my jaw when he made me take it in my mouth.

Yes, I could be in the big time if I let Houser set up trysts like this.

When I finally was able to get off the bed to go to the shower, I squished inside while I staggered from all the Nigerian cum inside me. He fucked me in the shower too.

He paid me the $1,000 and threw in a 100-dollar tip. I called Lee Houser to report on the encounter and to hope it helped him with his deal.

“I’m glad you went with him,” Houser said. “Yes, you’ve helped me with my deal.” He still didn’t tell me what the deal had been and I surmised I really didn’t want to know. The Nigerian looked like a thug and he fucked like a thug. I certainly had been well and cruelly fucked—I’d even say ravished. “That can be the first of many such lucrative arrangements for you,” Houser went on to say. “You won’t have to work the streets anymore if you let me take care of you.”

I disconnected with that phrase in my mind—“if you let me take care of you.” Suddenly there were two men who wanted to own me. Is that what I came to Guam to do? Is that what being an out-of-period hippie was all about?

One thing I knew I’d have to do. The next time Paul Prentice came sniffing around me I’d have to tell him that he wasn’t the last man who had barebacked me, bred me, and filled me to overflowing with his cum.

* * * *

Paul hadn’t missed me. He’d had to make an emergency trip to the States with a patient. He came to my shack for a nooner two days after I’d been bareback laid by Houser and the Nigerian thug. I had to tell him that we’d have to use a condom until he checked me again unless he wanted to take the risk.

“You what? We’re supposed to be exclusive,” he said, exploding.

“I haven’t promised to be exclusive yet,” I answered. “And you know Lee Houser. He thinks he owns me.” I came close to pointing out that Paul thought he owned me too and didn’t have a bill of sale on me any more than Lee Houser had. I had not meant for this rent-boy business to be this complicated. I’d thought it would be pretty straightforward. I didn’t see it as having these pitfalls.

Paul still wanted to lay me, and groused, but he accepted that we’d use a condom, which we did. He fucked me on my bed, which is only a three-quarters, taking me in a side split. Although I could feel him tense and jerk several times, with the condom I couldn’t be precise enough with the blasts of cum to count them.

We lay there, me in his embrace, him still inside me, and, starting with noticing a water spot in the ceiling, he started ticking off improvements he’d pay for to make this a neat little love nest for us.

“It’s not the same now that we’ve barebacked,” he groused, no longer talking about the deficiencies of my place.

“No, it’s not,” I admitted.

Out of the blue then, not really having been thinking about it, although it must have been there in my subconscious all along, I blurted out, “If this place doesn’t meet your specifications, why don’t we fuck at your place, Paul? You haven’t taken me to your place yet.”

He froze. I could feel his body tense up and he took air in and seemed to take the longest time to exhale it again. “My neighborhood isn’t the best place to be conducting this sort of activity.”

“What’s wrong with this sort of activity between two willing men?” I asked. “It’s not like you’re married or anything. Your clinic works with gay men and you are openly contributing to gay aid charities. Surely your neighbors already suspect you’re gay. You live alone.”

I could feel him tense again. But I also could feel him hardening up again. He took being in heat again as an escape from talking to me about where we fucked. “I don’t have long before I have to go back and you have me hard again. Roll over on your belly and go up on your knees.”

I did so, he changed condoms, and I let him mount my ass and fuck me again. I didn’t bring up the question of fucking at his place again—then or even later.

When he left, he said, “Come by the clinic at 6:30. We’ll do the tests again.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tonight, Paul, I have an appointment tonight to show some of my painting to a potential buyer—a woman,” I said, not knowing then why I said that. I didn’t have any appointment that night. I just didn’t want to go to the clinic and put myself under Paul’s control again by having an HIV test run. He never showed me the result of his own tests. I couldn’t even be sure he actually ran the tests on himself.

“Then tomorrow night,” he said. “I don’t want to go long without being able to bareback you.”

After he left and I thought about it, I knew why I was going to be busy that night. I borrowed the car Sid Tanner, the guy in the wheel chair—whose cock I continued to ride because there was no way he was contracting HIV as isolated and alone as he was—owned so that others could run errands for him, and at 6:30 I was parked up the street from Paul’s clinic. I followed him through the town to a very nice residential neighborhood, where a garage door lifted when he turned his BMW into the driveway. There was a late-model SUV in the garage as well. He came out of the garage and tossed a ball between two teenage boys in the front yard for a minute or two, and when he went to the front door, he was greeting with a kiss from a woman.

Paul didn’t live alone.

I drove from there to Denial, tossed back two drinks, picked out the meanest looking sailor who was sniffing around me, showed him where the Ypao Breeze Inn was, and let him bang the hell out of me for $30 plus the cost of the room. I let him bareback me. He enjoyed it and obviously considered himself lucky. I enjoyed it too, as it was completely my own decision, my own risk.

I didn’t give a shit what Paul would think about it.

I didn’t go to the clinic at 6:30 the next night. I didn’t answer Paul’s telephone call at 7:00. And I turned the lights off in the shack and just sat staring at the painting of him—which I had meanwhile altered to be anatomically correct. Where I’d placed it, the moonlight through the window wall lit it up. When he came and banged on the door at 7:30, I sat quiet as a mouse and didn’t answer the door.

The next day I wrapped the painting of him up and had a delivery service take it to his house. I’d noted the address down when I followed him there. It was 50-50 whether or not he’d be the one to receive the package at the house. I thought those odds were fair.

I racked my brain to think whether or not I’d ever asked him if he was married before—to a woman—and had children at home he was a father to. If he’d told me, I wouldn’t have gotten involved with him. My father had left my mother and run off with a man. That had left scars—and it probably had helped send me in the direction to going with men. But he’d been honest enough to break off his relationship with a family. He hadn’t tried to have it all. And he hadn’t, like Paul had, expected his male lover to be fully dedicated to the relationship.

In ensuing weeks, I’d rethought this and decided I’d been hasty—that the wife and children didn’t deserve finding out this way, if at all. But then, if Paul did it with me, I bet he’d done it with others.

He did try to call and to come to the shack a couple of times in the next week. But I avoided him. He even came down to the beach at dawn one morning and sat on a towel watching me surf. But I stayed out in the ocean until he had left.

Then it stopped, and I was sure he’d found some other free spirit to try to break. It was only then that I realized that I had loved him and would have given up anything for him—that I had, in fact, been giving up a lot of my free spirit ways for him.

* * * *

“Keith? Lee Houser here. I have a Korean businessman here who I’ve told about you. I sent you a DVD he did for you to look at. Did you receive it?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m looking at it now.” And I was looking at it. The Korean was tall and slim and wiry. He was quite athletic too, wearing only a leather harness on his chest, black boots, and black leather wristbands. I found him sexy. I wouldn’t mind being dominated by him. The film had been going on for twenty minutes before Houser called me. The Korean was seriously hung—almost as much as Houser was from the look of it. The film had started with a shot of a naked and impressively erect late-thirtyish Korean, holding a whip, forcing a small, naked blond youth to his knees in front of him with a cruel grip of his head hair, forcing the huge cock between the youth’s lips, and side-arm whipping the blond’s buttocks. The strength of the lash was more dramatic than painful, but the young man flinched with each blow—not, however, enough to dislodge the Korean’s cock from his throat. The film was giving the impression of suggestive arousal more than actual brutality—at least that’s what I took from it, already in the grip of the dominating Korean.

“Do you like what you see?” Houser asked over the telephone connection. “I know it’s a bit more extreme than we usually—”

“Do you mean am I beating off to it?”

“That would be an indication, yes,” he said, laughing.

“Yes,” I admitted, “I’m beating off to it.” It had made me go hard; it had made me stroke myself. “I’m afraid I do like what I see,” I added, aware of the danger of enjoying what I saw and imagining it was happening to me.

This scene moved into a sequence shot from across the table of the small, blond guy—maybe eighteen or nineteen, not more than a year younger than I was—belly down on the top of a table, his face pointed at the camera. He was clutching the table top on either side of him at the edge. There was no doubt from his facial expression that he was being fucked hard and deep. The Korean was saddled up behind him, holding the young man’s hips between his hands. The Korean had a blissful, satisfied look on his face. The camera panned around to the side of the tableau, providing a shot of the long, thin cock taking long strokes into the blond’s ass. The Korean reached up, grabbed a hank of the youth’s blond curls and arched the young man’s torso back cruelly. The youth cried out, “Oh, shit, oh, fuck! Yes, screw me hard!”

The young man screamed this same phrase at intervals throughout the video—providing a notion of a limited vocabulary of being taken on his part and a similarity between this film and most other porn vids.

In the next shot, the young man was suspended over the carpet, his arms stretched out in front of him, grasping the edge of the table. His body streamed back to the Korean’s. The Korean was standing in a crouch between the young man’s thighs, his hands holding the blond’s body up by clutching his waist, and the hands pulling the youth’s buttocks back and forth on the Korean’s cock. This transitioned into the Korean lying on his back on the table with the blond youth suspended over his body in a crab position, the youth’s hands and feet flat on the table on either side of the Korean’s body and his pelvis rising and falling on the Korean’s cock. The Korean transitioned from this to grabbing the young man under his knees and raising and spreading his legs. Somehow the Korean had gotten his chin under the youth’s chin and forced the young blond’s head to arch back severely. The Korean was fucking up into the young man’s hole, and the youth was gurgling, his face showing the intensity of the taking to the camera.

“Kim has watched the film you did the day of the fashion show, Keith,” Houser said over the phone. “He’s making a week-long trip to Honolulu and would like some companionship. He’s good, very, very good. I know this for a fact. He’s hung like an elephant.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I answered.

“You can see for yourself that he’ll give you a good fuck. I know this is a bit extreme, but he’ll pay you $5,000 and cover all expenses if you’ll go to Honolulu and let him use you when and as he likes. What do you have to say about that?”

I zipped the DVD back and started watching it from the beginning again. “Sorry, Lee, but I meant to tell you sooner. I’ve given up that business. My paintings are selling well now, and I’ve signed up for a surfboard contest and have to do a lot of practicing. Best of luck in finding someone for this Korean dude. He’s seriously hung, yes he is.”

I only half listened to his arguments and he eventually got the idea and let me go.

I felt a great burden lifting off my shoulders. I felt free.

The telephone rang again.

“Yes, I do that,” I said in answer to the question from the sailor saying he was just off the ship on shore leave and had been given my card. “Do you have a photo to show me?”

“OK, good.” Better than good if it really was him. It was a naked shot. He was built and good looking—and young. Older than I was but still in his twenties.

“Here’s my photo. And another one. Still interested?”

“OK, good. I’ll let you do just about anything you want as often as you want all night for $300 plus the hotel. There’s one near where you’re calling from called the Ypao Breeze Inn that asks no questions and charges $50 a night. Anything you want, although I have some suggestions you might be interested in. If you want it, book the room and call me back to give me the room number. Have the money on the desk for me to see when I enter the room.”

* * * *

I was belly down on the bed, feet on the floor, facing a mirror on the opposite wall. My arms were raised over my head, gripping the edge of the mattress on the other side. The hunky young, muscular sailor was saddled up behind me, grabbing my hips between his hands and rapidly pulling me on and off his thick cock, banging the hell out of me. We were both looking into the mirror, at each other, our faces showing the lust and pleasure we were getting. Two young, healthy bodies banging away at each other. He came in a gush of cum, filling the bulb of his rubber. He pulled the rubber off his cock and threw it on the floor.

Forty minutes later, I was gripping the edge of the desk in the Ypao Breeze Inn room, with my body suspended straight out behind me, my legs streaming around the sailor’s slim hips and tight ass. He was crouched a bit between my legs, holding my waist between his hands, and pulling me on and off his cock. Banging the hell out of me again. He was young, virile, and ready to go again constantly. He tensed and jerked, I cried out, “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, screw the hell out of me,” and he came in a gush of cum, filling the bulb of his rubber. I heard the snap of the rubber being pulled off and turned my head to see him toss it, thick as a sea slug with cum, on the floor.

I ached that it be barebacking, but I couldn’t chance it.

Forty-five minutes later the sailor was on his back on the bed, and I was suspended above him in a crab position, my hands and feet flat on the mattress on either side of his body. He held my waist between his hands and I raised and lowered my pelvis, taking his cock deep inside my passage. He tensed, pushed me off to the side on my back, went up on his knees, jerked the rubber off his cock and came on my chest and belly. The used rubber was flipped to the floor.

Twenty minutes later I was lying on the foot of the bed, my thighs spread, my legs dangling toward the floor. The hunky young sailor was kneeling on the floor between my thighs, working my anal hole with his mouth and fingers. I was pulling on my cock. I tensed, jerked, and shot my load toward the ceiling in a high arc of cum. The sailor stood, crowned himself with a rubber, grabbed my ankles with his hands, cruelly wishboned my legs, moved in with his erection, skewered me, and started banging the hell out of me again. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck!” I cried out. “Screw me hard!”

An hour later, he came back from having a smoke at the window. I was lying on my side on the bed, panting lightly and staring at the door into the bathroom of the small, tawdry room. I had told him he could go all night if he wanted to for the $300, but I hadn’t imagined that he would. I heard the snap of the rubber being pulled into place. There were four—or maybe five, I’d lost count—spent ones on the floor. He was young, virile, full of cum, and perpetually hard. He grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs down to where my butt came to the edge of the foot of the bed. I moaned and half turned to my back, but he bent and pushed my upward leg up into my chest, moving me back to my side. I felt the bulb of the cock at my now-gaping hole as he gave me three inches.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” I murmured in an exhausted voice, leaving off the “Screw me hard,” as we were now well past that. Maybe I’d been a bit too quick in saying yes to a young, virile sailor.

Holding the ankle of the bent leg in one hand and grasping my other thigh with the other, he pushed his hard cock up into my passage, compressed now by the position of my thighs, giving him a tighter channel than he’d had since the first reaming, and started a slow, rhythmic fuck. I raised my arm, pressing my hand into the cleft between his pecs, grabbing hold of a set of dog tags he had nestled there, hanging on a chain. I wasn’t trying to push him away; I was too tired to do that. It was more to feel him there, working me, to make more of a connection between us than his dick inside me and his hands on my thighs. But, to tell the truth, having the dick of a virile, young, handsome sailor inside me was all right too. I moaned. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.”

“I’ve got one night of shore leave,” he murmured. “Got a whole lot of cum to dump. Guess it’s your lucky night, blondie.”

I was just a sailor’s cheap one-night shore leave rent-boy lay on the remote dumpy rock of an island, Guam, again. But I made all of my own decisions for what I was going to let a man do to me and I was a free spirit.

When the sun came up, I was alone in the room at last, lying on my side, my knees curled up into my stomach, moaning and still panting. The sailor hadn’t left more than fifteen minutes before. I knew my hole was gaping and rubbed raw, my passage pulsating. He’d fucked me through the night, getting the most bang he could for his $300. One of Lee Houser’s clients would have paid me that much just to suck him off once. But I felt strangely satisfied—and still in full control of my life.